Dorothy's Triumph

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.”