Arthur felt it was time to exert his skills as Chairman of the Board, and after five minutes, during which Hollier and Penny and Powell and the Doctor shouted and insulted each other, he was able to restore some sort of order, though the heat of passion in the room was still palpable.
“Let’s come to a conclusion, and stick with it,” he said. “We’re talking about the nature of the libretto. We have to decide the ground on which it rests. Professor Hollier is determined on Malory.”
“It’s simple reason,” said Hollier. “The libretto is to be in English. Malory is the best English source.”
“But the language, the language!” said Penny. “All that ‘yea, forsooth’, and ‘full fain’, and ‘I woll welle’. Great to read but bloody to speak, let alone sing. Do you imagine you could write verse in that lingo?”
“I agree,” said Darcourt. “We’ve got to have language that’s clear, and permits rhyme, and has a romantic flavour. So what’s it to be?”
“It’s obvious,” said Powell. “Obvious to anybody but a scholar, that’s to say. Sir Walter’s your man.”
Nobody responded to the name of Sir Walter. There were looks of incomprehension on every face but Arthur’s.
“Sir Walter Scott, he means,” said he. “Haven’t any of you read any Scott?”
“Nobody reads Scott nowadays,” said Penny. “He’s ceased to be a Figure and been demoted to an Influence. Too simple for scholarly consideration but can’t be wholly overlooked.”
“You mean in the universities,” said Arthur. “Increasingly I thank God that I never went to one. As a reader I’ve just rambled at large on Parnassus, chewing the grass wherever it seemed rich. I read an awful lot of Scott when I was a boy, and loved it. I think Geraint is right. Scott’s our man.”
“Just about every big Scott novel was made into an opera. Not operas that are done much now, but big hits in their day. Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, Bizet—all those guys. I’ve looked at them. Pretty neat, I’d say.” It was Schnak who spoke. She had been almost unheard until this moment, and the others looked at her with wonder, as in one of those old tales where an animal is suddenly gifted with speech.
“We have forgotten that Hulda is fresh from her studies in musicology,” said the Doctor. “We must listen to her. After all, she is to do the most important part of the work.”
“Hoffmann read a lot of Scott,” said Schnak. “Thought he was great. Sort of operatic.”
“Schnak is right,” said Arthur. “Operatic. Lucia di Lammermoor–still a great favourite.”
“Hoffmann knew it. Probably was an influence on him, if you’re hog-wild for influences,” said Schnak. “Gimme some Scott, and let’s see what can be done. It’d have to be a pistache, naturally.”
“You must say pastiche, my dear,” said the Doctor. “But you are right.”
“Am I to understand that we are abandoning Malory?” said Hollier.
“ ‘Raus mit Malory,” said Schnak. “Never heard of him.”
“Hulda! You told me you did not know German!”
“That was two weeks ago, Nilla,” said Schnak. “How do you suppose I got my musicology, without German? How do you suppose I read what Hoffmann wrote on his notes, without German? And I can even speak a little kitchen German. Honestly, you top people are dumb! You ask me questions like examiners, and you treat me like a kid. I’m supposed to be writing this thing, eh?”
“You’re right, Schnak,” said Powell. “We’ve been leaving you out. Sorry. You’ve hit the nail on the head. It must be Scott pastiche.”
“If it’s not to be Scott pistache I’ll have to get down to reading Marmion and The Lady of the Lake right away,” said Darcourt. “But how do we work?”
“Hulda will give you details about the music, and little plans that show you how the tunes go, so you can fit good words to them. And as quick as you can, please.”
“I must ask to be excused,” said Hollier. “If you need me for details of history, or costume, or behaviour, you know where to find me. Unless, of course, untrammelled, uninformed imagination is to determine everything. And so I bid you good-night.”
6
“What got into Clem?” said Penny, as they drove away in Arthur’s car. It was a fine car, but it was rather a squash in the back seat with Penny, Darcourt, and Powell, however politely they might try to restrain their bottoms.
“Just thwarted professorship,” said Darcourt.
“Probably mid-life crisis,” said Powell.
“What’s that?” asked Arthur, who was driving.
“It’s one of the new, fashionable ailments, like pre-menstrual bloat,” said Powell. “Excuses anything.”
“Really?” said Arthur. “Do you suppose I might have one of those? I’ve not been feeling quite the thing, lately.”
“You’re too young for it, my darling,” said Maria. “Anyway, I wouldn’t let you. It can make a man into a big baby. I thought Clem was being an awful baby.”
“I’ve known he was a baby for years,” said Darcourt. “A large, learned, very handsome baby, but still a baby. For me, the surprise of the evening was Schnak. She’s coming out of her shell with a hell of a yell, isn’t she? She’s given us our orders.”
“It’s Old Sooty,” said Penny. “I have my dark suspicions about Old Sooty. Do you know that kid has moved in with her? Now what does that mean?”
“You obviously want to tell us,” said Maria.
“Do I have to tell you? She and Schnak are poofynooks. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
“It seems to be doing Schnak a power of good,” said Arthur. “Clean, putting on a little flesh, finding her tongue, and she doesn’t look at us any more as if she was just about to order up the tumbrils. If that’s what lesbianism does, three cheers for lesbianism, I say.”
“Yes, but haven’t we some responsibility? I mean, are we delivering this kid gagged and bound into the hands of that old bull-dyke? Didn’t you hear ‘Nilla’ and ‘dear Hulda’ all evening until you nearly threw up?”
“What about it?” said Maria. “She’s probably the first person who has ever been nice to Schnak—really nice, I mean. Very likely the first person to talk to Schnak about music seriously and not just as an instructor. If it means a few rolls in the hay, the occasional bout of kindly kissing and clipping, what about it? Schnak’s nineteen, for God’s sake, and an exceedingly bright nineteen. The word genius has been whispered.”
“What do you think, Simon?” said Penny. “You’re the professional moralist.”
“I think what Maria thinks. And as a professional moralist I think you have to take love where you find it.”
“Even if it means being mauled and clapper-clawed by Dr. Gunilla Dahl-Soot? Thank you, Father Darcourt, for these advanced opinions.”
“I’m in the dark about this business,” said Arthur. “What do they do?”
“Oh, Arthur, that’s what every man asks about lesbians,” said Maria. “I suppose they do whatever comes into their heads. I’m sure I could think of lots of things.”
“Could you really?” said Arthur. “You must show me. I’ll be Schnak and you be Gunny, and we’ll find out what happens in the gunny-sack. A new window on the wonders of the world.”
“I think you’re being frivolous and irresponsible,” said Penny. “I am more and more convinced that this Snark of ours is going to turn out to be a Boojum.”
“What is all this Snark and Boojum stuff?” said Arthur. “You’ve talked about it ever since you came in with us on this operatic venture. Some obscure literary reference, I suppose, designed to keep the uneducated in their proper place. Instruct me, Penny; I am just a humble, teachable money-man. Let me into your Druid Circle.”
“Sorry, sorry Arthur; I suppose it is a private lingo but it says so much in a few words. You see, there’s a very great poem by Lewis Carroll about the Hunting of the Snark; a lot of crazy creatures set off, they know not whither, in search of they know not what. The hunt is led by a Bellman—that’s you, Arthur—full of zeal and umph, and his crew includes a Boots and a Banker, and a Billiard Marker and a Beaver who makes lace—probably you, Simon, because ‘he often saved them from wreck / Though none of the sailors knew how’. And there’s a very peculiar creature who seems to be a Baker but turns out to be a Butcher, and he is omnicompetent—