The Fifth String | Page 5

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 shoulder: ``Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. He is a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic when he wants to be.''
Perkins cleared his throat and began: ``Diotti combines tremendous feeling with equally tremendous technique. The entire audience was under the witchery of his art.'' Diotti slowly negatived that statement with bowed head. ``His tone is full, round and clear; his interpretation lends a story-telling charm to the music; for, while we drank deep at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters the lights of Paradise. New York never has heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant.''
``Now, that's what I call great,'' said the impresario, dramatically; ``when you hit