The Lyre of Orpheus Read online

  “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 cell 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 gunnysack. 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—

  He would answer to ‘Hi!’ or to any loud cry,

  Such as ‘Fry me!’ or ‘Fritter-my-wig!’

  To ‘What-you-may-call-um!’ or ‘What-was-his name!’

  But especially ‘Thing-um-a-jig!’

  While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,

  He had different names for these:

  His intimate friends called him ‘Candle-ends’

  And his enemies, ‘Toasted-cheese’

  —so that�
��s obviously you, Geraint, you Cymric mystifier, because you have us all buffaloed about this opera business. It’s just about a crazy voyage that somehow, in an unfathomable way, makes a kind of eerie sense. I mean, so many of us are professors—well, Clem and Simon and me, which is quite a few—and listen to this from the Bellman’s definition of a Snark—

  The third is its slowness in taking a jest

  Should you happen to venture on one,

  It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed:

  And it always looks grave at a pun.

  Isn’t that what we’ve been doing all evening? Yammering about Malory and the scholarly approach to something that is utterly unscholarly in the marrow of its bones, because it’s Art. And Art is rum stuff—the very rummest. It may look like a nice, simple Snark, but it can suddenly prove to be a Boojum, and then, look out!

  ‘For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm

  Yet I feel it my duty to say,

  Some are Boojums—’ The Bellman broke off in alarm,

  For the Baker had fainted away.

  Do you get what I mean, Arthur? Do you see how it fits in and haunts my mind?”

  “I might see it if I had your mind, but I haven’t,” said Arthur. “Literary reference leaves me gaping.”

  “I bet it would have left King Arthur gaping,” said Maria loyally, “if Merlin had got off a few quaint cracks from his Black Book.”

  “Yes, but I see how this whole thing could go very queer,” said Penny. “And I had a hint of it tonight. That poor kid Schnak thinks she’s tough, but she’s just a battered baby, and she’s being let in for something she certainly can’t handle. It worries me. I don’t want to be a busybody, or a soul-saver, or any of that, but surely we ought to do something!”

  “I think you’re jealous,” said Powell.

  “Jealous! Me! Geraint, I hate you! I’ve just decided. Ever since I met you I’ve wondered what I really think about you, you blathering, soapy Welsh goat, and now I know. You’re in this for what you can get, and you don’t give a maggoty shit for anybody else, and I hate you!”

  “We’re all in everything for what we can get, professor,” said Powell. “And if not, why are we in it? What are you in it for? You don’t know, but you hope to find out. Fame? Fun? Something to fill up the gaps in your life? What’s your personal Snark? You really ought to find out.”

  “This is where I get out,” said Penny. “Thank you for driving me home, Arthur. I can’t get out unless you get out first, Geraint.”

  Powell stepped on to the pavement and bowed as he held the door for the furious Penny.

  “You shouldn’t have said that, Geraint,” said Maria, when they drove away.

  “Why not? I think it’s true.”

  “All the more reason not to say it,” said Maria.

  “You could be right about Penny,” said Darcourt. “Why is such an attractive woman unattached at her age? Why is she so flirtatious with men but it never leads to anything? Perhaps our Penny is looking asquint at something she doesn’t want to see.”

  “A fight over Schnak is just what we need to relieve the dowdy simplicity of this opera venture,” said Powell. “Art is so lacking in passion, don’t you think? With the Doctor and Penny contesting like the Bright and the Dark Angel for the body and soul of Hulda Schnakenburg, we shall add a little salt to the dreary porridge of our lives.”

  (7)

  ETAH IN LIMBO

  What do they do? Arthur wants to know, and I, happy in my privileged position, may say that I do know.

  I must be careful about my privileged position. “Is there a cosier condition than being thoroughly pleased with oneself?” I must be careful not to become like Kater Murr. Even in Limbo, I suppose, one can sink into Philistinism.

  But what Dr. Gunilla and Hulda Schnakenburg do is far from Philistine, and indeed far from the anti-Philistine world as I knew it when I was a part of what is now flatteringly called The Romantic Movement. Of course there were intense and intimate friendships between women then, but whatever physical amusement they generated was not known or seriously considered. Certainly some young ladies hung about each other’s necks in public; they often dressed in identical gowns; they swooned or had hysterics at the same time, for both swooning and hysterics were high among the feminine luxuries of the day, and were thought to show great delicacy of feeling. But it was always assumed that these sensitive creatures would marry at last, and after marriage the intimacy with the female friend might become even more precious. I suppose if, after the first raptures of marriage, your husband was in the habit of coming to bed drunk, or smelling of the bawdy-house, or in a mood to black an eye or give a few hard slaps to a critical wife, it was delightful to have a friend who treated you with delicate respect and who could perhaps rouse an ecstasy that your disappointing husband thought was outside the emotional range of a well-bred woman. That was how it was, you see: that special ecstasy was thought to be the prerogative of whores, and whores became expert at faking it, and thereby flattering their clients.

  It was all quite different, in my day. Love was an emotion greatly valued, but it was valued for its own sake, and an unhappy love or a torturing love was perhaps even more valued than a love that was fulfilled. After all, love is an ecstasy, but sex is an appetite, and one does not always satisfy an appetite at the best restaurant in town. The bordel where Devrient and I used to go in Berlin was quite a humble affair, and the women there knew their trade and their place; they did not presume to intimacy with the visitors, who were always called Mein Herr, unless the visitors liked endearments and smutty talk, which was extra, and had to be considered in the tip. It was in Russia and Poland that people who liked that sort of thing became familiar with the whore and, in my opinion, made fools of themselves. I cannot recall the face of a single whore, though I employed many.

  Why? Why did I go to the bordel, even when I was out of my mind with love for the unattainable pupil, the lovely Julia Marc? Even in my most love-stricken hours I did not cease to eat, or drink—or visit the bordel. Love was not an appetite, but an ecstasy. Whores were not women, but servants.

  What about my wife? Do you suppose that when I was head over ears in love with another woman I would insult my wife, my dearest Michalina Rohrer, by seeking out her bed? Do you suppose I had no respect for her, and all she meant to me? She was a fact, and an extremely important fact, of my life, and I would not have insulted her, even if she were unconscious of the insult—and I do not for a moment suppose she was ignorant of my passion for Julia. She had a close friend, by the way, and I never made inquiry or interfered in whatever may have passed between them. Nor, I suppose, did Dante, when he was sighing for his Beatrice. Dante was a very good family man, and so was I, in the manner of my time. Romantic love and a firm domestic life were not incompatible, but they were not expected to mingle. Marriage was a contract, to be taken seriously, and the fidelity it demanded was not to he trifled with. But the obsession of love might, and often did, lie elsewhere.

  Is there love between Gunilla and Hulda? On Hulda’s side I am sure it is so, and whether either of them expects it to last, as marriage is expected to last, I cannot say. It was Hulda’s initiation into that sweet ecstasy; Gunilla is a woman of great experience. It was she, for instance, who introduced Hulda to what they called the Love Potion.

  It was a sort of jam, really. Jam was the heart of it; the very best raspberry jam made by Crabtree and Evelyn. With the jam was mixed honey and a few chopped walnuts. Gunilla would spread a path of it on Hulda’s tender belly, beginning at the navel and extending downward. Having licked the jam out of the navel, Gunilla would lick slowly and gently in a southward direction and in time—it all had to be done lentissimo e languidamente—to the pintle of ecstasy, and then there were sighs and sometimes cries. After a restful period of kissing, Hulda took her turn, anointing Gunilla’s belly and performing the same slow ritual. With Gunilla it always ended in quite loud cries. It was she who most appr
eciated the walnuts, which gave, she said, a sort of traction that was very exciting.

  All innocent and delightful, concluding with a bath together (enlivened with a couple of aquavits apiece) and a refreshing sleep. Who was harmed? Nobody. And there was no resorting to the bordel, simply as a convenience.

  That is what I envy them. For it was in the bordel, somewhere—I cannot tell in what city of the many where I pursued my career—it came about that I acquired the disease that was one of the contributing elements in my early death. I underwent a cure, of course, but the cures in those days cured nothing except the debts of the physicians. I thought I had been cured, but later I knew better. That was in 1818, and when I became horribly ill and died in 1822 I knew that it was not simply the liver ailment that grew from all that champagne, or the mysterious paralysis that was at last diagnosed as tabes dorsalis—one of the many names given to the old, old disease—that carried me off. As it carried off poor Schubert, who, as I saw from the vantage of Limbo, was brought to wearing an absurd wig, to disguise the baldness that syphilis had brought upon him. And Schumann, who died of a self-inflicted starvation: but it sprang from the madness that had so long possessed him—madness that arose from the Morbus Gallicus.

  It was my legs that first became useless to me, then the paralysis settled in my hands and I could not hold a pen. I was determined to complete Arthur of Britain if I could, and when writing was impossible I dictated my music to my wife, my dear faithful Michalina, who was a skilled amanuensis. But I could achieve nothing but sketches for the music I wanted—the sketches from which Schnak is so cleverly divining what was in my mind. The disease that made me unable to control the pen seemed to enlarge and enrich my musical imagination; I have long believed that certain poisons—tobacco and wine, to name two of the commonest—may do that in minds of fine quality, where the poisons do not induce the usual stupor. A truly Romantic notion, some would say. But the tortures and wrenchings that came with the inspirations were terrible, and it was to them that I at last succumbed.