According to the pale orange program booklet handed out before last Friday's Boston, Symphony Orchestra concert, Berlioz' "Harold in Italy" (Symphony' in Four Parts with Viola Solo) is the musical story of a poet "wandering about the Italian countryside (represented by the orchestra) adding his individual comment (the viola part) to the scenes which passed before his eyes." In last Friday's performance, both the soloist, William Primrose, and the audience added some comment that Berlioz had not figured on.

Promptly at 2:15, William Primrose, a tall, austere-looking man, and conductor Ernest Ansermet entered; the random noises from the orchestra ceased and the spectators took their seats.

It may be this writer's imagination, but the first movement seemed symptomatic of what was to come. Cooperation between Primrose and the entourage behind him seemed spotty, the transitions inept, and the pace sluggish. However, the movement concluded without any major mishap.

Suddenly the lights blinked on, the doors opened, and a flood of late-comers poured into Symphony Hall. The isles were clogged with old women greeting their friends, school-girls scampering around in search of their seats, and an occasional man shambling to and fro. Ansermet waited patiently for a minute or so, then wheeled around and glared disgustedly at the stream of people still flowing in. People, noticing his expression, started pointing at him and laughing, while members of the orchestra resumed their warm-up cacaphony. The stream turned into a dribble and finally stopped, allowing the concert to continue.

Depicting a "March of Pilgrims Singing Their Evening Hymn," the second movement is a gentle lyrical piece ending on a long sustained note played by the strings and the soloist. The performance seemed an improvement over that of the first section: Ansermet had more control over the orchestra and Primrose played his difficult part flawlessly and seemingly without effort. As the movement concluded, instrument after instrument dropped out until only the soloist and the strings remained playing. Primrose poised his bow for the last note and, with the impact of a siren in an empty subway station, produced the sourest note this writer has ever heard within Symphony Hall.

It seemed to go on and on. The audience was paralyzed and Ansermet cocked his head increduously. Suddenly everyone blushed and started whispering in horror-stricken tones. Orchestra members grinned at each other and hushed repitions of the offending note could be heard. Primrose, motionless, paled perceptibly but otherwise looked unconcerned. With a lunge, Anserment brandished his baton and plunged into the third movement.

Primrose had not bolted for the wings as a more impressionable artist might have done, but he never regained the confidence and poise he had shown in the preceding movements. Nor did the audience: every time he raised his bow, the onlookers stiffened in expectation. However, the performance was fully up to BSO standards. Following the third movement there was another commotion--this time on the stage. A violist, arising abruptly, dashed through a side door, and his colleagues resumed their conversations.

With a grimace of rage and a wave of his hand, Ansermet restored order, and the noisy fourth movement began. As the soloist had only a bar or two to play during the whole movement, Primrose stood idle, making a picture much like the one of Attorney-General McGrath published in last week's issue of Life.

When "Harold's" musical journey finally thundered to a halt, the audience gave the soloist a tremendous ovation. Bowing and smiling, Primrose had to return to the stage four times to acknowledge the applause. Whether the audience was merely clapping out of relief or appreciation for the performance, this writer will never know.