Dorothy sought her dressing-room, a great lump in her throat, and taking her violin from the case, nervously thumbed the strings. It was so unusual—this feeling of helplessness—the feeling that she was but an unimportant atom in this great sea of people who were waiting for her to appear that they might subject her to scathing criticism.
Herr Deichenberg smiled in at the door a moment later.
“Und how iss my little lady?” he inquired.
“Oh, Herr, I have such a strange sensation. It seems as if my heart is going to stop beating.”
“Ah, ha! You t’ink so, but it iss not so, Miss Dorothy. De heart has changed its place of residence—dat iss all. It is now lodged in de mouth, vhere it vill stay until you get before de audience und realize dat you vill have to play. Den it vill leave you.”
“If I could only be sure!”
“Vhat I tell you iss true. I have been there, many iss de time. You vill find dat de audience vill be your inspiration.”
Shortly after, when the orchestra was in the last bars of the overture, the music master hurried Dorothy out of her dressing-room to her place in the wings. The sinking feeling grew more intense. She could not get her mind off the ordeal which was before her. If she had only agreed not to come, she argued with herself, she might have saved her reputation. But now the merciless critics of the metropolis would subject her to comparisons with greater and more famous artists, and she would surely be the loser thereby. Strange she had not thought of that before!
She was startled out of her meditation by Herr Deichenberg, who cried:
“Ready, now, young lady! Look your prettiest! Valk out as you did before, und forget there iss an audience. Take your time und vait till de orchestra iss t’rough with de introduction.”