It was the opening night of London’s new National Opera House and consequently an occasion. Royalty was there. The Press were there. The fashionable were there in large quantities. Even the musical, by hook and by crook, had managed to be there – mostly very high up in the final tier of seats under the roof.
The musical composition given was The Giant, a new work by a hitherto unknown composer, Boris Groen. In the interval after the first part of the performance, a listener might have collected the following scraps of conversation.
‘Quite divine, darling.’ ‘They say it’s simply the – the – the – latest!! Everything out of tune on purpose … And you have to read Einstein in order to understand it …’ ‘Yes, dear, I shall tell everyone it’s too marvellous. But privately, it does make one’s head ache!’
‘Why can’t they open a British Opera House with a decent British composer? All this Russian tomfoolery!’ Thus a peppery colonel.
‘Quite so,’ drawled his companion. ‘But you see, there are no British composers. Sad, but there it is!’
‘Nonsense – don’t tell me, sir. They just won’t give them a chance – that’s what it is. Who is this fellow Levinne? A dirty foreign Jew. That’s all he is!’
A man nearby, leaning against the wall, half concealed by a curtain, permitted himself to smile – for he was Sebastian Levinne, sole owner of the National Opera House, familiarly known by the title of the World’s Greatest Showman.
