In the quick time
of that music, in the varied, piercing clamour of the strings, in the
movements of the bare arms, in the low dresses, the coarse faces,
the stony eyes of the executants, there was a suggestion of
brutality--something cruel, sensual and repulsive.
"This is awful!" Heyst murmured to himself.
But there is an unholy fascination in systematic noise. He did not
flee from it incontinently, as one might have expected him to do. He
remained, astonished at himself for remaining, since nothing could have
been more repulsive to his tastes, more painful to his senses, and,
so to speak, more contrary to his genius, than this rude exhibition
of vigour. The Zangiacomo band was not making music; it was simply
murdering silence with a vulgar, ferocious energy. One felt as if
witnessing a deed of violence; and that impression was so strong that it
seemed marvellous to see the people sitting so quietly on their
chairs, drinking so calmly out of their glasses, and giving no signs
of distress, anger, or fear. Heyst averted his gaze from the unnatural
spectacle of their indifference.
When the piece of music came to an end the relief was so great that he
felt slightly dizzy, as if a chasm of silence had yawned at his feet.
When he raised his eyes, the audience, most perversely, was exhibiting
signs of animation and interest in their faces, and the women in white
muslin dresses were coming down in pairs from the platform into the body
of Schomberg's "concert-hall.
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