“No, thank you. This will do very well.” And Lady Geraldine closed it with her own hands and sent it to the post. Later in the afternoon Mary said, “I am exceedingly sorry I sent that letter. I have found out my real mind about Mr Hoskyn at last. I detest him.”
Lady Geraldine only laughed at her.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
One evening the concert room in St. James’s Hall was crowded with people waiting to hear the first public performance of a work by Mr Owen Jack, entitled Prometheus Unbound. It wanted but a minute to eight o’clock; the stalls were filling rapidly; the choristers were already in their seats; and there was a din of tuning from the band. Not far from the orchestra sat Mr John Hoskyn, with a solemn air of being prepared for the worst, and carefully finished at the tie, gloves and hair. Next him was his wife, in a Venetian dress of garnet colored plush. Her black hair was gathered upon her neck by a knot of deep sea green; and her dark eyes peered through lenses framed in massive gold.
On the foremost side bench, still nearer to the orchestra, was a young lady with a beautiful and intelligent face. She was more delicately shaped than Mrs Hoskyn, and was dressed in white. Her neighbors pointed her out to one another as the Szczympliça; but she was now Mrs Adrian Herbert. Her husband was with her; and his regular features seemed no less refined and more thoughtful than those of his wife. Mrs Hoskyn looked at him earnestly for some time. Then she turned as though to look at her husband; but she checked herself in this movement, and directed her attention to the entry of Manlius.
I have counted the band,” whispered Hoskyn; “and it’s eighty-five strong. They can’t give them much less than seven and sixpence apiece for the night, which makes thirty-two pounds all but half a crown, without counting the singers.”
“Nonsense,” said Mary, after looking round apprehensively to see whether her husband’s remark had been overheard. Five pounds apiece would be nearer the — Hush.”
The music had just begun; and Hoskyn had to confine his repudiation of Mary’s estimate to an emphatic shake of the head. The overture, anxiously conducted by Manlius, who was very nervous, lasted nearly half an hour. When it was over, there was silence for a moment, then faint applause, then sounds of disapproval, then sufficient applause to overpower these and finally a buzz of conversation. A popular baritone singer, looking very uncomfortable, rose to carry on his part of dialogue between Promethius and the earth, which was the next number of the work. The chorus singers also rose, and fixed their eyes stolidly, but desperately, on the conductor, who hardly ventured to look at them. The dialogue commenced, but the the attention of the audience was presently diverted by the appearance of Jack himself, who was seen to cross the room with an angry countenance, and go out. The conclusion of the dialogue was unbroken silence, in the midst of which the popular baritone sat down with an air of relief.
“I find that the music is beginning to grow upon me, said Mrs Hoskyn.
“Do you?” said Hoskyn. “I wish it would grow quicker. I’m only joking,” he added, seeing that she was disappointed. “It’s splendid. I wish I knew enough about it to like it; but I can see that it has the real classical style. When those brass things come in, it’s magnificent.”
Two eminent songstresses now came forward as Asia and Panthea; and the audience prepared themselves for the relief of a pretty duet. But Asia and Panthea sang as strangely as Prometheus, in spite of which they gained some slow, uncertain, grudging applause. The Race of the Hours, which followed, was of great length, progressing from a lugubrious midnight hour in E flat minor to a sunrise in A major, and culminating with a jubilant clangor of orchestra and chorus which astounded the audience, and elicited a partly hysterical mixture of hand clapping and protesting hisses.
“How stupid these people are!” exclaimed Mrs Adrian Herbert. “What imbecility! They do not know that it is good music. Heaven!”
“I must confess that, to my ear, there is not a note of music in it,” said Adrian.
“Is it possible!” said Aurélie. “But it is superb! Splendid!”
“It is ear splitting,” said Adrian. “Your ears are hardier than mine, perhaps. I hope we shall hear some melody in the next part, by way of variety.”
“Without doubt we shall. It is a work full of melody.”
Herbert was confirmed in his opinion by the final number, entitled, “Antiphony of the Earth and Moon,” which was listened to in respectful bewilderment by the audience, and executed with symptoms of exhaustion by the chorus.
“By George,” said Hoskyn, joining heartily in some applause which began in the cheaper seats, “that sounded stupendous. I’d like to hear it again.”
The clapping, though not enthusiastic, was now general, all being goodnaturedly willing that the composer should be called forward in acknowledgment of his efforts, if not of his success. Jack, who had returned to hear the “Race of the Hours,” again arose; and those who knew him clapped more loudly, thinking that he was on his way to the orchestra. It proved that he was on his way to the door; for he went out as ungraciously as before.
“How disappointing.”said Mary. “He is so hasty.
“Serves them right,”said Hoskyn. “I like his pluck; and you make take my word for it, Mary, that is a sterling piece of music. It reminds me of the Pacific railroad.”
“Of course it is. Even you can see that,” said Mary, who did not quite see it herself. “It is mere professional jealousy that prevents the people here from applauding properly, They are all musicians of some kind or another.”
“They are going to give us ten minutes law before they begin again. Let us take a walk round, and find what Nanny thinks.”
Meanwhile Aurélie was almost in tears. Mr Phipson had just come up to them, shaking his head sadly. “As I feared,” he said. “As I feared.”
“It is a shame,” she said indignantly, “a shame unworthy of the English people. Of what use is it to write music for such a world?”
“It is far above their heads,” said Phipson. “I told him so.”
“And their insolence is far beneath his feet,” said Aurélie. “Oh, it is a scene to plunge an artist in despair.”
“It does not plunge me into despair,” said Adrian, with quiet conviction. “The work has failed; and I venture to say that it deserved to fail.”
“It is unworthy of you to say so,” exclaimed Aurélie passionately, throwing herself back in her seat and turning away from him.
“Deserved is perhaps a hard word under the circumstances, Mr Herbert,” said Phipson. “The work is a very remarkable one, and far beyond the comprehension of the public. Jack has been much too bold. Even our audiences will not listen with patience to movements of such length and complication. I greatly regret what has happened; for the people who are attracted by our concerts are representative of the highest musical culture in England. A work which fails here from its abstruseness has not the ghost of a chance of success elsewhere. Ah! Here is Mary.”
Some introductions followed. Hoskyn shook Adrian’s hand cordially, and made a low bow to Aurélie, whom he stole an occasional glance at, but did not at first venture to address. Aurélie looked at Mary’s dress with wonder.
“I am greatly annoyed by the way Mr Jack has been treated,” said Mary. “An audience of working people could not be more insensible to his genius than the people here have shewn themselves tonight.”