Besides--and here he thought himself very canny, by no
means a Jew for nothing--there were fine old houses at Clapton, and
where there were such houses there must be rich people.
When the date was actually arranged, he practised for the best part of
the day. While he was at home he read music; he lived in a maze of
music. He never thought of advertising, collecting his public; he even
avoided his old friends, his patrons at the timber-yard, overcome by
agonies of shyness at the very thought of so much as mentioning his
concert. Quite simply, in a way he did not even attempt to explain to
himself, he felt that the world of London would scent it from afar off.
As to paid _claques_, presentation-tickets, patrons, advance agents,
all the booming and flattery, the jam of the powder for an English
audience, he had no idea of the existence of such things. Beethoven was
wonderful, and he had found out wonderful things about him: that was
enough.
When the Angel Gabriel blew the last trump, there would be no need to
invite the dead to rise. Neither was there any need to invite the
really elect to his concert.
Pages:
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377