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Updated: May 27, 2025
But those fingers could find no resting-place. Still the piano remained silent. And then came the inevitable reaction. Such passion could not last without crushing player and audience alike. Seven ladies in the parquette were grasping the arms of their chairs, and three women in the upper balcony had seized the arms of their escorts, as the brasses crashed once and died out.
In this day, Wagner consule, of the eclipse of Italian opera, the programme of a Lind concert will perhaps win a glance of curiosity even from the lovers of "Tristan und Isolde," who follow with reverence in the parquette the mighty score of the trilogy upon the stage.
The spectacle within the theatre on a fine night is brilliant, recherché and French. From side-scene to dome, and from gallery after gallery to the gay parquette, glitters the bright, shining audience. There are loungers, American and French, blasé and roué, who in the intervals drink brandy and whisky, or anisette, maraschino, curçoa or some other fiery French cordial.
And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was the cry, "Sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" "No," roared Santerre, "no, they shall not sing that!" "No," cried Simon, "we will not hear the monkey-song!" And hundreds of men in the parterre and the upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, "No, we will not hear the monkey-song!" "The thing works well!" said Marat.
This done, the old man, to the merriment of certain wags who delight to speculate on his childlike credulity, takes a seat in the parquette, wipes clean his venerable spectacles, and placing them methodically over his eyes, forms a unique picture in the foreground of the audience.
These filled up more slowly; but long before the curtain rose, the house was packed to repletion, while the amphitheatre and parquette were crowded with hard-looking men a dense mass of bone and muscle. The fashionable portion of the audience in the boxes began to feel anxious, for not only were all the seats occupied, but all the aisles and every foot of standing room.
Long before the time for the curtain to rise, the vast edifice was crowded to its utmost capacity with an eager and enthusiastic assemblage. Not only were the galleries, parquette and lobbies filled with blouses, but the boxes were glittering with a perfect galaxy of fashion, loveliness and rank.
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.
I was so panic-stricken, at last, that I went to three old friends, giants in stature, cordial by nature, and stormy-voiced, and said: "This thing is going to be a failure; the jokes in it are so dim that nobody will ever see them; I would like to have you sit in the parquette, and help me through." They said they would.
It was Friday, at the opera. The curtain had fallen on Faust's laboratory. From the orchestra, opera-glasses were raised in a surveying of the gold and purple theatre. The sombre drapery of the boxes framed the dazzling heads and bare shoulders of women. The amphitheatre bent above the parquette its garland of diamonds, hair, gauze, and satin.
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