The last movement had never
failed to shake her emotionally. It was the glorious and
triumphant cry of a people tried and unafraid. She heard it
now, unmoved.
And then Theodore was bowing his little jerky bows, and he
was shaking hands with Stock, and with the First Violin. He
was gone. Fanny sat with her hands in her lap. The
applause continued. Theodore appeared again. Bowed. He
bent very low now, with his arms hanging straight. There
was something gracious and courtly about him. And foreign.
He must keep that, Fanny thought. They like it. She saw
him off again. More applause. Encores were against the
house rules. She knew that. Then it meant they were
pleased. He was to play again. A group of Hungarian dances
this time. They were wild, gypsy things, rising to frenzy
at times. He played them with spirit and poetry. To listen
sent the blood singing through the veins. Fanny found
herself thinking clearly and exaltedly.
"This is what my mother drudged for, and died for, and it
was worth it. And you must do the same, if necessary.
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