“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 Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money.”
Perkins took his hat and cane and moved toward the door. The violinist arose and extended his hand wearily. “Good-day” came simultaneously; then “I’m off. We’ll turn ’em away to-morrow; see if we don’t!” Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery.
IV
It was the evening of the fourteenth. In front of the Academy a strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a beacon light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening’s entertainment, especially to the man who had forgotten his wife’s injunction “to be sure to buy the tickets on the way down town, dear, and get them in the family circle, not too far back.” This man’s intentions were sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning. He was deeply engrossed in an article on the causes leading to matrimonial infelicities when his ‘bus passed the Academy box-office.
He was six blocks farther down town when he finished the article, only to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent medicine, and of course he had not time to return. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll get them when I go up town to-night.”
But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his arm he approached the box-office. “Not a seat left,” sounded to his hen-pecked ears like the concluding words of the black-robed judge: “and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.” But a reprieve came, for one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward, saying: “I have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece.” And the gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm passed in.
They saw the largest crowd in the history of the Academy. Every seat was occupied, every foot of standing room taken. Chairs were placed in the side aisles. The programs announced that it was the second appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist.