Thea noticed that Bowers1 took rather more pains with her now that Fred Ottenburg often dropped in at eleven-thirty to hear her lesson. After the lesson the young man took Bowers off to lunch with him, and Bowers liked good food when another man paid for it. He encouraged Fred’s visits, and Thea soon saw that Fred knew exactly why.
One morning, after her lesson, Ottenburg turned to Bowers. “If you’ll lend me Miss Thea, I think I have an engagement for her. Mrs. Henry Nathanmeyer is going to give three musical evenings in April, first three Saturdays, and she has consulted me about soloists2. For the first evening she has a young violinist, and she would be charmed to have Miss Kronborg. She will pay fifty dollars. Not much, but Miss Thea would meet some people there who might be useful. What do you say?”
Bowers passed the question on to Thea. “I guess you could use the fifty, couldn’t you, Miss Kronborg? You can easily work up some songs.”
Thea was perplexed3. “I need the money awfully4,” she said frankly5; “but I haven’t got the right clothes for that sort of thing. I suppose I’d better try to get some.”
Ottenburg spoke6 up quickly, “Oh, you’d make nothing out of it if you went to buying evening clothes. I’ve thought of that. Mrs. Nathanmeyer has a troop of daughters, a perfect seraglio, all ages and sizes. She’ll be glad to fit you out, if you aren’t sensitive about wearing kosher clothes. Let me take you to see her, and you’ll find that she’ll arrange that easily enough. I told her she must produce something nice, blue or yellow, and properly cut. I brought half a dozen Worth gowns through the customs for her two weeks ago, and she’s not ungrateful. When can we go to see her?”
“I haven’t any time free, except at night,” Thea replied in some confusion.
“To-morrow evening, then? I shall call for you at eight. Bring all your songs along; she will want us to give her a little rehearsal7, perhaps. I’ll play your accompaniments, if you’ve no objection. That will save money for you and for Mrs. Nathanmeyer. She needs it.” Ottenburg chuckled8 as he took down the number of Thea’s boarding-house.
The Nathanmeyers were so rich and great that even Thea had heard of them, and this seemed a very remarkable9 opportunity. Ottenburg had brought it about by merely lifting a finger, apparently10. He was a beer prince sure enough, as Bowers had said.
The next evening at a quarter to eight Thea was dressed and waiting in the boarding-house parlor11. She was nervous and fidgety and found it difficult to sit still on the hard, convex upholstery of the chairs. She tried them one after another, moving about the dimly lighted, musty room, where the gas always leaked gently and sang in the burners. There was no one in the parlor but the medical student, who was playing one of Sousa’s marches so vigorously that the china ornaments12 on the top of the piano rattled13. In a few moments some of the pension-office girls would come in and begin to two-step. Thea wished that Ottenburg would come and let her escape. She glanced at herself in the long, somber14 mirror. She was wearing her pale-blue broadcloth church dress, which was not unbecoming but was certainly too heavy to wear to anybody’s house in the evening. Her slippers15 were run over at the heel and she had not had time to have them mended, and her white gloves were not so clean as they should be. However, she knew that she would forget these annoying things as soon as Ottenburg came.
Mary, the Hungarian chambermaid, came to the door, stood between the plush portières, beckoned17 to Thea, and made an inarticulate sound in her throat. Thea jumped up and ran into the hall, where Ottenburg stood smiling, his caped18 cloak open, his silk hat in his white-kid hand. The Hungarian girl stood like a monument on her flat heels, staring at the pink carnation19 in Ottenburg’s coat. Her broad, pockmarked face wore the only expression of which it was capable, a kind of animal wonder. As the young man followed Thea out, he glanced back over his shoulder through the crack of the door; the Hun clapped her hands over her stomach, opened her mouth, and made another raucous20 sound in her throat.
“Isn’t she awful?” Thea exclaimed. “I think she’s half-witted. Can you understand her?”
Ottenburg laughed as he helped her into the carriage. “Oh, yes; I can understand her!” He settled himself on the front seat opposite Thea. “Now, I want to tell you about the people we are going to see. We may have a musical public in this country some day, but as yet there are only the Germans and the Jews. All the other people go to hear Jessie Darcey sing, ‘O, Promise Me!’ The Nathanmeyers are the finest kind of Jews. If you do anything for Mrs. Henry Nathanmeyer, you must put yourself into her hands. Whatever she says about music, about clothes, about life, will be correct. And you may feel at ease with her. She expects nothing of people; she has lived in Chicago twenty years. If you were to behave like the Magyar who was so interested in my buttonhole, she would not be surprised. If you were to sing like Jessie Darcey, she would not be surprised; but she would manage not to hear you again.”
“Would she? Well, that’s the kind of people I want to find.” Thea felt herself growing bolder.
“You will be all right with her so long as you do not try to be anything that you are not. Her standards have nothing to do with Chicago. Her perceptions—or her grandmother’s, which is the same thing—were keen when all this was an Indian village. So merely be yourself, and you will like her. She will like you because the Jews always sense talent, and,” he added ironically, “they admire certain qualities of feeling that are found only in the white-skinned races.”
Thea looked into the young man’s face as the light of a street lamp flashed into the carriage. His somewhat academic manner amused her.
“What makes you take such an interest in singers?” she asked curiously21. “You seem to have a perfect passion for hearing music-lessons. I wish I could trade jobs with you!”
“I’m not interested in singers.” His tone was offended. “I am interested in talent. There are only two interesting things in the world, anyhow; and talent is one of them.”
“What’s the other?” The question came meekly22 from the figure opposite him. Another arc-light flashed in at the window.
Fred saw her face and broke into a laugh. “Why, you’re guying me, you little wretch23! You won’t let me behave properly.” He dropped his gloved hand lightly on her knee, took it away and let it hang between his own. “Do you know,” he said confidentially24, “I believe I’m more in earnest about all this than you are.”
“About all what?”
“All you’ve got in your throat there.”
“Oh! I’m in earnest all right; only I never was much good at talking. Jessie Darcey is the smooth talker. ‘You notice the effect I get there—’ If she only got ’em, she’d be a wonder, you know!”
Mr. and Mrs. Nathanmeyer were alone in their great library. Their three unmarried daughters had departed in successive carriages, one to a dinner, one to a Nietszche club, one to a ball given for the girls employed in the big department stores. When Ottenburg and Thea entered, Henry Nathanmeyer and his wife were sitting at a table at the farther end of the long room, with a reading-lamp and a tray of cigarettes and cordial-glasses between them. The overhead lights were too soft to bring out the colors of the big rugs, and none of the picture lights were on. One could merely see that there were pictures there. Fred whispered that they were Rousseaus and Corots, very fine ones which the old banker had bought long ago for next to nothing. In the hall Ottenburg had stopped Thea before a painting of a woman eating grapes out of a paper bag, and had told her gravely that there was the most beautiful Manet in the world. He made her take off her hat and gloves in the hall, and looked her over a little before he took her in. But once they were in the library he seemed perfectly25 satisfied with her and led her down the long room to their hostess.
Mrs. Nathanmeyer was a heavy, powerful old Jewess, with a great pompadour of white hair, a swarthy complexion26, an eagle nose, and sharp, glittering eyes. She wore a black velvet27 dress with a long train, and a diamond necklace and earrings28. She took Thea to the other side of the table and presented her to Mr. Nathanmeyer, who apologized for not rising, pointing to a slippered29 foot on a cushion; he said that he suffered from gout. He had a very soft voice and spoke with an accent which would have been heavy if it had not been so caressing30. He kept Thea standing31 beside him for some time. He noticed that she stood easily, looked straight down into his face, and was not embarrassed. Even when Mrs. Nathanmeyer told Ottenburg to bring a chair for Thea, the old man did not release her hand, and she did not sit down. He admired her just as she was, as she happened to be standing, and she felt it. He was much handsomer than his wife, Thea thought. His forehead was high, his hair soft and white, his skin pink, a little puffy under his clear blue eyes. She noticed how warm and delicate his hands were, pleasant to touch and beautiful to look at. Ottenburg had told her that Mr. Nathanmeyer had a very fine collection of medals and cameos, and his fingers looked as if they had never touched anything but delicately cut surfaces.
He asked Thea where Moonstone was; how many inhabitants it had; what her father’s business was; from what part of Sweden her grandfather came; and whether she spoke Swedish as a child. He was interested to hear that her mother’s mother was still living, and that her grandfather had played the oboe. Thea felt at home standing there beside him; she felt that he was very wise, and that he some way took one’s life up and looked it over kindly32, as if it were a story. She was sorry when they left him to go into the music-room.
As they reached the door of the music-room, Mrs. Nathanmeyer turned a switch that threw on many lights. The room was even larger than the library, all glittering surfaces, with two Steinway pianos.
Mrs. Nathanmeyer rang for her own maid. “Selma will take you upstairs, Miss Kronborg, and you will find some dresses on the bed. Try several of them, and take the one you like best. Selma will he............