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trails, the far-away peaks of the snowy range, the wind and
the eagles, that old man and the first telegraph message.
When the first movement ended, Thea's hands and feet
were cold as ice. She was too much excited to know any-
thing except that she wanted something desperately, and
when the English horns gave out the theme of the Largo,
she knew that what she wanted was exactly that. Here
were the sand hills, the grasshoppers and locusts, all the
things that wakened and chirped in the early morning;
the reaching and reaching of high plains, the immeas-
urable yearning of all flat lands. There was home in it,
too; first memories, first mornings long ago; the amaze-
ment of a new soul in a new world; a soul new and yet old,
that had dreamed something despairing, something glori-
ous, in the dark before it was born; a soul obsessed by what
it did not know, under the cloud of a past it could not re-
call.
If Thea had had much experience in concert-going, and
had known her own capacity, she would have left the
hall when the symphony was over. But she sat still,
scarcely knowing where she was, because her mind had
been far away and had not yet come back to her. She was
startled when the orchestra began to play again--the
entry of the gods into Walhalla. She heard it as people
hear things in their sleep. She knew scarcely anything
about the Wagner operas. She had a vague idea that
"Rhinegold" was about the strife between gods and men;
she had read something about it in Mr. Haweis's book long
ago. Too tired to follow the orchestra with much under-
standing, she crouched down in her seat and closed her
eyes. The cold, stately measures of the Walhalla music
rang out, far away; the rainbow bridge throbbed out into
the air, under it the wailing of the Rhine daughters and
the singing of the Rhine. But Thea was sunk in twilight;
it was all going on in another world. So it happened that
with a dull, almost listless ear she heard for the first time
that troubled music, ever-darkening, ever-brightening,
which was to flow through so many years of her life.
When Thea emerged from the concert hall, Mrs. Lorch's
predictions had been fulfilled. A furious gale was beating
over the city from Lake Michigan. The streets were full of
cold, hurrying, angry people, running for street-cars and
barking at each other. The sun was setting in a clear,
windy sky, that flamed with red as if there were a great
fire somewhere on the edge of the city. For almost the
first time Thea was conscious of the city itself, of the con-
gestion of life all about her, of the brutality and power of
those streams that flowed in the streets, threatening to
drive one under. People jostled her, ran into her, poked
her aside with their elbows, uttering angry exclamations.
She got on the wrong car and was roughly ejected by the
conductor at a windy corner, in front of a saloon. She stood
there dazed and shivering. The cars passed, screaming as
they rounded curves, but either they were full to the doors,
or were bound for places where she did not want to go.
Her hands were so cold that she took off her tight kid
gloves. The street lights began to gleam in the dusk. A
young man came out of the saloon and stood eyeing her
questioningly while he lit a cigarette. "Looking for a
friend to-night?" he asked. Thea drew up the collar of her
cape and walked on a few paces. The young man shrugged
his shoulders and drifted away.
Thea came back to the corner and stood there irreso-
lutely. An old man approached her. He, too, seemed to be
waiting for a car. He wore an overcoat with a black fur
collar, his gray mustache was waxed into little points, and
his eyes were watery. He kept thrusting his face up near
hers. Her hat blew off and he ran after it--a stiff, pitiful
skip he had--and brought it back to her. Then, while
she was pinning her hat on, her cape blew up, and he held
it down for her, looking at her intently. His face worked
as if he were going to cry or were frightened. He leaned
over and whispered something to her. It struck her as
curious that he was really quite timid, like an old beggar.
"Oh, let me ALONE!" she cried miserably between her teeth.
He vanished, disappeared like the Devil in a play. But
in the mean time something had got away from her; she
could not remember how the violins came in after the
horns, just there. When her cape blew up, perhaps-- Why
did these men torment her? A cloud of dust blew in her
face and blinded her. There was some power abroad in the
world bent upon taking away from her that feeling with
which she had come out of the concert hall. Everything
seemed to sweep down on her to tear it out from under
her cape. If one had that, the world became one's enemy;
people, buildings, wagons, cars, rushed at one to crush it
under, to make one let go of it. Thea glared round her
at the crowds, the ugly, sprawling streets, the long lines
of lights, and she was not crying now. Her eyes were
brighter than even Harsanyi had ever seen them. All
these things and people were no longer remote and negli-
gible; they had to be met, they were lined up against her,
they were there to take something from her. Very well;
they should never have it. They might trample her to
death, but they should never have it. As long as she lived
that ecstasy was going to be hers. She would live for it,
work for it, die for it; but she was going to have it, time
after time, height after height. She could hear the crash
of the orchestra again, and she rose on the brasses. She
would have it, what the trumpets were singing! She
would have it, have it,--it! Under the old cape she
pressed her hands upon her heaving bosom, that was a
little girl's no longer.
VI
ONE afternoon in April, Theodore Thomas, the con-
ductor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, had
turned out his desk light and was about to leave his office
in the Auditorium Building, when Harsanyi appeared in
the doorway. The conductor welcomed him with a hearty
hand-grip and threw off the overcoat he had just put on.
He pushed Harsanyi into a chair and sat down at his bur-
dened desk, pointing to the piles of papers and railway
folders upon it.
"Another tour, clear to the coast. This traveling is the
part of my work that grinds me, Andor. You know what
it means: bad food, dirt, noise, exhaustion for the men and
for me. I'm not so young as I once was. It's time I quit
the highway. This is the last tour, I swear!"
"Then I'm sorry for the `highway.' I remember when I
first heard you in Pittsburg, long ago. It was a life-line you
threw me. It's about one of the people along your high-
way that I've come to see you. Whom do you consider the
best teacher for voice in Chicago?"
Mr. Thomas frowned and pulled his heavy mustache.
"Let me see; I suppose on the whole Madison Bowers is
the best. He's intelligent, and he had good training. I
don't like him."
Harsanyi nodded. "I thought there was no one else.
I don't like him, either, so I hesitated. But I suppose he
must do, for the present."
"Have you found anything promising? One of your own
students?"
"Yes, sir. A young Swedish girl from somewhere in
Colorado. She is very talented, and she seems to me to
have a remarkable voice."
"High voice?"
"I think it will be; though her low voice has a beauti-
ful quality, very individual. She has had no instruction
in voice at all, and I shrink from handing her over to any-
body; her own instinct about it has been so good. It is
one of those voices that manages itself easily, without
thinning as it goes up; good breathing and perfect relaxa-
tion. But she must have a teacher, of course. There is a
break in the middle voice, so that the voice does not all
work together; an unevenness."
Thomas looked up. "So? Curious; that cleft often
happens with the Swedes. Some of their best singers have
had it. It always reminds me of the space you so often see
between their front teeth. Is she strong physically?"
Harsanyi's eye flashed. He lifted his hand before him
and clenched it. "Like a horse, like a tree! Every time
I give her a lesson, I lose a pound. She goes after what she
wants."
"Intelligent, you say? Musically intelligent?"
"Yes; but no cultivation whatever. She came to me like
a fine young savage, a book with nothing written in it.
That is why I feel the responsibility of directing her."
Harsanyi paused and crushed his soft gray hat over his
knee. "She would interest you, Mr. Thomas," he added
slowly. "She has a quality--very individual."
"Yes; the Scandinavians are apt to have that, too. She
can't go to Germany, I suppose?"
"Not now, at any rate. She is poor."
Thomas frowned again "I don't think Bowers a really
first-rate man. He's too petty to be really first-rate; in his
nature, I mean. But I dare say he's the best you can do,
if you can't give her time enough yourself."
Harsanyi waved his hand. "Oh, the time is nothing--she
may have all she wants. But I cannot teach her to sing."
"Might not come amiss if you made a musician of her,
however," said Mr. Thomas dryly.
"I have done my best. But I can only play with a voice,
and this is not a voice to be played with. I think she will
be a musician, whatever happens. She is not quick, but
she is solid, real; not like these others. My wife says that
with that girl one swallow does not make a summer."
Mr. Thomas laughed. "Tell Mrs. Harsanyi that her
remark conveys something to me. Don't let yourself get
too much interested. Voices are so often disappointing;
especially women's voices. So much chance about it, so
many factors."
"Perhaps that is why they interest one. All the intelli-
gence and talent in the world can't make a singer. The
voice is a wild thing. It can't be bred in captivity. It is
a sport, like the silver fox. It happens."
Mr. Thomas smiled into Harsanyi's gleaming eye.
"Why haven't you brought her to sing for me?"
"I've been tempted to, but I knew you were driven to
death, with this tour confronting you."
"Oh, I can always find time to listen to a girl who has a
voice, if she means business. I'm sorry I'm leaving so
soon. I could advise you better if I had heard her. I can
sometimes give a singer suggestions. I've worked so much
with them."
"You're the only conductor I know who is not snobbish
about singers." Harsanyi spoke warmly.
"Dear me, why should I be? They've learned from me,
and I've learned from them." As they rose, Thomas took
the younger man affectionately by the arm. "Tell me
about that wife of yours. Is she well, and as lovely as ever?
And such fine children! Come to see me oftener, when I get
back. I miss it when you don't."
The two men left the Auditorium Building together.
Harsanyi walked home. Even a short talk with Thomas
always stimulated him. As he walked he was recalling an
evening they once spent together in Cincinnati.
Harsanyi was the soloist at one of Thomas's concerts
there, and after the performance the conductor had taken
him off to a RATHSKELLER where there was excellent German
cooking, and where the proprietor saw to it that Thomas
had the best wines procurable. Thomas had been working
with the great choru...
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