by Willa Cather
Thea sighed. “I’m glad for that, then.” Her eyes traveled over the faint discolorations on the walls where the pictures had hung. “I may run away myself. I don’t know whether I can stand it here without you.”
“We hope that you can come to New York to study before very long. We have thought of that. And you must tell me how you are getting on with Bowers. Andor will want to know all about it.”
“I guess I get on more or less. But I don’t like my work very well. It never seems serious as my work with Mr. Harsanyi did. I play Bowers’s accompaniments in the afternoons, you know. I thought I would learn a good deal from the people who work with him, but I don’t think I get much.”
Mrs. Harsanyi looked at her inquiringly. Thea took out a carefully folded handkerchief from the bosom of her dress and began to draw the corners apart. “Singing doesn’t seem to be a very brainy profession, Mrs. Harsanyi,” she said slowly. “The people I see now are not a bit like the ones I used to meet here. Mr. Harsanyi’s pupils, even the dumb ones, had more—well, more of everything, it seems to me. The people I have to play accompaniments for are discouraging. The professionals, like Katharine Priest and Miles Murdstone, are worst of all. If I have to play ‘The Messiah’ much longer for Mrs. Priest, I’ll go out of my mind!” Thea brought her foot down sharply on the bare floor.
Mrs. Harsanyi looked down at the foot in perplexity. “You mustn’t wear such high heels, my dear. They will spoil your walk and make you mince along. Can’t you at least learn to avoid what you dislike in these singers? I was never able to care for Mrs. Priest’s singing.”
Thea was sitting with her chin lowered. Without moving her head she looked up at Mrs. Harsanyi and smiled; a smile much too cold and desperate to be seen on a young face, Mrs. Harsanyi felt. “Mrs. Harsanyi, it seems to me that what I learn is just to dislike. I dislike so much and so hard that it tires me out. I’ve got no heart for anything.” She threw up her head suddenly and sat in defiance, her hand clenched on the arm of the chair. “Mr. Harsanyi couldn’t stand these people an hour, I know he couldn’t. He’d put them right out of the window there, frizzes and feathers and all. Now, take that new soprano they’re all making such a fuss about, Jessie Darcey. She’s going on tour with a symphony orchestra and she’s working up her repertory with Bowers. She’s singing some Schumann songs Mr. Harsanyi used to go over with me. Well, I don’t know what he would do if he heard her.”
“But if your own work goes well, and you know these people are wrong, why do you let them discourage you?”
Thea shook her head. “That’s just what I don’t understand myself. Only, after I’ve heard them all afternoon, I come out frozen up. Somehow it takes the shine off of everything. People want Jessie Darcey and the kind of thing she does; so what’s the use?”
Mrs. Harsanyi smiled. “That stile you must simply vault over. You must not begin to fret about the successes of cheap people. After all, what have they to do with you?”
“Well, if I had somebody like Mr. Harsanyi, perhaps I wouldn’t fret about them. He was the teacher for me. Please tell him so.”
Thea rose and Mrs. Harsanyi took her hand again. “I am sorry you have to go through this time of discouragement. I wish Andor could talk to you, he would understand it so well. But I feel like urging you to keep clear of Mrs. Priest and Jessie Darcey and all their works.”
Thea laughed discordantly. “No use urging me. I don’t get on with them at all. My spine gets like a steel rail when they come near me. I liked them at first, you know. Their clothes and their manners were so fine, and Mrs. Priest is handsome. But now I keep wanting to tell them how stupid they are. Seems like they ought to be informed, don’t you think so?” There was a flash of the shrewd grin that Mrs. Harsanyi remembered. Thea pressed her hand. “I must go now. I had to give my lesson hour this morning to a Duluth woman who has come on to coach, and I must go and play ‘On Mighty Pens’ for her. Please tell Mr. Harsanyi that I think oratorio is a great chance for bluffers.”
Mrs. Harsanyi detained her. “But he will want to know much more than that about you. You are free at seven? Come back this evening, then, and we will go to dinner somewhere, to some cheerful place. I think you need a party.”
Thea brightened. “Oh, I do! I’ll love to come; that will be like old times. You see,” she lingered a moment, softening, “I wouldn’t mind if there were only one of them I could really admire.”
“How about Bowers?” Mrs. Harsanyi asked as they were approaching the stairway.
“Well, there’s nothing he loves like a good fakir, and nothing he hates like a good artist. I always remember something Mr. Harsanyi said about him. He said Bowers was the cold muffin that had been left on the plate.”
Mrs. Harsanyi stopped short at the head of the stairs and said decidedly: “I think Andor made a mistake. I can’t believe that is the right atmosphere for you. It would hurt you more than most people. It’s all wrong.”
“Something’s wrong,” Thea called back as she clattered down the stairs in her high heels.
II
During that winter Thea lived in so many places that sometimes at night when she left Bowers’s studio and emerged into the street she had to stop and think for a moment to remember where she was living now and what was the best way to get there.
When she moved into a new place her eyes challenged the beds, the carpets, the food, the mistress of the house. The boarding-houses were wretchedly conducted and Thea’s complaints sometimes took an insulting form. She quarreled with one landlady after another and moved on. When she moved into a new room, she was almost sure to hate it on sight and to begin planning to hunt another place before she unpacked her trunk. She was moody and contemptuous toward her fellow boarders, except toward the young men, whom she treated with a careless familiarity which they usually misunderstood. They liked her, however, and when she left the house after a storm, they helped her to move her things and came to see her after she got settled in a new place. But she moved so often that they soon ceased to follow her. They could see no reason for keeping up with a girl who, under her jocularity, was cold, self-centered, and unimpressionable. They soon felt that she did not admire them.
Thea used to waken up in the night and wonder why she was so unhappy. She would have been amazed if she had known how much the people whom she met in Bowers’s studio had to do with her low spirits. She had never been conscious of those instinctive standards which are called ideals, and she did not know that she was suffering for them. She often found herself sneering when she was on a street-car, or when she was brushing out her hair before her mirror, as some inane remark or too familiar mannerism flitted across her mind.
She felt no creature kindness, no tolerant good-will for Mrs. Priest or Jessie Darcey. After one of Jessie Darcey’s concerts the glowing press notices, and the admiring comments that floated about Bowers’s studio, caused Thea bitter unhappiness. It was not the torment of personal jealousy. She had never thought of herself as even a possible rival of Miss Darcey. She was a poor music student, and Jessie Darcey was a popular and petted professional. Mrs. Priest, whatever one held against her, had a fine, big, showy voice and an impressive presence. She read indifferently, was inaccurate, and was always putting other people wrong, but she at least had the material out of which singers can be made. But people seemed to like Jessie Darcey exactly because she could not sing; because, as they put it, she was “so natural and unprofessional.” Her singing was pronounced “artless,” her voice “birdlike.” Miss Darcey was thin and awkward in person, with a sharp, sallow face. Thea noticed that her plainness was accounted to her credit, and that people spoke of it affectionately. Miss Darcey was singing everywhere just then; one could not help hearing about her. She was backed by some of the packing-house people and by the Chicago Northwestern Railroad. Only one critic raised his voice against her. Thea went to several of Jessie Darcey’s concerts. It was the first time she had had an opportunity to observe the whims of the public which singers live by interestin
g. She saw that people liked in Miss Darcey every quality a singer ought not to have, and especially the nervous complacency that stamped her as a commonplace young woman. They seemed to have a warmer feeling for Jessie than for Mrs. Priest, an affectionate and cherishing regard. Chicago was not so very different from Moonstone, after all, and Jessie Darcey was only Lily Fisher under another name.
Thea particularly hated to accompany for Miss Darcey because she sang off pitch and didn’t mind it in the least. It was excruciating to sit there day after day and hear her; there was something shameless and indecent about not singing true.
One morning Miss Darcey came by appointment to go over the programme for her Peoria concert. She was such a frail-looking girl that Thea ought to have felt sorry for her. True, she had an arch, sprightly little manner, and a flash of salmon-pink on either brown cheek. But a narrow upper jaw gave her face a pinched look, and her eyelids were heavy and relaxed. By the morning light, the purplish brown circles under her eyes were pathetic enough, and foretold no long or brilliant future. A singer with a poor digestion and low vitality; she needed no seer to cast her horoscope. If Thea had ever taken the pains to study her, she would have seen that, under all her smiles and archness, poor Miss Darcey was really frightened to death. She could not understand her success any more than Thea could; she kept catching her breath and lifting her eyebrows and trying to believe that it was true. Her loquacity was not natural, she forced herself to it, and when she confided to you how many defects she could overcome by her unusual command of head resonance, she was not so much trying to persuade you as to persuade herself.
When she took a note that was high for her, Miss Darcey always put her right hand out into the air, as if she were indicating height, or giving an exact measurement. Some early teacher had told her that she could “place” a tone more surely by the help of such a gesture, and she firmly believed that it was of great assistance to her. (Even when she was singing in public, she kept her right hand down with difficulty, nervously clasping her white kid fingers together when she took a high note. Thea could always see her elbows stiffen.) She unvaryingly executed this gesture with a smile of gracious confidence, as if she were actually putting her finger on the tone: “There it is, friends!”
This morning, in Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” as Miss Darcey approached her B natural:—
Dans——nos a——lár———mes!
Out went the hand, with the sure airy gesture, though it was little above A she got with her voice, whatever she touched with her finger. Often Bowers let such things pass—with the right people—but this morning he snapped his jaws together and muttered, “God!” Miss Darcey tried again, with the same gesture as of putting the crowning touch, tilting her head and smiling radiantly at Bowers, as if to say, “It is for you I do all this!”
Dans——nos a——lár———mes!
This time she made B flat, and went on in the happy belief that she had done well enough, when she suddenly found that her accompanist was not going on with her, and this put her out completely.
She turned to Thea, whose hands had fallen in her lap. “Oh why did you stop just there! It is too trying! Now we’d better go back to that other crescendo and try it from there.”
“I beg your pardon,” Thea muttered. “I thought you wanted to get that B natural.” She began again, as Miss Darcey indicated.
After the singer was gone, Bowers walked up to Thea and asked languidly, “Why do you hate Jessie so? Her little variations from pitch are between her and her public; they don’t hurt you. Has she ever done anything to you except be very agreeable?”
“Yes, she has done things to me,” Thea retorted hotly.
Bowers looked interested. “What, for example?”
“I can’t explain, but I’ve got it in for her.”
Bowers laughed. “No doubt about that. I’ll have to suggest that you conceal it a little more effectually. That is—necessary, Miss Kronborg,” he added, looking back over the shoulder of the overcoat he was putting on.
He went out to lunch and Thea thought the subject closed. But late in the afternoon, when he was taking his dyspepsia tablet and a glass of water between lessons, he looked up and said in a voice ironically coaxing:—
“Miss Kronborg, I wish you would tell me why you hate Jessie.”
Taken by surprise Thea put down the score she was reading and answered before she knew what she was saying, “I hate her for the sake of what I used to think a singer might be.”
Bowers balanced the tablet on the end of his long forefinger and whistled softly. “And how did you form your conception of what a singer ought to be?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Thea flushed and spoke under her breath; “but I suppose I got most of it from Harsanyi.”
Bowers made no comment upon this reply, but opened the door for the next pupil, who was waiting in the reception-room.
It was dark when Thea left the studio that night. She knew she had offended Bowers. Somehow she had hurt herself, too. She felt unequal to the boarding-house table, the sneaking divinity student who sat next her and had tried to kiss her on the stairs last night. She went over to the waterside of Michigan Avenue and walked along beside the lake. It was a clear, frosty winter night. The great empty space over the water was restful and spoke of freedom. If she had any money at all, she would go away. The stars glittered over the wide black water. She looked up at them wearily and shook her head. She believed that what she felt was despair, but it was only one of the forms of hope. She felt, indeed, as if she were bidding the stars good-bye; but she was renewing a promise. Though their challenge is universal and eternal, the stars get no answer but that,—the brief light flashed back to them from the eyes of the young who unaccountably aspire.
The rich, noisy, city, fat with food and drink, is a spent thing; its chief concern is its digestion and its little game of hide-and-seek with the undertaker. Money and office and success are the consolations of impotence. Fortune turns kind to such solid people and lets them suck their bone in peace. She flecks her whip upon flesh that is more alive, upon that stream of hungry boys and girls who tramp the streets of every city, recognizable by their pride and discontent, who are the Future, and who possess the treasure of creative power.
III
While her living arrangements were so casual and fortuitous, Bowers’s studio was the one fixed thing in Thea’s life. She went out from it to uncertainties, and hastened to it from nebulous confusion. She was more influenced by Bowers than she knew. Unconsciously she began to take on something of his dry contempt, and to share his grudge without understanding exactly what it was about. His cynicism seemed to her honest, and the amiability of his pupils artificial. She admired his drastic treatment of his dull pupils. The stupid deserved all they got, and more. Bowers knew that she thought him a very clever man.
One afternoon when Bowers came in from lunch Thea handed him a card on which he read the name, “Mr. Philip Frederick Ottenburg.”
“He said he would be in again to-morrow and that he wanted some time. Who is he? I like him better than the others.”
Bowers nodded. “So do I. He’s not a singer. He’s a beer prince: son of the big brewer in St. Louis. He’s been in Germany with his mother. I didn’t know he was back.”
“Does he take lessons?”
“Now and again. He sings rather well. He’s at the head of the Chicago branch of the Ottenburg business, but he can’t stick to work and is always running away. He has great ideas in beer, people tell me. He’s what they call an imaginative business man; goes over to Bayreuth and seems to do nothing but give parties and spend money, and brings back more good notions for the brewery than the fellows who sit tight dig out in five years. I was born too long ago to be much taken in by these chesty boys with flowered vests, but I like Fred, all the same.”
“So do I,” said Thea positively.
Bowers made a sound between a cough and a laugh. “Oh, he’s a lady-killer, all right! The g
irls in here are always making eyes at him. You won’t be the first.” He threw some sheets of music on the piano. “Better look that over; accompaniment’s a little tricky. It’s for that new woman from Detroit. And Mrs. Priest will be in this afternoon.”
Thea sighed. “’I Know that my Redeemer Liveth’?”
“The same. She starts on her concert tour next week, and we’ll have a rest. Until then, I suppose we’ll have to be going over her programme.”
The next day Thea hurried through her luncheon at a German bakery and got back to the studio at ten minutes past one. She felt sure that the young brewer would come early, before it was time for Bowers to arrive. He had not said he would, but yesterday, when he opened the door to go, he had glanced about the room and at her, and something in his eye had conveyed that suggestion.
Sure enough, at twenty minutes past one the door of the reception-room opened, and a tall, robust young man with a cane and an English hat and ulster looked in expectantly. “Ah—ha!” he exclaimed, “I thought if I came early I might have good luck. And how are you to-day, Miss Kronborg?”
Thea was sitting in the window chair. At her left elbow there was a table, and upon this table the young man sat down, holding his hat and cane in his hand, loosening his long coat so that it fell back from his shoulders. He was a gleaming, florid young fellow. His hair, thick and yellow, was cut very short, and he wore a closely trimmed beard, long enough on the chin to curl a little. Even his eyebrows were thick and yellow, like fleece. He had lively blue eyes—Thea looked up at them with great interest as he sat chatting and swinging his foot rhythmically. He was easily familiar, and frankly so. Wherever people met young Ottenburg, in his office, on shipboard, in a foreign hotel or railway compartment, they always felt (and usually liked) that artless presumption which seemed to say, “In this case we may waive formalities. We really haven’t time. This is to-day, but it will soon be to-morrow, and then we may be very different people, and in some other country.” He had a way of floating people out of dull or awkward situations, out of their own torpor or constraint or discouragement. It was a marked personal talent, of almost incalculable value in the representative of a great business founded on social amenities. Thea had liked him yesterday for the way in which he had picked her up out of herself and her German grammar for a few exciting moments.
