บทที่ บทที่ 2 · 第2章

Fiddlers errant are apt to rush in and occupy the centre of the stage

where angels in good and regular practice fear even to tune up. One of

the errant's pet vagaries is to volunteer his services in orchestras too

good for him. Not long after discovering that I would need more than

four lessons to learn quite all there was to know about the 'cello,--in

fact, just nine months after discovering the coffin in the attic,--I

'rushed in.' Hearing that _The Messiah_ was to be given at Christmas, I

approached the conductor and magniloquently informed him that I was a

'cellist and that, seeing he was he, I would contribute my services

without money and without price to the coming performance.

With a rather dubious air my terms were accepted. That same evening at

rehearsal I found that the entire bass section of the orchestra

consisted of three 'cellos. These were presided over by an inaudible,

and therefore negligible, little girl, a hoary sage who always arrived

very late and left very early, and myself. I shall never forget my

sensations when the sage, at a crucial point, suddenly packed up and

left me, an undeveloped musical Atlas, to bear the entire weight of the

orchestra on one pair of puny shoulders. Under these conditions it was a

memorable ordeal to read at sight 'The Trumpet Shall Sound.' The trumpet

sounded, indeed. That was more than the 'cello did in certain passages!

As for the dead being raised, however, that happened according to

programme.

After this high-tension episode, I pulled myself together, only to fall

into a cruel and unusual pit which the treacherous Händel dug for

'cellists by writing one single passage in that unfamiliar alto clef

which looks so much like the usual tenor clef that before the least

suspicion of impending disaster dawns, you are down in the pit,

hopelessly floundering.

I emerged from this rehearsal barely alive; but I had really enjoyed

myself so much more than I had suffered, or made others suffer, that my

initial impulse to rush at sight into strange orchestras now became

stereotyped into a habit. Since then what delightful evenings I have

spent in the old Café Martin and in the old Café Boulevarde where my

'cellist friends in the orchestras were ever ready to resign their

instruments into my hands for a course or two, and the leader always let

me pick out the music!

But one afternoon in upper Broadway I met with the sort of adventure

that figures in the fondest dreams of fiddlers errant. I had strolled

into the nearest hotel to use the telephone. As I passed through the

restaurant, my attention was caught by a vaguely familiar strain from

the musicians' gallery. Surely this was unusual spiritual provender to

offer a crowd of typical New York diners! More and more absorbed in

trying to recognize the music, I sank into an armchair in the lobby, the

telephone quite forgotten. The instruments were working themselves up to

some magnificent climax, and working me up at the same time. It began to

sound more and more like the greatest of all music,--the musician's very

holiest of holies. Surely I must be dreaming! My fingers crooked

themselves for a pinch. But just then the unseen instruments swung back

into the opening theme of the Brahms piano quartette in A major.

Merciful heavens! A Brahms quartette in Broadway? Pan in Wall Street?

Silence. With three jumps I was up in the little gallery, wringing the

hands of those performers and calling down blessings upon their

quixotism as musical missionaries. 'Missionaries?' echoed the leader in

amusement. 'Ah, no. We could never hope to convert those down there.' He

waved a scornful hand at the consumers of lobster below. 'Now and then

we play Brahms just in order that we may save our own souls.' The

'cellist rose, saluted, and extended his bow in my direction, like some

proud commander surrendering his sword. 'Will it please you,' he

inquired, 'to play the next movement?' It pleased me.