“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.