So here it was, not as a symphonic piece, but as an accompaniment to an act of lovely trickery, or, if you prefer, a masterwork of stage magic.

When it was being rehearsed, some of the singers were not pleased that what was probably the finest part of the score made no use of their voices. Nutcombe Puckler, indeed, referred to it as “this silent music”, and Hans Hoizknecht had some hard words about pantomime. But it proved itself masterly in performance.

The audience, partly quelled by Yerko’s Claque, which had been stealthily teaching them to wait for their cues, and partly because they were enthralled by what they saw and heard, were still as mice until the end, when the Queen, joined by her special Knights, bearing white shields, moved gently off the stage to the place where Gwen had cleared space for what was—Queen, horse, Knights and Ladies—rather a crowd which must on no account be halted in its progress. Then they broke into three minutes of sustained applause. Three minutes is a long time for furious clapping, and when the first minute had passed Yerko let loose his forces in every part of the house, and their cries of Bravo were so heart-lifting that several non-claquers joined in. But as they were not trained mid-European bawlers, they had little chance against the professionals in approbation.

Was a voice heard to cry, “Bravo, Hoffmann”? There was, and it was the voice of Simon Darcourt.

Gunilla, though not by inclination apt to recognize an audience except with frosty courtesy, bowed again and again.

Gunilla was, after all, a great artist, and such approbation is very sweet to the performer’s ear.

“That’s fetched ‘em,” shouted Hollier in Darcourt’s ear. “I think we’ve got ‘em now!”

We? thought Darcourt, applauding till his hands smarted.

Who’s we? What had you to do with this? What had I to do with it? The music, of course, is Hoffmann-cum-Schnak, and very fine, too. But this magic belongs to Geraint Powell, and to Dulcy and Waldo, whom he fired and inspired with his own sense of theatre.

And to Hoffmann. He had raised his voice for Hoffmann.

Not solely Hoffmann the composer, who might not have been as good a musician as Schnak, but Hoffmann who lived and died when Romance was blossoming in all the arts. To the spirit of Hoffmann, indeed. This was certainly the Little Man who had been aroused by the Cornish Foundation and all the people it had touched.

The Second Act moved rapidly. The scene outside Merlin’s cave, where the enchantress Morgan tricks the good old man into the revelation: Arthur can only be destroyed by one born in the month of May. The exultation of Morgan, for it is her son—also, by incest, the son of Arthur, though Arthur does not know it—who is the May-born. The fateful words of Morgan:

And Modred’s response:

The temptation of Guenevere by Lancelot. His declaration of love and her sad cry:

The revelation to the lovers Guenevere and Lancelot that the Maid Elaine, whom Lancelot deflowered when under Morgan’s evil spell, must die of her love, but die gladly:

And Lancelot’s recognition of the treachery of his love, and his bitter acceptance of implacable destiny:

The audience—not, one would have supposed, greatly susceptible to Arthurian romance—were now wholly in the grip of the opera, and the buzz of enthusiasm at the interval was heartening.

Darcourt had something very much on his mind.

“Penny,” he said, cornering her in the foyer, “will you let Clem have your seat for the Third Act? I’d like you to be with me for at least a part of this.”

“Nicely said, Simon, but I know what you mean. I’ve been talking with Clem, and whatever he has been dousing himself with, he’s overdone it. I was almost asphyxiated, and I know what you must have been going through. ‘A bundle of myrrh is my well beloved to me: he lieth all night between my breasts’. But not if I can help it. I’ll be delighted to relieve you. We’ve pulled it off nicely, don’t you think?”

We, again. What have you done? thought Darcourt. A few sessions of bitchy criticism of my work.\

“My guess, for what it’s worth, is that our Snark is really a Snark, and not a speck of a Boojum. Did you ever hear such enthusiasm? In Canada, I mean, the Home of Modified Rapture.”

“It is certainly going well,” said Darcourt, who had sighted Yerko leaning, with pachydermatous elegance, over a very small but excitable lady with orange hair. “Let’s go in. Third Act any minute now.”

The Third Act was very much as Geraint had outlined it, so long ago as it now seemed, when they had dined unhappily on Maria’s Arthurian feast. Perhaps inevitably the emphasis was different. The music for Merlin, when he denounced the villain Modred, was arresting:

And later:

Then Modreds unrepentant, properly villainous death:

But it was Hans Hoizknecht, as the King, who had the best of it. Fine actor, fine singer, he drew the most from the shattered Arthur’s recognition of his unrecognized incest, the bitterness of his son Modred’s hate, and—heaviest of all—the betrayal by his beloved wife and his beloved friend. But his invocation to Love, as a charity beyond even the poetry of fleshly possession, was his best moment, and his conclusion—

–moved many of the audience, somewhat to their embarrassment, to tears.

Walter Scott is very good, but Schnak has raised him to another level, thought Darcourt. I wonder if she really understood what she was setting to music? If so, there’s hope for her, tormented child as she is. But with musicians you can never be quite sure.

At the death of Arthur, the scene melted magically again to the shores of the Enchanted Mere, which had not been seen since the Overture. But it was not quite the same scene, for this was deeply autumnal; leaves, and a few snowflakes, scudded across the stage where the Knights stood, leaning on their swords. They sang: