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."
Again he signaled the orchestra, and once more Dorothy Calvert went
tripping out on the stage, gratitude surging in her heart toward that
great audience which had been so kind as to express approval of her
work.
This time it was a medley of old Southern airs she played. The
audience sat spellbound while the strains of "Old Black Joe," and
"Old Folks at Home" were heard throughout the auditorium, and when
Dorothy swung into the quick measures of her beloved "Dixie," such a
roar shook the building as Aunt Betty had never heard before.
Again Dorothy bowed herself off into the first entrance. Again and
again she was sent forth to bow her acknowledgments--to bow again and
again until she was forced to throw up her hands in token of the fact
that she had exhausted her repertoire.
The applause extended well into the beginning of the next number, and
the young lady who was to perform on the piano after Dorothy, refused
to go on the stage until the young violinist had taken another bow.
Then followed the appearance of Herr Deichenberg, whose reception was
easily the greatest of the evening. Dorothy did not wait to hear her
music master play, but hurried off to her dressing-room with her
violin, her heart singing a song of gladness.
"Thus it is," she thought, "that success takes hold of our
sensibilities, and in the same way does failure serve to discourage
one, and put enthusiasm at a low ebb."
In her dressing-room she sat and heard the thunders of applause that
followed the Herr's playing. Then, after a short wait, when the
audience was quiet, the Herr appeared suddenly at the door of her
dressing-room. With him was a smartly-dressed stranger who bowed and
extended his hand in a cordial way as the old German said:
"Miss Calvert, allow me to introduce Mr. Ludlow, de theatrical
manager from New York. He happened to be in de theater during your
performance, and he hastened back to talk over with you a few matters
of importance. I vill leave him with you."
The Herr disappeared, and after inviting Mr. Ludlow to have a seat,
Dorothy reseated herself and turned expectantly toward him.
"I know you are wondering what I have to say to you, Miss Calvert, so
I will come at once to the point. Being in the theatrical business, I
am naturally on the lookout for talent along various lines. I have
been vividly impressed with your playing to-night and I felt that I
should not care to let the opportunity go by to inquire into your
future plans."
This was put partly in the form of a question and the girl responded:
"Do you mean, Mr. Ludlow, that you would like to offer me an
engagement?"
"That I shall, perhaps, be able to determine when I learn your
plans."
"Well, I have none. My lessons are not over with Herr Deichenberg. I
shall be under his instruction until next spring, at least."
"And after that?"
"Oh, I cannot say. Before talking over arrangements with you, I
should like to discuss the matter with my aunt, Mrs. Calvert."
"That will be agreeable to me, I am sure."
"But she is out in front. I shall be unable to see her until the
concert is over."
"To-morrow will do, Miss Calvert. I merely wish to-night to make sure
you do not sign a contract with another manager without giving me a
chance."
"Oh, I can safely promise that."
"Then I shall be content. Where can I see you to-morrow?"
"We shall be very glad to have you call at Bellvieu."
"Bellvieu, Miss Calvert?"
"Yes; our home in the suburbs. I had forgotten you were not a native
Baltimorean."
"At what time will it be convenient for me to call?"
"Either in the morning or afternoon."
"Shall we say ten o'clock, then?"
"Yes."
"I trust I shall not inconvenience your aunt by calling so early."
"Not at all."
"It is imperative that I catch a train for New York at twelve."
Mr. Ludlow took his leave, after expressing his pleasure at having
met Dorothy.
The girl's feelings would be hard to describe. That her playing
should have awakened the interest of a professional manager was to
her rather astonishing.
She was meditating over the offer, and wondering what her prim and
staid Aunt Betty would think of it, when Frau Deichenberg entered the
dressing-room. The Frau had been on the stage looking after several
of the Herr's proteges, and was highly elated over the showing they
had made.
"My dear, my dear," she cried. "You have done nobly! Herr Deichenberg
is pleased with you beyond measure."
To which Dorothy responded:
"If I have deserved his praise, I am glad. But it seems that I have
done so little."
"Ah, but did you not hear de audience? Dey liked your moosic, und dey
clap their hands und stamp their feet. Dat iss de one true mark of
appreciation."
When the concert was over and Dorothy was traveling homeward in the
barouche with Aunt Betty, she told her of the visit of Mr. Ludlow.
Aunt Betty listened patiently until she had finished, then said:
"Dear, I had supposed I was raising you up to something better than a
stage career."
"But, auntie, the stage is all right--it must be, there are so many
fine people connected with it. And then, it would be the concert
stage in my case, and that is different from dramatic work, you
know."
"Yes; but violinists, as well as other performers, sometimes listen
to the call of the dollar, and go from the concert to the variety
stage. I am not sure such connections would be the best for my
little girl."
"But, Aunt Betty, it is my life's ambition," said the girl, a queer
little catch in her voice.
"There, there," Aunt Betty responded, as she put her arm about the
shoulder of her great-niece. "Don't take what I say so much to heart.
We will think this matter over, and you may be very sure of one
thing, dear--we shall do what is right and for the best."
And with this for the time being Dorothy was forced to be content.
The matter was put in abeyance for an indefinite time, however, by a
message from Mr. Ludlow, the following morning, in which he said he
had been called back to New York earlier than he had expected, but
that he would not forget the girl, and upon his next visit to
Baltimore during the course of the fall or winter, he would arrange
to call and settle matters to Dorothy's entire satisfaction.
"And who knows, by then I may have won Aunt Betty over," muttered the
girl, who, however, decided to drop the subject until the opportune
moment arrived to discuss it.