Through the mist of tears, Anne caught the brilliant gleam of Alexis’ eyes, as they eagerly sought her own. Now he was bowing to the vociferous house. Looking swiftly towards Anne’s box, he repeated his bow. The personal intent was unmistakable. As he turned to take the key from Paul Leon, a veritable battalion of opera-glasses was leveled upon Anne and her companions.
Faintness dragged her momentarily beneath the waves of consciousness. Her soul shrank within her. The picture of their entire intimacy from the first meeting in the hut to the present moment of exquisite apprehension flashed before her like a vision of the drowning. When she came to, the house lay silent beneath the first notes of the concerto.
All Anne’s fear had been for nothing. Alexis was playing as she had never heard him play before. The golden notes lingered upon the air, round with substance, light as a sunbeam dancing upon the wall. They soared toward the sky like iridescent birds, then swooped earthwards with the beat of celestial wings. Motionless, the life concentrated in his eyes and the rhythm of his bow, his chin caressing his violin as if it were a human thing, Alexis played with all the fire, the eloquence of a modern Orpheus waiting at the gates of Hades. His features slightly haggard from emotion and over-work, were Greek. The slim body as full of grace as the faun of Praxiteles. The drooping lids seemed to conceal a very fury of genius and inspiration.
The end of the first movement was met with clamorous applause. Staid old Carnegie Hall pulled its one foot out of the grave and donned the enthusiasm of youth. Nerves relaxed in happy abandon, Anne leaned back in her chair. A flood of joyous relief swept over her from head to foot. Yes, it had not been in vain. Alexis was truly great. She felt herself a creator. At last there was a reason for her having been born.
As Alexis flung himself into the next movement, she awakened to the house about her. She glanced at the nearest boxes and had a glimpse of Ellen and Olive, surrounded by black coats and gleaming shirt-fronts. Meeting Ellen’s eyes, she nodded gayly, then swept her opera-glasses across the house. A familiar face, surmounting a large and unwieldy body, caught her glance. It was Mme. Petrovskey. Although they had only met once, Anne would never forget that bland, doll-like countenance, with its cruelly undoll-like eyes. With an imperceptible shudder, she dropped her glasses into her lap. Mme. Petrovskey was unaccompanied by Claire. Was the girl ill? Or was it her own, Anne’s, presence which had kept her away? A familiar sensation of guilt overwhelmed her. She felt like a child-murderer, a trampler upon flowers. She had helped to ruin Claire’s life. An involuntary instrument of torture, the gods had manipulated her to the accompaniment of ironic laughter. The useless, the senseless tragedy of it all! If Alexis had only loved Claire, how different it would have been for them all. And yet would she, Anne, change it if she could? Would she be willing to relinquish into Claire’s feeble fingers the rapturous moments of the last few months, this present triumph? She believed she would. But who knows, least of all himself, what tenacious devil of jealousy and lust may not be lurking within his own subconscious fastness?
Leveling inscrutable eyes upon Mme. Petrovskey, she caught a return flash from the babyish blue orbs. They both bowed constrainedly.
From her refuge in the back row, Claire grasped Dr. Elliott’s arm. Her gaze, never long withdrawn from Anne’s box, had intercepted the bow between the two women on opposite sides of the house. Her cheeks, hitherto pale, flamed crimson.
The man beside her cursed inwardly. As he had feared, the whole thing was proving too much for the poor child. He was glad that he had insisted upon accompanying her. It would have been abominable to have permitted her to come alone. She ought not to be here as it was. The glamour of Petrovskey’s music was sufficient to unnerve her, let alone his triumph. As the magic notes floated out upon the air in a very fury of perfection, Claire’s companion wondered no longer at the hold that the player had obtained over her. He was just the sort of man that a woman would fall for. And having fallen, remain prostrate to be trampled upon at his will. And the creature had charm (damned if he hadn’t) a sort of melancholy charm—the charm that conceals discrepancies as a tropical vine flowers about a rotten stump. No, he did not blame Claire for being infatuated with the fellow. Settling back into his seat, he sighed resignedly.
The concerto ended upon a dramatic silence. It seemed as if the whole world were holding its breath. Then a storm of applause broke out. With a shock, shattering as thunder, rhythmic as the roll of gigantic drums, Alexis was recalled over and over again. Upon one of his returns a woman in the front row threw her bunch of violets on to the stage. They dropped at Alexis’ feet. He stooped, and picking them up, pressed them to his lips. The applause rose to a deafening crescendo. Cries of “bravo” punctuated the clamor shrilly. With a smile, Alexis placed the violets upon the piano, where he characteristically forgot them.
As Alexis made his last exit before the intermission, Dr. Elliott turned towards Claire. About to express enthusiastic, if unwilling praise of the performance, he stopped short at sight of her face. The small features were convulsed into a mask of agony. She was weeping softly, weakly, as if her very blood were seeping out with her tears.