The Herr, sitting on the stool before the large, old-fashioned instrument, struck a chord.
“Tune your instrument with me, und we vill try something you know vell. I shall then be able to judge both of your execution und your tone. There iss de chord. Ah! now you are ready? All right. Shall we try de ‘Miserere’ from ‘Il Trovatore?’ I see you have it here.”
Dorothy nodded assent.
Then, from somewhere in his pocket, Herr Deichenberg produced a small baton, and with this flourished in his right hand, his left striking the chords on the piano, he gave the signal to play.
Her violin once under her chin, the bow grasped firmly in her hand, what nervousness Dorothy had felt, quickly vanished. She forgot the Herr professor, Aunt Betty—everything but the music before her. Delicately, timidly, she drew her bow across the strings, then, when the more strenuous parts of the Miserere were reached, she gathered boldness, swaying to the rhythm of the notes, until a light of positive pleasure dawned in Herr Deichenberg’s eyes.
“Ah!” he murmured, his ear bent toward her, as if to miss a single note would be a rare penance. “Ah, dat iss fine—fine!”
Suddenly, then, he dropped his baton, and fell into the accompaniment of the famous piece, his hands moving like lightning over the keys of the piano.
Such music Aunt Betty vowed she had never heard before.
With a grand flourish the Herr and Dorothy wound up the Miserere, and turned toward their interested listener for approval. And this Aunt Betty bestowed with a lavish hand.
“I am proud indeed to know you and to have you for a pupil,” the music master said, turning to Dorothy. “You have an excellent touch and your execution iss above reproach, considering de lessons you have had. I am sure ve shall have no trouble in making of you a great musician.”