Pages: 68 69 70 71 72 [1-41] [41-72] |
give up for it all that one must give up for it, then you
must hate the cheap thing just as hard. I tell you, there
is such a thing as creative hate! A contempt that drives
you through fire, makes you risk everything and lose
everything, makes you a long sight better than you ever
knew you could be." As she glanced at Dr. Archie's face,
Thea stopped short and turned her own face away. Her
eyes followed the path of the searchlight up the river and
rested upon the illumined headland.
"You see," she went on more calmly, "voices are acci-
dental things. You find plenty of good voices in common
women, with common minds and common hearts. Look
at that woman who sang ORTRUDE with me last week. She's
new here and the people are wild about her. `Such a beau-
tiful volume of tone!' they say. I give you my word she's
as stupid as an owl and as coarse as a pig, and any one
who knows anything about singing would see that in an
instant. Yet she's quite as popular as Necker, who's a
great artist. How can I get much satisfaction out of the
enthusiasm of a house that likes her atrociously bad per-
formance at the same time that it pretends to like mine?
If they like her, then they ought to hiss me off the stage.
We stand for things that are irreconcilable, absolutely.
You can't try to do things right and not despise the peo-
ple who do them wrong. How can I be indifferent? If
that doesn't matter, then nothing matters. Well, some-
times I've come home as I did the other night when you
first saw me, so full of bitterness that it was as if my mind
were full of daggers. And I've gone to sleep and wakened
up in the Kohlers' garden, with the pigeons and the white
rabbits, so happy! And that saves me." She sat down
on the piano bench. Archie thought she had forgotten all
about him, until she called his name. Her voice was soft
now, and wonderfully sweet. It seemed to come from some-
where deep within her, there were such strong vibrations
in it. "You see, Dr. Archie, what one really strives for in
art is not the sort of thing you are likely to find when
you drop in for a performance at the opera. What one
strives for is so far away, so deep, so beautiful"--she
lifted her shoulders with a long breath, folded her hands
in her lap and sat looking at him with a resignation that
made her face noble,--"that there's nothing one can
say about it, Dr. Archie."
Without knowing very well what it was all about,
Archie was passionately stirred for her. "I've always be-
lieved in you, Thea; always believed," he muttered.
She smiled and closed her eyes. "They save me: the old
things, things like the Kohlers' garden. They are in every-
thing I do."
"In what you sing, you mean?"
"Yes. Not in any direct way,"--she spoke hurriedly,
--"the light, the color, the feeling. Most of all the feeling.
It comes in when I'm working on a part, like the smell of
a garden coming in at the window. I try all the new
things, and then go back to the old. Perhaps my feelings
were stronger then. A child's attitude toward everything
is an artist's attitude. I am more or less of an artist now,
but then I was nothing else. When I went with you to
Chicago that first time, I carried with me the essentials,
the foundation of all I do now. The point to which I could
go was scratched in me then. I haven't reached it yet, by
a long way."
Archie had a swift flash of memory. Pictures passed
before him. "You mean," he asked wonderingly, "that
you knew then that you were so gifted?"
Thea looked up at him and smiled. "Oh, I didn't know
anything! Not enough to ask you for my trunk when I
needed it. But you see, when I set out from Moonstone
with you, I had had a rich, romantic past. I had lived a
long, eventful life, and an artist's life, every hour of it.
Wagner says, in his most beautiful opera, that art is only
a way of remembering youth. And the older we grow the
more precious it seems to us, and the more richly we can
present that memory. When we've got it all out,--the
last, the finest thrill of it, the brightest hope of it,"--she
lifted her hand above her head and dropped it,--"then
we stop. We do nothing but repeat after that. The stream
has reached the level of its source. That's our measure."
There was a long, warm silence. Thea was looking hard
at the floor, as if she were seeing down through years and
years, and her old friend stood watching her bent head.
His look was one with which he used to watch her long
ago, and which, even in thinking about her, had become a
habit of his face. It was full of solicitude, and a kind of
secret gratitude, as if to thank her for some inexpressible
pleasure of the heart. Thea turned presently toward the
piano and began softly to waken an old air:--
"Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dear-ie."
Archie sat down and shaded his eyes with his hand. She
turned her head and spoke to him over her shoulder.
"Come on, you know the words better than I. That's
right."
"We'll gae down by Clouden's side,
Through the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves that sweetly glide,
To the moon sae clearly.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear,
Thou'rt to love and Heav'n sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dear-ie!"
"We can get on without Landry. Let's try it again, I
have all the words now. Then we'll have `Sweet Afton.'
Come: `CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES'--"
X
OTTENBURG dismissed his taxicab at the 91st Street
entrance of the Park and floundered across the drive
through a wild spring snowstorm. When he reached the
reservoir path he saw Thea ahead of him, walking rapidly
against the wind. Except for that one figure, the path was
deserted. A flock of gulls were hovering over the reservoir,
seeming bewildered by the driving currents of snow that
whirled above the black water and then disappeared with-
in it. When he had almost overtaken Thea, Fred called
to her, and she turned and waited for him with her back
to the wind. Her hair and furs were powdered with snow-
flakes, and she looked like some rich-pelted animal, with
warm blood, that had run in out of the woods. Fred
laughed as he took her hand.
"No use asking how you do. You surely needn't feel
much anxiety about Friday, when you can look like
this."
She moved close to the iron fence to make room for him
beside her, and faced the wind again. "Oh, I'm WELL enough,
in so far as that goes. But I'm not lucky about stage
appearances. I'm easily upset, and the most perverse
things happen."
"What's the matter? Do you still get nervous?"
"Of course I do. I don't mind nerves so much as getting
numbed," Thea muttered, sheltering her face for a mo-
ment with her muff. "I'm under a spell, you know, hoo-
dooed. It's the thing I WANT to do that I can never do.
Any other effects I can get easily enough."
"Yes, you get effects, and not only with your voice.
That's where you have it over all the rest of them; you're
as much at home on the stage as you were down in
Panther Canyon--as if you'd just been let out of a cage.
Didn't you get some of your ideas down there?"
Thea nodded. "Oh, yes! For heroic parts, at least. Out
of the rocks, out of the dead people. You mean the idea
of standing up under things, don't you, meeting catas-
trophe? No fussiness. Seems to me they must have been
a reserved, somber people, with only a muscular language,
all their movements for a purpose; simple, strong, as if
they were dealing with fate bare-handed." She put her
gloved fingers on Fred's arm. "I don't know how I can
ever thank you enough. I don't know if I'd ever have got
anywhere without Panther Canyon. How did you know
that was the one thing to do for me? It's the sort of thing
nobody ever helps one to, in this world. One can learn how
to sing, but no singing teacher can give anybody what I
got down there. How did you know?"
"I didn't know. Anything else would have done as well.
It was your creative hour. I knew you were getting a lot,
but I didn't realize how much."
Thea walked on in silence. She seemed to be thinking.
"Do you know what they really taught me?" she
came out suddenly. "They taught me the inevitable
hardness of human life. No artist gets far who doesn't
know that. And you can't know it with your mind. You
have to realize it in your body, somehow; deep. It's an
animal sort of feeling. I sometimes think it's the strongest
of all. Do you know what I'm driving at?"
"I think so. Even your audiences feel it, vaguely: that
you've sometime or other faced things that make you
different."
Thea turned her back to the wind, wiping away the snow
that clung to her brows and lashes. "Ugh!" she exclaimed;
"no matter how long a breath you have, the storm has
a longer. I haven't signed for next season, yet, Fred. I'm
holding out for a big contract: forty performances. Necker
won't be able to do much next winter. It's going to be one
of those between seasons; the old singers are too old, and
the new ones are too new. They might as well risk me as
anybody. So I want good terms. The next five or six
years are going to be my best."
"You'll get what you demand, if you are uncompro-
mising. I'm safe in congratulating you now."
Thea laughed. "It's a little early. I may not get it at
all. They don't seem to be breaking their necks to meet
me. I can go back to Dresden."
As they turned the curve and walked westward they
got the wind from the side, and talking was easier.
Fred lowered his collar and shook the snow from his
shoulders. "Oh, I don't mean on the contract particularly.
I congratulate you on what you can do, Thea, and on all
that lies behind what you do. On the life that's led up to
it, and on being able to care so much. That, after all, is
the unusual thing."
She looked at him sharply, with a certain apprehension.
"Care? Why shouldn't I care? If I didn't, I'd be in a
bad way. What else have I got?" She stopped with a
challenging interrogation, but Ottenburg did not reply.
"You mean," she persisted, "that you don't care as much
as you used to?"
"I care about your success, of course." Fred fell into a
slower pace. Thea felt at once that he was talking seri-
ously and had dropped the tone of half-ironical exaggera-
tion he had used with her of late years. "And I'm
grateful to you for what you demand ...
[Next page]