The Last Samurai

& he said No musically, musically it’s about, & he paused, & he said in this opera Moses spoke directly to God and he did not sing his part was in Sprechgesang it was speech, harsh speech over music and the Children of Israel could not understand; he had to communicate through Aaron, who was an operatic tenor, it was a beautiful lyric role but of course it’s Aaron who proposes the Golden Calf, he doesn’t himself understand—

I said what a marvellous idea for an opera the plots were usually so farfetched and contrived

& he said he rather liked that but yes it was a marvellous idea, and he began to tell me in a low-key English way a terrible story about the opera which he described as one of the great lost works of the 20th century. Schoenberg had composed most of the first two acts between 1930 and 1932; then the Nazis had come into power and he had had to leave in 1933 and it had been rather disruptive. He went to America and kept applying for grants to work on it but the foundations did not care for the atonal music. So he had to support his family by teaching, and he went back to composing tonal pieces in support of his grant applications so that his time when he was not teaching was taken up with the tonal compositions. Eighteen years later he had still not composed the music for Act Three of Moses and Aaron. As death drew near he said that perhaps the words could be spoken.

He said: Of course he could be quite a difficult character

& he suddenly said—Will you excuse me? I really must catch Peter before he goes.

He walked off and it was only after he had gone that I realised I had not asked the crucial question, which is Do we ever hear God?

I hesitated and then hesitantly followed but he was already saying Peter!

& Peter said Giles! Good to see you! How are you keeping?

& Giles said Exciting times.

So it was not a good time to intrude. I mingled casually with a nearby group.

Peter said something and Giles said something and Peter said something and Giles said Good Lord No not at all in fact if anything and they talked for quite a long time. They talked for half an hour or so and suddenly they paused, and Peter said Well this is hardly and Giles said Quite, and they paused again and without another word left the room.

I had meant to leave after 10 minutes; it was high time to leave. But now there was more noise by the door and Liberace appeared smiling and kissing women on the cheek and apologising to people for being so late. Several people in my group seemed to know him and tried to catch his eye, and I hastily murmured something about a drink and slipped away. I was nervous of heading for the door, because I was afraid someone might introduce me to Liberace as a special favour, but it seemed safe enough to stand by the buffet. Phrases from Schoenberg kept coming back. At this time I had never heard any of his music but the book on harmony seemed a real work of genius.

I stood by the buffet eating cheese sticks, looking up from time to time at the door—but though Liberace moved gradually into the room he was still between me and the door. So I stood thinking about this brilliant book, I thought, I must buy a piano, & after a while who should come up but Liberace.

He said Are you as bored and frustrated as you look?

It was not easy to think of a reply which would not be rude or flirtatious or both.

I said I never answer trick questions.

He said It’s not a trick question. You look completely fed up.

I realised that, faced with coming up with a reply, I had thought of the question and not the questioner. Some people would see that until you have determined how bored and frustrated you look you have no way of knowing whether your sentiments match your appearance—but Liberace had proved himself so innocent of logic in all his written work—was it likely that he would marshal greater powers of reasoning in casual conversation at a party? No.

I said I was thinking about leaving.

Liberace said So you were fed up. I don’t blame you. These things are horrible aren’t they?

I said I had never been to one before.

He said I thought I hadn’t seen you before. Are you with Pearce?

I said Yes I am.

I had a brilliant idea. I said I work for Emma Russell. Everyone in the office was so excited when they heard you’d be here. You must let me introduce you.

He said Would you mind if I didn’t?

And he smiled and said I was just about to leave when I saw you. You know misery loves company.

I knew nothing of the kind but I said So they say.

And I said If we leave we won’t have any misery to share.

He said Where do you live? Maybe I can give you a lift.

I told him where I lived and he said it was not far out of his way.

I realised too late that I should have said I did not need a lift. I said it now and he said No I insist.

I said That’s OK and he said Don’t believe everything you hear.

We walked along Park Lane and then along various streets of Mayfair, while Liberace said this and that, in a way that seemed intentionally flirtatious and unintentionally rude.