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.