Fanny longed to hear the comment of
the little groups that were constantly forming and
dispersing about the box office window. She never dreamed
of allowing herself to hover near it. She thought sometimes
of the woman in the businesslike gray skirt and the black
sateen apron who had drudged so cheerfully in the little
shop so that Theodore Brandeis' name might shine now from
the very top of the program, in heavy black letters:
Soloist: MR. THEODORE BRANDEIS, Violin
The injustice of it. Fanny had never ceased to rage at
that.
In the years to come Theodore Brandeis was to have that
adulation which the American public, temperamentally so
cold, gives its favorite, once the ice of its reserve is
thawed. He was to look down on that surging, tempestuous
crowd which sometimes packs itself about the foot of
the platform in Carnegie Hall, demanding more, more, more,
after a generous concert is concluded. He had to learn to
protect himself from those hysterical, enraptured, wholly
feminine adorers who swarmed about him, scaling the platform
itself.
Pages:
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484