Ariel and all his quality.
Whereupon, sizing me up with a keen glance and finding me apparently to his approval, he assumed his Prospero’s severe and haughty look and, taking up where I’d left off, replied:
Hast thou, spirit,
Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee?
‘To every article,’ I said, and went on:
I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flam’d amazement . . .
He took a step toward me and threw an arm around my shoulders:
My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
I galloped on:
Not a soul . . .
– but then I paused, as if hesitating, and, looking my extraordinary partner straight in the eye, found myself, to my astonishment, continuing in heroic iambics:
But stay, one such there was – alack, the same,
Indeed, who stands before you now, come hither
By dreams of everlasting glory driv’n,
My entry here to register. This pageant,
Liege, on which your justice will ere long pronounce
I would fain enter; but this dread Sycorax –
I gestured in the general direction of the secretary –
This monstrous hag, who here doth sit and paint
Her claws all day, informs me that the deadline
Now is past. It passed at noon, she says –
I glanced at my watch –
’Twas but three hours ago! Thus envious Fortune
Deceitfully hath pierced my hopes, and shot
Her arrows through my flesh. What now, my lord?
My hopes are spread before you, and my fate
In your good graces lies. I do beseech thee,
Give me your hand, and lend me your good favour.
For this, good sir, most humbly do I pray thee.
During this improvised tirade S. had been eyeing me with markedly increasing stupefaction. Now, as I declaimed my final line, he shook himself out of his stunned state and took up my challenge:
’Tis Sycorax, thou sayst, who bars your entry?
Nay, ’twill not do. I’ll bind her with my magic:
Thus will she break. In such a one ’tis folly
To oppose me. She’ll do my bidding.
With a mock-serious scowl he strode toward the secretary, stretched out his arms as if to draw her into the hypnotic coils of his magic, and declaimed:
Attendest thou, cruel queen? Dost thou not hear me?
This youth must be admitted. You’ll see to it.
And she, melting with adoration under his gaze and falling unwittingly into the flow of the rhythm, replied in the same metre:
Yes, sir, at once, of course, I’ll do it now!
At this S. also seemed to relax and lose some of his starchiness. He spread his arms in a rapturous gesture, a blissful smile on his face. And with grotesque sweetness he cooed his favourite phrase: ‘Ah, how lovely!’ Embracing her in a fatherly hug, he began to stroke her hair. At which she flushed and bared her teeth in a nervous smile, full of shame and sweet longing.
Going home, I walked on air. Within less than half an hour I had been subjected to a hail of experiences so remarkable that each one of them would take days to digest. I had met S., actually met him, in person! What’s more, we had clowned about together, and played our parts as equals, for all the world as if we were on stage; and I had charmed him – I had enchanted him! Most important of all, I had succeeded in getting my group entered in the festival – and with what aplomb! I was bursting with exhilaration and pride. And I felt sure, felt deep in my bones, that here at last was the hour of my triumph; my time had finally come. After such a beginning, such a radical reversal of fate, things could only get better.
I hastened to round up the cast to tell them the good news and explain what it would mean for us. I felt as if I were addressing troops on the eve of battle.
‘I know we’ll win this competition; I can feel it,’ I said as I concluded my morale-building speech. ‘Just imagine how the Tapeworm will look when he finds out! You’ll be covered in glory!’
For the first time they seemed genuinely convinced. Our performance, since it had been entered at the so-called last minute, was slotted in at the end of the festival, so we had a chance to assess the competition before our turn came. But in the end I decided that this was not an advantage. If the other performances were good, especially if they were very good, they might sow seeds of doubt and clip our wings; if, on the other hand, they were bad, and especially if they were hopeless, they would detract from the value and sweetness of a deserved triumph. I assessed my strategies like a general before a decisive confrontation with the enemy.
We arrived at the theatre where the festival was taking place a short time before we were due on stage. It was the interval, and one of the first people we bumped into was S. himself, surrounded by a garland of juvenile admirers, presumably festival participants, and basking in their reverent gaze. It was as if he had been waiting for our – or rather, my – arrival. He raised his hands in a gesture of greeting and (having manifestly prepared his lines) exclaimed:
Here’s Ariel! Spirit, farest thou well? What magic,
My quaint bird, hast thou prepared for us?
A wave of heat flooded over me and my heart began to race. It was clear that much depended on what, and how, I replied. Without much reflection, therefore, and heedless of the dreadful risk involved – that of falling flat on my face in front of an unknown audience – I blurted out, making sure only to keep the metre:
’Twill be enough, good master, if I say
