Dorothy's Triumph
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Not until she had drawn the bow across the strings and heard the deep, sweet tones of the old Cremona, did Dorothy realize that in her hands she held an instrument constructed by one of the finest of the old masters – an instrument that had come down, perfectly preserved through the ages, growing better with each passing year.
As the girl played one of the simple pieces which lay uppermost on the piano-rack, the big living-room was filled to overflowing with matchless melody. So clear and pure were the tones that Dorothy could hardly believe her ears. Was it indeed she who made such delightful music, or was she dreaming?
Herr Deichenberg’s voice brought her back to her normal state of mind.
“It iss beautiful – de melody. I did not believe you could do it, even on a Cremona.”
“It is not me, Herr, but this wonderful violin,” the girl cried in admiration.
“Oh, come, now, vhen ve simmer t’ings down to a fine point, de Cremona iss not so different from your own instrument, Miss Dorothy.”
“Oh, Herr, surely you are mistaken. Why, I seem to be dreaming when I am playing on the Cremona.”
“Und vhy iss dat? Because you have made up your mind dat dis iss absolutely de finest violin in de whole vorld, und have prepared yourself to hear somet’ing vhich iss not there. De tones are clear und full, but so are those of your own violin, on vhich you played for me vhen I vass here before.”
Dorothy shook her head in disbelief, unable to appreciate the full truth of his words.
Herr Deichenberg smiled.
“You von’t believe me, eh? Very vell. Let us on with de lesson. I shall convince you at another time.”
“I’m afraid you will have a hard time ever convincing me of that,” the girl replied.
Dorothy’s own violin was tuned, and on this, under the music master’s direction, she ran scales for the better part of an hour – to limber her fingers, Herr Deichenberg said.
“But they are already limber, Herr,” she returned, in a tone of mild protest.
“Vait, vait,” he good-naturedly said. “Vait just a few veeks und den you vill see vhat you shall see. I vill have you doing vhat you Americans call ‘stunts’ on dat violin. Really, it vill surprise you! Your fingers are stiff. See; I vill show you. Now, try dis exercise – here!” He opened one of her music books and pushed the music before her.
“Right there, now. One – two – t’ree! One – two – t’ree! – ”
Dorothy swung off into the exercise with apparent ease, but soon reached a difficult scale in the third position. Somehow her fingers would not go where she intended them. She tried it once – twice – then stopped, flushing.
“You see?” said the Herr professor. “If I vant to be mean, I vould say, ‘I told you so.’”
“Oh, Herr, I beg your pardon! I will never dispute your word again – never – never! My fingers are stiff. They are all right for ordinary music in the first and second positions, but the third I can hardly do at all, and I’m sure I have practiced and practiced it.”
“Surely you have practiced it, but never as you shall during de next few veeks. It iss only by constant application to a certain method dat great violin players are made. Dey are expected to accomplish de impossible. Dat may sound rather vague to you, but you vill some day understand vhat I mean.”
“I understand what you mean now, Herr. I find an exercise which it is impossible for me to play. But I keep everlastingly at it until I can play it. In that way I have achieved what seemed to be the impossible.”
“Dat iss it – dat iss it! You catch my idea exactly. Do you t’ink you vill be able to accomplish many of those impossible t’ings?”
“I shall perform every task you set for me, no matter how long or how hard I have to try.”
“Ah, now, dat iss de proper spirit. If all young ladies vere like you vhat a beautiful time de moosic teachers vould have.”
“They would, Herr?”
“Oh, yes; dey vould be so overjoyed dat dey vould be avay on a vacation most of de time.”
“I suppose you have all sorts of pupils, Herr?” said Aunt Betty, who had been an interested listener to the conversation between the girl and the professor.
“Yes; mostly young girls, madame, und to say dat dey are a big trouble iss but expressing it mildly. In fact, dey are de greatest of my troubles. Dey pay me vell, yes, but vhat iss pay vhen you must labor with dem hour after hour to get an idea t’rough their heads? Vy, for example I vill show you. A lady pupil vill valk into my studio, t’row off her t’ings und prepare for a lesson. Vhen I say now you do dis or dat, she vill reply, ‘Oh, Herr, you should not ask of me de impossible!’ Und I try to explain dat it iss only by practice dat she vill ever make a great musician. Den perhaps she vill reply: ‘Vell, if I had known it vass such hard vork maybe I vould not have tried to play,’ und den she heaves such a sigh dat for a moment I really feel ashamed of myself for making her vork so hard. Oh, madame, it iss awful! Sometimes I almost go crazy in my head.” He turned again to Dorothy. “But, come, young lady, back to de lesson, und ve vill soon be t’rough.”
Dorothy nodded her willingness, which caused the Herr professor to smile and nod delightedly at Aunt Betty.
“Dat iss de proper spirit,” he kept repeating, half aloud.
Scale after scale the girl ran over, repeating dozens of times the same notes, until Herr Deichenberg would nod his head that she had played it to his satisfaction. Then on to another and the same performance over again.
Her work won from the Herr the heartiest of commendation, and when he left he told both Dorothy and Aunt Betty that he would look forward to the next lesson with a great deal of pleasure.
Thereafter, twice each week, the Herr came to Bellvieu. He seemed to dearly love the old place, for during her first four weeks of lessons Dorothy was unable to win from him his consent to take her to his home.
Finally, he agreed that the next lesson should be in the studio, but only after considerable pleading on her part.
“I am doing it to please you,” he told her, “for if I have my vay, I vould much rather come to dis beautiful place.”
Dorothy could hardly wait for the time of the visit to come.
The Herr had asked Aunt Betty to accompany her great-niece, to meet Frau Deichenberg, and on the morning in question they set out together in the barouche.
Metty finally drew up on a quiet street before the quaintest-looking little house Dorothy had ever seen. It was not a bungalow, yet about it were certain lines which suggested that type of structure. It was all in one story, with great French windows on two sides, and with trailing vines climbing the porch posts onto the roof in thoroughly wild abandon.
Herr Deichenberg came out to meet them and lead them into the living-room of the house, where Dorothy and Aunt Betty met for the first time Frau Deichenberg, who had been out on the occasion of Aunt Betty’s first visit. The Frau proved to be a kindly German lady who spoke English with even more accent than her distinguished husband.
The welcome to the studio was complete in every way, and as Dorothy went from room to room examining the rare curios and works of art, which the Herr and his wife had gathered from various parts of the world, she felt that her visit had not been in vain.
In the large, well-lighted music room, where the Herr received his pupils, Dorothy found the things of greatest interest. Half a dozen violins were scattered about on the shelves, or lying on the old-fashioned piano, while clocks of every conceivable size and shape, bronze statues from the Far East, and queerly woven baskets from the Pampas, mingled with the Mexican pottery and valuable geological specimens from her own United States.
Finally, when the girl’s curiosity had been thoroughly satisfied, Aunt Betty and Frau Deichenberg were shown into another room and the music master and his pupil began their lesson.
It was not until the lesson was over that the Herr turned to his pupil with a merry twinkle in his eyes and observed:
“You are so fond of moosic, perhaps you do not know dat every year I give a concert in de theater before de opening of de regular season.”
“Oh, yes, I have often heard of your concert,” the girl replied. “I have longed to go to them, but something has always kept me from it.”
“Vell, you are going to my next one.”
“I am? Oh, how good of you, Herr!”
“Yes, it iss very good of me, for there you shall meet one of my most promising pupils.”
“Oh, tell me who it is,” she replied, unable to restrain her curiosity.
“Vell, it iss a secret dat has not yet been vhispered to a soul. But I don’t mind telling you. De name of de young lady iss Miss Dorothy Calvert.”
“Why, Herr Deichenberg, you don’t mean that – ?”
Dorothy stopped short. A lump came into her throat and she was unable to continue.
“Dat iss just vhat I mean,” he smiled, reading her thoughts. “You are to play at de concert, vhere you are expected to do both yourself und your moosic teacher proud.”
“Oh, Herr, I hadn’t imagined such an honor would be conferred upon me this year. Why, surely there are other pupils who have more talent and can make a better showing for you than I?”
“My dear young lady, it iss I who shall be de best judge of dat.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean – ”
“Never before have I had a young lady refuse an invitation to play at my concert.”
“Why, Herr, I haven’t refused. You don’t understand me. I – I – ”
“Yes, yes. I understand you perfectly – I have surprised you and you have not yet found time to catch your breath. Iss dat not so?”
“Yes, but – ”
“Oh, no ‘buts.’ I know vhat you vould say. But it is not necessary. I have made up my mind, und once I do dat, I never change.”
“I know, Herr, but – ”
“Didn’t I say no ‘buts’? You shall show de people of Baltimore vhat a really fine violinist dey have in their midst.”
“Well, if you insist, of course I shall play. And are you to play my accompaniments?”
“I, my dear young lady? No, no; I shall have my hands full vidout attempting dat. But you shall have a full orchestra at your beck und call to t’under at you vun minute und to help you lull de audience to sleep de next.”
“Herr, you overwhelm me!”
“Such vass not my intention. I am merely telling you vhat I know to be de truth. You are a remarkable girl und nothing I can say vill turn your head. I have tried it und I know. Dat iss vhy I do not hesitate to say it.”
When Dorothy Calvert left Herr Deichenberg’s studio that morning she was the happiest girl in Baltimore.
CHAPTER X
HERR DEICHENBERG’S CONCERT
Herr Deichenberg’s concert was but a month away, and Dorothy, despite the hotness of the weather, practiced as she never had before.
After her visit to the studio Herr Deichenberg resumed his comings to Bellvieu. He seemed never to tire descanting on the beauties of the old estate, and in this way won a warm place in the hearts of both Dorothy and Aunt Betty – aside from his many other fine qualities.
Aunt Betty had been delighted at the thought of Dorothy’s appearing at the Herr’s concert.
“His affairs are the finest of their kind given in the city,” she told the girl, “and it is an honor you must not fail to appreciate. The Herr would not have invited you to appear had he not been sure of your ability to uphold his standards.”
The week before the concert Herr Deichenberg came out one morning in a particularly good humor – though, to tell the truth, he seemed always bubbling over with agreeable qualities.
“It iss all arranged,” he told Dorothy – “for de concert, I mean. De theater has been put in readiness, und you should see de decorations. Ah! Vines trailing t’rough de boxes, und de stage just loaded down with palms. Und yet I am not t’rough, I have been offered de loan of some of de finest plants in de city. I tell you, Miss Dorothy, it iss very nice to have friends.”
“It is indeed,” the girl responded. “A little inspiration from them can go a long way toward helping us accomplish our tasks.”
The lesson went unusually well that morning.
Dorothy was practicing certain pieces now, which she was to render at the concert, the selections having been made from among the classics by the Herr professor. There were two pieces, and a third – a medley of old Southern airs – was to be held in readiness, though the music master warned his pupil not to be discouraged if she did not receive a second encore.
The Herr was even more particular than was his wont – if such a thing were possible. The missing of the fraction of a beat – the slightest error in execution or technique – he would correct at once, making her play over a certain bar time and again, until her playing was to his entire satisfaction. Then he would encourage her with a nod of approval, and go on to the next.
But Dorothy did not mind this; rather, she revelled in it. Her heart was in her prospective career as a violinist, and she was willing to undergo any discomfort if she could but attain her ambition.
On the morning before the concert Herr Deichenberg made his last call at Bellvieu – before the event. By this time Dorothy had learned well her lessons, and the Herr required that she run over each piece but once. Her execution was perfect – not a note marred or slurred – and he expressed his satisfaction in glowing terms.
“You vill now take a vell-deserved rest,” he said. “Please do not touch a violin until you arrive at the theater to-morrow evening.”
“I can hardly wait for to-morrow evening to come, Herr,” she replied. The eagerness in her voice caused the music master to smile.
“Ah, but you must not be too anxious, young lady. Better it iss to get de concert off your mind for a vhile. Vhat iss de use of playing de whole affair over in your mind, until you are sick und tired of it? No, no; don’t do it. Vait till you get de reality.”
“As well try to banish my dear Aunt Betty from my thoughts,” was the answer of the smiling girl.
“Ah, vell, vhen you are as old as I, those t’ings vill not vorry you.”
“Ah, but Herr, you are worried yourself – I can see it.”
“Vhat! Me vorried? Oh, my dear young lady, no; my composure is perfect – perfect.”
“You are worrying right now.”
“Over vhat, please?”
“Well, first you are wondering whether the confidence reposed by you in one Miss Dorothy Calvert will be justified when she faces a great audience for the first time in her life. Now, ’fess up, aren’t you, Herr Deichenberg?”
“No, no; I have not de slightest doubt of dat.”
“Then you are worrying because you fear some of the other numbers on the programme will not come up to your expectations. Now, aren’t you?”
“No, no, Miss Dorothy. No; I do not vorry – of course, there iss dat young lady who is to render de piano selections from ‘Faust’ – er – yet, I have no cause to vorry. No, no, I – ”
Dorothy interrupted with a laugh.
“Your troubled expression as you said that gave you away, Herr. But I suppose it is very bold and impudent of me to tease you about these matters.”
The Herr smiled.
“Oh, you just tease me all you vant – I like it. But really, if I vass vorried, I vould tell you – surely I vould. Er – if dat young lady vill just remember vhat I haf told her, she – ”
Again the troubled expression flitted over Herr Deichenberg’s countenance, and Dorothy, seeing that he was really worried though he would not admit it, decided not to tease him further.
He soon took his departure, and the girl rushed away to tell Aunt Betty that the Herr was well satisfied with her work, then to talk incessantly for half an hour about the coming event. The concert was by far the largest affair that had ever loomed up on Miss Dorothy’s horizon, and she naturally could not get it off her mind.
The great opera house in which the concert was to be held was packed with people the next evening.
Dorothy, on the stage, peeping through a little hole in the curtain, saw one of the most fashionable audiences old Baltimore had ever turned out – the largest, in fact, Herr Deichenberg had ever drawn to one of his affairs, though the drawing power of the old professor had always been something to talk about.
Entering the stage entrance early in the evening, dressed in an elaborate white evening gown, made expressly for this occasion at one of the great dressmaking establishments, Dorothy had deposited her violin in her dressing-room and sallied forth to view the wonders of Fairyland – for such the stage, with its many illusions and mysteries, seemed to her.
She took great care to keep out of the way of the stage hands, who rushed back and forth, dragging great pieces of scenery over the stage as if they were but bits of pasteboard. Drops were let down, set pieces put in place, until, right before the eyes of the girl, a picture, beautiful indeed, had appeared. Where there had been but an empty stage now stood a scene representing a magnificent garden, with statuary, fountains and beautiful shrubbery all in their proper places. True, a great portion of this was represented by the back drop, but Dorothy knew that from the front the scene would look very real. Great jagged edges of wood wings protruded on to the stage – three on either side – while benches and palms were scattered here and there to properly balance the picture. Then, as if to force into the scene an incongruity of some sort, a grand piano was pushed out of the darkness in the rear of the stage, to a place in the garden, where it stood, seemingly the one blot on the landscape.
“A piano in a garden!” exclaimed Dorothy, and laughed softly to herself. “Who ever heard of such a thing? Yet, of course, the concert could not proceed without it.”
“Ah, my dear, here you are! You are fascinated with it all, yes?” questioned Herr Deichenberg, as he passed in a hurry. She nodded, smiling, and saw him rush hurriedly to the dressing-rooms below the stage to make sure all his pupils were present.
As he went the house electrician, with each hand on portions of the big switchboard, threw on the border and bunch lights, making the great stage almost as light as day. Then, out in front, Dorothy heard the orchestra as it struck into the overture, and hastening away, she seated herself in her dressing-room to await her turn on the programme.
Aunt Betty, she knew, sitting with Len and Jim in one of the front rows of the orchestra, would be eagerly awaiting her appearance. She resolved that not only her relative, but Herr Deichenberg, as well, should be proud of her achievements.
She heard the first number – a piano solo – then the great roar of applause that swept over the assemblage. This was followed by an encore. Then another round of applause.
The next number was a harp solo. This was followed by a piano duet, which, in turn, was succeeded by a vocal number. Following each the applause was almost deafening. Encores were allowed in each instance by the music master.
Finally, toward the close of another piano duet, a call boy came to the door of Dorothy’s dressing-room to say:
“Herr Deichenberg says tell you your turn is next, and you will please come at once and wait in the wings.”
Most girls would have felt a flutter of excitement when told that one of the crucial moments of their lives was at hand. Not so Dorothy Calvert. Her hands were steady and her confidence unbounded.
Holding her skirt slightly off the stage, that her new frock might present a spotless appearance, the girl, violin in hand, hurried to the wings.
The encore of the piano duet was just concluding. Herr Deichenberg nodded and smiled at her. Then the players, two young girls, scarcely older than she, arose, and with graceful bows, tripped off the stage within a few feet of her, their faces flushed with pleasure as great rounds of applause again rolled over the big auditorium. Herr Deichenberg sent them out for another bow, after which the noise simmered down, and the music master turned his attention to the next number.
The curtain was not lowered between numbers. There was merely a pause as the orchestra laid aside one set of music and turned to another.
“Be ready now,” he warned, turning to Dorothy. “You enter from vhere you are, valking to de center of de stage, down near de footlights. Smile, Miss Dorothy, und do not put your violin to your shoulder until de orchestra is half way t’rough de introduction.”
The girl inclined her head and smiled that she understood. Then, at a nod from the music master, the electrician flashed a signal to the orchestra. The leader raised his baton, then the instruments swept off into the overture of the piece Dorothy was to play.
“Now,” said the Herr, giving her a gentle push.
The next instant Dorothy, for the first time in her life, found herself sweeping out on a great stage, with a sea of faces in front of her. She blinked once or twice as the footlights flashed in her eyes, then singling out Aunt Betty, Jim and Len – having previously located their seats – she smiled genially.
In the center of the great stage, but a few feet back from the footlights, she paused as Herr Deichenberg had told her. Then, as the orchestra approached the end of the overture, she raised her violin to her chin. With a graceful sweep of the bow she began.
There was a great hush over the auditorium, as the horns, bass viol and second violins left off playing, and the clear notes of Dorothy’s instrument went floating into every corner of the building, accompanied by soft strains from the piano and first violins. The piece was one of the classics, recognized immediately by everyone, and there was an expectant move as the girl reached the more difficult parts.
Her eyes closed, her body swaying slightly, Dorothy played as she never had before. She forgot the audience, Aunt Betty, everything, except that here was a great orchestra playing her accompaniment – surely enough encouragement for any girl to do her best.
There came a pause in the music, and the girl lowered her violin, while the orchestra played on. There was a slight ripple of applause from several in the audience, who, apparently, thought the piece was at an end, but this died away as the girl again raised the instrument to her chin.
The second part was even more difficult than the first, but Dorothy swept into it with no thought but to play it as it should be played. Even the eyes of the orchestra leader lit up with admiration, and when at last the piece was concluded with a great flourish, and Dorothy had bowed herself off into the wings, the applause that swept over the assemblage was louder than at any other time during the evening.
Herr Deichenberg patted Dorothy reassuringly on the back as she stood in the wings, panting slightly from the exertion of her work, and well-pleased that so much of the ordeal was over.
The applause continued without cessation – first, the sharp clapping of hands, which spread over the audience as if by magic, finally the stamping of feet; later shrill whistles from the gallery.
“It means for you an encore,” said the music master, smiling at Dorothy. Then he nodded to the electrician, who again flashed a signal to the orchestra leader, and the musicians struck off into the overture of Dorothy’s second piece.
Bowing rather timidly, but with much grace, the girl again advanced to the center of the stage, and gazed out for a moment over the vast ocean of faces which stared up at her. Then as the orchestra finished the introduction, she again raised her violin to her chin.
The second piece was a sad, plaintive one, and as Dorothy drew her bow full length across the strings, the instrument sent forth loud wails, which, to anyone with a keen musical ear, denoted mortal anguish. This was followed by shorter, quicker parts, which finally resolved themselves into the coming of a storm. On her G string the girl brought forth all the terrors of the elements, running the whole gamut from incessant rumbling to the crashing of the thunder, while the orchestra supplied effective and necessary accompaniments.
It was a beautiful piece of music, well played, and when Dorothy had finished and again bowed herself off the stage, the storm of applause broke forth again. Under Herr Deichenberg’s direction she took three bows in succession, only to find the applause, if anything, more pronounced.
She looked at the music master for her cue. He smilingly said:
“Vell, dey seem to like it. You may play another.”