REVERIE ON A VIOLIN CONCERT Dan Bailey ON A THEME BY BACH As the artist lifted his instrument and began to play, a sigh of recognition rose from the audience. The piece was familar to all, a well-loved creation which recalled pleasant and sentimental memories to most of the people seated in the hall. The nimble bow of the performer moved delicately across the strings, bringing to life the loveliness of melody and tone. He swayed in the rhythm of the music, eyes almost closed, lost in his creation. Nobody noticed the figure of a man in the balcony as he rose and moved quietly to the exit and disappeared. Once in the darkened hall outside the auditorium, he leaned his throbbing head against the cool marble wall. A wave of relief swept over him as the stone met his warm flesh; it cleared his thoughts and seemed to make him not so lonely nor so lost. From the hall he had left came the strains of music music which erased all the comfort he had momentarily felt. Quickly he made his way to a nearby room to escape from the sound. It didn't do much good, he had to admit, when he had closed the door and seated himself in the farthest corner of the room. The tune followed. Whether in reality or imagination he didn't know. It didn't much matter, for it was here and he couldn't escape from its haunting. Why did the great "who-ever-he-was" have to play that piece? Why couldn't he have chosen another? He must have hundreds in his repertoire. Why on this night? . . . But that was nonsense. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. Nobody's fault that he too had played that concerto on the night of his first professional concert. On the night he met Ellen. Yes, he remembered, everybody had been sitting in a huge hall in breathless silence as he, "the young genius of the violin," moved his bow across the strings to produce the same notes which were now causing him such unhappiness. . . . Everybody thrilled to his mastery of his instrument. And everybody was so warm and hearty in their congratulations backstage after his performance. 'Tour success is assured, my boy stay with your music and someday you will be the greatest I've never seen such technique." Yes, even Ellen, to whom he was introduced by a friend, was verbose in her praise of his work. It had all seemed so wonderful and full of promise, his future. And this girl he had met. She was wonderful, too. He saw a great deal of her after that night; they became good friends and even closer than friends. He imagined to himself that she liked him very much and he knew that to go on with his work he must have her. Like the concerto, whose middle phrase now reached him across the darkened room, their friendship had been light, thrilling, exciting at its start, but like the music it had changed eventually to grow slow and sombre. They had gone on dreaming together of the time when he should be a world recognized virtuoso. His fame and popularity were mounting, and Ellen was in the audience to hear all his concerts and it made him glad and proud. He didn't care if anyone else were present; he played to her to her alone. He poured his heart, his soul out to her in his music. He was an artist, and like all artsits he needed feminine inspiration to do his best work. Ellen was, he had thought, all this and more. She was all he had dreamed about; success meant nothing to him but that it would bring fame and wealth which she could share proudly with him. He didn't know if he was in love with her; the possibility never entered his mind. What he felt was greater than simple love; anyone could fall in love, but this was something which only he felt. The music from the auditorium had become slow and tragic. It was drawing to a close. The finishing passages made the man in the room rise despondently and cross to a window, running the trembling fingers of his right hand through his hair. A slow and tragic finale. Yes, they had followed the music's pattern even to that point. He was to have had a last concert. A huge important concert with all the noteworthy members of the music world there. If he should please that audience his much-planned success would be assured. He dreamed night and day of his chance and what it meant to him and Ellen. He had planned everything to the last detail. Even the pieces he was to play he chose himself, making sure to include the piece he had played the night they first met. All was to have been perfect .... He had been standing in the wings awaiting the time for his entrance when somehow a piece of scenery got away from one of the stagehands. His manager shouted to warn him, but he did not hear. The heavy piece caught him across the shoulders and pinned him beneath it. When he came to in the hospital a grave-faced doctor told him he would never use his left hand again. He had been impelled to laugh sardonically at the irony of it. There was hardly another scratch on him anywhere, but his hand was crushed. No more violin playing . . . His hand was crushed. The last melancholy notes of the music came to the man's ears to remind him forcibly of the conclusion to his tragedy. Ellen wasn't interested anymore when he recovered. She had found someone else ... he didn't care after that . . . The sound of the audience applauding called the man at the window back to the present. He listened for a moment; then clenching his right hand into a tight fist, he returned to his seat. The artist had returned to the platform. His next number was to be a light caprice. four ON A THEME BY PAGANINI If the young lady hadn't been late for the concert, or if the young man hadn't decided to sit in the balcony instead of downstairs, it never would have happened, and the world wouldn't have been so nice a place to live in. But Fate or some other controlling force did its bit and they were sitting side by side when the artist returned to the stage after the intermission. The audience gave him a great ovation as he appeared, for he was an excellent musician and had pleased them with the first half of his program. He was to start the remaining half with a concerto by Paganini and the audience sat in silence as the pianist began the introduction. The young lady in the balcony was a dark slender person fully alive to the speed of the modern world in which she lived; but, it was easy to see, with a soul which smouldered beneath the surface, brought into play only by some stirring thing such as the music for which she waited. He, too, was an artist in soul, this young man by her side. He hated cheap people who were too shallow to be moved by beauty. He had chosen to sit in the balcony because it wasn't so crowded and he could detach himself from the herd and open his soul to the loveliness of the music. As sometimes happens when souls are kindred and in tune, these two people felt from each other the same thrill when the violinist drew from his instrument the first chord. Self-consciously the young lady dropped her eyes to her program as she realized she had impulsively clutched the man's hand in that first moment of ecstasy. She wanted to apologize, to make an explanation, but somehow it wouldn't come; so she smiled and turned her thoughts to the performer. The man looked intently at her for a moment, then returned his eyes to the platform below. The artist played the fast, complicated number with dexterity and ease. Tempestuous notes frolicked and raced from his strings, playing tag across the auditorium, striking the walls and falling into oblivion and silence. The technical maneuvers of the performer were a pleasure to watch, his music, clear cut and enthralling. The piece grew in tempo, carrying with it power and strength. In the balcony the two young people were caught in the increased rate of music. Absorbed in the beauty of the master, they felt a growing feeling beating within their hearts. A desire for companionship. A mutual want for one with whom to share the burning fire within them. Almost without knowing that he did so the young man took her hand and pressed it between his own. An answering pressure reassured him and they sat, two people, two hands clasped, two heads with eyes fixed on the stage below but one mind and one soul and one heartbeat in tune to the now wildly violent music which rose to a gigantic crescendo and ended. The audience applauded heartily, but the two in the balcony sat too awed to make a physical manifestation of their appreciation. For the rest of the numbers they sat, hand in hand listening to the lovely melodies. When the lights came up between numbers, they looked at each other not speaking, each with his own thoughts and feelings. When the last encore had died, away they sat still for a moment; then, eyes full of tears, they rose and made their way, still holding hands, from the empty balcony. At the door leading into the hall they stopped and looked deeply into each others eyes and they kissed. Out in the hall the crowd moved toward the exits and the usual after-concert chit-chat was to be heard. Out of the corner of his eye the young man saw the young lady scan the crowd and saw her eyes widen as they came to rest on a familiar face. Without speaking he pressed her hand and without waiting for the answering pressure he made his way into the crowd. He didn't want to see the man who was waiting for her. ON A THEME BY TARTINI The man was dressed in a tuxedo. As he came down the aisle, many heads turned his way and then turned back to whisper. He wore his clothes well, and the evening dress made him seem dark and mysterious. In his mind he was conscious of the stir which he caused by his entrance and it pleased him greatly. It was almost as if he were playing a part in a play. He was playing a part to an extent. He had planned for months just how he would dress and act on this evening. Mentally he had seen the people turn and whisper the way they were doing now hundreds of times before; the stage was all set, he thought. That was good; just as he wanted it. He took a seat well front in the center section so that he might be seen by those people in the balcony. Carefully he placed his folded coat across his lap and took out his programme. The selections to be played pleased him also Bach, Dvorak, Bazzini; these he liked fairly well and would be pleased to hear but, he looked at his watch, he doubted if he would be able to stay. Yes, he had an engagement. A very pressing engagement which would necessitate his leaving the concert very soon after its start. He had a rendezvous, but he would be able to hear the first selection. Glancing back at his programme, he saw it was to be a violent sonata by Tartini. That was fine. He was in the right mood for a fast, exciting piece of music. Such a piece would be a fitting overture . . . . The audience, he noticed, was of a very average type. Full of people who came because they felt it necessary to their cultural and social standing; some (Continued on following page) five