Isolde Has the Last Word

Evening Post, Volume CXV, Issue 23, 28 January 1933, Page 19

Isolde Has the Last Word

Wagner is so much taken for granted to-day, that we have ceased to see the ludicrous in his music.

But London, it seems, can still find delight in ribaldry over his scores. Over there it is Sir Henry Wood ■n-hd holds the baton, and once; long since, tho clever Terry, who furnishes humour for the "Evening Standard," wandered into a "Prom" concert at the Queen's Hall.

And this is how it left Terry: " Tiddly-urn-turn, tiddly-urn! Tra-la-la, tarra-lalla-la!" I can't get the blessed tune out of my head. It's been dinning in my ears ever since I heard it at the "Prom."

Fellow called Tristan, telling a. girl named Isolde how things stood. "I dilly-I-dok, zip bang!" A most exciting thing. Full of fire and go. I thought we should have had to send out for some more trumpets before we'd finished. '"Twiddle-iddle-ego. Slosh! Boom! Hi!" Talk about love-niaking—it was more like the last round for the Navy Heavy-weight Championship. ■ But, mercy! Pardon! I exaggerate. Indeed, I lie. It was nothing like that at all. If I am a little light-headed, ■make some allowaneo for a, low-brow who lit on the "Proms," on a Wagner night, and is in consequence not quito himself.

But Terry could not have been left a~, badly off in his head as he reports, for he continues to give a lucid account, from his stand-point, of the goings on. He arrived at the conclusion of the first number:

When I entered the Queen's Hall, paying_ my two shillings descending the stairs, and opening the swing doors of the promenade floor, .1' thought I had come to exactly the right spot. It looked as if I were in for a real gay evening. The orchestra had that, moment finished playing something, and the audience, who were as the sands of the sea for number, were cheering just like we do at Chelsea when the home side has scored an equalising goal. A man turned to me as I pushed my way in and shouted in my ear: '' Absolutely perfect I" '. "Top hole!".! bawled.

"THE TRAGIC.DESPAIR OF THE FINALE," he yelled, "WASN'T THAT GREAT?"

Gradually the uproar died down, nnd a lady and gentleman in evening dress came on to sing (tho programme said) a love duet from "Lohengrin." I always like these sentimental numbers. I was young myself once, and I nover hear a nice lad singing catchy nonsense to a pretty girl about spooning under the moon, and eyes of blue faithful and true, without feeling better for it. It's a reminder that Love is still what makes the World go Round.'

So I settled down to enjoy it. Sir Henry Wood lifted his baton, and the first note came just as I was striking a match to light my pipe. But Terry did not get his pipe lit, for tho scratch disturbed tho solemn silence and— '

Everybody swung round Ttucl glared .it me and said "Sh! "and Sir Henry Wood stopped the turn ana scowled

over his shoulder at me. The singers frowned at me, the orchestra gazed at me as if I were the measles, and the gallery hissed me. I can take a hint as soon as anybody, and I gleaned from this general hostility that silence •luring the playing was fanatically insisted upon as from the word GO

The "two people in evening dress sang a love duet," and Terry tells us: The words were in German, so I can'j; say anything about them, but the music had no ..tune to it, the time kept changing, and often tho singers independently of each other, while the orchestra played something that had nothing to do with either of them.

Also, the singers, who were supposed to be in love, never took the faintest nptiee of each other all through the piece. I like to see the young man sing the last verse of a love duct holding the girl in his arms, with her looking smiling up iuto his eyes, and both joining in on the top note while the conductor "holds it" for them. But. these two absolutely ignored one another. They sang straight at the audience all the time. It was just as if they had had a quarrel in the dressingroom before coming on. Standing perfectly. still, through all this, I found rather trying. But nobody else seemed to mind, so I knew I must be a low-brow. I felt as a hungry pig might do who has strayed into Hatton Garden and found nothing to eat but pearls. A young man and his girl near me, who appeared to have just dropped in from hiking, stood with bent heads and closed eyes, like "figure 1" "figure 2" in f the text-books. Bight next to me a person with a thin, yellow beard, . wearing a blue shirt open at the neck, had his eyes fixed on my tie all the while. He made me feel dreadfully uneasy, because at first I thought I must have spilt.some soup on-it; but it was only musical ecstasy. , ■ Nearly everyone wore a "gone away" look. I'm sure I could have picked all my neighbours' pockets without anybody noticing it. "When the love duet was finished thero was another terrific outburst of enthusiasm. Chelsea was evidently one up now. The man with the yellow beard shouted: "What priceless arpeggio!" "The very thing that struck me!" I roared. But I wasn't wasting much time in conversation. My pipe was still unlit and the close season for match striking was at hand again. ' What followed, according to Terry was the point where Tristan has it out with Isolde: All I can say is, these Gevman lovers are interminable gossips. There were at least four occasions when I thought they were surely about to dry iip. The drummers put their sticks down; one by one the trombones laid off; the 'cellos gave. a parting groan; and the violins, left alone, faded slowly away to nearly nothing, while Sir Henry passed his- left hand over them like nurse' smoothing the bedclothes and saying, "Now go to sleep like a good boy." ' '■■ Isolde, "had the last word."