One afternoon in April, Theodore Thomas, the conductor of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, had turned out his desk light and was about to leave his office in the Auditorium1 Building, when Harsanyi appeared in the doorway2. The conductor welcomed him with a hearty3 hand-grip and threw off the overcoat he had just put on. He pushed Harsanyi into a chair and sat down at his burdened desk, pointing to the piles of papers and railway folders4 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, exhaustion5 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 highway 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 Bowers6 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 promising7? 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 remarkable8 voice.”
“High voice?”
“I think it will be; though her low voice has a beautiful quality, very individual. She has had no instruction in voice at all, and I shrink from handing her over to anybody; 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 relaxation9. 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 unevenness10.”
Thomas looked up. “So? Curious; that cleft11 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 physically12?”
Harsanyi’s eye flashed. He lifted his hand before him and clenched13 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 cultivation14 whatever. She came to me like a fine young savage15, 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.............