But do not discompose yourself, my dear friend. I am writing a reply that will explain some things to Herr Hoffmann which he clearly does not know, and we shall proceed very amicably, I am confident, once I have done so.
I have the honour to subscribe myself,
Yours very sincerely,
April 18, 1822
“My God,” said Arthur; “I foresee trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” said Geraint. “This is all familiar stuff to me. Theatre people go on like that all the time. It’s what’s called the creative ferment from which all great art emerges. At least that’s what it’s called when you are being nice about it. There’s more, I suppose?”
“Lots more,” said Penny. “Wait till you hear Letter Number Two.
My dear Kemble:
When I had conquered my understandable chagrin—for I make it a principle never to speak or write in anger—I wrote again to our friend Hoffmann, in what the Bard calls a ‘condoling’ manner, repeating my principal points and supporting them with some passages of verse which I put forward as the sort of thing we might use in the opera. For instance, I proposed a Hunting Chorus as a beginning. Something spirited, and with plenty of brass in the orchestration, along these lines:
–this to be followed by a thigh-slapping song for Pigwiggen (Madame Vestris, did I say?) about the hunting of the boar (with some double entendre on ‘boar’ and ‘bore’) and the Huntsmen to sing the chorus again.
I want the fairy element to be very strong, and Pigwiggen’s power to be deft and quick, like Puck’s, in contrast to the heavier comic magic of Merlin. Perhaps a song here? Pigwiggen should appeal to both the ladies and the gentlemen in the audience—to the former as a charming boy, and to the latter as a charming girl in boy’s dress—a trick the Bard knew so well. I suggested to Herr H. that Pigwiggen’s song might be along these lines:
“That could get a very bad laugh in a modern opera,” said Darcourt. “I don’t mean to interrupt, Penny, but nowadays all fairy business has to be handled very carefully.”
“Just you wait, my boy,” said Penny, and went on with the letter.
The love scenes between Lancelot and Guenevere provide the chief romantic interest in the opera, and I sketched out a duet for Hoffmann to think about. I am not a composer—though no stranger to music, as I have said—but I think this might bring out something really fine in a man who is a composer, as we have reason to believe Hoffmann is. Lancelot sings under Guenevere’s window:
The moon is up, the stars shine bright
“I wonder if I might trouble you for a drop more whisky?” said Hollier to Arthur in an undertone.
“Indeed you may. Much more of this and I shall want a very big one myself,” said Arthur, and circulated the decanter. Darcourt and Powell seemed to need it, as well.
“I must say a word for Planché,” said Penny; “no libretto reads well. But listen to what Guenevere replies, from her balcony window:
And then I suppose he means to follow with a love scene in prose, Lancelot mooning under Gueneveres window.”
“Oh, not mooning, I hope,” said Powell. “First fairy knights, and then mooning ladies. You’ll have the show closed by the police.”
“No coarse jibes, if you please,” said Penny. “Not all the love songs are so sentimental. Listen to what the Grand Turk sings, when the Round Table party arrives in his court. He is immediately smitten by Guenevere and here he goes:
“Penny, are you offering this seriously?” said Maria.
“Planché was certainly offering it seriously—and confidently. He knew his market. I assure you this is in the real early-nineteenth-century vein, and people loved just this sort of thing. It was the Regency, you know, or as near as makes no difference. They whistled and sang and barrel-organed and played Grand Paraphrases de Concert of stuff like this on their lovely varnished pianofortes,” said Penny. “It was a time when they used to do Mozart with a lot of his music cut out, and jolly new bits by Bishop interpolated. It was before opera went all serious and sacred and had to be listened to in a holy hush. They just thought it was fun, and they treated it rough.
“What was Hoffmann’s response to this muck?” said Hollier.
“Oh, muck’s a bit strong, don’t you think?” said Penny.
“It’s so God-damned jocose,” said Arthur.
“He seems to be patronizing the past, which I can’t bear,” said Maria. “He treats Arthur and his knights as if they had no dignity whatever.”
“Oh, very true. Very true,” said Penny. “But do we do any better, with our Camelots and Monty Pythons and such? Pretending your great-great-infmitely-great-grandfather was a fool has always appealed to the theatrical mind. Sometimes I think there ought to be a Charter of Rights for the Dead. But you’re quite right; it is jocose. Listen to this, for Elaine to sing to Lancelot when he gives her the mitt:
“She sounds very like Miss Bailey—unfortunate Miss Bailey,” said Arthur.
“What about the grand patriotic conclusion?” said Darcourt.
“Let’s see—where is it? Yes:
“That doesn’t even make sense,” said Hollier.
“It’s patriotism—doesn’t have to,” said Penny.
“But is this what Hoffmann set to music?” said Hollier.
“No, he didn’t. There is a final letter which seems to put an end to the whole business. Listen:
My dear Kemble:
I wish I had better news for you from our friend Hoffmann. As you know, I sent him some sketches for several songs for the Arthur piece, with the usual librettist’s assurances that I would alter them in any way he felt necessary, to fit music he had composed. And of course that I would write additional verses for theatrical situations we agreed on, and when everything else was finished, I would pull it all together with passages of dialogue. But as you see he keeps nagging away at his idée fixe. I felt that any differences there were between us were a matter of language; I do not know how well he understands English. However, he has chosen to reply to me in English, and I enclose his letter—