"Blish, James - A Work of Art" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blish James)

resilience on your part will bear cultivating."
"I understand," Strauss said, sitting up. "One question,
please; is it still possible for a composer to make a living in
this century?"
"Indeed it is," Dr. Kris said, smiling. "As we expect you
to do. It is one of the purposes for which we'vebrought
you back."
"I gather, then," Strauss said somewhat dryly, "that there
is still a demand for my music. The critics in the old
days"
"That's not quite how it is," Dr. Kris said. "I understand
some of your work is still played, but frankly I know very
little about your current status. My interest is rather"
A door opened somewhere, and another man came in. He
was older and more ponderous than Kris and had a certain
air of academicism; but he too was wearing the oddly
tailored surgeon's gown, and looked upon Kris's patient
with the glowing eyes of an artist.
"A success, Kris?" he said. "Congratulations."
"They're not in order yet," Dr. Kris said. "The final
proof is what counts. Dr. Strauss, if you feel strong enough,
Dr. Seirds and I would like to ask you some questions. We'd
like to make sure your memory is clear."
"Certainly. Go ahead."
"According to our records," Kris said, "you once knew a
man whose initials were RKL; this was while you were
conducting at the Vienna Stoatsoper." He made the double
"a" at least twice too long, as though German were a dead
language he was striving to pronounce in some "classical"
accent. "What was his name, and who was he?"
"That would be Kurt Listhis first name was Richard,
but he didn't use it. He was assistant stage manager."
The two doctors looked at each other. "Why did you
offer to write a new overture to The Woman Without a
Shadow, and give the manuscript to the City of Vienna?"
"So I wouldn't have to pay the garbage removal tax on
the Maria Theresa villa they had given me."
"In the back yard of your house at Garmisch-Partenkirchen
there was a tombstone. What was written on it?"
Strauss frowned. That was a question he would be happy
to be unable to answer. If one is to play childish jokes
upon oneself, it's best not to carve them in stone, and put
the carving where you can't help seeing it every time you
go out to tinker with the Mercedes. "It says," he replied
wearily, "Sacred to the memory of Guntram, Minnesinger,
slain in a horrible way by his father's own symphony or'
chestra."
"When was Guntram premised?"
"Inlet me see1894, I believe."
"Where?"