“Sounds wonderful,” said Maria.

“It’s magical! I don’t know how we ever changed it for all this business of fixed settings and mood lighting that reflects nothing much but the mood of the lighting-designer. Pure magic!”

“Sounds to me like pantomime,” said Hollier.

“It is a bit like pantomime. But what’s wrong with that? It’s magic, I tell you.”

“You mean like the things one sees at Drottningholm?” said Darcourt.

“Just like that.”

Nobody but Darcourt among the Foundation members had been to Drottningholm, and they were impressed.

“But why is it so expensive?” said Arthur. “It sounds to me like a few pieces of lath and a lot of canvas and paint.”

“And that’s what it is. It’s the paint that costs money. Good scene-painters are rare nowadays, but Dulcy says she could do it with six good art-students and herself to supervise and do the tricky bits. But it takes time and it costs like the devil.”

“If it’s magic, we’ll have it,” said Arthur.

“That’s the real Arthurian touch,” said Maria, and kissed him.

“I declare for it, without reserve,” said the Doctor. “It will mean that I—I mean Hulda—can have many scenes, and that is wonderful freedom for a composer. Indoor-outdoor; forests and gardens. Yes, yes, Mr. Cornish, you are man of fine imagination. I also salute you.”

The Doctor kissed Arthur. On the cheek. Not one of her tongue-in-the-mouth kisses.

“With such a scheme of production, I suppose you see no obstacle to using The Questing Beast,” said Hollier, cheering up visibly, if a little unsteadily.

“What in God’s name is The Questing Beast?” said the Doctor.

“It was the monster whose pursuit was the lifelong occupation of Sir Pellinore,” said Hollier. “I’m surprised you do not know. The Questing Beast had the head of a serpent, the body of a libbard, the rump of a lion, the hooves of a hart, and a great, swingeing tail; out of its belly came a sound like the baying of thirty couple of hounds. Just the thing for a magical opera.”

“Oh Clem, you genius,” said Penny Raven, and, not to be left out when kissing was toward, she kissed Hollier, to his great abashment.

“Well—I don’t know,” said Powell.

“Oh, you must,” said Penny. “Hulda could make the Beast sing out of its belly! All those voices, in wonderful harmony. What a coup de théâtre! No, I suppose I mean a coup d’oreille. It would be the hit of the show.”

“Just what I’m afraid of,” said Powell. “You have a very minor character, Sir Pellinore, traipsing about the stage with a bloody great pantomime dragon, and taking all the attention. No! Nix on The Questing Beast.”

“I thought you wanted imagination,” said Hollier, with the hauteur of a man whose brilliant idea has been scorned.

“Imagination is not uncontrolled fantasy,” said the Doctor.

“The Questing Beast is a vital part of the Arthurian Legend,” said Hollier, raising his voice. “The Questing Beast is pure Malory. Are you throwing Malory overboard? I want to know. If I am to have any part in preparing this libretto—as you call it—I want to know the ground rules. What are your intentions toward Malory?”

“Good sense must prevail,” said the Doctor, who had not been inattentive to the aquavit. “Myth must be transmuted into art, not slavishly reproduced. If Wagner had been ruled by myth, the Ring of the Nibelungs would have been trampled to death by monsters and giants and nobody would have understood the story. I have my responsibility here, and I remind you of it. Hulda’s interests must come before everything. Besides, Hoffmann has not provided any music that could in any way be turned into a four-part chorus singing inside the belly of a monster, and probably not able to see the conductor. To hell with your Questing Beast!”

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.”