The Patron's Impatience
完成を急かす後援者との緊張。芸術の理想と経済的現実がぶつかり、彼は妥協を拒む。
The Baron von Adler had paid for the symphony in advance, and he expected his money to obey.
He was not a cruel man, but he believed that art, like everything else, could be scheduled.
He came to Reyner's rooms in a fine coat, bringing with him the smell of cigars and haste.
"The season is arranged," he announced. "The hall is booked. The audience is already promised a masterpiece."
Reyner watched the Baron's lips, reading the demand in them more than hearing it.
"The work is not finished," the composer said quietly. "The fourth movement is not yet what it must be."
The Baron spread his hands with the patience of a man who has never been refused.
"My dear Reyner, no symphony is ever finished; at some point one simply stops and collects applause."
"That may be true of lesser men," Reyner answered, "but it will not be true of me."
The Baron's smile cooled by several degrees, though his voice remained smooth and reasonable.
He spoke of contracts and dates, of the expense of an orchestra, of a patron's good name.
Every argument he offered was made of money, and money was a language Reyner had stopped speaking.
"You have given me your gold," the composer said, "but you have not bought my ."
"I will hand you the symphony when it is right, and not one week before that day."
The Baron reminded him, , that a patron's favour could be withdrawn as easily as given.
He hinted at other composers, younger and hungrier, who would be grateful for such a .
Reyner heard the threat beneath the , and it did not move him in the slightest.
He had already lost his hearing; the loss of a seemed a small and manageable thing.
"Then it," he said. "I would rather finish honestly than deliver a lie on time."
For a moment the two men regarded each other across a that no fortune could bridge.
The Baron had bought many things in his life, but he had never bought a .
He rose at last, buttoning his coat, his face tight with wounded and expensive pride.
"You are a difficult man, Reyner," he said. "Genius, I am told, usually is."
"Genius," the composer replied, "is only the to hand in unfinished work for money."
When the door had closed, Reyner stood a while in the ringing quiet of his room.
He felt neither nor fear, only the clean relief of a man who has kept faith.
Then he turned back to the desk, where the unfinished movement waited like an unanswered question.