He descended among
the trees, where the soft glow of Japanese lanterns picked out parts of
their great rugged trunks, here and there, in the great mass of darkness
under the lofty foliage. More lanterns, of the shape of cylindrical
concertinas, hanging in a row from a slack string, decorated the doorway
of what Schomberg called grandiloquently "my concert-hall." In his
desperate mood Heyst ascended three steps, lifted a calico curtain, and
went in.
The uproar in that small, barn-like structure, built of imported
pine boards, and raised clear of the ground, was simply stunning. An
instrumental uproar, screaming, grunting, whining, sobbing, scraping,
squeaking some kind of lively air; while a grand piano, operated upon
by a bony, red-faced woman with bad-tempered nostrils, rained hard notes
like hail through the tempest of fiddles. The small platform was filled
with white muslin dresses and crimson sashes slanting from shoulders
provided with bare arms, which sawed away without respite. Zangiacomo
conducted. He wore a white mess-jacket, a black dress waistcoat, and
white trousers. His longish, tousled hair and his great beard were
purple-black. He was horrible. The heat was terrific. There were perhaps
thirty people having drinks at several little tables. Heyst, quite
overcome by the volume of noise, dropped into a chair.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98