The Lyre of Orpheus tct-3

by Robertson Davies

  “I follow you,” said the Doctor. “The sword is manhood and the scabbard is womanhood, and unless they are united there can be no peace, no splendour through the arts of peace.”

  “You’ve got it!” said Powell. “And the scabbard is also Guenevere, and already Arthur is losing Guenevere because he trusts in the sword alone.”

  “The symbolismus is very good,” said the Doctor. “Aha, the sword is also Arthur’s thing—you know, his male thing—what do you call it—?”

  “His penis,” said Penny.

  “Not much of a word. Latin—means his tail. How can it be a tail when it is in front? Have you no better word in English?”

  “Not in decent use,” said Darcourt.

  “Oh—decent use! I spit on decent use! And the scabbard is the Queen’s thing—what is your indecent word for that?”

  Nobody quite liked to reply, but Penny whispered in the Doctor’s ear. “Middle English,” she added, to give it a scholarly gloss.

  “Oho, that word!” said the Doctor. “We know it well in Sweden. That’s a better word than that silly tail-word. I see that this will be a very rich opera. More champagne, if you please. Perhaps the best thing would be to put a bottle here beside me.”

  “Do I understand that you are telling the spectators even before the opera begins that there can be peace in the land only if there is sexual unity between the King and Queen?” said Hollier.

  “Not at all,” said Powell. “This Prologue tells that the greatness of the land depends on the uniting of masculine and feminine powers, and that the sword alone cannot bring the nobility of spirit Arthur seeks. Don’t worry. I can get it across with some very nice lighting. There will be no raunchy shoving the sword in and out of the scabbard to please the people who think that sex is just something that happens in bed.”

  “More to that game than four bare legs in a blanket,” said Penny, nodding sagely.

  “Exactly. It is a union of two opposite but complementary sensibilities. Maybe that is what the Grail means. I leave that to the librettists, if they think it useful.”

  “The wine in the gold,” said Maria.

  “I never thought of the Grail like that,” said Penny. “Interesting idea.”

  “Even the blind pig sometimes finds an acorn,” said Powell, bowing toward her. “Now, to get into the opera proper.

  “Act One begins with Arthur’s evil sister, Morgan Le Fay (who is an enchantress and thus understandably a contralto), trying to worm secrets out of Merlin: who shall be Arthur’s heir? Merlin squirms a bit, but he can’t resist a fellow magician, and he confides that it must be someone born in the month of May, unless Arthur should have a child of his own. Morgan Le Fay is exultant, for her son Modred was born in May, and as the King’s nephew he is the nearest heir. Merlin warns her not to be too sure, for Arthur loves Guenevere greatly, and a child is very likely. Not if Arthur risks his life in war, says the contralto.

  “Then we have an assembly of the Knights of the Round Table: Arthur gives them their charge—they are to disperse and seek the Holy Grail, which will bring lasting peace and greatness to Britain. The Knights accept their duty, and are sent their different ways. But when Lancelot presents himself the King refuses to give him a direction; he must remain behind to govern because the King is eager to go on the Quest himself, bearing the great Caliburn; he draws it and sings of his overmastering ambition. Guenevere pleads with Arthur to let Lancelot go on the Quest, for she fears that the guilty love she and Lancelot have for each other may bring shame to the kingdom. But Arthur is resolute, and as he is being armoured for his Quest—very spectacular that will be—Morgan Le Fay steals the scabbard and Arthur, in his exalted state, refuses to wait until it is found, and goes on the Quest, declaring that bravery and strength, symbolized by the naked sword, will suffice. Everybody buggers off in search of the Grail, and Guenevere is filled with dread, and Morgan Le Fay is exultant. End of the Act.”

  “What about Modred?” said Maria. “We haven’t heard anything of him yet.”

  “He’s one of the Knights, and he doubts the Grail,” said Powell. “He can scowl and sneer in the background.”

  “Strong stuff, but is it nineteenth-century?” said Hollier. “A bit too psychological, perhaps?”

  “No,” said the Doctor. “Nineteenth-century need not mean simple-minded. Look at Weber’s Der Freischütz. The nineteenth century had psychology too. We didn’t invent it.”

  “Very well,” said Hollier. “Go on, Powell.”

  “Act Two is where we get into really big operatic stuff. Begins with a scene of the Queen’s Maying; she and her ladies are in the forest, gathering the May blossoms. I think she should ride a horse. A horse is always a sure card in opera. Suggests that no expense has been spared. If the horse has been given an enema an hour before curtain time, and there are enough people to lead it, even a coloratura soprano should be able to stick on its back long enough for a very pretty effect. In the forest she meets Lancelot, and they sing of their passion—after the horse and the maidens have gone, of course. But Morgan Le Fay is eavesdropping, disguised as a hag, an old witch of the forest. She cannot contain herself. She bursts upon the couple and denounces them as traitors to the King; they protest their innocence and devotion to Arthur. When the witch has gone. Merlin appears, and warns the lovers of the evil that lurks in the May blossoms, and the danger of the month of May. But they do not understand him.”

  “Stupid, like all characters in opera,” said Hollier.

  “Enchanted, like all people in love,” said the Doctor. “Characters in opera are really just like ordinary people, you know, except that they show us their souls.”

  “If a witch and a sorcerer warned me about something, I think I would have enough wits to heed them,” said Hollier.

  “Probably. That is why there has never been an opera about a professor,” said the Doctor.

  “That is only Scene One of the Act,” said Powell. “Now we have a quick change—I know how to do it—to a Tower up the river above Camelot, where Guenevere and Lancelot have gone and consummated their love. They are in ecstasy, but in the river below the Tower there appears a Black Barge guided by Morgan Le Fay, and bearing Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat, who accuses Lancelot of being false to her, and says that she carries his child. Guenevere is horror-struck, when Lancelot confesses that it is indeed true, but that he lay with Elaine when he was under a spell, and that he suspects the spell was cast upon him by Morgan Le Fay, who can get in a lot of very effective mockery in the ensuing quartet. But Guenevere is desolate and when the barge sweeps on, down the river to Camelot, her reproaches drive Lancelot mad. Now of course in Malory he is mad for years, and dashes about the forest banging into trees and getting into all sorts of injurious mischief, but we have no time for that, so he rages for a while. This could be quite a novelty; a Mad Scene (à la Lucia) for a tenor. Lancelot proposes to Guenevere that he should kill himself, as expiation for his faithlessness, even though it was not precisely his fault. No, says Guenevere; there shall be no needless killing, and she herself puts his sword back into its scabbard. As the scene concludes, a messenger arrives in hot haste, with news that there has been a great battle, and that Arthur has been killed. His body is being brought back to Camelot for burial. End of scene.”

  “Nobody can say that this opera lacks for incident,” said Maria.

  “Operas devour incident,” said the Doctor. “Nobody wants to listen to people going into musical ecstasies about love for two hours and a half. Go on, Powell. What next? You have killed Arthur. That is bad. The character who gives the name to the opera should not peg out until the end. Look at Lucia di Lammermoor; the last act is tedious. No Lucia. You’ll have to arrange something different.”

  “No I won’t,” said Powell. “The next and final Act is in the Great Hall of Arthur’s palace in Camelot, and Arthur returns triumphant, though wounded. He tells of the battle in which he has been engaged, and how a Knight in black armour appeared who
challenged him to single combat. But when he seemed to be overcome, and fell from his horse, he drew his shield before him just as the Black Knight was about to give him the coup de grâce–”

  “The what?” said Hollier.

  Penny flew at him. “The coup de grâce, Clem. You know: the knockout. Do pay attention. You keep nodding off.”

  “I do nothing of the sort.”

  “Yes you do. Sit up straight and listen.”

  “As I was saying,” said Powell, “the Black Knight was about to give Arthur the coup de grâce when he saw on the shield the painting of Our Lady, whereupon he turned and fled, and Arthur, though wounded, was spared. Arthur sings in praise of Our Lady, who saved him at need. The Eternal Feminine, you see.”

  “Das Ewig-Weibliche,” said the Doctor. “That ought to teach the masculine idiot. Go on.”

  “Everybody is immensely chuffed that Arthur has returned. But Arthur is uneasy. He knows he has an inveterate enemy. And this is where several Knights appear, bringing in Modred, the Black Knight, and Arthur is stricken that his nephew and the child of his dear sister should have sought his life. Modred mocks him as an idealistic fool, who holds honour greater than power, and displays the scabbard of Caliburn, without which he says honour is powerless, and the sword must settle everything. He challenges the wounded King to fight, and though Guenevere, who has seized the scabbard, begs him to sheathe Caliburn, the King will not hear of it. He and Modred fight, and once again the King is wounded. As he lies dying, Guenevere and Lancelot confess their guilty love. Now—this is the culmination of the whole affair—Arthur shows himself greatly magnanimous, and declares that the greatest love is summed up in Charity, and not in sexual fidelity alone; his love for both Guenevere and Lancelot is greater than the wound they have given him. He dies, and at once the scene changes to the Magic Mere, where we see Arthur floating out into the mists in a barge, attended only by Merlin, who sheathes Caliburn for the last time and casts it back into the water from which it first came, as Arthur nears the Isle of Sleep. Curtain.”

  There was applause from Darcourt and Maria. But Hollier was not content. “You drop too many people along the way,” he said. “What happens to Elaine? What about her baby? We know that baby was Galahad, the Pure Knight who saw the Grail. You can’t just dump all that after Act Two.”

  “Oh yes I can,” said Powell. “This is an opera, not a Ring Cycle. We’ve got to get the curtain down around eleven.”

  “You’ve said nothing about Modred being the incestuous child of Arthur and Morgan Le Fay.”

  “No time for incest,” said Powell. “The plot is complicated enough as it stands. Incest would just mess things up.”

  “I will have no part of any opera that includes a baby,” said the Doctor. “Horses are bad enough on the stage, but children are hell.”

  “People will feel cheated,” said Hollier. “Anybody who knows Malory will know that it was Sir Bedevere, not Merlin, who threw Caliburn back into the water. And it was three Queens who bore Arthur away. It’s all so untrue to the original.”

  “Let ‘em write to the papers,” said Powell. “Let the musicologists paw it over for the next twenty years. We must have a coherent plot and we must wind it up before the stagehands go on overtime. How many people in an opera audience will know Malory, do you suppose?”

  “I have always said the theatre was a coarse art,” said Hollier, with tipsy dignity.

  “That is why it is a live art,” said the Doctor. “That is why it has vitality. Out of the ragbag about Arthur we have to find a straight story, and Powell has done so. For myself, I am very well pleased with his schema for the opera. I drink to you, Powell. You are what I call a real pro.”

  “Thank you, Nilla,” said Powell. “I can’t think of a compliment that would please me better.”

  “What’s a real pro?” whispered Hollier to Penny.

  “Somebody who really knows his job.”

  “Somebody who doesn’t know Malory, it seems to me.”

  “I like it tremendously,” said Arthur; “and I am glad you agree, Doctor. Whatever you say, Clem, it’s miles ahead of that rubbish about Nob and Tit we were listening to when Penny discovered Planches stuff. At last I feel as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was terribly worried.”

  “Your worries have only begun, boy,” said Powell. “But we’ll meet ‘em as they come. Won’t we, Nilla fach?”

  “Powell, you go beyond what is decent,” said the Doctor. “How dare you speak to me in that way!”

  “You misunderstand. The word is a Welsh endearment.”

  “You are gross. Do not attempt to explain.”

  “Fach is the feminine of bach. I say ‘Sim bach’ and it is as if I said dear old Sim.”

  “I want nothing to do with old dears,” said the Doctor, who was again becoming belligerent. “I am a free spirit, not the scabbard of any man’s sword. My world is a world of infinite choice.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Penny.

  “You will oblige me by confining yourself to the libretto, which is your business, Professor Raven,” said the Doctor. “Have you comprehended the symbolismus? This will be wonderfully modern. The true union of man and woman to save and enlarge mankind.”

  “But how can it be wonderfully modern if it is true to Hoffmann and the early nineteenth century?” said Hollier. “You forget that we are to restore and complete a work of art from a day long past.”

  “Professor Hollier, you are wonderfully obtuse, as only a very learned man can be, and I forgive you. But for the love of Almighty God, and for Our Lady whom Arthur bore on his shield, I beg you to shut up and leave the artists’ work to the artists, and stop all this scholarly bleating. Real art is all one, and speaks of the great things of life, whenever it is created. Get that through your great, thick, brilliantly furnished head and shut up, shut up, shut up.” The Doctor was roaring, in a rich contralto that might have done very well for Morgan Le Fay.

  “All right,” said Hollier. “I am not insulted. I am above the ravings of a drunken termagant. Go ahead, the whole pack of you, and make asses of yourselves. I withdraw.”

  “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 Powell: “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,” sa
id 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—”