Атлант расправил плечи
The Immovable Movers
Helivedtoseethenightwhich,bytheacceptedlawsofhistory,hewasnotsupposedtosee.Hewasforty-threeyearsoldanditwastheopeningnightof
Phaëthon,
anoperahehadwrittenattheageoftwenty-four.HehadchangedtheancientGreekmythtohisownpurposeandmeaning:Phaëthon,theyoungsonofHelios,whostolehisfather’schariotand,inambitiousaudacity,attemptedtodrivethesunacrossthesky,didnotperish,asheperishedinthemyth;inHalley’sopera,Phaëthonsucceeded.Theoperahadbeenperformedthen,nineteenyearsago,andhadclosedafteroneperformance,tothesoundofbooingandcatcalls.Thatnight,RichardHalleyhadwalkedthestreetsofthecitytilldawn,tryingtofindananswertoaquestion,whichhedidnotfind.
Onthenightwhentheoperawaspresentedagain,nineteenyearslater,thelastsoundsofthemusiccrashedintothesoundsofthegreatestovationtheoperahousehadeverheard.Theancientwallscouldnotcontainit,thesoundsofcheeringburstthroughtothelobbies,tothestairs,tothestreets,totheboywhohadwalkedthosestreetsnineteenyearsago.
Dagnywasintheaudienceonthenightoftheovation.ShewasoneofthefewwhohadknownthemusicofRichardHalleymuchearlier;butshehadneverseenhim.Shesawhimbeingpushedoutonthestage,sawhimfacingtheenormousspreadofwavingarmsandcheeringheads.Hestoodwithoutmoving,atall,emaciatedmanwithgrayinghair.Hedidnotbow,didnotsmile;hejuststoodthere,lookingatthecrowd.
