He entered the great circular hall, and sat, very solemnly, in his seat
on the ground floor. He felt nervous and uneasy and certain that he
would not be able to write adequately of the concert. He tried to think
of suitable words to great music, but it seemed to him that he could
not think at all. He glanced about the Hall, hoping that perhaps he
would find inspiration in the ceiling, but there was no inspiration
there. He could see wires stretched across the roof from side to side,
and there were great pieces of canvas radiating from the central
cluster of lights in the dome. He wondered why the wires were there.
Blondin, he remembered, had walked across a wire, as thin-looking as
those, which was stretched high up in the roof of the Exhibition at the
Old Linen Hall in Belfast; but he could scarcely believe that these
wires were intended for tight-rope performances. He turned to a man at
his side. "Would you mind telling me what those things are for?" he
asked, pointing to them.
"To break the echoes," the man replied, entering into an involved
account of acoustics. "It's all humbug really," he added. "They don't
break the echoes at all, but we all imagine that they do, and so we're
quite happy!"
The warm, comfortable look of the red-curtained boxes in the softened
electric light pleased him, and he liked the effect of the tiers rising
up to the high roof, and the great spread of floor, and the gigantic
magnificence of the organ.
"How many people does this place hold?" he demanded of his neighbour.
"About ten thousand," his neighbour answered, glancing at him
quizzically. "Is this the first time you've been here?"
"Yes. I'm new to London. They must take a great deal of money in a
night at a place like this. An immense amount!"
"They do. It's part of the Albert Memorial, this hall. The other part
is in the Park across the road. Have you seen it?"
"No," said John. "Is it any good?"
"Well," said the stranger, "we've tried to overlook it ... but
unfortunately it's too big. There are some excellent bits in it, but
the whole effect!... Poor dear Queen Victoria ... she was a little
woman, and so, of course, she believed in magnitude. She liked Bigness.
She's out of fashion, nowadays ... people titter behind their hands
when they speak of her ... and there's a tendency to regard her as a
somewhat foolish and sentimental old woman ... but really, she was a
very capable old girl in her narrow way, and there was nothing soft
about her. She was as hard as nails ... almost a cruel woman ... she'd
compel her maids-of-honour to stand in her presence until the poor
girls fainted with fatigue.... I'm sure she'd have made Queen Elizabeth
feel uncomfortable in some ways. This hall is a memorial to her
husband."
"Yes," said John. "There's a Memorial in Belfast to him. What did he
do?"
"He was Queen Victoria's husband!"
"I suppose," said John, "it wasn't much fun being her man?"
"Fun!" exclaimed the stranger. "Well, of course, it depends on what you
call fun!"
There was a bustling sound from the platform and some applause, and
then a dark-looking man emerged from the sloping gangway underneath the
organ and sat down at the piano. He played Mascagni's _Pavana delle
Maschere_, and while he played it, John took some writing paper from
his pocket and prepared to note down his opinions of the evening's
entertainment.
"Hilloa," said the stranger in a whisper, "are you a critic?"
John, feeling extraordinarily important, nodded his head and continued
to listen to the music. It sounded quite pleasant, but it conveyed
nothing to him. All he could think of was the contortions of the
pianist as he played his piece, and he wished that all pianists could
be concealed behind screens so that their grimaces and gyrations should
not be seen. He ought to say something about the man, but he had no
idea of what was fitting!... The solo ended and was followed by another
one, and then the pianist stood up to acknowledge the applause.
"What do you think of it?" the stranger respectfully asked, and John,
aware of the respect in his voice and conscious that he did not know
what to think of it, murmured, "Um-m-m! Not bad!"
"Coldish, I think," the stranger continued. "Technically skilful, but
hardly any feeling!"
John considered for a moment or two, and then answered very judicially.
"Yes! Yes, I think that's a fair description of him!"
He waited until the stranger was engaged in reading the programme, and
then he jotted down on his writing-paper, "Mr. Pietro Mancinelli played
Mascagni's _Pavana delle Maschere_ with great technical ability,
but with hardly any emotional quality!"
"I'm very glad I sat down beside this chap," he murmured to himself, as
the accompanist played the opening bars of Handel's _Droop not, young
lover_, and then he settled down to listen to the man who sang it.
He was happier here, for singing was more easy to judge than
instrumental music. Either a song was well sung, he told himself, or it
was not well sung, and the gentleman who was singing _Droop not,
young lover_ certainly had a voice that sounded well in that great
hall.... He wrote in his report that "Mr. Albert Luton's magnificent
voice was heard to great advantage in Handel's charming aria..." and
was exceedingly glad that he had lately read some musical notices in
one of the newspapers, and could remember some of the phrases that had
been used in them.
"Now for a treat," said the stranger, as a burst of hearty applause
opened out from the platform and went all round the hall.
John glanced towards the passage leading to the artist's room and saw a
smiling, plump lady, with very bright, dark eyes and dark hair come on
to the platform. She was clad in white that made her Italian looks more
pronounced.
"Tetrazzini!" the stranger whispered in John's ear.
The applause died down, and the singer stood rigidly in front of the
platform while the pianist played the opening of Verdi's _Caro
nome_. Then her voice sounded very clear and bell-like in the deep
silence of the great hall. ... She sang _Solveig's Song_ by Greig
and _A Pastoral_ by Veracini, and then the satiated audience
allowed her to retire from the platform.
John sat back in his seat in a dazed fashion. All round him were
applauding men and women ... and he could not applaud. There was a buzz
of admiring talk, and he could hear the words "wonderful" and
"magnificent" ... and he had not been moved at all. The great voice had
not caused him to feel any thrill or emotion whatever. It was
wonderful, indeed, but that was all that it was. There was no generous
glow in her music; she did not cause him to feel any emotion other than
that of astonishment at the perfection of her vocal organs. He had
imagined that the great singer's voice would compel him to jump out of
his seat and wave his hands wildly and shout and cheer ... but instead
he had sat still and wondered at the marvellous way in which her throat
functioned.
"Well?" said his neighbour, in the tone of one who would say that only
words of an extremely adulatory character were conceivable after such a
performance.
"She's a very remarkable woman," John replied.
"Remarkable!" his neighbour indignantly exclaimed. "She's a
miracle!..."
John disregarded his ecstatics. "I kept on thinking of a clever
machine," he said. "The wheels went round without a hitch. She's a
grand invention, that woman! She can sing her pieces without thinking
about them. She hardly knows the notes are coming out of her mouth ...
she doesn't know where they come from or why they come at all, and I
don't suppose it matters to her where they go. There's a grand machine
in our place that prints the papers. You put a big roll of white paper
on to it, and you turn a wee handle, and the machine sends the roll
spinning round and round until it's done, and a lot of folded papers,
nicely printed, come tumbling out in counted batches, all ready to be
taken away and sold in the shops and streets. It's a wonderful
machine ... but it can't read its own printing and it doesn't know what's
in the papers after it's done with them. That's what she's like; a
wonderful machine!..."
"My dear sir," the stranger exclaimed, but John prevented him from
saying any more.
"That's my opinion anyway," he went on, "and I can only think the
things I think. I can't think what other people think!"
"A limitation," said the stranger. "A distinct limitation!"
"Mebbe it is, but I don't see what that matters!"
After Tetrazzini had left the platform and the applause of her admirers
had died away, there was a violin solo, and then came an interval of
fifteen minutes. John determined to write part of his notice in the
vestibule of the Hall, and he got up from his seat to do so. He mounted
the stairs that led to the first tier of boxes, and as he approached
them, he saw Eleanor Moore sitting in the box nearest the exit through
which he was about to pass. There were other people in the box ...
girls, he thought ... but he hardly saw them. As he came nearer to her,
she raised her eyes from her programme and looked straight at him, and
for a few moments neither of them averted their eyes. Then she looked
away, and he passed through the curtained exit.