PART III
STUPID FACES
I
So many grinning, stupid faces! Thea was sitting by the
window in Bowers's studio, waiting for him to come
back from lunch. On her knee was the latest number of an
illustrated musical journal in which musicians great and
little stridently advertised their wares. Every afternoon
she played accompaniments for people who looked and
smiled like these. She was getting tired of the human
countenance.
Thea had been in Chicago for two months. She had a
small church position which partly paid her living ex-
penses, and she paid for her singing lessons by playing
Bowers's accompaniments every afternoon from two until
six. She had been compelled to leave her old friends Mrs.
Lorch and Mrs. Andersen, because the long ride from North
Chicago to Bowers's studio on Michigan Avenue took too
much time--an hour in the morning, and at night, when
the cars were crowded, an hour and a half. For the first
month she had clung to her old room, but the bad air in
the cars, at the end of a long day's work, fatigued her
greatly and was bad for her voice. Since she left Mrs.
Lorch, she had been staying at a students' club to which
she was introduced by Miss Adler, Bowers's morning ac-
companist, an intelligent Jewish girl from Evanston.
Thea took her lesson from Bowers every day from
eleven-thirty until twelve. Then she went out to lunch
with an Italian grammar under her arm, and came back
to the studio to begin her work at two. In the afternoon
Bowers coached professionals and taught his advanced
pupils. It was his theory that Thea ought to be able to
learn a great deal by keeping her ears open while she
played for him.
The concert-going public of Chicago still remembers the
long, sallow, discontented face of Madison Bowers. He
seldom missed an evening concert, and was usually to be
seen lounging somewhere at the back of the concert hall,
reading a newspaper or review, and conspicuously ignoring
the efforts of the performers. At the end of a number he
looked up from his paper long enough to sweep the ap-
plauding audience with a contemptuous eye. His face was
intelligent, with a narrow lower jaw, a thin nose, faded
gray eyes, and a close-cut brown mustache. His hair was
iron-gray, thin and dead-looking. He went to concerts
chiefly to satisfy himself as to how badly things were done
and how gullible the public was. He hated the whole race
of artists; the work they did, the wages they got, and the
way they spent their money. His father, old Hiram Bowers,
was still alive and at work, a genial old choirmaster in Bos-
ton, full of enthusiasm at seventy. But Madison was of the
colder stuff of his grandfathers, a long line of New Hamp-
shire farmers; hard workers, close traders, with good minds,
mean natures, and flinty eyes. As a boy Madison had a
fine barytone voice, and his father made great sacrifices
for him, sending him to Germany at an early age and keep-
ing him abroad at his studies for years. Madison worked
under the best teachers, and afterward sang in England in
oratorio. His cold nature and academic methods were
against him. His audiences were always aware of the
contempt he felt for them. A dozen poorer singers suc-
ceeded, but Bowers did not.
Bowers had all the qualities which go to make a good
teacher--except generosity and warmth. His intelligence
was of a high order, his taste never at fault. He seldom
worked with a voice without improving it, and in teach-
ing the delivery of oratorio he was without a rival. Sing-
ers came from far and near to study Bach and Handel
with him. Even the fashionable sopranos and contraltos
of Chicago, St. Paul, and St. Louis (they were usually
ladies with very rich husbands, and Bowers called them the
"pampered jades of Asia") humbly endured his sardonic
humor for the sake of what he could do for them. He was
not at all above helping a very lame singer across, if her
husband's check-book warranted it. He had a whole bag
of tricks for stupid people, "life-preservers," he called
them. "Cheap repairs for a cheap 'un," he used to say,
but the husbands never found the repairs very cheap.
Those were the days when lumbermen's daughters and
brewers' wives contended in song; studied in Germany and
then floated from SANGERFEST to SANGERFEST. Choral so-
cieties flourished in all the rich lake cities and river cities.
The soloists came to Chicago to coach with Bowers, and
he often took long journeys to hear and instruct a chorus.
He was intensely avaricious, and from these semi-profes-
sionals he reaped a golden harvest. They fed his pockets
and they fed his ever-hungry contempt, his scorn of him-
self and his accomplices. The more money he made, the
more parsimonious he became. His wife was so shabby
that she never went anywhere with him, which suited him
exactly. Because his clients were luxurious and extrava-
gant, he took a revengeful pleasure in having his shoes half-
soled a second time, and in getting the last wear out of a
broken collar. He had first been interested in Thea Kron-
borg because of her bluntness, her country roughness, and
her manifest carefulness about money. The mention of
Harsanyi's name always made him pull a wry face. For
the first time Thea had a friend who, in his own cool and
guarded way, liked her for whatever was least admirable in
her.
Thea was still looking at the musical paper, her grammar
unopened on the window-sill, when Bowers sauntered in
a little before two o'clock. He was smoking a cheap cigar-
ette and wore the same soft felt hat he had worn all last
winter. He never carried a cane or wore gloves.
Thea followed him from the reception-room into the
studio. "I may cut my lesson out to-morrow, Mr. Bowers.
I have to hunt a new boarding-place."
Bowers looked up languidly from his desk where he had
begun to go over a pile of letters. "What's the matter
with the Studio Club? Been fighting with them again?"
"The Club's all right for people who like to live that
way. I don't."
Bowers lifted his eyebrows. "Why so tempery?" he
asked as he drew a check from an envelope postmarked
"Minneapolis."
"I can't work with a lot of girls around. They're
too familiar. I never could get along with girls of my
own age. It's all too chummy. Gets on my nerves. I
didn't come here to play kindergarten games." Thea
began energetically to arrange the scattered music on the
piano.
Bowers grimaced good-humoredly at her over the three
checks he was pinning together. He liked to play at a
rough game of banter with her. He flattered himself that
he had made her harsher than she was when she first came
to him; that he had got off a little of the sugar-coating
Harsanyi always put on his pupils.
"The art of making yourself agreeable never comes
amiss, Miss Kronborg. I should say you rather need a
little practice along that line. When you come to market-
ing your wares in the world, a little smoothness goes
farther than a great deal of talent sometimes. If you hap-
pen to be cursed with a real talent, then you've got to be
very smooth indeed, or you'll never get your money back."
Bowers snapped the elastic band around his bank-book.
Thea gave him a sharp, recognizing glance. "Well,
that's the money I'll have to go without," she replied.
"Just what do you mean?"
"I mean the money people have to grin for. I used to
know a railroad man who said there was money in every
profession that you couldn't take. He'd tried a good
many jobs," Thea added musingly; "perhaps he was too
particular about the kind he could take, for he never
picked up much. He was proud, but I liked him for that."
Bowers rose and closed his desk. "Mrs. Priest is late
again. By the way, Miss Kronborg, remember not to frown
when you are playing for Mrs. Priest. You did not re-
member yesterday."
"You mean when she hits a tone with her breath like
that? Why do you let her? You wouldn't let me."
"I certainly would not. But that is a mannerism of
Mrs. Priest's. The public like it, and they pay a great deal
of money for the pleasure of hearing her do it. There she
is. Remember!"
Bowers opened the door of the reception-room and a
tall, imposing woman rustled in, bringing with her a glow
of animation which pervaded the room as if half a dozen
persons, all talking gayly, had come in instead of one. She
was large, handsome, expansive, uncontrolled; one felt this
the moment she crossed the threshold. She shone with care
and cleanliness, mature vigor, unchallenged authority,
gracious good-humor, and absolute confidence in her per-
son, her powers, her position, and her way of life; a glowing,
overwhelming self-satisfaction, only to be found where
human society is young and strong and without yesterdays.
Her face had a kind of heavy, thoughtless beauty, like a
pink peony just at the point of beginning to fade. Her
brown hair was waved in front and done up behind in a
great twist, held by a tortoiseshell comb with gold fili-
gree. She wore a beautiful little green hat with three long
green feathers sticking straight up in front, a little cape
made of velvet and fur with a yellow satin rose on it. Her
gloves, her shoes, her veil, somehow made themselves felt.
She gave the impression of wearing a cargo of splendid
merchandise.
Mrs. Priest nodded graciously to Thea, coquettishly to
Bowers, and asked him to untie her veil for her. She
threw her splendid wrap on a chair, the yellow lining out.
Thea was already at the piano. Mrs. Priest stood behind
her.
"`Rejoice Greatly' first, please. And please don't hurry
it in there," she put her arm over Thea's shoulder, and
indicated the passage by a sweep of her white glove. She
threw out her chest, clasped her hands over her abdomen,
lifted her chin, worked the muscles of her cheeks back
and forth for a moment, and then began with conviction,
"Re-jo-oice! Re-jo-oice!"
Bowers paced the room with his catlike tread. When he
checked Mrs. Priest's vehemence at all, he handled her
roughly; poked and hammered her massive person with
cold satisfaction, almost as if he were taking out a grudge
on this splendid creation. Such treatment the imposing
lady did not at all resent. She tried harder and harder, her
eyes growing all the while more lustrous and her lips redder.
Thea played on as she was told, ignoring the singer's
struggles.
When she first heard Mrs. Priest sing in church, Thea
admired her. Since she had found out how dull the good-
natured soprano really was, she felt a deep contempt for
her. She felt that Mrs. Priest ought to be reproved and
even punished for her shortcomings; that she ought to
be exposed,--at least to herself,--and not be permitted
to live and shine in happy ignorance of what a poor thing
it was she brought across so radiantly. Thea's cold looks
of reproof were lost upon Mrs. Priest; although the lady
did murmur one day when she took Bowers home in her
carriage, "How handsome your afternoon girl would be
if she did not have that unfortunate squint; it gives her
that vacant Swede look, like an animal." That amused
Bowers. He liked to watch the germination and growth
of antipathies.
One of the first disappointments Thea had to face when
she returned to Chicago that fall, was the news that the
Harsanyis were not coming back. They had spent the
summer in a camp in the Adirondacks and were moving
to New York. An old teacher and friend of Harsanyi's,
one of the best-known piano teachers in New York, was
about to retire because of failing health and had arranged
to turn his pupils over to Harsanyi. Andor was to give
two recitals in New York in November, to devote him-
self to his new students until spring, and then to go on a
short concert tour. The Harsanyis had taken a furnished
apartment in New York, as they would not attempt to
settle a place of their own until Andor's recitals were over.
The first of December, however, Thea received a note
from Mrs. Harsanyi, asking her to call at the old studio,
where she was packing their goods for shipment.
The morning after this invitation reached her, Thea
climbed the stairs and knocked at the familiar door. Mrs.
Harsanyi herself opened it, and embraced her visitor
warmly. Taking Thea into the studio, which was littered
with excelsior and packing-cases, she stood holding her
hand and looking at her in the strong light from the big
window before she allowed her to sit down. Her quick eye
saw many changes. The girl was taller, her figure had be-
come definite, her carriage positive. She had got used to
living in the body of a young woman, and she no longer
tried to ignore it and behave as if she were a little girl.
With that increased independence of body there had come
a change in her face; an indifference, something hard and
skeptical. Her clothes, too, were different, like the attire of
a shopgirl who tries to follow the fashions; a purple suit, a
piece of cheap fur, a three-cornered purple hat with a
pompon sticking up in front. The queer country clothes
she used to wear suited her much better, Mrs. Harsanyi
thought. But such trifles, after all, were accidental and
remediable. She put her hand on the girl's strong shoulder.
"How much the summer has done for you! Yes, you are
a young lady at last. Andor will be so glad to hear about
you."
Thea looked about at the disorder of the familiar room.
The pictures were piled in a corner, the piano and the
CHAISE LONGUE were gone. "I suppose I ought to be glad you
have gone away," she said, "but I'm not. It's a fine thing
for Mr. Harsanyi, I suppose."
Mrs. Harsanyi gave her a quick glance that said more
than words. "If you knew how long I have wanted to get
him away from here, Miss Kronborg! He is never tired,
never discouraged, now."
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. Har-
sanyi," 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 mov-
ing 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 any-
thing." She threw up her head suddenly and sat in defi-
ance, 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 work-
ing 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 under-
stand 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 suc-
cesses 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 discourage-
ment. I wish Andor could talk to you, he would under-
stand 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 morn-
ing 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, soft-
ening, "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.
