Thea had been in Chicago for two months. She had a small church position which partly paid her living expenses, 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, fatigued5 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 accompanist, 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 conspicuously6 ignoring the efforts of the performers. At the end of a number he looked up from his paper long enough to sweep the applauding audience with a contemptuous eye. His face was intelligent, with a narrow lower jaw7, 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 gullible8 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 genial9 old choirmaster in Boston, full of enthusiasm at seventy. But Madison was of the colder stuff of his grandfathers, a long line of New Hampshire 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 keeping him abroad at his studies for years. Madison worked under the best teachers, and afterward10 sang in England in oratorio11. 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 succeeded, but Bowers did not.
Bowers had all the qualities which go to make a good teacher—except generosity12 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 teaching the delivery of oratorio he was without a rival. Singers 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 jades13 of Asia”) humbly14 endured his sardonic15 humor for the sake of what he could do for them. He was not at all above helping16 a very lame17 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 Sängerfest to Sängerfest. Choral societies flourished in all the rich lake cities and river cities. The soloists18 came to Chicago to coach with Bowers, and he often took long journeys to hear and instruct a chorus. He was intensely avaricious19, and from these semi-professionals he reaped a golden harvest. They fed his pockets and they fed his ever-hungry contempt, his scorn of himself and his accomplices20. The more money he made, the more parsimonious21 he became. His wife was so shabby that she never went anywhere with him, which suited him exactly. Because his clients were luxurious22 and extravagant23, he took a revengeful pleasure in having his shoes halfsoled a second time, and in getting the last wear out of a broken collar. He had first been interested in Thea Kronborg because of her bluntness, her country roughness, and her manifest carefulness about money. The mention of Harsanyi’s name always made him pull a wry24 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 cigarette and wore the same soft felt hat he had worn all last winter. He never carried a cane25 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 eyebrows26. “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 scattered27 music on the piano.
Bowers grimaced28 good-humoredly at her over the three checks he was pinning together. He liked to play at a rough game of banter29 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 marketing30 your wares in the world, a little smoothness goes farther than a great deal of talent sometimes. If you happen 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 elastic31 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 musingly32; “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 remember 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 mannerism33 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, imposing34 woman rustled35 in, bringing with her a glow of animation36 which pervaded37 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 vigor38, unchallenged authority, gracious good-humor, and absolute confidence in her person, 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 filigree39. She wore a beautiful little green hat with three long green feathers sticking straight up in front, a little cape40 made of velvet41 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 cargo42 of splendid merchandise.
Mrs. Priest nodded graciously to Thea, coquettishly to Bowers, and asked him to untie43 her veil for her. She threw her splendid wrap on a chair, the yellow lining44 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 abdomen45, lifted her chin, worked the muscles of her cheeks back and forth46 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 vehemence47 at all, he handled her roughly; poked48 and hammered her massive person with cold satisfaction, almost as if he were taking out a grudge49 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 lustrous50 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 goodnatured 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 reproof51 were lost upon Mrs. Priest; although the lady did murmur52 one day when she took Bowers home in her carriage, “How handsome your afternoon girl would be if she did not have that unfortunate squint53; it gives her that vacant Swede look, like an animal.” That amused Bowers. He liked to watch the germination54 and growth of antipathies55.
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 recitals56 in New York in November, to devote himself 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 become 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 indifference57, something hard and skeptical58. Her clothes, too, were different, like the attire59 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 disorder60 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 bosom61 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 mince62 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 defiance63, her hand clenched64 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 vault65 over. You must not begin to fret66 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 discordantly67. “No use urging me. I don’t get on with them at all. My spine68 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 Mighty69 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, softening70, “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.”
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1
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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8
gullible
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| adj.易受骗的；轻信的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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soloists
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| n.独唱者，独奏者，单飞者( soloist的名词复数 ) | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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parsimonious
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| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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50
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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51
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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53
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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germination
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| n.萌芽，发生；萌发；生芽；催芽 | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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56
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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57
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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58
skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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59
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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60
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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61
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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62
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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63
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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64
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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66
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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67
discordantly
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| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
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68
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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69
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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70
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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71
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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