The Fifth String Read online

  II

  The intangible something that places the stamp of popular approval onone musical enterprise, while another equally artistic and as cleverlymanaged languishes in a condition of unendorsed greatness, remains oneof the unsolved mysteries.

  When a worker in the vineyard of music or the drama offers his choicesttokay to the public, that fickle coquette may turn to the more ordinaryand less succulent concord. And the worker and the public itself knownot why.

  It is true, Diotti's fame had preceded him, but fame has precededothers and has not always been proof against financial disaster. Allthis preliminary,--and it is but necessary to recall that on theevening of December the twelfth Diotti made his initial bow in NewYork, to an audience that completely filled every available space inthe Academy of Music--a representative audience, distinguished alikefor beauty, wealth and discernment.

  When the violinist appeared for his solo, he quietly acknowledged thecordial reception of the audience, and immediately proceeded with thebusiness of the evening. At a slight nod from him the conductor rappedattention, then launched the orchestra into the introduction of theconcerto, Diotti's favorite, selected for the first number. As theviolinist turned to the conductor he faced slightly to the left and ina direct line with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable.He was handsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southernhome--fairly tall, straight-limbed and lithe--a picture of poeticgrace. His was the face of a man who trusted without reserve, themanner of one who believed implicitly, feeling that good was universaland evil accidental.

  As the music grew louder and the orchestra approached the peroration ofthe preface of the coming solo, the violinist raised his head slowly.Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitary occupant of the secondproscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almostappealingly, at her. She sat immovable and serene, a lace-framed visionin white.

  It was she who, since he had met her, only the night before, held hisvery soul in thraldom.

  He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came thefirst measures of the theme. The melody, noble, limpid and beautiful,floated in dreamy sway over the vast auditorium, and seemed to cast amystic glamour over the player. As the final note of the first movementwas dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicious trance,broke forth into spontaneous bravos.

  Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the program, merely drew her wrap closerabout her shoulders and sat more erect. At the end of the concerto theapplause was generous enough to satisfy the most exacting virtuoso.Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph of his career.But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout.

  The poor fellow had seen only her during the time he played, and themighty cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his earlike the echoes of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to hisdressing-room and sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself sheshould not be insensible to his genius, but the dying ashes of hishopes, his dreams, were smouldering, and in his despair came thethought: "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man; her consortshould be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passion or human skill,demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it."

  Music lovers crowded into his dressing-room, enthusiastic in theirpraises. Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicatechirography poured in upon him, but in vain he looked for some sign,some word from her.

  Quickly he left the theater and sought his hotel.

  A menacing cloud obscured the wintry moon. A clock sounded the midnighthour.

  He threw himself upon the bed and almost sobbed his thoughts, and theirburden was:

  "I am not great enough for her. I am but a man. I am but a man!"