Priscilla and Charybdis: A Story of Alternatives
Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
| Author: | Frank Frankfort Moore | ISBN: | 9781465626912 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Frank Frankfort Moore |
| ISBN: | 9781465626912 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
WHAT Morley Quorn could not understand was why people made such a fuss over that fellow Kelton. Who was Kelton anyway that he should give himself airs, he enquired with some insistence of the five “bassi”—they were labelled “bassi” in the programme—who were lounging about the door of the schoolroom where the rehearsal for the concert was being held. “He does give himself airs, doesn’t he?” growled another of the same division of the chorus. The rest shook their heads gloomily. It was denied to them to express themselves adequately on this point, the fact being that the Reverend Edwin Tucknott, the curate of St. Joan of Arc, was standing hard by with his flute. The proximity of the clergyman checked complete freedom of speech, including “language,” among the young men, for they failed to recollect that in the due performance of that portion of his sacred office known as the Commination Service he went much further than the most highly qualified basso could go even when he found it necessary to describe the absurdities of another and more popular vocalist. Mr. Tucknott smiled his olive branch smile in the direction of the “bassi.” “I suppose it is natural for a tenor to give himself airs,” he remarked. The instant he had spoken he glanced around in rather a shaky way. He had a feeling that he had gone a little too far. He hoped that no one would fancy he had been unable to resist a play upon the words. He had no need, however, to have any misgiving on this point. It was plain that his daring had hurt the susceptibilities of none. “Oh, I don’t say that we’re not prepared for a good bit of side from a—a chap that fancies he sings tenor,” said Morley Quorn; “but that fellow Kelton goes just too far. Now what is he up to this time? Cheeking Mozart Tutt! I wonder that Mr. Tutt stands his impudence.” But in a second it became plain that Mr. Mozart Tutt was doing nothing of the sort. He had been playing the pianoforte accompaniment to Mr. Kelton’s song, but not in a way that was met with the unqualified approval of Mr. Kelton. “I must ask you to try to play pianissimo when I am doing my shake on the high note,” said he; and Mr. Tutt had accordingly played pianissimo when the thing was repeated. But Mr. Kelton did not attempt to ascend to the high notes. He stopped short, and let his page of music flap down in a movement suggestive of a disappointment that was practically hopeless.
WHAT Morley Quorn could not understand was why people made such a fuss over that fellow Kelton. Who was Kelton anyway that he should give himself airs, he enquired with some insistence of the five “bassi”—they were labelled “bassi” in the programme—who were lounging about the door of the schoolroom where the rehearsal for the concert was being held. “He does give himself airs, doesn’t he?” growled another of the same division of the chorus. The rest shook their heads gloomily. It was denied to them to express themselves adequately on this point, the fact being that the Reverend Edwin Tucknott, the curate of St. Joan of Arc, was standing hard by with his flute. The proximity of the clergyman checked complete freedom of speech, including “language,” among the young men, for they failed to recollect that in the due performance of that portion of his sacred office known as the Commination Service he went much further than the most highly qualified basso could go even when he found it necessary to describe the absurdities of another and more popular vocalist. Mr. Tucknott smiled his olive branch smile in the direction of the “bassi.” “I suppose it is natural for a tenor to give himself airs,” he remarked. The instant he had spoken he glanced around in rather a shaky way. He had a feeling that he had gone a little too far. He hoped that no one would fancy he had been unable to resist a play upon the words. He had no need, however, to have any misgiving on this point. It was plain that his daring had hurt the susceptibilities of none. “Oh, I don’t say that we’re not prepared for a good bit of side from a—a chap that fancies he sings tenor,” said Morley Quorn; “but that fellow Kelton goes just too far. Now what is he up to this time? Cheeking Mozart Tutt! I wonder that Mr. Tutt stands his impudence.” But in a second it became plain that Mr. Mozart Tutt was doing nothing of the sort. He had been playing the pianoforte accompaniment to Mr. Kelton’s song, but not in a way that was met with the unqualified approval of Mr. Kelton. “I must ask you to try to play pianissimo when I am doing my shake on the high note,” said he; and Mr. Tutt had accordingly played pianissimo when the thing was repeated. But Mr. Kelton did not attempt to ascend to the high notes. He stopped short, and let his page of music flap down in a movement suggestive of a disappointment that was practically hopeless.
