“You mean you withdraw till next time you feel like sticking your oar in,” said Penny. “I know you, Clem.”
“Please. Please!” Now it was Darcourt who was shouting. “This is unbecoming an assembly of scholars and artists, and I won’t listen to any more. You know what the Doctor is saying, don’t you? It’s been said since—well, at least since Ovid. He says somewhere—in the Metamorphoses, I think—that the great truths of life are the wax, and all we can do is to stamp it with different forms. But the wax is the same forever—”
“I have it,” said Maria. “He says that nothing keeps its own form, but Nature who is the great renewer is always making up new forms from old forms. Nothing perishes in the whole universe—it just varies and renews its form—”
“And that’s the truth that underlies all myth,” shouted Darcourt, waving at her to be quiet. “If we are true to the great myth, we can give it what form we choose. The myth—the wax—does not change.”
The Doctor, who had been busy lighting a large black cigar she drew from a silver case, said to Powelclass="underline" “I am beginning to see my way. The scene where Arthur forgives the lovers will be in A minor, and we shall dodge back and forth in and out of A minor right until the end when the magician sees Arthur sailing off to his Island of Sleep. That’s how we’ll do it.”
“Of course that’s how we’ll do it, Nilla,” said Powell. “A minor comes right up out of the wax, hot and strong. And don’t fuss about the opera being true to the nineteenth century. It will be artistically true, but you mustn’t expect it to be literally true because—well, because a literal fidelity to the nineteenth century would be false. Do you see?”
“Yes. I see very well,” said Arthur.
“Arthur, you are a darling,” said Maria. “You see better than any of us.”
“Well—I see many difficulties,” said Hollier.
“I see the wax, and I am sure you two pros see the form, and I’m very happy about it,” said Darcourt.
“God bless you, Sim bach,” said Powell. “You are a good old Merlin, that’s what you are, boy.”
“This Merlin—this magician—is more important in the story you have told, Powell, than I had expected,” said the Doctor. “In opera terms, I should say he is Fifth Business, and the singer will have to be chosen with great care. What voice, do you think? We have a bass villain, and a baritone hero and a tenor lover, and a contralto villainess and a coloratura heroine and a mezzo simpleton—that deceived girl, what’s her name, Elaine. What for Merlin? What would you say to a haute contre–you know, one of those high, unearthly voices?”
“A counter-tenor, you mean? What could be better? Makes him unlike any of the others.”
“Yes, and very useful in ensembles. Those male altos are like trumpets, only strange—”
“The horns of elfland faintly blowing,” said Powell.
“You seem to be pleased with the libretto just as Geraint has outlined it,” said Arthur.
“Oh, it will need some small changes here and there as we work,” said the Doctor. “But it is a fine schema; coherent and simple for people who can’t follow a difficult plot, but with plenty of meaning underneath. An opera has to have a foundation; something big, like unhappy love, or vengeance, or some point of honour. Because people like that, you know. There they sit, all those stockbrokers and rich surgeons and insurance men, and they look so solemn and quiet as if nothing would rouse them. But underneath they are raging with unhappy love, or vengeance, or some point of honour or ambition—all connected with their professional lives. They go to La Bohème or La Traviata and they remember some early affair that might have been squalid if you weren’t living it yourself; or they see Rigoletto and think how the chairman humiliated them at the last board meeting; or they see Macbeth and think how they would like to murder the chairman and get his job. Only they don’t think it; very deep down they feel it, and boil it, and suffer it in the primitive underworld of their souls. You wouldn’t get them to admit anything, not if you begged. Opera speaks to the heart as no other art does, because it is essentially simple.”
“And what do you see as the deep foundation of this one?” said Arthur.
“It’s a beauty,” said Powell. “Victory plucked from defeat. If we can bring it off, it will wring the heart. Arthur has failed in the Quest, lost his wife, lost his crown, lost life itself. But because of his nobility and greatness of spirit when he forgives Guenevere and Lancelot, he is seen to be the greatest man of all. He is Christ-like; apparently a loser, but, in truth, the greatest victor of them all.”
“You’ll want a first-rate actor,” said Maria.
“Yes. And I have my eye on one, but I won’t tell you until I’ve got his name on a contract.”
“It’s the alchemical theme,” said Maria. “Gold refined from dross.”
“Do you know,” said Hollier, “I believe you’re right. You have always been my best student, Maria. But if you get that out of an authentic nineteenth-century stage piece, you’ll be alchemists indeed.”
“We are alchemists,” said the Doctor. “It’s our job. But now I must go home. I must be fresh tomorrow to go over all this Hoffmann stuff again with what we have been talking about fresh in my mind. I must do that before I talk with this little Schnakenburg, whoever she is. And so I shall say goodnight.”
Upright as a grenadier and without a stumble, the Doctor circled the room, shaking hands with everyone.
“Let me call you a taxi,” said Darcourt.
“No indeed. The walk will refresh me. It cannot be more than two miles, and the night is very fresh.”
Saying which, the Doctor seized Maria in her arms and gave her a lingering kiss.
“Do not worry, little one,” she said. “Your dinner was very good. Not authentic, of course, but better than the real thing. Like our opera.” And away she went.
“My God,” said Penny, when the Doctor had gone, “did you see what that woman drank? And not once—not once in six hours—did she go to the loo. Is she human?”
“Very human,” said Maria, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. “She stuck her tongue almost down my throat.”
“She didn’t kiss me, you observe,” said Penny. “Not that I care. Raunchy old lesbian lush. You watch yourself, Maria. She has her eye on you.”
“That cigar! I’ll taste it for a week!” said Maria, and picking up her glass of champagne she gargled noisily, and spat into an empty coffee cup. “I never thought of myself as attractive in that way.”
“You’re attractive in so many ways,” said Penny, tearfully. “It isn’t fair.”
“When you sink into self-pity,” said Hollier, “it’s time for me to go home.”
“I’ll drive you, Clem,” said Penny. “I have a large, forgiving soul, even if you are a rotten old bastard.”
“Thank you, Professor Raven,” said Hollier; “I would prefer not to be driven by you. Last time you drove me home we were spoken to by a policeman because of your driving.”
“He was just being officious.”
“And when we arrived outside my house you honked your horn derisively to waken my mother. No, Penny, no. I won’t drive with you when you’ve got your paws in the sauce.”
“Paws in the sauce! I like that! Who was falling asleep while Geraint was talking? You bloody old woman, Clem!”
“In this age of female liberation, I do not understand why ‘old woman’ is still considered an insult.” And with careful dignity Hollier took his leave, closely followed by Penny, who was squealing incoherent abuse.
“She’ll drive him, of course,” said Darcourt. “Clem is as tight as the bark to a tree. He can never resist a free ride. I’ll give them a minute, then I’ll go too.”
“Oh, Simon, when do I see you again?” said Maria. “I’ve got something to tell you. Crottel wants to come again and nag about Parlabane’s miserable book.”