Читать книгу Meet Me on the Barricades - Charles Yale Harrison - Страница 3

Table of Contents

For perhaps the tenth time Signor Turano, now gaunt and unhappy, tapped the music-stand, raised his arms with a commanding gesture, prepared to signal the beat. Things were going quite badly. For one reason or another the orchestra seemed unable to achieve precisely the shading of tone which the maestro so assiduously demanded.

The celebrated conductor glared at his men and damned them in mellifluous Neapolitan, a tongue admirably suited in affairs involving one’s enemies. In liquid but subdued tones he called for the immediate visitation upon the orchestra of various malignant diseases, notably one said to have been originally contracted by members of the crew of the Santa Maria in the West Indies some four and a half centuries ago.

Somewhat relieved, he gave the signal and at his pantomimed behest the orchestra played once more. Under his eloquent hands the music grew in volume, billowed, while beneath the echoing majesty of the brasses the dark waters of Finland seethed and hissed.

Now this seething and hissing was achieved, to some degree, by means of the woodwinds: the clarinets, bassoons, English horns and oboes. And in the midst of the woodwind choir, impervious to Turano’s tantrums, sat P. Herbert Simpson [P for Peter], oboist, a little, baldish, guileless man in his middle forties. His talent as a musician and his physical appearance, however, were singularly contrasting.

Simpson played easily, one might say absently, for he had long since acquired that co-ordination of hand, heart and ear which makes for the superbly talented performer. His embouchure, that is to say, the tension of his mouth, jaw and facial muscles, was perfect. His fingering was delicate and yet so sure that he was able to play more than competently while lost in the deepest thought.

At the moment his pale blue eyes absently followed the score while his instrument emitted reedy, plaintive tones. To all appearances he was completely absorbed in his work, but as a matter of fact he was lost in a form of contemplation in which the realistic present played an exceedingly insignificant rôle. In short, P. Herbert Simpson was at it again. He was daydreaming!

Untrammelled, his fancy leaped, soared, weighted by no ballast of logic, chilled by no illusions of reality.

Fantasia! The renowned Philharmonic is in rehearsal. Maybe it is the Philadelphia Orchestra, or perhaps the Boston or Minneapolis. It is a matter of small importance. It might even be that Soviet importation, the Conductorless Orchestra.... But no, that would never do!

[He negotiated a familiar difficult passage in the score without so much as being aware of it.]

P. Herbert Simpson mounts the podium. The men of the orchestra, his men, look up eagerly, with admiration, respect. The respect of musicians in a symphony orchestra—what a triumph! The public, the patient, long-suffering public which is to be found in a serpentined queue before Carnegie Hall may be deluded by press-agentry as to the true character of a conductor, but not the men who work with him, who see him in his underwear, so to speak, not the men who so painstakingly contribute to his greatness. Toscanini, Koussevitzky, Stokowski, good men all, no doubt, each in his way. But then, why make odious comparisons?

Simpson raises his arms. The orchestra is poised for flight, alert. He gives the signal and at once a solitary horn announces the melancholy dominant theme of the first movement; then a sudden crescendo of violins, sharp and electric, followed by a fleeting solo oboe passage.

[This places Simpson in somewhat of a dilemma because he is now on the stand and in the woodwind section at the same time. He manages, however.]

Loud and clear the brasses relentlessly pursue the theme and soon amid spiralling vortices of sound, the movement comes to an end. A pause and then the second adagio movement, the theme of which is announced by the horns, repeated by the woodwinds and echoed by plucked strings. Now the music is precious, held to but a few instruments, now it is full and harmonious, now discordant and angry. ... And so to the climax of the symphony with its six suspended, crashing chords.

There is a thunderclap of applause.

Impossible! This is merely a rehearsal. [He smiles.] Yes, yes, of course he had forgotten. This is the actual performance.

He turns and faces the crowded hall, observes with secret joy that the ushers are marching down the aisles bearing expensive and complicated floral pieces. The auditorium is in an uproar. Luxurious women crowd about him, struggle with each other to reach him. Flashlight bulbs are set off. Cameras are levelled at him from every conceivable angle.

Simpson bows again and again....

A vicious rap on the music-stand splintered Turano’s baton, brought the orchestra to an agonizing halt and sent Simpson slithering into the bleak atmosphere of reality. Momentarily resentful of Turano’s unwarranted intrusion into the privacy of his daydream he looked up with mild indignation and observed that the conductor was now in his most dangerous mood.

When Turano was violent in speech he was comparatively safe. It was only when he spoke in modulated, excessively polite tones that he was to be feared.

The conductor was now bathed in homicidal calm.

“Gentlemen [he pronounced it gentle-a-men], I want passion from you. Do you hear? Passion! What are you all—married men?”

The bachelors tittered. But unappeased by appreciation of his wit, he continued:

“You are not compelled to laugh, gentlemen. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

He paused for a moment and wet his lips.

“Listen once more! The winds [he pronounced it weends] must be smooth like fast-moving water, like air in motion. But you [withering scorn], you play it like a German band.”

And so in this vein for nearly five minutes.

Finally he paused and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It was precisely on an occasion such as this that Turano had once smashed a costly violin over the head of a concert-master. Subsequently, a court had exonerated him on the surprising ground that his incontrollable fury flowed from the identical afflatus which also bestowed upon the world the incomparable gifts of his great art.

Simpson, strangely enough, now listened to Turano’s invective with growing sympathy. For did he not know the torments of creation? The mood engendered by his daydream was still upon him, the applause of his phantom audience still rang in his ears and his face was radiant with triumph. And only the triumphant may indulge in the luxury of tolerance.

In a haze of sympathy and generosity he suddenly, almost involuntarily, arose to address the conductor.

“Maestro——.”

Turano stood speechless for a few seconds scarcely believing his eyes. Finally he bellowed:

“What do you want?”

The second personal pronoun dripped with contempt. But Simpson was now immune to insult; he transcended all human baseness.

“I know how it is, maestro. We’ve been here since two o’clock but we’ll stay all night until we get it just the way you want it.”

Turano’s expression underwent a series of lightning changes: from stupefaction to amazement, astonishment, surprise and finally pleasure. In turn he was outraged, touched, overcome. At once contrition overwhelmed him, brought him almost to the verge of tears. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his damp forehead, wiped his moist eyes.

“All right, boys!” he said. “Let’s try it once more—for the last time. You are all fine musicians. And Seemson, you are a real artist—a wonderful oboist.”

Once again he tapped the music-stand, once again the music swelled. The dark waters of Tuonela roared and the wind howled through the barren Finnish ravines. Once more the brasses carried the melody, high and lonely....

Turano smiled; it was going superbly now. He looked in the direction of his oboist and nodded affably. But Simpson did not see; he was lost in another fantasy.