The clouds once more
swept over that massive face. The player moistened his lips with his
tongue, half-turned on his chair, and slowly swept the hall with an
indifferent, almost a disdainful eye. Then he sank into his former
lassitude. His hands dropped to his side without striking the keys.
Evidently the time had not come. The violins in the orchestra sang on.
My neighbour was not the only one to fall under the spell of such
masterly musicianship. Twenty-four ladies in the parquette shrank back
into their seats with a half-sob of brimming emotion, and implored their
escorts to look at the artist's face. Eleven ladies in the lower boxes
interrupted their conversation to remark that it was wonderful what soul
those Slavs managed to put into their playing. In the upper balconies
listeners strained forward in their seats so that from below it seemed
as if they were about to precipitate themselves over the railings. What
expert opinion had described as the sublimest ten minutes in the great
pianist's greatest concerto had just begun. The conductor slightly
raised himself on his toes.
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