The Musician and the Fan
The Fan's Request:Why, my love, have you played upon my heart as youwould four strings set at intervals apart?Such are the distances that separate me from you:my heart, my soul, my mind, my resolve . . .Never could these four blend into a consonance thatmight afford my life some rest and tranquility.You cannot simply make innocent music as do themusicians of mediocrity: you have created fire,You have conjured spirits without number; yourbody has become a writhing machine possessed.You bring down the house along with my onceplacated expectations that nothing couldEver sweep me away, forcing a burning desirethat I be the instrument upon which you play.The Musician's Reply:Do you, My Love, hear the music that plays unique for you?I sense an effete populace that hangs upon the sonorousWailings of the violon that at one with me has become, butYou -- you like a queen enthroned in the balcony above --Will you descend upon the wings of Cupid himself to takeYour place at my side as together we enwrap ourselves inThe sweetest and most passionate musical embrace thatE'er has graced the stage and within the Proscenium falls?
A thousand pairs of eyes were fixed intently upon Roberto and as many ears attuned to what lush tones were presently to surge forth from his violin.
There was talk, fervid speculation and scarcely bridled anticipation over what might surely become the musical sensation of the decade. The timid and unassuming young man, who had long since captured the hearts of his peers as well as those uninitiated into the music of the spheres, was ready. His nervousness, certainly typical for many a young musician making his debut, was not evident to the expectant patrons in the now darkened music hall.
The opening orchestral accompaniment provided a brief, measured entrance into the elegant fantasy for the stringed instrument whose soulful voice sings with a true heart of human emotion. It goes without saying that, in less skilled hands, the resultant caterwauling of bow to strings would have a horrified audience running for the door and demanding a refund. Surely, that rarely happens. Bad musicians -- or simply the mediocre -- do not make their entrance into the music world with the Fontanne Theatre their stage.
Roberto, on cue, began his dialogue with the orchestra, employing his cherished violin as spokesman. The audience, falling upon the instrument's every word, was entranced into breathless silence. The young wizard, melding his heart and soul with the plaintive, the throbbing, the climactic crescendi of the four strings over which he possessed total but loving dominion, had his emotionally enthralled and incapacitated listeners silently begging for more exquisite pain.