I think one of the most poignant passages in the book, to me, is Antoine’s description of how he had raté the solo at a London concert. It was at the end of the season, and he had been harassed by a thousand needless frictions:
“The first part had gone pretty well, though I did not like how the Duchâtel sounded. I thought that was the violin, perhaps—and a new room. It was a bad room, pretty, but stupid for the sound. I heard much too much, so I was sure they were not hearing properly. They were extremely still, and made a little clapping at the end. I did not find it a good concert, but Wurst in the interval said it was very well, and I should not excite myself. So when I did not, then I was tired, and it seemed stupider than before. And at last that thing came, the Mirski ‘Caprice,’ which you know how detestable. The passages are hard in that thing, but I know them. Every morning I played them to Moricz, so now I do not trouble.... And then, in the middle of it, I heard Peter Axel playing wrong.... And I was frightened horribly.... And I made him an awful frown for forgetting it, and Peter was looking at me. His face was not happy like it generally is. It was like one of those worst dreams. And, of course, I stopped playing, because it cannot be like that. And Peter said ‘Go back,’ very quietly, making a lot of little passages and returning for me to find, do you see?”
“He gave you a chance to pick up, eh?” said Philip. “And you couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t! I would not. I was furious—awful.... I said a rude thing to Axel in passing, and went off the estrade. And they all clapped together down there, bah!—though they knew it was not finished. They were sorry I had stopped—because they were people who like a difficult Caprice, to be amused by it. But I was not amused. Nor Peter, very much.” He laughed sharply.
“Don’t, I say,” said Philip. “It’s all over now. It doesn’t matter, really. Everybody forgets, now and then” ...
“I do not,” said Antoine. “I do not know how it is to forget. I know that thing—I know all the little notes, long ago, before Moricz—since years. It is not possible to forget a little concert piece that you know....”
“Did you go on again?”
“Yes. After Wurst had finished talking, I had to. I should not have for my uncle, but I had to for him. He was violent, Wurst. He said it was indigne and lôche if I stopped, and a lot of other words. He was like a little dog barking. A man like Wurst does not ‘rater.’ He does not know how that is done. His head has all the big scores inside.... He did not see how it was for me to stand up on the estrade again, with quantities of beautiful people looking kind. It would have been so better if they had siffli, like here in Paris.”
The book closes on an unexpected and suggestive note. Antoine, who had always realized that his grandfather couldn’t bear his being “different” in music, had taken quietly to composing the kind of things he loved. He “made” a quintet in which Ribiera was given a brilliant piano part, and which he thought beautiful—extremely. But when they played it for him, though he was moved to cry, he found its “ideas” not so good as he had thought. Whereupon he plans to produce better ones in his new overture.
Succession is a masterpiece of art, and Antoine is the most lovable and interesting character in new fiction.