The Fifth String | Page 5

every available space in the Academy
of Music--a representative audience, distinguished alike for beauty,
wealth and discernment.
When the violinist appeared for his solo, he quietly acknowledged the
cordial reception of the audience, and immediately proceeded with the
business of the evening. At a slight nod from him the conductor rapped
attention, then launched the orchestra into the introduction of the
concerto, Diotti's favorite, selected for the first number. As the violinist
turned to the conductor he faced slightly to the left and in a direct line
with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable. He was
handsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southern home--fairly
tall, straight- limbed and lithe--a picture of poetic grace. His was the
face of a man who trusted without reserve, the manner of one who
believed implicitly, feeling that good was universal and evil accidental.
As the music grew louder and the orchestra approached the peroration
of the preface of the coming solo, the violinist raised his head slowly.
Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitary occupant of the second
proscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almost
appealingly, at her. She sat immovable and serene, a lace-framed vision
in white.

It was she who, since he had met her, only the night before, held his
very soul in thraldom.
He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came the
first measures of the theme. The melody, noble, limpid and beautiful,
floated in dreamy sway over the vast auditorium, and seemed to cast a
mystic glamour over the player. As the final note of the first movement
was dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicious trance,
broke forth into spontaneous bravos.
Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the program, merely drew her wrap
closer about her shoulders and sat more erect. At the end of the
concerto the applause 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 dur- ing the time he played, and the
mighty cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear
like the echoes of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his
dressing-room and sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she
should not be insensible to his genius, but the dying ashes of his hopes,
his dreams, were smouldering, and in his despair came the thought: ``I
am not great enough for her. I am but a man; her consort should 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 their
praises. Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate
chirography 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
midnight hour.
He threw himself upon the bed and almost sobbed his thoughts, and
their burden was:
``I am not great enough for her. I am but a man. I am but a man!''

III
Perkins called in the morning. Perkins was happy--Perkins was
positively joyous, and Perkins was self- satisfied. The violinist had

made a great hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser
who concocted his matin Martini, very dry, an hour before, said he
regarded the success due as much to the management as to the artist.
And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a success,
and with charming consistency placed all responsibility for failure on
the shoulders of the hapless artist.
When Perkins entered Diotti's room he found the violinist heavy-eyed
and dejected. ``My dear Signor,'' he began, showing a large envelope
bulging with newspaper clippings, ``I have brought the notices. They
are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them ever heard
before--all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say,''
and Perkins cocked his eye.
Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation with himself for bright sayings,
which he always accompanied with a cock of the eye. The musician not
showing any visible appreciation of the manager's metaphor, Perkins
immediately proceeded to uncock his eye.
``Passed the box-office coming up,'' continued this voluble enlightener;
``nothing left but a few seats in the top gallery. We'll stand them on
their heads to-morrow night--see if we don't.'' Then he handed the
bursting envelope of notices to Diotti, who listlessly put them on the
table at his side.
``Too tired to read, eh?'' said Perkins, and then with the advance-agent
instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the
violinist on the