by (epub)
“No,” says the driver. “Oh, no, I can’t. But I can get you the change.”
“Quick,” says Julian. “Quick, I’m late already.”
“It won’t take me long,” says the man; buttons up his overcoat and disappears into the darkness. A wind suddenly springs up and it’s obviously cold and dark and black, and Julian has to wait for the driver to come back.
A man in a top-hat appears and stands before them. “Have you the correct time on you?”
And Julian Spencer reaches for his watch, and realises his watch has gone—that is, it has been pawned quite some time ago. Nervously: “I’m sorry.”
Whereupon the man takes off his top-hat and with a gracious bow: “Julian Spencer,” he says, “I can do very little for you, but as I knew you had no watch on you, I can tell you the exact time: it’s all I can do for you.”
“What’s that?” says Julian, “I didn’t ask you for the time. In fact, I don’t want to know the time; I know I’m late.”
“I just wanted you to know,” says the man, “that you are very late for your first concert. That you, so to speak”—lowering his voice—“just man to man—that you have missed the chance of your life. But never mind,” he says, “I can tell you a good one. Listen: A man who has the absolutely absurd name of Catfish, has a brother by the name of Jonathan Plumridge. This man is the brother-in-law of Lady Castle. She is the niece of a German comedian, a yodeller by the name of Sullivan Kraut, Sullivan Kraut is very much after the star of a vaudeville show in Brighton and her name is . . .”
“Your change, sir,” says the driver.
“That’s a good one,” insists the man in the top-hat quite loudly. “What do you say, Mr. Spencer? Ha! Ha! That’s a good one. And the funny part of the joke is that it is no joke—it’s bloody truth! I can tell you another one that will make you die of laughter—Ha! Ha! You’ll be simply dead—just imagine, Mr. Spencer—quite dead, and cold. What peace! But some other time,” he excuses himself, “because I don’t want to be late. I never miss the chance of my life.” And quite normally: “Certainly, a quarter to nine.”
“Thank you,” says Julian.
“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,” says the driver. “That makes a pound.”
“Thank you,” says Spencer, handing the driver an extra sixpence, and shoving the rest of the change into his pocket.
The driver starts up the car, and before he goes off he says: “Thank you, Mister. That was a good one, wasn’t it! People are funny, aren’t they? You left your music in the cab, but never mind, it will be quite safe there and what you need to-day you don’t need to-morrow, and to-day it’s you and to-morrow it’s Kraut, and to-day it’s sweet, and to-morrow it’s sour. If you add it all up, it makes Sauer-Kraut. Don’t you worry, it’s quite safe.”
The porter makes a sinister face, and twisting an ordinary match between his teeth he convinces Julian he has made up his mind not to let any stranger pass. He twists the match and looks at Julian very absent-mindedly, obviously interested in his teeth and the match; or a cavity for that matter; and he says very slowly—obviously a man of much leisure—“Now, why should I believe you are the composer? You don’t look like it. You have no credentials. You might be practically anybody. If you can convince me, I will be the first one to shout heartily: ‘Welcome, welcome, genius, to our humble hut!’ But so,” he says, “I can’t do anything for you. Where’s your music? If you can show me the music that might convince me. As a matter of fact, any book would do. But”—thoughtfully—“you haven’t anything on you.”
“Listen,” says Julian. “You must let me go in. Don’t you remember we rehearsed, only yesterday?”
“I wasn’t here then,” says the man. “I don’t bother with rehearsals. I go to a vaudeville show.”
“Of course,” says Julian, “I remember you. I remember your face.”
“Just what I thought—what I thought,” says the man. “You’re just mad. As a matter of fact, you are not as mad as you think, Mr. Spencer, because it was my twin brother, the porter, yesterday, and he looks just like me.” And suddenly getting quite chatty: “There was quite a lot of talk about you, Mr. Spencer——”
Julian shouts: “You’ve just said Spencer, so you know I am the man!”
“Oh, no,” says the other, quite slowly. “That was only part of my sentence. That didn’t mean anything. I could have said Mr. Kraut, or Mr. Plumridge, but mind you”—he raises his arm—“I would never have used a name like Catfish.” He shrugs his shoulders casually. “But my twin brother might have used that expression.”
Julian covers his face with both hands. He pleads: “Listen. Can’t you see I’m in despair? It’s the chance of my life. It really isn’t my fault. I was delayed. Listen——”
But the man takes the match out of his mouth, spits slowly, and says: “We’ve had this all out. You can’t get a ticket, it’s late, and I am not my twin brother, and my twin brother who knows you isn’t me. And don’t you ever dare . . .”
“Hah!” shouts Spencer, trying to attack the other half of the twin, but at this minute, just in time, Mr. Bosworth appears. “Ah!” shouts Julian, “Mr. Bosworth!”
Bosworth gives a faint: “He-he!” and tries to sneak out, and turning to the porter, he says: “You didn’t see a Mr. Spencer?”
“I did, and I didn’t,” says the man.
“Oh, what a shame! But Williams—I’m so sorry, Mr. Spencer. We have been waiting for the last hour and a half. It’s all right. Sir Desmond was kind enough—it’s all right, Williams, never mind. . . .”
He disappears with Julian up the steps.
This concert: Julian’s being too late: the taxi-driver: the strange man in the top-hat: Bosworth at first giggling “He-he!” and trying to sneak past Julian and then suddenly comes to his senses: the wind: dark streets—all these more or less make one nervous. In fact, highly nervous, and one doesn’t feel too good. But what, I ask you, does this create in the mind of somebody or something not on the spot? Anyway, the Brother is not feeling too well either, but very restless, swaying his head and his ugly body in the dark attic of a house as far away as Greek Street, Soho, London, W.1.
That’s a dreary sound—most uninspired—and it doesn’t pearl out of the instruments. Sir Desmond Castle, like a haggard school-teacher, drags question and answer from violin, horn, harp, violoncello, and stupid tympani. He doesn’t know the music. He’s never seen the score before, but hell! why wear black spectacles now?
Julian watches everything through the half-closed door of the “No Admittance” room. He sees: one—two, one—two. Sir Desmond’s arm and bâton like the pendulum of an old grandfather-clock. And sometimes Sir Desmond almost stops, and sniffs, and then on he goes again. One—two, one—two. But suddenly he turns around, bâton in his left hand, and, pushing his spectacles off his nose with his right hand, looks down at the first row where his beloved piece of pink meat, Lady Castle, is sitting, her head bent. Smiles, sniffs, puts his spectacles back. One—two, one—two.
Half the audience are asleep, some of them open-mouthed, with closed eyes, legs stretched out. One man—yes, of course, he looks a little bit like that old devil Robert—you remember the little flat off Portman Square?—rests his head on the décolletée shoulder of his undisguisedly bored neighbour, and the four boys from Magdalen College are huddled together, sleeping in a delicate and oh, so sweetly perfect manner. Farther up, in the gallery—now this goes too far! The man with the look of a Thames angler, the one with the splotched glasses, is throwing dice with the musical Bolshevik, and the woman clad in sour wool is sound asleep. Two or three people are reading their evening papers, Standard, Star, Evening News. That’s impertinent: but this is the climax! An usher is secretly selling evening papers hidden under his bundle of programmes, and two gentlemen are talking quite loudly: “So we went to see Henry VIII. What a film, what a film!”
“Right,” says the other one, and takes a sip from a beer bottle, “but you didn’t see King
Kong.”
“What a picture, what a picture,” says the other, “great art, I call it. I haven’t seen it.”
The other one laughs. “Monster films. I don’t like them.”
“Ridiculous. Will you have a sandwich? Monsters,” he continues. “Absurd. Crazy. Insane. It’s against the law,” he shouts suddenly. “Children shouldn’t be permitted to see such things. Where’s the censor? We tax-payers——”
Whereupon the other man tries to silence him: “Pssss,” he says, “you’re not at home now.”
“My home is my castle,” shouts the other one, whereupon the whole row wakes up and all clap their hands violently, thinking it’s an ovation for Sir Desmond.
“Silence!” shouts a man in a dinner-jacket from the first row of the stalls.
“Quiet, please!” cries an oldish-looking woman, her hands clasped imploringly. “It’s a first night. It’s a young man.”
At this the entire audience bursts into laughter and the woman stands up on her seat, pleading again: “It might be your or my brother and——” Oop! suddenly she shoots down in a dead faint.
This is the signal for a general outburst of terrific insanity, in which the orchestra joins. Mr. Schafitz jumps up, doing little tricks with his feet and hands, giving a rude imitation of Julian Spencer conducting a rehearsal: “Piano, pianissimo!” he hisses. And the drummer goes into a song and dance: “We Germans like the girls, we like smoked Wurst and Kraut! In fact we like the Sauerkraut, we like it very much!”
“E Viva!” shouts the whole orchestra, giving the Fascist salute.
Sir Desmond is obviously enjoying the scene immensely and he swings himself in monkey fashion up on to the conductor’s stand, laughing like mad.
“E Viva!” shouts the orchestra again.
“That’s an insult,” screams Julian. “Bosworth, leave me alone! Don’t hold me!” And suddenly out he jumps, on to the platform, and he pushes Sir Desmond off the conductor’s stand, and Sir Desmond falls, black-glassed and quite small, on his back, humming: “One—two, one—two!” And moving his feet, arms, and bâton like a fallen beetle.
“Gentlemen!” Julian shouts, and the whole orchestra gets up on its feet. A black and white wall. Faces of great respect and fear. But Sir Desmond still lies on his back—that fallen beetle.
There’s not a sound. The whole audience sits as if under a terrific spell. . . .
How everything has changed. There is no German drummer. No fallen beetle. And certainly no tap-dancing little Schafitz. There is a real orchestra. Men in black tail-coats. White bow ties, and white cuffs slipping in and out of black sleeves. They are just part of the whole: people without names, families, and all that personal dreary clap-trap. And they all sit and wait with one eye on Mr. Julian Spencer, the young composer. With a quick gesture he settles his tie, bâton in his right hand, three short taps—up flies his arm, and off they go! A quick, sharp run like the flight of an arrow over all the instruments, loud and distinct, and then three deep chords, every one of them very distinct and beautiful, like stepping-stones into a dream. Very loud, louder, loud! And quite softly, unearthly like the sigh of dawn, followed by a bell in the distance—a river—a bridge across—a lantern here and there—and barges slowly swaying in the evening wind. Reflections on the water and the sharp outline of a bare tree, thin, cold branches. And out of the mist rises the Tower. And another bridge. Swift water flowing. . . . But suddenly streets. Ten, fifteen, seventeen, nineteen people. Women, men. And more buses, taxis, an Underground station, and business buildings. And lights go out, one after another. Less people. Fewer taxis. And the buses seem to disappear in the streets filled with darkness. . . . The river again, and the distant chimes. . . .
Pum-pum! With a little wooden hammer a man produces this sound, and the bells are long tubes and they hang on a wooden contraption. And this all happens in the D.B.C. Orchestra, Queen’s Hall, Langham Place, London. And Julian, conductor-composer, swings his bâton slowly, and with his left hand calms down the excited strings—almost a pause—but it’s only new breath, as they fly back again into the dream. And a horn, quietly . . .
In the dark lounge of Ye Olde Shippe Hotel, Brighton, Sussex, quite far from London, a man at the radio. And the sound is not very good, and Toulouse whispers something about “Mesdames et Messieurs,” and suddenly Oslo—it’s probably a weather forecast—and Vienna—damn it, you can’t hear London National.
“Blast it,” says Joseph, the flat-footed waiter, and he swings round in his rocking-chair, and starts tuning in again. “That’s better now.”
Not quite. Deutschland aber, meine Damen und Herren . . . Sing a little Song for me . . . Il popolo di Roma . . . Fascisti . . . O, Madame ne veut pas d’enfant . . . O lalà! Oop! Joseph’s got it again, and he leans back again and listens, deeply impressed by the fact that he knows Julian Spencer. . . .
“Where are you?” shouts a voice, “Joseph! wake up, the show is over. They’ll be here in a minute!”
But before he can get up and turn the light on they are all here; those familiar faces of Coco, Mr. Esmond, Ritornelli, not to forget Mr. Shark. They are all very loud and so amused, and they pat Mr. Kraut on the back and Shark wants to invite him to a lager, but Ritornelli wants to do the same, and so there is quite a row. And the girls laugh, and no doubt Kraut’s sex-appeal is raised to a high pitch by the yodelling and long-feathered green little hat.
“You have a beer with me.” “No, it’s my turn,” “Marvellous, Mr. Kraut, I didn’t know you could dance.” “Why doesn’t somebody shut off the damned radio? I can’t hear a word.” “Shut it off.”
Joseph heard that remark and he puts the tray down quite suddenly and he walks over to the radio, shoves aside a girl who just wants to turn. “Don’t touch it,” he shouts, and like a little French field-marshal standing at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, ready to make a speech, Joseph puts one foot down heavily, and declares: “Ladies and Gentlemen—” pointing to the loud speaker—“Mr. Spencer’s Symphony.”
Whereupon one girl starts to giggle hysterically, and is silenced at once by a gesture from Kraut, who has taken up the position and attitude of a man at mass in church, or at a funeral at the open grave.
“Gosh, what music!” says Amy, and Kraut, somehow forgetting the memorable happenings of this afternoon and his relations with Viva, and his predecessor and all that, obviously wants to make a speech, as he is loosening his collar. But he doesn’t get far with it.
“A masterpiece,” he says, “I always knew it. Silence, gentlemen.”
What a man, this Kraut. But it’s not surprising. Germans are always like this. Deutschland first, Deutschland last; in between Wagnerian blast. Strange Twilight of the Gods!
Silence. And Mr. Spencer’s wide-outstretched arms and hands convey no applause is wanted. There he stands, like an angel with widespread wings ready to fly off again. Nervous tension—wait! Just another part of a second—wait! Down flies the bâton. Three quick taps; signal for the third movement.
The eyes of all the musicians are fixed on Julian’s hand. And the woman at the harp with a lovely glissando—how quickly her fingers move over these long and short strings. And feet on the pedals . . . Music. No—drops, just millions of drops thrown up into the dark. Shimmering drops. A fountain, and it’s night and only lights here and there. Sky signs. Rising and falling water. Fountains. The fountain. And this is Trafalgar Square. What a glorious firework of water! How it ascends into the dark night sky dusted with stars—millions of stars. . . . But down it falls again, and suddenly there rises not water but stone and this is a column. Stone. And on the top a figure—a man in stone—stone monument rising into the night—Nelson. And down again . . . Three streets. Lanterns. And slow-moving water. Reflections of stars and quiet little houses—Chelsea Embankment. Quiet, peaceful, and romantic, like the dream of a child. Suddenly, down again! . . . Strange instruments—is this a saxophone? A jazz band. Right. Man, woman, woman, man. Evening-dress, shimmering leather
, white cuffs and hands, faces and half-dressed bodies of women, swaying in rhythmical embrace. Long white arms, staccato-springing breasts. And the negro doodles calmly along. Fat black man, press softly that shining soul of yours you hold in your hand. Give us the dark blue tropical sex anthem of your colourful country, so far away. Come on, we can T—A—K—E it! Louder and louder! And this is not jazz any more. In fall instruments never used in a jazz band, and this is not a certain man with a very beautiful woman—no individuals, but masses of swaying white bodies, like a danse macabre. Deluge. End of this world and therefore end of this hectic age of ours. Bodies. Music. Men. Women. Bodies. And up rises the black man, over-powering, over-shadowing, like a giant. Stop doodling so dangerously! It’s not the end! We shall live and life goes on! And he disappears. . . .
Spontaneous applause, which not even the wide outstretched hands of the conductor can stop. And Julian has to turn round and bow, and bow again, and slowly he turns back and three more taps on the conductor’s stand. . . .
Tree-tops. Tops of trees and down below quiet, subdued streets in the light of a four hours’ old morning. A milk wagon. And here on the kerb two of those undertakers of dust and rubbish. Three-cornered hats and lazily-swung brooms sweeping away memories of the day before. And hard destructive daylight creeps in. A bird wakes up—a timid sound—greeting a Tuesday or a Wednesday arrived overnight. And with glorious monotony the river moves along, and a chime in the distance, and more chimes fall in—no, not a chorale—and once more, quite swiftly, a last dreary souvenir of the night that staggered drunkenly to sleep on the cold wet pavement. A singing couple. Top-hat and slipped evening-gown. Late, tired nakedness. Let’s—let’s try again! Try to fly back into night and dream. But our strength has gone and down flap our wings—try again—try again! We can’t—morning is coming and dreams die down. Cold are the streets below, and the sun is hiding somewhere; hiding, but ready to jump over Night and Dream! We’ve lost the battle. No—we are the winners! Take the night. It’s yours. But we—we keep the dream.