THE AMERICAN-SCANDINA VIAN REVIEW 
409 
Lundstrom cast a searching glance below. 
“Look at that!” he muttered with some disapproval; “they have 
made the tent smaller. In my time it ran out to the fifth plank, 
mark H.” 
It was still too noisy and disturbed where they were, so they went 
up by a narrow ladder to the second gallery. Lundstrom sat down on 
a mighty stage dragon of lath and plaster which was hoisted up in the 
back-scene, and Leonard leaned against a great machine with handles, 
hexagonal cylinders and heavy felt hammers. 
“The old stage thunder,” whispered Lundstrom. “They have 
new, better thunder now that goes by electricity.” 
There was a fantastic play of light and shadow up through the 
enormously high vault of the stage, which extended over their heads 
with five more galleries. The electric footlights below threw splin¬ 
tered rays up through the grilled flooring of the galleries, until the 
gleams were lost in an incredible labyrinth of ropes, weights and pul¬ 
leys. The whole was like a giant skeleton, a fantastic loom. 
This is where they weave dusty lies, thought Leonard, who found 
the rear view of the drama grotesque and oppressive, so that he almost 
began to long for the streets again. People must love illusion astound- 
ingly, if it can be made big business to such an extent. 
But with this the trickling tones of the orchestra tuning up were 
suddenly silent, and after a few moments the overture broke out with 
a voice of powerful earnestness. A thrill passed through Leonard’s 
nerves, and in a moment he was tense and expectant. Like a living, 
overwhelming stream of actuality the music burst forth through all the 
dusty rubbish of illusion. 
Now the curtain was raised and the human voices came up, gushed 
up. There was the sailor’s gay song of yearning on his billowy journey 
to the land of King Mark, Isolde’s wildly surging hate and suffering, 
Tristan’s timid, rock-firm defiance of death. So it went on to the magic 
potion and the helpless, the irresistible love cry which is lost in endless 
jubilation. The curtain fell again. 
Leonard looked at Lundstrom, wondering what he could possibly 
fish up from such a stream. The old man seemed tranquil and un¬ 
moved, as he sat on the scaly dragon and held in his mouth his unlighted 
pipe. 
“Now they’ve got to hurry down there,” he said, “for now the ship 
must become a park.” 
Threads began to move on the giant loom, blocks creaked and 
giant fabrics gave forth dust. With that the park was there, though 
it looked very strange from the back, and the curtain solemnly came 
aloft once more. 
The two sat squatting again at the brink of the great music tor- 
