looked up; giggled; said something to the front row; looked off and
nodded; rubbed his fingers; gently patted his ashen cheek; then
stretched both hands to the keys.

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-tim