He played first a group of Preludes. What is there to say about him? Nothing. Surely never, since Chopin went from us, has Chopin been so played. The memory of my Fleet Street dinner vanished. The hall vanished. All surroundings vanished. Vladimir, the antic, took us by the hand and led us forth into a new country: a country like nothing that we have seen or dreamed of, and therefore a country of which not the vaguest image can be created. It was a country, or, perhaps, a street of pale shadows ... and that is all I know. Its name is Pachmann-land. Before he was through the first short prelude, he had us in his snare. One by one the details of the room faded, and nothing was left but a cloud of lilac in which were Pachmann and the sleek, gleaming piano. As he played, change succeeded change. The piano was labelled Chappell, but it might just as well have been labelled Bill Bailey. Under Pachmann, the wooden structure took life, as it were, and became a living thing, breathing, murmuring, clamouring, shrieking. Soon there was neither Chappell, nor Pachmann, nor Chopin; only a black creature--Piano. One shivered, and felt curiously afraid. Then, suddenly, there was a crash of chords--and silence. That crash had shattered everything, and, looking up, we saw nothing but the grinning Pachmann. One half-remembered that he had been grinning and gesturing and grimacing with ape-like imbecility all the time, yet, somehow, one had not noticed it. He bobbed up and down, and grinned, and applauded himself. But there was something uncanny, mysterious. We looked at one another uneasily, afraid to exchange glances. Nobody spoke. Nobody wanted to speak. A few smiled shy, secret smiles, half-afraid of themselves. For some moments nobody even applauded. Something had been with us. Something strange and sad and exquisitely fragile had gone from us. Pachmann looked at us, noted our dumb wonder, and--giggled like an idiot. A JEWISH NIGHT WHITECHAPEL _LONDON ROSES_ _When the young year woos all the world to flower With gold and silver of sun and shower, The girls troop out with an elfin clamour, Delicate bundles of lace and light. And London is laughter and youth and playtime, Fair as the million-blossomed may-time: All her ways are afire with glamour, With dainty damosels pink and white._ _The weariest streets new joys discover; The sweet glad girl and the lyric lover Sing their hearts to the moment's flying, Never a thought to time or tears. O frivolous frocks! O fragrant faces, Scattering blooms in the gloomy places! Shatter and scatter our sombre sighing, And lead us back to the golden years!_ A JEWISH NIGHT WHITECHAPEL