The big moment came with no warning at all, unasked, and at first even misunderstood.... I was in a mess, and not at all pleased to heard the urgent summons of the telephone... 'There's someone here who says he's Sir Thomas Beecham, and wants to speak to you. I wonder...' So did I. Which of my friends would know that quite unmistakable voice well enough to try it on me, of all people?... 'Mr Brymer,' he said easily, 'I understand you play the clarionet [sic]. I want to hear you!'... Tentatively, I said I'd be very happy to give him the opportunity to hear me, at any time. When could he suggest? There was no quiet snigger or loud guffaw. 'Soon,' he said. 'Fix it up with my librarian. Here he is!' and left the 'phone... I tottered away from the telephone to an incredulous Joan, who heard the news with mounting astonishment. An audition with Beecham - and unasked! ...I was late - a full fifteen minutes - in getting to the house in Circus Road, St John's Wood, which was the Beecham residence at that time; not a good start. ... It was late June, but all the windows were tightly shut and the three big infra-red lamps which adorned the huge bookcase were still warm from their prolonged afternoon session. I soon saw the reason for this. Sir Thomas appeared, majestic and alone, all five feet three of him, through the swing doors at the remote end of the room. He approached without hurry, one hand outstretched in greeting, the other brandishing a large and obviously carefully selected cigar. He was dressed in white pyjamas and a black silk dressing-gown. Both his hands were bandaged, and for a moment I thought he must have suffered an accident of some sort. He soon scotched that idea. 'It's this damned gout,' he said, after his formal greeting. ...'Since the war,' he emphasized, 'upon returning to examine the musical life of this sceptred isle, I find that a few - a very few - people can still play wind instruments. I need hardly enumerate, because you know them; their names are household words...' ... The music came pretty soon but not before I was sufficiently relaxed to be able to play it. Sweeping half a dozen priceless pressings of his latest recording of the Messiah off the piano top, he finally sat down, gingerly trying out his bandage fingers in an arpeggio or two. 'Now, my boy,' he said. 'What shall we play?' I was delighted. Surely anyone who was as busy at the piano as I could make sure he would be wouldn't have even half an ear for my own musical shortcomings? I got out my secret weapon - the Brahms E flat Sonata. It was a wise choice. Sir Thomas, certainly never a world figure in the pianistic world, could never have got within smelling distance of any of the three movements even at his very best. With bandaged hands the effect was quite beyond description and was in no way ameliorated by the plight of my 'clarionet', now a full quarter-tone sharp because of the excessive heat. It scarcely mattered, because the percentage of wrong notes in the accompaniment made such refinement superfluous; but in a strange way it was one of the most musical performances I have taken part in. The shape of it was completely convincing; and I could see that Sir Thomas was doing more listening than playing, which made me acutely conscious that what I could do in these circumstances was certainly quite unworthy of the occasion. The end came quite soon. Sir Thomas simply stood up, shook hands as well as his bandages would permit, said 'Thank you - you'll be hearing from me in a day or two,' and left with what I felt sure was a pitying look. ... I did not hear in a day or two. It was a full three weeks later that a letter on Royal Philharmonic notepaper arrived, with the formal and startling invitation to accept a full week of broadcasting with them, in Berlioz's opera The Trojans. << less