Part 14 (1/2)
”Precious little. A fellow has got to have good lungs for blowing his own horn, else he is drowned in the general chorus. That's the worst of music as a profession; personality is everything. You must be perfect or peculiar. The latter alternative is the greater help. If Arlt would grow a head of hair, or wear a dinner napkin instead of a necktie, it would improve his chances wonderfully.”
”But, if the right people would take him up?” Thayer suggested.
”They won't; or, if they do, they'll drop him as a monkey drops a hot chestnut. Arlt plays like an artist; but he blushes, and he forgets to keep his cuffs in sight. He is as unworldly as he is conventional.
Society doesn't care to fuss with him.”
Thayer looked grave.
”I am having my own share of good times, Dane. It seems as if I ought to be able--”
Bobby interrupted him.
”You can't. No man can hoist his brother into success. It is bound to be every man for himself. You can work over Arlt till the crack of doom, and that's all the good it will do him. People will say 'How n.o.ble of Mr. Thayer!' and they will burn moral tapers about your feet; and meanwhile they'll leave Arlt sitting on the floor alone in the dark.”
”Nevertheless, I think I shall keep on with the experiment,” Thayer said stubbornly.
”Good luck go with you! But it won't. You can't make the next man's reputation; he must do it for himself. All art is bound to be a bit selfish; but music is the worst of the lot. I don't mean composing, of course, but the interpreting end of it. It's such beastly personal work; all the nooks and corners of your individuality show up across the footlights. They are commented upon, and they have to pa.s.s muster.
Artistically, you and Arlt are as alike as two peas; personally, you are positive, he is negative.'”
There was a pause. Then Thayer said quietly,--”I think I shall sing the Damrosch _Danny Deever_. It has a stunning accompaniment.”
The committee of the Fresh Air Fund concert showed themselves a potent trio, and their concert became recognized as the official finale of the musical season. Their meetings had been fraught with interest, for time, place and programme all came under detailed discussion. It must be at a time neither too soon after Easter to collide with it, nor too late to have a place in the season's gayety. The place must be lofty enough to lure the world of fas.h.i.+on; yet not so lofty as to deter the simpler folk to whom the white and gold of the Waldorf ballroom was a mere name, as remote from their lives as the _Pet.i.t Trianon_. The programme must be cla.s.sic enough to satisfy the critic; yet tuneful enough not to bore the amateur, and accordingly it roamed from Brahms to Molloy, and included that first Slavonic Dance of Dvorak which sets the pulses of Pagan and Philistine alike to tingling with a barbarous joy in the mere consciousness of living. Thayer alone had refused to accept dictation at the hands of the committee.
”If I consent to sing, I must choose my own songs,” he had said quietly to Mrs. Lloyd Avalons, when she had suggested a modern French love song in place of the Handel aria he had selected.
”Oh, but it is so late in the season, and everybody is tired,” she had urged gayly. ”If we give them too heavy things on a warm night, they may go to sleep.”
”Then I shall proceed to wake them up,” he replied. ”And, for the second number, the _Danny Deever_, I think.”
”Mr. Thayer! That grewsome thing! Why don't you sing _My Desire_, if you are so anxious for an American song?”
”I think _Danny_ will be better. Then we will consider it settled.” And it was not until she was out on the stairs that Mrs. Lloyd Avalons realized she had been defeated and then dismissed by the man whose patroness she was a.s.suming to be.
”No matter,” she reflected; ”we've got to pay Signora Cantabella, and we can insist upon her singing something a little more digestible. Mr.
Thayer is cranky; but we get him and that little Arlt for nothing, so I suppose we mustn't be too critical.”
For once, Mrs. Lloyd Avalons showed her good sense. In all truth, beggars should not be choosers, whether the alms be of bread crusts or of high art.
Lorimer dined with Beatrix, that night. Contrary to the custom of the Danes, they did not linger over the meal; and, as soon as they left the table, Beatrix and Lorimer strolled away to the conservatory at the back of the house. The yellow sunset light was still gilding the place, and through the wide-open windows the night breeze crept in, softly stirring the heavy palm leaves and scattering the scent of a few late violets over all the air.
Refusing the seat which Lorimer silently pointed out to her, Beatrix paced restlessly up and down the broad middle walk.
”I think I am nervous, to-night,” she said, with an odd little laugh. ”I have been feeling, all day long, as if things were going to happen.”
”Things generally do happen,” Lorimer said lightly, as he sauntered along by her side.
”Yes; but something unusual, something uncanny.”
Lorimer threw back his head and laughed.