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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
179
The
face
of
Sir
Henry
Wood
strikes
me
as
very
much
like
the
traditional
pictures
of
Jesus
Christ,
tho'
Sir
Henry
is
dark--the
melanic
Messiah
I
call
him
(very
much
to
my
own
delight).
Rodin
ought
to
do
him
in
stone--Chesterfield's
ideal
of
a
man--a
Corinthian
edifice
on
Tuscan
foundations.
In
Sir
Henry's
case
there
can
be
no
disputing
the
Tuscan
foundations.
However
swift
and
elegant
the
movements
of
his
arms,
his
splendid
lower
extremities
remain
as
firm
as
stone
columns.
While
the
music
is
calm
and
serene
his
right
hand
and
baton
execute
in
concert
with
the
left,
perfect
geometric
curves
around
his
head.
Then
as
it
gathers
in
force
and
volume,
when
the
bows
begin
to
dart
swiftly
across
the
fiddles
and
the
trumpets
and
trombones
blaze
away
in
a
conflagration,
we
are
all
expectant--and
even
a
little
fearful,
to
observe
his
sabre-like
cuts.
The
tension
grows
...
I
hold
my
breath....
Sir
Henry
snatches
a
second
to
throw
back
a
lock
of
his
hair
that
has
fallen
limply
across
his
forehead,
then
goes
on
in
unrelenting
pursuit,
cutting
and
slashing
at
hordes
of
invisible
fiends
that
leap
howling
out
towards
him.
There
is
a
great
turmoil
of
combat,
but
the
Conductor
struggles
on
till
the
great
explosion
happens.
But
in
spite
of
that,
you
see
him
still
standing
thro'
a
cloud
of
great
chords,
quite
undaunted.
His
sword
zigzags
up
and
down
the
scale--suddenly
the
closed
fist
of
his
left
hand
shoots
up
straight
and
points
to
the
zenith--like
the
arm
of
a
heathen
priest
appealing
to
Baal
to
bring
down
fire
from
Heaven....
But
the
appeal
avails
nought
and
it
looks
as
tho'
it
were
all
up
for
poor
Sir
Henry.
The
music
is
just
as
infuriated--his
body
writhes
with
it--the
melanic
Messiah
crucified
by
the
inappeasable
desire
to
express
by
visible
gestures
all
that
he
feels
in
his
heart.
He
surrenders
--so
you
think--he
opens
out
both
arms
wide
and
baring
his
breast,
dares
them
all
to
do
their
worst--like
the
picture
of
Moffat
the
missionary
among
the
savages
of
the
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