Church, Sky at Sunset, Jamaica, West Indies, 1865
“Why don’t they live in Illusions?” suggested the Humbug.
“It’s much prettier.”
“Many of them do,” he answered, walking in the direction of
the forest once again, “but it’s just as bad to live in a place where what you
do see isn’t there as it is to live in one where what you don’t see is.”
“Perhaps someday you can have one city as easy to see as
Illusions and as hard to forget as Reality,” Milo remarked.
“That will happen only when you bring back Rhyme and
Reason,” said Alec, smiling, for he had seen right through Milo’s plans. “Now
let’s hurry or we’ll miss the evening concert.”
They followed him quickly up a flight of steps which
couldn’t be seen and through a door which didn’t exist. In a moment they had
left Reality (which is sometimes a hard thing to tell) and stood in a
completely different part of the forest.
The sun was dropping slowly from sight, and stripes of
purple and orange and crimson and gold piled themselves on top of the distant
hills. The last shafts of light waited patiently for a flight of wrens to find
their way home, and a group of anxious stars had already taken their places.
“Here we are!” cried Alec, and, with a sweep of his arm, he
pointed toward an enormous symphony orchestra. “Isn’t it a grand sight?”
There were at least a thousand musicians ranged in a great
arc before them. To the left and right were the violins and cellos, whose bows
moved in great waves, and behind them in numberless profusion the piccolos,
flutes, clarinets, oboes, bassoons, horns, trumpets, trombones, and tubas were
all playing at once. At the very rear, so far away that they could hardly be
seen, were the percussion instruments, and lastly, in a long line up one side
of a steep slope, were the solemn bass fiddles.
On a high podium in front stood the conductor, a tall, gaunt
man with dark deep-set eyes and a thin mouth placed carelessly between his long
pointed nose and his long pointed chin. He used no baton, but conducted with
large, sweeping movements, which seemed to start at his toes and work slowly up
through his body and along his slender arms and end finally at the tips of his
graceful fingers.
“I don’t hear any music,” said Milo.
“That’s right,” said Alec; “you don’t listen to this
concert—you watch it. Now, pay attention.”
As the conductor waved his arms, he molded the air like
handfuls of soft clay, and the musicians carefully followed his every
direction.
“What are they playing?” asked Tock, looking up
inquisitively at Alec.
“The sunset, of course. They play it every evening, about
this time.”
“They do?” said Milo quizzically.
“Naturally,” answered Alec; “and they also play morning, noon,
and night, when, of course, it’s morning, noon, or night. Why, there
wouldn’t be any color in the world unless they played it. Each instrument plays
a different one,” he explained, “and depending, of course, on what season it is
and how the weather’s to be, the conductor chooses his score and directs the
day. But watch: the sun has almost set, and in a moment you can ask Chroma
himself.”
The last colors slowly faded from the western sky, and, as
they did, one by one the instruments stopped, until only the bass fiddles, in
their somber slow movement, were left to play the night and a single set of
silver bells brightened the constellations. The conductor let his arms fall
limply at his sides and stood quite still as darkness claimed the forest.
Norton Juster, from The Phantom Tollbooth
Norton Juster, from The Phantom Tollbooth
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