persons in the orchestra than in the audience.
Seated in the foyer, with one eye upon a shabby programme
girl and another upon the street outside, Xavier would
sometimes refer to these facts in conversation with
a titled patron, and would describe the public realistically
and without pretence of illusion. Nevertheless,
Xavier had grown to be a rich man, for percentages
were his hourly food; he received them even from programme
sellers. At nine o’clock the hall was rather
less than half full, and this was rightly regarded
as very promising, for the management, like the management
of every place of distraction in Paris, held it a
point of honour to start from twenty to thirty minutes
late—as though all Parisians had many ages
ago decided that in Paris one could not be punctual,
and that, long since tired of waiting for each other,
they had entered into a competition to make each other
wait, the individual who arrived last being universally
regarded as the winner. The members of the orchestra
were filing negligently in from the back of the vast
terraced platform, yawning, and ravaged by the fearful
ennui of eternal high-class music. They entered
in dozens and scores, and they kept on entering, and
as they gazed inimically at each other, fingering
their instruments, their pale faces seemed to be asking:
“Why should it be necessary to collect so many
of us in order to prove that just one single human
being can play the violin? We can all play the
violin, or something else just as good. And we
have all been geniuses in our time.”
In strong contrast to their fatigued and disastrous
indifference was the demeanour of a considerable group
of demonstrators in the gallery. This body had
crossed the Seine from the sacred Quarter, and, not
owning a wardrobe sufficiently impressive to entitle
it to ask for free seats, it had paid for its seats.
Hence naturally its seats were the worst in the hall.
But the group did not care. It was capable of
exciting itself about high-class music. Moreover
it had, for that night, an article of religious faith,
to wit, that Musa was the greatest violinist that had
ever lived or ever could live, and it was determined
to prove this article of faith by sheer force of hands
and feet. Therefore it was very happy, and just
a little noisy.
In the main part of the hall the audience could be
divided into two species, one less numerous than the
other. First, the devotees of music, who went
to nearly every concert, extremely knowing, extremely
blase, extremely disdainful and fastidious, with precise
views about every musical composition, every conductor,
and every performer; weary of melodious nights at
which the same melodies were ever heard, but addicted
to them, as some people are addicted to vices equally
deleterious. These devotees would have had trouble
with their conscience or their instincts had they not,
by coming to the concert, put themselves in a position
to affirm exactly and positively what manner of a