Surely Sid Hahn, like the guest of honour at a dinner, needs no introduction. And just as surely will he be introduced. He has been described elsewhere and often; perhaps nowhere more concisely4 than on Page 16, paragraph two, of a volume that shall be nameless, though quoted, thus:
"Sid Hahn, erstwhile usher5, call-boy, press agent, advance man, had a genius for things theatrical6. It was inborn7. Dramatic, sensitive, artistic8, intuitive, he was often rendered inarticulate by the very force and variety of his feelings. A little, rotund, ugly man, with the eyes of a dreamer, the wide, mobile mouth of a humourist, the ears of a comic ol' clo'es man. His generosity9 was proverbial, and it amounted to a vice10."
Not that that covers him. No one paragraph could. You turn a fine diamond this way and that, and as its facets11 catch the light you say, "It's scarlet12! No—it's blue! No—rose!—orange!—lilac!—no—"
That was Sid Hahn.
I suppose he never really sat for a photograph and yet you saw his likeness13 in all the magazines. He was snapped on the street, and in the theatre, and even up in his famous library-study-office on the sixth and top floor of the Thalia Theatre Building. Usually with a fat black cigar—unlighted—in one corner of his commodious14 mouth. Everyone interested in things theatrical (and whom does that not include!) knew all about Sid Hahn—and nothing. He had come, a boy, from one of those middle-western towns with a high-falutin Greek name. Parthenon, Ohio, or something incredible like that. No one knows how he first approached the profession which he was to dominate in America. There's no record of his having asked for a job in a theatre, and received it. He oozed15 into it, indefinably, and moved with it, and became a part of it and finally controlled it. Satellites, fur-collared and pseudo-successful, trailing in his wake, used to talk loudly of I-knew-him-when. They all lied. It had been Augustin Daly, dead these many years, who had first recognized in this boy the genius for discovering and directing genius. Daly was, at that time, at the zenith of his career—managing, writing, directing, producing. He fired the imagination of this stocky, gargoyle16-faced boy with the luminous17 eyes and the humorous mouth. I don't know that Sid Hahn, hanging about the theatre in every kind of menial capacity, ever said to himself in so many words:
"I'm going to be what he is. I'm going to concentrate on it. I won't let anything or anybody interfere18 with it. Nobody knows what I'm going to be. But I know.... And you've got to be selfish. You've got to be selfish."
Of course no one ever really made a speech like that to himself, even in the Horatio Alger books. But if the great ambition and determination running through the whole fibre of his being could have been crystallized into spoken words they would have sounded like that.
By the time he was forty-five he had discovered more stars than Copernicus. They were not all first-magnitude twinklers. Some of them even glowed so feebly that you could see their light only when he stood behind them, the steady radiance of his genius shining through. But taken as a whole they made a brilliant constellation19, furnishing much of the illumination for the brightest thoroughfare in the world.
He had never married. There are those who say that he had had an early love affair, but that he had sworn not to marry until he had achieved what he called success. And by that time it had been too late. It was as though the hot flame of ambition had burned out all his other passions. Later they say he was responsible for more happy marriages contracted by people who did not know that he was responsible for them than a popular east-side shadchen. He grew a little tired, perhaps, of playing with make-believe stage characters, and directing them, so he began to play with real ones, like God. But always kind.
No woman can resist making love to a man as indifferent as Sid Hahn appeared to be. They all tried their wiles20 on him: the red-haired ingénues, the blonde soubrettes, the stately leading ladies, the war horses, the old-timers, the ponies21, the prima donnas. He used to sit there in his great, luxurious22, book-lined inner office, smiling and inscrutable as a plump joss-house idol23 while the fair ones burnt incense24 and made offering of shew-bread. Figuratively, he kicked over the basket of shew-bread, and of the incense said, "Take away that stuff! It smells!"
Not that he hated women. He was afraid of them, at first. Then, from years of experience with the femininity of the theatre, not nearly afraid enough. So, early, he had locked that corner of his mind, and had thrown away the key. When, years after, he broke in the door, lo! (as they say when an elaborate figure of speech is being used) lo! the treasures therein had turned to dust and ashes.
It was he who had brought over from Paris to the American stage the famous Renée Paterne of the incorrigible25 eyes. She made a fortune and swept the country with her song about those delinquent27 orbs28. But when she turned them on Hahn, in their first interview in his office, he regarded her with what is known as a long, level look. She knew at that time not a word of English. Sid Hahn was ignorant of French. He said, very low, and with terrible calm to Wallie Ascher who was then acting29 as a sort of secretary, "Wallie, can't you do something to make her stop rolling her eyes around at me like that? It's awful! She makes me think of those heads you shy balls at, out at Coney. Take away my ink-well."
Renée had turned swiftly to Wallie and had said something to him in French. Sid Hahn cocked a quick ear. "What's that she said?"
"She says," translated the obliging and gifted Wallie, "that monsieur is a woman-hater."
"My God! I thought she didn't understand English!"
"She doesn't. But she's a woman. Not only that, she's a French woman. They don't need to know a language to understand it."
"Where did you get that, h'm? That wasn't included in your Berlitz course, was it?"
Wallie Ascher had grinned—that winning flash lighting30 up his dark, keen face. "No. I learned that in another school."
Wallie Ascher's early career in the theatre, if repeated here, might almost be a tiresome31 repetition of Hahn's beginning. And what Augustin Daly had been to Sid Hahn's imagination and ambition, Sid Hahn was to Wallie's. Wallie, though, had been born to the theatre—if having a tumbler for a father and a prestidigitator's foil for a mother can be said to be a legitimate32 entrance into the world of the theatre.
He had been employed about the old Thalia for years before Hahn noticed him. In the beginning he was a spindle-legged office boy in the upstairs suite33 of the firm of Hahn & Lohman, theatrical producers; the kind of office-boy who is addicted34 to shrill35, clear whistling unless very firmly dealt with. No one in the outer office realized how faultless, how rhythmic36 were the arpeggios and cadences37 that issued from those expertly puckered38 lips. There was about his performance an unerring precision. As you listened you felt that his ascent39 to the inevitable40 high note was a thing impossible of achievement. Up—up—up he would go, while you held your breath in suspense41. And then he took the high note—took it easily, insouciantly—held it, trilled it, tossed it.
"Now, look here," Miss Feldman would snap—Miss Feldman of the outer office typewriter—"look here, you kid. Any more of that bird warbling and you go back to the woods where you belong. This ain't a—a—"
"Aviary," suggested Wallie, almost shyly.
Miss Feldman glared. "How did you know that word?"
"I don't know," helplessly. "But it's the word, isn't it?"
Miss Feldman turned back to her typewriter. "You're too smart for your age, you are."
"I know it," Wallie had agreed, humbly42.
There's no telling where or how he learned to play the piano. He probably never did learn. He played it, though, as he whistled—brilliantly. No doubt it was as imitative and as unconscious, too, as his whistling had been. They say he didn't know one note from another, and doesn't to this day.
At twenty, when he should have been in love with at least three girls, he had fixed43 in his mind an image, a dream. And it bore no resemblance to twenty's accepted dreams. At that time he was living in one room (rear) of a shabby rooming house in Thirty-ninth Street. And this was the dream: By the time he was—well, long before he was thirty—he would have a bachelor apartment with a Jap, Saki. Saki was the perfect servant, noiseless, unobtrusive, expert. He saw little dinners just for four—or, at the most, six. And Saki, white-coated, deft44, sliding hot plates when plates should be hot; cold plates when plates should be cold. Then, other evenings, alone, when he wanted to see no one—when, in a silken lounging robe (over faultless dinner clothes, of course, and wearing the kind of collar you see in the back of the magazines) he would say, "That will do, Saki." Then, all evening, he would play softly to himself those little, intimate, wistful Schumanny things in the firelight with just one lamp glowing softly—almost sombrely—at the side of the piano (grand).
His first real meeting with Sid Hahn had had much to do with the fixing of this image. Of course he had seen Hahn hundreds of times in the office and about the theatre. They had spoken, too, many times. Hahn called him vaguely45, "Heh, boy!" but he grew to know him later as Wallie. From errand-boy, office-boy, call-boy he had become, by that time, a sort of unofficial assistant stage manager. No one acknowledged that he was invaluable46 about the place, but he was. When a new play was in rehearsal47 at the Thalia, Wallie knew more about props48, business, cues, lights, and lines than the director himself. For a long time no one but Wallie and the director were aware of this. The director never did admit it. But that Hahn should find it out was inevitable.
He was nineteen or thereabouts when he was sent, one rainy November evening, to deliver a play manuscript to Hahn at his apartment. Wallie might have refused to perform an errand so menial, but his worship of Hahn made him glad of any service, however humble49. He buttoned his coat over the manuscript, turned up his collar, and plunged50 into the cold drizzle51 of the November evening.
Hahn's apartment—he lived alone—was in the early fifties, off Fifth Avenue. For two days he had been ill with one of the heavy colds to which he was subject. He was unable to leave the house. Hence Wallie's errand.
It was Saki—or Saki's equivalent—who opened the door. A white-coated, soft-stepping Jap, world-old looking like the room glimpsed just beyond. Someone was playing the piano with one finger, horribly.
"You're to give this to Mr. Hahn. He's waiting for it."
"Genelmun come in," said the Jap, softly.
"No, he don't want to see me. Just give it to him, see?"
"Genelmun come in." Evidently orders.
"Oh, all right. But I know he doesn't want—"
Wallie turned down his collar with a quick flip52, looked doubtfully at his shoes, and passed through the glowing little foyer into the room beyond. He stood in the doorway53. He was scarcely twenty then, but something in him sort of rose, and gathered, and seethed54, and swelled55, and then hardened. He didn't know it then but it was his great resolve.
Sid Hahn was seated at the piano, a squat56, gnomelike little figure, with those big ears, and that plump face, and those soft eyes—the kindest eyes in the world. He did not stop playing as Wallie appeared. He glanced up at him, ever so briefly57, but kindly58, too, and went on playing the thing with one short forefinger59, excruciatingly. Wallie waited. He had heard somewhere that Hahn would sit at the piano thus, for hours, the tears running down his cheeks because of the beauty of the music he could remember but not reproduce; and partly because of his own inability to reproduce it.
The stubby little forefinger faltered60, stopped. He looked up at Wallie.
"God, I wish I could play!"
"Helps a lot."
"You play?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Oh, most anything I've heard once. And some things I kind of make up."
"Compose, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Play one of those."
So Wallie Ascher played one of those. Of course you know "Good Night—Pleasant Dreams." He hadn't named it then. It wasn't even published until almost two years later, but that was what he played for Sid Hahn. Since "After The Ball" no popular song has achieved the success of that one. No doubt it was cheap, and no doubt it was sentimental61, but so, too, are "The Suwanee River" and "My Old Kentucky Home," and they'll be singing those when more classical songs have long been forgotten. As Wallie played it his dark, thin face seemed to gleam and glow in the lamplight.
When he had finished Sid Hahn was silent for a moment. Then, "What're you going to do with it?"
"With what?"
"With what you've got. You know."
Wallie knew that he did not mean the song he had just played. "I'm going to—I'm going to do a lot with it."
"Yeh, but how?"
Wallie was looking down at his two lean brown hands on the keys. For a long minute he did not answer. Then: "By thinking about it all the time. And working like hell.... And you've got to be selfish ... You've got to be selfish ..."
As Sid Hahn stared at him, as though hypnotized, the Jap appeared in the doorway. Sid Hahn said, "Stay and have dinner with me," instead of what he had meant to say.
"Oh, I can't! Thanks. I—" He wanted to terribly, but the thought was too much.
"Better."
They had dinner together. Even under the influence of Hahn's encouragement and two glasses of mellow62 wine whose name he did not know, Wallie did not become fatuous63. They talked about music—neither of them knew anything about it, really. Wallie confessed that he used it as an intoxicant and a stimulant64.
"That's it!" cried Hahn, excitedly. "If I could play I'd have done more. More."
"Why don't you get one of those piano-players, What-you-call'ems?" Then, immediately, "No, of course not."
"Nah, that doesn't do it," said Hahn, quickly. "That's like adopting a baby when you can't have one of your own. It isn't the same. It isn't the same. It looks like a baby, and acts like a baby, and sounds like a baby—but it isn't yours. It isn't you. That's it! It isn't you!"
"Yeh," agreed Wallie, nodding. So perfectly65 did they understand each other, this ill-assorted pair.
It was midnight before Wallie left. They had both forgotten about the play manuscript whose delivery had been considered so important. The big room was gracious, quiet, soothing66. A fire flickered67 in the grate. One lamp glowed softly—almost sombrely.
As Wallie rose at last to go he shook himself slightly like one coming out of a trance. He looked slowly about the golden, mellow room. "Gee68!"
"Yes, but it isn't worth it," said Hahn, "after you've got it."
"That's what they all say"—grimly—"after they've got it."
The thing that had been born in Sid Hahn's mind thirty years before was now so plainly stamped on this boy's face that Hahn was startled into earnestness. "But I tell you, it's true! It's true!"
"Maybe. Some day, when I'm living in a place like this, I'll let you know if you're right."
In less than a year Wallie Ascher was working with Hahn. No one knew his official title or place. But "Ask Wallie. He'll know," had become a sort of slogan in the office. He did know. At twenty-one his knowledge of the theatre was infallible (this does not include plays unproduced; in this no one is infallible) and his feeling for it amounted to a sixth sense. There was something uncanny about the way he could talk about Lottie, for example, as if he had seen her; or Mrs. Siddons; or Mrs. Fiske when she was Minnie Maddern, the soubrette. It was as though he had the power to cast himself back into the past. No doubt it was that power which gave later to his group of historical plays (written by him between the ages of thirty and thirty-five) their convincingness and authority.
When Wallie was about twenty-three or -four Sid Hahn took him abroad on one of his annual scouting69 trips. Yearly, in the spring, Hahn swooped70 down upon London, Paris, Vienna, Berlin, seeking that of the foreign stage which might be translated, fumigated71, desiccated, or otherwise rendered suitable for home use. He sent Wallie on to Vienna, alone, on the trail of a musical comedy rumoured72 to be a second Merry Widow in tunefulness, chic73, and charm. Of course it wasn't. Merry Widows rarely repeat. Wallie wired Hahn, as arranged. The telegram is unimportant, perhaps, but characteristic.
MR. SID. HAHN,
Hotel Savoy,
London,
England.
It's a second all right but not a second Merry Widow. Heard of a winner in Budapest. Shall I go. Spent to-day from eleven to five running around the Ringstrasse looking for mythical74 creature known as the chic Viennese. After careful investigation75 wish to be quoted as saying the species if any is extinct.
WALLIE.
This, remember, was in the year 1913, B.W. Wallie, obeying instructions, went to Budapest, witnessed the alleged76 winner, found it as advertised, wired Hahn to that effect, and was joined by that gentleman three days later.
Budapest, at that time, was still Little Paris, only wickeder. A city of magnificent buildings, and unsalted caviar, and beautiful, dangerous women, and frumpy men (civilian) and dashing officers in red pants, and Cigány music, and cafés and paprika and two-horse droshkies. Buda, low and flat, lay on one side; Pest, high and hilly, perched picturesquely77 on the other. Between the two rolled the Blue Danube (which is yellow).
It was here that Hahn and Wallie found Mizzi Markis. Mizzi Markis, then a girl of nineteen, was a hod carrier.
Wallie had three days in Budapest before Hahn met him there. As the manager stepped from the train, looking geometrically square in a long ulster that touched his ears and his heels, Wallie met him with a bound.
"Hello, S.H.! Great to see you! Say, listen, I've found something. I've found something big!"
Hahn had never seen the boy so excited. "Oh, shucks! No play's as good as that."
"Play! It isn't a play."
"Why, you young idiot, you said it was good! You said it was darned good! You don't mean to tell me—"
"Oh, that! That's all right. It's good—or will be when you get through with it."
"What you talking about then? Here, let's take one of these things with two horses. Gee, you ought to smoke a fat black seegar and wear a silk hat when you ride in one of these! I feel like a parade." He was like a boy on a holiday, as always when in Europe.
"But let me tell you about this girl, won't you!"
"Oh, it's a girl! What's her name? What's she do?"
"Her name's Mizzi."
"Mizzi what?"
"I don't know. She's a hod carrier. She—"
"That's all right, Wallie. I'm here now. An ice bag on your head and real quiet for two-three days. You'll come round fine."
But Wallie was almost sulking. "Wait till you see her, S.H. She sings."
"Beautiful, is she?"
"No, not particularly. No."
"Wonderful voice, h'm?"
"N-n-no. I wouldn't say it was what you'd call exactly wonderful."
Sid Hahn stood up in the droshky and waved his short arms in windmill circles. "Well, what the devil does she do then, that's so good? Carry bricks!"
"She is good at that. When she balances that pail of mortar78 on her head and walks off with it, her arms hanging straight at her sides—"
But Sid Hahn's patience was at an end. "You're a humourist, you are. If I didn't know you I'd say you were drunk. I'll bet you are, anyway. You've been eating paprika, raw. You make me sick."
Inelegant, but expressive79 of his feelings. But Wallie only said, "You wait. You'll see."
Sid Hahn did see. He saw next day. Wallie woke him out of a sound sleep so that he might see. It was ten-thirty A.M. so that his peevishness80 was unwarranted. They had seen the play the night before and Hahn had decided81 that, translated and with interpolations (it was a comic opera), it would captivate New York. Then and there he completed the negotiations82 which Wallie had begun. Hahn was all for taking the first train out, but Wallie was firm. "You've got to see her, I tell you. You've got to see her."
Their hotel faced the Corso. The Corso is a wide promenade83 that runs along the Buda bank of the Danube. Across the river, on the hill, the royal palace looks down upon the little common people. In that day the monde and the demi-monde of Budapest walked on the Corso between twelve and one. Up and down. Up and down. The women, tall, dark, flashing-eyed, daringly dressed. The men sallow, meagre, and wearing those trousers which, cut very wide and flappy at the ankles, make them the dowdiest84 men in the world. Hahn's room and Wallie's were on the second floor of the hotel, and at a corner. One set of windows faced the Corso, the river, and Pest on the hill. The other set looked down upon a new building being erected85 across the way. It was on this building that Mizzi Markis worked as hod carrier.
The war accustomed us to a million women in overalls86 doing the work of a million men. We saw them ploughing, juggling87 steel bars, making shells, running engines, stoking furnaces, handling freight. But to these two American men, at that time, the thing at which these labouring women were employed was dreadful and incredible.
Said Wallie "By the time we've dressed, and had breakfast, and walked a little and everything, it'll be almost noon. And noon's the time. After they've eaten their lunch. But I want you to see her before."
By now his earnestness had impressed Hahn who still feigned88 an indifference89 he did not feel. It was about 11:30 when Wallie propelled him by the arm to the unfinished building across the way. And there he met Mizzi.
They were just completing the foundation. The place was a busy hive. Back and forth90 with pails. Back and forth with loads of bricks.
"What's the matter with the men?" was Hahn's first question.
Wallie explained. "They do the dainty work. They put one brick on top of the other, with a dab91 of mortar between. But none of the back-breaking stuff for them. The women do that."
And it was so. They were down in the pits mixing the mortar, were the women. They were carrying great pails of it. They were hauling bricks up one ladder and down. They wore short, full skirts with a musical-comedy-chorus effect. Some of them looked seventy and some seventeen. It was fearful work for a woman. A keen wind was blowing across the river. Their hands were purple.
"Pick Mizzi," said Wallie. "If you can pick her I'll know I'm right. But I know it, anyway."
Five minutes passed. The two men stood silent. "The one with the walk and the face," said Hahn, then. Which wasn't very bright of him, because they all walked and they all had faces. "Going up the pit-ladder now. With the pail on her head." Wallie gave a little laugh of triumph. But then, Hahn wouldn't have been Hahn had he not been able to pick a personality when he saw it.
Years afterward92 the reviewers always talked of Mizzi's walk. They called it her superb carriage. They didn't know that you have to walk very straight, on the balls of your feet, with your hips93 firm, your stomach held in flat, your shoulders back, your chest out, your chin out and a little down, if you are going to be at all successful in balancing a pail of mortar on your head. After a while that walk becomes a habit.
"Watch her with that pail," said Wallie.
Mizzi filled the pail almost to the top with the heavy white mixture. She filled it quickly, expertly. The pail, filled, weighed between seventeen and twenty kilos. One kilo is equal to about two and one fifth pounds. The girl threw down her scoop94, stooped, grasped the pail by its two handles, and with one superb, unbroken motion raised the pail high in her two strong arms and placed it on her head. Then she breathed deeply, once, set her whole figure, turned stiffly, and was off with it. Sid Hahn took on a long breath as though he himself had just accomplished95 the gymnastic feat96.
"Well, so far it's pretty good. But I don't know that the American stage is clamouring for any hod carriers and mortar mixers, exactly."
A whistle blew. Twelve o'clock. Bricks, mortar, scoops97, shovels98 were abandoned. The women, in their great clod-hopping shoes, flew chattering99 to the tiny hut where their lunch boxes were stored. The men followed more slowly, a mere100 handful of them. Not one of them wore overalls or apron101. Out again with their bundles and boxes of food—very small bundles. Very tiny boxes. They ate ravenously102 the bread and sausage and drank their beer in great gulps103. Fifteen minutes after the whistle had blown the last crumb104 had vanished.
"Now, then," said Wallie, and guided Hahn nearer. He looked toward Mizzi. Everyone looked toward her. Mizzi stood up, brushing crumbs105 from her lap. She had a little four-cornered black shawl, folded cross-wise, over her head and tied under her chin. Her face was round and her cheeks red. The shawl, framing this, made her look very young and cherubic.
She did not put her hands on her hips, or do any of those story-book things. She grinned, broadly, showing strong white teeth made strong and white through much munching106 of coarse black bread; not yet showing the neglect common to her class. She asked a question in a loud, clear voice.
"What's that?" asked Hahn.
"She's talking a kind of hunky Hungarian, I guess. The people here won't speak German, did you know that? They hate it."
The crowd shouted back with one voice. They settled themselves comfortably, sitting or standing107. Their faces held the broad smile of anticipation108.
"She asked them what they want her to sing. They told her. It's the same every day."
Mizzi Markis stood there before them in the mud, and clay, and straw of the building débris. And she sang for them a Hungarian popular song of the day which, translated, sounds idiotic109 and which runs something like this:
A hundred geese in a row Going into the coop. At the head of the procession A stick over his shoulder—
No, you can't do it. It means less than nothing that way, and certainly would not warrant the shrieks110 of mirth that came from the audience gathered round the girl. Still, when you recall the words of "A Hot Time":
When you hear dem bells go ding-ling-ling, All join round and sweetly you must sing And when the words am through in the chorus all join in There'll be a hot time In the old town To-night. My Ba- By.
And yet it swept this continent, and Europe, and in Japan they still think it's our national anthem111.
When she had finished, the crowd gave a roar of delight, and clapped their hands, and stamped their feet, and shouted. She had no unusual beauty. Her voice was untrained though possessed112 of strength and flexibility113. It wasn't what she had sung, surely. You heard the song in a hundred cafés. Every street boy whistled it. It wasn't that expressive pair of shoulders, exactly. It wasn't a certain soothing tonal quality that made you forget all the things you'd been trying not to remember.
There is something so futile114 and unconvincing about an attempted description of an intangible thing. Some call it personality; some call it magnetism115; some a rhythm sense; and some, genius. It's all these things, and none of them. Whatever it is, she had it. And whatever it is, Sid Hahn has never failed to recognize it.
So now he said, quietly, "She's got it."
"You bet she's got it!" from Wallie. "She's got more than Renée Paterne ever had. A year of training and some clothes—"
"You don't need to tell me. I'm in the theatrical business, myself."
"I'm sorry," stiffly.
But Hahn, too, was sorry immediately. "You know how I am, Wallie. I like to run a thing off by myself. What do you know about her? Find out anything?"
"Well, a little. She doesn't seem to have any people. And she's decent. Kind of a fierce kid, I guess, and fights when offended. They say she's Polish, not Hungarian. Her mother was a peasant. Her father—nobody knows. I had a dickens of a time finding out anything. The most terrible language in the world—Hungarian. They'll stick a b next to a k and follow it up with a z and put an accent mark over the whole business and call it a word. Last night I followed her home. And guess what!"
"What?" said Hahn, obligingly.
"On her way she had to cross the big square—the one they call Gisela Tér, with all the shops around it. Well, when she came to Gerbeaud's—"
"What's Gerbeaud's?"
"That's the famous tea room and pastry116 shop where all the swells117 go and guzzle118 tea with rum in it and eat cakes—and say! It isn't like our pastry that tastes like sawdust covered with shaving soap. Marvellous stuff, this is!"
After all, he was barely twenty-four. So Hahn said, good-naturedly, "All right, all right. We'll go there this afternoon and eat an acre of it. Go on. When she came to Gerbeaud's...?"
"Well, when she came to Gerbeaud's she stopped and stood there, outside. There was a strip of red carpet from the door to the street. You know—the kind they have at home when there's a wedding on Fifth Avenue. There she stood at the edge of the carpet, waiting, her face, framed in that funny little black shawl, turned toward the window, and the tail of the little shawl kind of waggling in the wind. It was cold and nippy. I waited, too. Finally I sort of strolled over to her—I knew she couldn't any more than knock me down—and said, kind of casual, 'What's doing?' She looked up at me, like a kid, in that funny shawl. She knew I was an Englees, right away. I guess I must have a fine, open countenance119. And I had motioned toward the red carpet, and the crowded windows. Anyway, she opens up with a regular burst of fireworks Hungarian, in that deep voice of hers. Not only that, she acted it out. In two seconds she had on an imaginary coronet and a court train. And haughty120! Gosh! I was sort of stumped121, but I said, 'You don't say!' and waited some more. And then they flung open the door of the tea shop thing. At the same moment up dashed an equipage—you couldn't possibly call it anything less—with flunkeys all over the outside, like trained monkeys. The people inside the shop stood up, with their mouths full of cake, and out came an old frump with a terrible hat and a fringe. And it was the Archduchess, and her name is Josefa."
"Your story interests me strangely, boy," Hahn said, grinning, "but I don't quite make you. Do archduchesses go to tea rooms for tea? And what's that got to do with our gifted little hod carrier?"
"This duchess does. Believe me, those tarts122 are good enough for the Queen of Hearts, let alone a duchess, no matter how arch. But the plot of the piece is this. The duchess person goes to Gerbeaud's about twice a week. And they always spread a red carpet for her. And Mizzi always manages to cut away in time to stand there in front of Gerbeaud's and see her come out. She's a gorgeous mimic123, that little kid. And though I couldn't understand a word she said I managed to get out of it just this: That some day they're going to spread a red carpet for Mizzi and she's going to walk down it in glory. If you'd seen her face when she said it, S.H., you wouldn't laugh."
"I wouldn't laugh anyway," said Hahn, seriously.
And that's the true story of Mizzi Markis's beginning. Few people know it.
There they were, the three of them. And of the three, Mizzi's ambition seemed to be the fiercest, the most implacable. She worked like a horse, cramming124 English, French, singing. In some things she was like a woman of thirty; in others a child of ten. Her gratitude125 to Hahn was pathetic. No one ever doubted that he was in love with her almost from the first—he who had resisted the professional beauties of three decades.
You know she wasn't—and isn't—a beauty, even in that portrait of her by Sargent, with her two black-haired, stunning-looking boys, one on either side. But she was one of those gorgeously healthy women whose very presence energizes126 those with whom she comes in contact. And then there was about her a certain bounteousness127. There's no other word for it, really. She reminded you of those gracious figures you see posed for pictures entitled "Autumn Harvest."
While she was studying she had a little apartment with a middle-aged128 woman to look after her, and she must have been a handful. A born cook, she was, and Hahn and Wallie used to go there to dinner whenever she would let them. She cooked it herself. Hahn would give up any engagement for a dinner at Mizzi's. When he entered her little sitting room his cares seemed to drop from him. She never got over cutting bread as the peasant women do it—the loaf held firmly against her breast, the knife cutting toward her. Hahn used to watch her and laugh. Sometimes she would put on the little black head-shawl of her Budapest days and sing the street-song about the hundred geese in a row. A delightful129, impudent130 figure.
With the very first English she learned she told Hahn and Wallie that some day they were going to spread a fine red carpet for her to tread upon and that all the world would gaze on her with envy. It was in her mind a symbol typifying all that there was of earthly glory.
"It'll be a long time before they do any red carpeting for you, my girl," Sid Hahn had said.
She turned on him fiercely. "I will not rest—I will not eat—I will not sleep—I will not love—until I have it."
Which was, of course, an exaggerated absurdity131.
"Oh, what rot!" Wallie Ascher had said, angrily, and then he had thought of his own symbol of success, and his own resolve. And his face had hardened. Sid Hahn looked at the two of them; very young, both of them, very gifted, very electric. Very much in love with each other, though neither would admit it even in their own minds. Both their stern young faces set toward the goal which they thought meant happiness.
Now, Sid Hahn had never dabbled132 in this new stuff—you know—complexes and fixed ideas and images. But he was a very wise man, and he did know to what an extent these two were possessed by ambition for that which they considered desirable.
He must have thought it over for weeks. He was in love with Mizzi, remember. And his fondness for Wallie was a thing almost paternal133. He watched these two for a long, long time, a queer, grim little smile on his gargoyle face. And then his mind was made up. He had always had his own way. He must have had a certain terrible enjoyment134 in depriving himself of the one thing he wanted most in the world—the one thing he wanted more than he had ever wanted anything.
He decided that Destiny—a ponderous135, slow-moving creature at best—needed a little prodding136 from him. His plans were simple, as all effective plans are.
Mizzi had been in America just a year and a half. Her development was amazing, but she was far from being the finished product that she became in later years. Hahn decided to chance it. Mizzi had no fear of audiences. He had tried her out on that. An audience stimulated137 her. She took it to her breast. She romped138 with it.
He found a play at last. A comedy, with music. It was frankly139 built for Mizzi. He called Wallie Ascher into his office.
"I wouldn't try her out here for a million. New York's too fly. Some little thing might be wrong—you know how they are. And all the rest would go for nothing. The kindest audience in the world—when they like you. And the cruelest when they don't. We'll go on the road for two weeks. Then we'll open at the Blackstone in Chicago. I think this girl has got more real genius than any woman since—since Bernhardt in her prime. Five years from now she won't be singing. She'll be acting. And it'll be acting."
"Aren't you forcing things just a little?" asked Wallie, coolly.
"Oh, no. No. Anyway, it's just a try-out. By the way, Wallie, I'll probably be gone almost a month. If things go pretty well in Chicago I'll run over to French Lick for eight or ten days and see if I can't get a little of this stiffness out of my old bones. Will you do something for me?"
"Sure."
"Pack a few clothes and go up to my place and live there, will you? The Jap stays on, anyway. The last time I left it alone things went wrong. You'll be doing me a favour. Take it and play the piano, and have your friends in, and boss the Jap around. He's stuck on you, anyway. Says he likes to hear you play."
He stayed away six weeks. And any one who knows him knows what hardship that was. He loved New York, and his own place, and his comfort, and his books; and hotel food gave him hideous140 indigestion.
Mizzi's first appearance was a moderate success. It was nothing like the sensation of her later efforts. She wasn't ready, and Hahn knew it. Mizzi and her middle-aged woman companion were installed at the Blackstone Hotel, which is just next door to the Blackstone Theatre, as any one is aware who knows Chicago. She was advertised as the Polish comedienne, Mizzi Markis, and the announcements hinted at her royal though remote ancestry141. And on the night the play opened, as Mizzi stepped from the entrance of her hotel on her way to the stage door, just forty or fifty feet away, there she saw stretched on the pavement a scarlet path of soft-grained carpet for her feet to tread. From the steps of the hotel to the stage door of the theatre, there it lay, a rosy142 line of splendour.
The newspapers played it up as a publicity143 stunt144. Every night, while the play lasted, the carpet was there. It was rolled up when the stage door closed upon her. It was unrolled and spread again when she came out after the performance. Hahn never forgot her face when she first saw it, and realized its significance. The look was there on the second night, and on the third, but after that it faded, vanished, and never came again. Mizzi had tasted of the golden fruit and found it dry and profitless, without nourishment145 or sweetness.
The show closed in the midst of a fairly good run. It closed abruptly146, without warning. Together they came back to New York. Just outside New York Hahn knocked at the door of Mizzi's drawing room and stuck his round, ugly face in at the opening.
"Let's surprise Wallie," he said.
"Yes," said Mizzi, listlessly.
"He doesn't know the show's closed. We'll take a chance on his being home for dinner. Unless you're too tired."
"I'm not tired."
The Jap admitted them, and Hahn cut off his staccato exclamations147 with a quick and smothering148 hand. They tiptoed into the big, gracious, lamp-lighted room.
Wallie was seated at the piano. He had on a silk dressing149 gown with a purple cord. One of those dressing gowns you see in the haberdashers' windows, and wonder who buys them. He looked very tall in it, and rather distinguished150, but not quite happy. He was playing as they came in. They said, "Boo!" or something idiotic like that. He stood up. And his face!
"Why, hello!" he said, and came forward, swiftly. "Hello! Hello!"
"Hello!" Hahn answered; "Not to say hello-hello."
Wallie looked at the girl. "Hello, Mizzi."
"Hello," said Mizzi.
"For God's sake stop saying 'hello!'" roared Hahn.
They both looked at him absently, and then at each other again.
Hahn flung his coat and hat at the Jap and rubbed his palms briskly together. "Well, how did you like it?" he said, and slapped Wallie on the back. "How'd you like it—the place I mean, and the Jap boy and all? H'm?"
"Very much," Wallie answered, formally. "Very nice."
"You'll be having one of your own some day, soon. That's sure."
"I suppose so," said Wallie, indifferently.
"I would like to go home," said Mizzi, suddenly, in her precise English.
At that Wallie leaped out of his lounging coat. "I'll take you! I'll—I'll be glad to take you."
Hahn smiled a little, ruefully. "We were going to have dinner here, the three of us. But if you're tired, Mizzi. I'm not so chipper myself when it comes to that." He looked about the room, gratefully. "It's good to be home."
Wallie, hat in hand, was waiting in the doorway, Mizzi, turning to go, suddenly felt two hands on her shoulders. She was whirled around. Hahn—he had to stand on tiptoe to do it—kissed her once on the mouth, hard. Then he gave her a little shove toward the door. "Tell Wallie about the red carpet," he said.
"I will not," Mizzi replied, very distinctly. "I hate red carpets."
Then they were gone. Hahn hardly seemed to notice that they had left. There were, I suppose, the proper number of Good-byes, and See-you-to-morrows, and Thank yous.
Sid Hahn stood there a moment in the middle of the room, very small, very squat, rather gnomelike, but not at all funny. He went over to the piano and seated himself, his shoulders hunched151, his short legs clearing the floor. With the forefinger of his right hand he began to pick out a little tune26. Not a sad little tune. A Hungarian street song. He did it atrociously. The stubby forefinger came down painstakingly152 on the white keys. Suddenly the little Jap servant stood in the doorway. Hahn looked up. His cheeks were wet with tears.
"God! I wish I could play!" he said.
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1
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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2
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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5
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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6
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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facets
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| n.（宝石或首饰的）小平面( facet的名词复数 )；（事物的）面；方面 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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14
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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gargoyle
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| n.笕嘴 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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21
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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22
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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23
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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24
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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25
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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26
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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28
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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29
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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30
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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32
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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33
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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38
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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40
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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41
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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42
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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43
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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44
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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45
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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48
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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49
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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50
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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51
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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52
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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53
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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54
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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55
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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56
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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57
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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58
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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59
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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60
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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61
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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62
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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63
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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64
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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65
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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66
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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67
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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69
scouting
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| 守候活动，童子军的活动 | |
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70
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
fumigated
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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73
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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74
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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75
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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76
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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77
picturesquely
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78
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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79
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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80
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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81
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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82
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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83
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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84
dowdiest
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| adj.（指衣服）不漂亮的，俗气的，（穿着）邋遢的( dowdy的最高级 ) | |
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85
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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86
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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87
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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88
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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89
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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90
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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91
dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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92
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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93
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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94
scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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95
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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96
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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97
scoops
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| n.小铲( scoop的名词复数 )；小勺；一勺[铲]之量；（抢先刊载、播出的）独家新闻v.抢先报道( scoop的第三人称单数 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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98
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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99
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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100
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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101
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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102
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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103
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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104
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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105
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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106
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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107
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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108
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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109
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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110
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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112
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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113
flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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114
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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115
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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116
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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117
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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118
guzzle
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| v.狂饮，暴食 | |
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119
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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120
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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121
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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122
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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123
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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124
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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125
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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126
energizes
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| v.给予…精力，能量( energize的第三人称单数 )；使通电 | |
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127
bounteousness
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128
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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129
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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130
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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131
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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132
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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133
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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134
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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135
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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136
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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137
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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138
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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139
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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140
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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141
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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142
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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143
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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144
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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145
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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146
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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147
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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148
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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149
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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150
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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151
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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152
painstakingly
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| adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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