Prologue
It was the opening night of LondonтАЩs new National Opera House and consequently an occasion. Royalty was there. The Press were there. The fashionable were there in large quantities. Even the musical, by hook and by crook, had managed to be thereтБатАФmostly very high up in the final tier of seats under the roof.
The musical composition given was The Giant, a new work by a hitherto unknown composer, Boris Groen. In the interval after the first part of the performance, a listener might have collected the following scraps of conversation:
тАЬQuite divine, darling.тАЭ тАЬThey say itтАЩs simply theтБатАФtheтБатАФtheтБатАФlatest!! Everything out of tune on purposeтБатАКтБатАж And you have to read Einstein in order to understand itтБатАКтБатАжтАЭ тАЬYes, dear, I shall tell everyone itтАЩs too marvellous. But privately, it does make oneтАЩs head ache!тАЭ
тАЬWhy canтАЩt they open a British Opera House with a decent British composer? All this Russian tomfoolery!тАЭ Thus a peppery colonel.
тАЬQuite so,тАЭ drawled his companion. тАЬBut you see, there are no British composers. Sad, but there it is!тАЭ
тАЬNonsenseтБатАФdonтАЩt tell me, sir. They just wonтАЩt give them a chanceтБатАФthatтАЩs what it is. Who is this fellow Levinne? A dirty foreign Jew. ThatтАЩs all he is!тАЭ
A man nearby, leaning against the wall, half concealed by a curtain, permitted himself to smileтБатАФfor he was Sebastian Levinne, sole owner of the National Opera House, familiarly known by the title of the WorldтАЩs Greatest Showman.
He was a big man, rather too well covered with flesh. His face was yellow and impassive, his eyes beady and black, two enormous ears stood out from his head and were the joy of caricaturists.
The surge of talk eddied past himтБатАКтБатАж
тАЬDecadentтБатАКтБатАж morbidтБатАКтБатАж neuroticтБатАКтБатАж childishтБатАКтБатАжтАЭ
Those were critics.
тАЬDevastatingтБатАКтБатАж too divineтБатАКтБатАж marvellous, my dearтБатАКтБатАжтАЭ
Those were women.
тАЬThe thingтАЩs nothing but a glorified revue.тАЭ тАЬAmazing effects in the second part, I believe. Machinery, you know. This first part, тАШStone,тАЩ is only a kind of introduction. They say old Levinne has simply gone all out over this. Never been anything like it.тАЭ тАЬMusicтАЩs pretty weird, isnтАЩt it?тАЭ тАЬBolshy idea, I believe. Noise orchestras, donтАЩt they call them?тАЭ
Those were young men, more intelligent than the women, less prejudiced than the critics.
тАЬIt wonтАЩt catch on. A stunt, thath all. Yet, I donтАЩt knowтБатАФthereтАЩs a feeling for this cubist thtuff.тАЭ тАЬLevinneтАЩs shrewd.тАЭ тАЬDropth money deliberately thometimesтБатАФbut getth it back.тАЭ тАЬCostтБатАКтБатАжтАК?тАЭ The voices dropped, hushed themselves mysteriously as sums of money were mentioned.
Those were members of his own race. Sebastian Levinne smiled.
A bell rangтБатАФslowly the crowd drifted and eddied back to their seats.
There was a wait, filled with chattering and laughterтБатАФthen the lights wavered and sank. The conductor mounted to his place. In front of him was an orchestra just six times as large as any Covent Garden orchestra and quite unlike an ordinary orchestra. There were strange instruments in it of shining metal like misshapen monsters, and in one corner an unaccustomed glitter of crystal. The conductorтАЩs baton was stretched out, then fell and immediately there was a low rhythmic beating as of hammers on anvils. Every now and then a beat was missedтБатАФlostтБатАФand then came floating back taking its place out of turn, jostling the others.
The curtain roseтБатАКтБатАж
At the back of a box on the second tier Sebastian Levinne stood and watched.
This was no opera, as commonly understood. It told no story, featured no individuals. Rather was it on the scale of a gigantic Russian ballet. It contained spectacular effects, strange and weird effects of lightingтБатАФeffects that were LevinneтАЩs own inventions. His revues had for long been proclaimed as the last word in sheer spectacular sensation. Into this, more artist than producer, he had put the whole force of his imagination and experience.
The prologue had represented StoneтБатАФManтАЩs infancy.
ThisтБатАФthe body of the workтБатАФwas a supreme pageant of machineryтБатАФfantastic, almost awful. Power houses, dynamos, factory chimneys, cranes, all merging and flowing. And menтБатАФarmies of menтБатАФwith Cubist robot facesтБатАФdefiling in patterns.
The music swelled and eddiedтБатАФa deep sonorous clamour came from the new strangely shaped metal instruments. A queer high sweet note sounded above it all, like the ringing of innumerable glasses.
There was an Episode of SkyscrapersтБатАФNew York seen upside down as from a circling aeroplane in the early dawn of morning. And the strange inharmonious rhythm beat ever more insistently, with increasing menacing monotony. It drew on through other episodes to its climax: a giant seeming steel erectionтБатАФthousands of steel faced men welded together into a Giant Collective ManтБатАКтБатАж
The Epilogue followed immediately. There was no interval, the lights did not go up.
Only one side of the orchestra spoke. What was called in the new modern phrase тАЬthe Glass.тАЭ
Clarion ringing notes.
The curtain dissolved into mistтБатАКтБатАж the mist partedтБатАКтБатАж the sudden glare made one wish to shield oneтАЩs eyes.
IceтБатАФnothing but iceтБатАКтБатАж great bergs and glaciersтБатАКтБатАж shiningтБатАКтБатАж
And on the top immense pinnacle a little figureтБатАФfacing away from the audience towards the insufferable glare that represented the rising of the sunтБатАКтБатАж
The ridiculous puny figure of a manтБатАКтБатАж
The glare increasedтБатАФto the whiteness of magnesium. Hands went instinctively to eyes with a cry of pain.
The glass rang outтБатАФhigh and sweetтБатАФthen crashedтБатАФand brokeтБатАФliterally brokeтБатАФinto tinkling fragments.
The curtain dropped and the lights rose.
Sebastian Levinne with an impassive face received various congratulations and side hits.
тАЬWell, youтАЩve done it this time, Levinne. No half measures, eh?тАЭ
тАЬA damned fine show, old man. Blessed if I know what itтАЩs all about, though.тАЭ
тАЬThe Giant, eh? ThatтАЩs true, we live in an age of machinery all right.тАЭ
тАЬOh! Mr.┬аLevinne, itтАЩs simply too frightening for words! I shall dream of that horrid steel Giant.тАЭ
тАЬMachinery as the Giant that devours, eh? Not far wrong, Levinne. We want to get back to Nature. WhoтАЩs Groen? A Russian?тАЭ
тАЬYes, whoтАЩs Groen? HeтАЩs a genius whoever he is. The Bolshevists can boast theyтАЩve produced one composer at last.тАЭ
тАЬToo bad, Levinne, youтАЩve gone Bolshy. Collective Man. Collective Music too.тАЭ
тАЬWell, Levinne, good luck to you. CanтАЩt say I like this damned caterwauling they call music nowadays, but itтАЩs a good show.тАЭ
Almost last came a little old man, slightly bent, with one shoulder higher than the other. He said with a very distinct utterance:
тАЬLike to give me a drink, Sebastian?тАЭ
Levinne nodded. This little old man was Carl Bowerman, the most distinguished of English musical critics. They went together to LevinneтАЩs own sanctum.
In LevinneтАЩs room they settled down in two armchairs. Levinne provided his guest with a whisky and soda. Then he looked across at him inquiringly. He was anxious for this manтАЩs verdict.
тАЬWell?тАЭ
Bowerman did not reply for a minute or two. At last he said slowly:
тАЬI am an old man. There are things in which I take pleasureтБатАФthere are other thingsтБатАФsuch as the music of todayтБатАФwhich do not give me pleasure. But all the same I know genius when I meet it. There are a hundred charlatansтБатАФa hundred breakers down of tradition who think that by doing so they have accomplished something wonderful. And there is the hundred and firstтБатАФa creator, a man who steps boldly into the future.тАЭ
He paused, then went on.
тАЬYes, I know genius when I meet it. I may not like itтБатАФbut I recognize it. Groen, whoever he is, has geniusтБатАКтБатАж The music of tomorrowтБатАКтБатАжтАЭ
Again he paused, and again Levinne did not interrupt, but waited.
тАЬI donтАЩt know whether your venture will succeed or fail. I think succeedтБатАФbut that will be mainly because of your personality. You have the art of forcing the public to accept what you want them to accept. You have a talent for success. YouтАЩve made a mystery about GroenтБатАФpart of your press campaign, I suppose.тАЭ
He looked at Sebastian keenly.
тАЬI donтАЩt want to interfere with your press campaign, but tell me one thingтБатАФGroenтАЩs an Englishman, isnтАЩt he?тАЭ
тАЬYes. How did you know, Bowerman?тАЭ
тАЬNationality in music is unmistakable. He has studied in the Russian Revolutionary school, yesтБатАФbutтБатАФwell, as I said, nationality is unmistakable. There have been pioneers before himтБатАФpeople who have tried tentatively the things he has accomplished. WeтАЩve had our English schoolтБатАФHolst, Vaughan Williams, Arnold Bax. All over the world musicians have been drawing nearer to the new idealтБатАФthe Absolute in Music. This man is the direct successor of that boy who was killed in the war, what was his name? DeyreтБатАФVernon Deyre. He had promise.тАЭ He sighed. тАЬI wonder, Levinne, how much we lost through the war.тАЭ
тАЬItтАЩs difficult to say, sir.тАЭ
тАЬIt doesnтАЩt bear thinking of. No, it doesnтАЩt bear thinking of.тАЭ He rose. тАЬI mustnтАЩt keep you. YouтАЩve a lot to do, I know.тАЭ A faint smile showed on his face. тАЬThe Giant! You and Groen have your little joke all to yourselves, I fancy. Everyone takes it for granted the Giant is the Moloch of Machinery. They donтАЩt see that the real Giant is that pygmy figureтБатАФman. The individualist who endures through Stone and Iron and who though civilizations crumble and die, fights his way through yet another Glacial Age to rise in a new civilization of which we do not dream.тАЭ
His smile broadened.
тАЬAs I grow older I am more and more convinced that there is nothing so pathetic, so ridiculous, so absurd, and so absolutely wonderful as Man.тАЭ
He paused by the doorway, his hand on the knob.
тАЬOne wonders,тАЭ he said, тАЬwhat has gone to the making of a thing like the Giant? What produces it? What feeds it? Heredity shapes the instrumentтБатАФenvironment polishes and rounds it offтБатАФsex wakens itтБатАКтБатАж But thereтАЩs more than that. ThereтАЩs its food.
тАЬFee, fie, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of mortal Man.
Be he alive or be he dead
IтАЩll grind his bones to make my bread.
A cruel giant, genius, Levinne! A monster feeding on flesh and blood. I know nothing about Groen, yet IтАЩd swear that heтАЩs fed his Giant with his own flesh and blood and perhaps the flesh and blood of others tooтБатАКтБатАж Their bones ground to make the GiantтАЩs breadтБатАКтБатАж
тАЬIтАЩm an old man, Levinne. I have my fancies. WeтАЩve seen the end tonightтБатАФIтАЩd like to know the beginning.тАЭ
тАЬHeredityтБатАФenvironmentтБатАФsex,тАЭ said Levinne slowly.
тАЬYes. Just that. Not that I have any hopes of your telling me.тАЭ
тАЬYou think IтБатАФknow?тАЭ
тАЬIтАЩm sure you know.тАЭ
There was a silence.
тАЬYes,тАЭ said Levinne at last, тАЬI do know. I would tell you the whole story if I couldтБатАФbut I cannot. There are reasons.тАЭ
He repeated slowly: тАЬThere are reasons.тАЭ
тАЬA pity. It would have been interesting.тАЭ
тАЬI wonderтБатАКтБатАжтАЭ