They saw Barber mount the platform, the musicians
cease, the singer and the conductor give way before him. But never a
word was said--there was a perfect hush. And yet, so far as my stunned
senses would allow me to perceive, the people were not wrathful or even
curious; they were just silent and collected as people generally are at
some solemn ceremonial. Nobody but me seemed to realize the
outrageousness and monstrosity of the vulgar-looking, insignificant
Barber there on the platform, holding up the show, stopping the
excellent music we had all paid to hear.
And in truth I myself was rapidly falling into the strangest confusion.
For a certain time--I cannot quite say how long--I lost my hold on
realities. The London concert hall, with its staid, rather sad-looking
audience, vanished, and I was in a great white place inundated with
sun--some vast luminous scene. Under a wide caressing blue sky, in the
dry and limpid atmosphere, the white marble of the buildings and the
white-clad people appeared as against a background of an immense blue
veil shot with silver. It was the hour just before twilight, that rapid
hour when the colors of the air have a supreme brilliance and serenity,
and a whole people, impelled by some indisputable social obligation,
seemed to be reverently witnessing the performance of one magnificent
man of uncontrollable power, of high and solitary grandeur.
Pages:
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505