you for your attention, and I wish you great success.”
Dame Isabel turned away. She called back over her shoulder. “I shall expect you at Ballew this evening, Roger. We must come to certain decisions.”
Roger, suddenly bold, took Madoc Roswyn’s arm, and the contact tingled nerves all the way up his arm. “I know what,” he said. “I’ll take you to lunch, and between courses you can play the tin whistle.”
“I wish I’d brought it.”
Roger led her to the little sky-car; away they flew to a mountain-top inn, and Roger had never had a more enchanting lunch. He made dozens of extravagant statements, which Madoc Roswyn heard with exactly the right mixture of amusement, skepticism, and tolerance. Roger tried to find out all about her: he wanted, in one brief hour, to make up for a lifetime of non-acquaintance, a lifetime for all practical purposes wasted. Madoc Roswyn’s background, as she explained it, was simple and uncomplicated. Her family had been landholders and farmers in a rather remote area of Wales; she had attended school in a little stone village, and secondary school at Llangollen. When her parents died she had sold the old farmstead, and since had traveled the world. She had worked at one job here, another there, uncertain what to do with herself, but disinclined to compromise her freedom. It came to Roger that here, exactly, was his own predicament: he was neither lazy nor incompetent; he merely had occupational claustrophobia. As for Madoc Roswyn and all her candor there was still mystery: areas and areas behind areas: quirks of emotions he could never divine; goals and dedications of which she would never hint.
The realization was painful: no matter how much he had of her, there would always be more forever beyond his reach … His first enthusiasm muted, Roger conveyed Madoc Roswyn to her lodgings. He would have liked to have taken her to Ballew for the evening, but somehow did not dare.
At dinner Dame Isabel pointedly made no mention of Madoc Roswyn. Bernard Bickel was present and conversation centered upon the formation of the company. “I insist upon Guido Altrocchi,” said Dame Isabel. “I could get Nels Lessing, in fact he’s offered to join the company without pay and Guido wants a frightful salary — but I refuse to compromise. Only the best is good enough.”
Bernard Bickel nodded approvingly. “If only there were more like you!”
Roger winced. “If I were handling the matter,” he said, “I’d use three-dimension records. Why not? Think how much easier, and how much less expensive!”
Dame Isabel shook her head. “Canned performances are always deficient; they never convey the vitality, the living, breathing, presence of music.”
“Good enough for the back-planets,” growled Roger.
“We are sufficiently at the mercy of machines, Roger; if our music must necessarily be mechanical, then it is time for us to throw in the sponge, and abandon all hope for the future of humanity.”
“Assuming that opera is music in the first place,” muttered Roger.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I merely emphasized the enormous savings to be achieved.”
“Someday, my young friend,” said Bernard Bickel, “you will appreciate your aunt’s wisdom and courage. What are a few paltry dollars? Nothing less than the physical presence of the artists, working in perfect discipline, can generate the excitement of a legitimate musical experience — and it is this excitement, this sense of wonder, which we want to convey!”
Roger could summon no further arguments, and listened while Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel debated the merits of Cassandra Prouty against those of Nellie Mlanova; weighed Ruger Mandelbaum’s undeniable stage sense against his corpulence which unfitted him for certain roles. Blitza Soerner was weak in Italian, but no one alive better understood the Decadents. Bernard Bickel nominated Andrei Szinc for the position of stage director. Dame Isabel concurred. And
Dame Isabel turned away. She called back over her shoulder. “I shall expect you at Ballew this evening, Roger. We must come to certain decisions.”
Roger, suddenly bold, took Madoc Roswyn’s arm, and the contact tingled nerves all the way up his arm. “I know what,” he said. “I’ll take you to lunch, and between courses you can play the tin whistle.”
“I wish I’d brought it.”
Roger led her to the little sky-car; away they flew to a mountain-top inn, and Roger had never had a more enchanting lunch. He made dozens of extravagant statements, which Madoc Roswyn heard with exactly the right mixture of amusement, skepticism, and tolerance. Roger tried to find out all about her: he wanted, in one brief hour, to make up for a lifetime of non-acquaintance, a lifetime for all practical purposes wasted. Madoc Roswyn’s background, as she explained it, was simple and uncomplicated. Her family had been landholders and farmers in a rather remote area of Wales; she had attended school in a little stone village, and secondary school at Llangollen. When her parents died she had sold the old farmstead, and since had traveled the world. She had worked at one job here, another there, uncertain what to do with herself, but disinclined to compromise her freedom. It came to Roger that here, exactly, was his own predicament: he was neither lazy nor incompetent; he merely had occupational claustrophobia. As for Madoc Roswyn and all her candor there was still mystery: areas and areas behind areas: quirks of emotions he could never divine; goals and dedications of which she would never hint.
The realization was painful: no matter how much he had of her, there would always be more forever beyond his reach … His first enthusiasm muted, Roger conveyed Madoc Roswyn to her lodgings. He would have liked to have taken her to Ballew for the evening, but somehow did not dare.
At dinner Dame Isabel pointedly made no mention of Madoc Roswyn. Bernard Bickel was present and conversation centered upon the formation of the company. “I insist upon Guido Altrocchi,” said Dame Isabel. “I could get Nels Lessing, in fact he’s offered to join the company without pay and Guido wants a frightful salary — but I refuse to compromise. Only the best is good enough.”
Bernard Bickel nodded approvingly. “If only there were more like you!”
Roger winced. “If I were handling the matter,” he said, “I’d use three-dimension records. Why not? Think how much easier, and how much less expensive!”
Dame Isabel shook her head. “Canned performances are always deficient; they never convey the vitality, the living, breathing, presence of music.”
“Good enough for the back-planets,” growled Roger.
“We are sufficiently at the mercy of machines, Roger; if our music must necessarily be mechanical, then it is time for us to throw in the sponge, and abandon all hope for the future of humanity.”
“Assuming that opera is music in the first place,” muttered Roger.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I merely emphasized the enormous savings to be achieved.”
“Someday, my young friend,” said Bernard Bickel, “you will appreciate your aunt’s wisdom and courage. What are a few paltry dollars? Nothing less than the physical presence of the artists, working in perfect discipline, can generate the excitement of a legitimate musical experience — and it is this excitement, this sense of wonder, which we want to convey!”
Roger could summon no further arguments, and listened while Dame Isabel and Bernard Bickel debated the merits of Cassandra Prouty against those of Nellie Mlanova; weighed Ruger Mandelbaum’s undeniable stage sense against his corpulence which unfitted him for certain roles. Blitza Soerner was weak in Italian, but no one alive better understood the Decadents. Bernard Bickel nominated Andrei Szinc for the position of stage director. Dame Isabel concurred. And
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