THEA noticed that Bowers 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 soloists. 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 perplexed. "I need the money awfully," she
said frankly; "but I haven't got the right clothes for that
sort of thing. I suppose I'd better try to get some."
Ottenburg spoke 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 daugh-
ters, 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 re-
plied 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 rehearsal, 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 chuckled
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 remarkable
opportunity. Ottenburg had brought it about by merely
lifting a finger, apparently. 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 parlor. She was ner-
vous 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 vigor-
ously that the china ornaments on the top of the piano
rattled. 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, somber mirror. She was wearing
her pale-blue broadcloth church dress, which was not un-
becoming but was certainly too heavy to wear to any-
body's house in the evening. Her slippers 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 portieres, beckoned to Thea, and
made an inarticulate sound in her throat. Thea jumped
up and ran into the hall, where Ottenburg stood smiling,
his caped 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 carnation 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
raucous 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 any-
thing for Mrs. Henry Nathanmeyer, you must put your-
self 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 noth-
ing to do with Chicago. Her perceptions--or her grand-
mother'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 cer-
tain 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 aca-
demic manner amused her.
"What makes you take such an interest in singers?"
she asked curiously. "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 meekly 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 wretch! 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 confidentially, "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
perfectly 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 complex-
ion, an eagle nose, and sharp, glittering eyes. She wore a
black velvet dress with a long train, and a diamond necklace
and earrings. She took Thea to the other side of the table
and presented her to Mr. Nathanmeyer, who apologized
for not rising, pointing to a slippered 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 caressing. He kept Thea stand-
ing 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 Otten-
burg 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 beauti-
ful to look at. Ottenburg had told her that Mr. Nathan-
meyer had a very fine collection of medals and cameos,
and his fingers looked as if they had never touched any-
thing but delicately cut surfaces.
He asked Thea where Moonstone was; how many in-
habitants 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 grand-
father 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 kindly, 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 help you. She has a great
deal of taste. When you are dressed, come down and let us
go over some of your songs with Mr. Ottenburg."
After Thea went away with the maid, Ottenburg came
up to Mrs. Nathanmeyer and stood beside her, resting his
hand on the high back of her chair.
"Well, GNADIGE FRAU, do you like her?"
"I think so. I liked her when she talked to father. She
will always get on better with men."
Ottenburg leaned over her chair. "Prophetess! Do you
see what I meant?"
"About her beauty? She has great possibilities, but you
can never tell about those Northern women. They look so
strong, but they are easily battered. The face falls so early
under those wide cheek-bones. A single idea--hate or
greed, or even love--can tear them to shreds. She is
nineteen? Well, in ten years she may have quite a regal
beauty, or she may have a heavy, discontented face, all
dug out in channels. That will depend upon the kind of
ideas she lives with."
"Or the kind of people?" Ottenburg suggested.
The old Jewess folded her arms over her massive chest,
drew back her shoulders, and looked up at the young man.
"With that hard glint in her eye? The people won't mat-
ter much, I fancy. They will come and go. She is very
much interested in herself--as she should be."
Ottenburg frowned. "Wait until you hear her sing. Her
eyes are different then. That gleam that comes in them
is curious, isn't it? As you say, it's impersonal."
The object of this discussion came in, smiling. She had
chosen neither the blue nor the yellow gown, but a pale
rose-color, with silver butterflies. Mrs. Nathanmeyer
lifted her lorgnette and studied her as she approached. She
caught the characteristic things at once: the free, strong
walk, the calm carriage of the head, the milky whiteness of
the girl's arms and shoulders.
"Yes, that color is good for you," she said approvingly.
"The yellow one probably killed your hair? Yes; this
does very well indeed, so we need think no more about
it."
Thea glanced questioningly at Ottenburg. He smiled
and bowed, seemed perfectly satisfied. He asked her to
stand in the elbow of the piano, in front of him, instead of
behind him as she had been taught to do.
"Yes," said the hostess with feeling. "That other posi-
tion is barbarous."
Thea sang an aria from `Gioconda,' some songs by Schu-
mann which she had studied with Harsanyi, and the "TAK
FOR DIT ROD," which Ottenburg liked.
"That you must do again," he declared when they fin-
ished this song. "You did it much better the other day.
You accented it more, like a dance or a galop. How did
you do it?"
Thea laughed, glancing sidewise at Mrs. Nathanmeyer.
"You want it rough-house, do you? Bowers likes me to sing
it more seriously, but it always makes me think about a
story my grandmother used to tell."
Fred pointed to the chair behind her. "Won't you rest
a moment and tell us about it? I thought you had some
notion about it when you first sang it for me."
Thea sat down. "In Norway my grandmother knew a
girl who was awfully in love with a young fellow. She
went into service on a big dairy farm to make enough
money for her outfit. They were married at Christmas-
time, and everybody was glad, because they'd been sigh-
ing around about each other for so long. That very sum-
mer, the day before St. John's Day, her husband caught
her carrying on with another farm-hand. The next night
all the farm people had a bonfire and a big dance up on
the mountain, and everybody was dancing and singing. I
guess they were all a little drunk, for they got to seeing
how near they could make the girls dance to the edge
of the cliff. Ole--he was the girl's husband--seemed the
jolliest and the drunkest of anybody. He danced his wife
nearer and nearer the edge of the rock, and his wife began
to scream so that the others stopped dancing and the
music stopped; but Ole went right on singing, and he
danced her over the edge of the cliff and they fell hundreds
of feet and were all smashed to pieces."
Ottenburg turned back to the piano. "That's the idea!
Now, come Miss Thea. Let it go!"
Thea took her place. She laughed and drew herself up
out of her corsets, threw her shoulders high and let them
drop again. She had never sung in a low dress before, and
she found it comfortable. Ottenburg jerked his head and
they began the song. The accompaniment sounded more
than ever like the thumping and scraping of heavy feet.
When they stopped, they heard a sympathetic tapping
at the end of the room. Old Mr. Nathanmeyer had come
to the door and was sitting back in the shadow, just inside
the library, applauding with his cane. Thea threw him a
bright smile. He continued to sit there, his slippered foot
on a low chair, his cane between his fingers, and she
glanced at him from time to time. The doorway made a
frame for him, and he looked like a man in a picture, with
the long, shadowy room behind him.
Mrs. Nathanmeyer summoned the maid again. "Selma
will pack that gown in a box for you, and you can take it
home in Mr. Ottenburg's carriage."
Thea turned to follow the maid, but hesitated. "Shall
I wear gloves?" she asked, turning again to Mrs. Nathan-
meyer.
"No, I think not. Your arms are good, and you will feel
freer without. You will need light slippers, pink--or
white, if you have them, will do quite as well."
Thea went upstairs with the maid and Mrs. Nathan-
meyer rose, took Ottenburg's arm, and walked toward her
husband. "That's the first real voice I have heard in
Chicago," she said decidedly. "I don't count that stupid
Priest woman. What do you say, father?"
Mr. Nathanmeyer shook his white head and smiled
softly, as if he were thinking about something very agree-
able. "SVENSK SOMMAR," he murmured. "She is like a
Swedish summer. I spent nearly a year there when I was
a young man," he explained to Ottenburg.
When Ottenburg got Thea and her big box into the car-
riage, it occurred to him that she must be hungry, after
singing so much. When he asked her, she admitted that
she was very hungry, indeed.
He took out his watch. "Would you mind stopping
somewhere with me? It's only eleven."
"Mind? Of course, I wouldn't mind. I wasn't brought
up like that. I can take care of myself."
Ottenburg laughed. "And I can take care of myself, so
we can do lots of jolly things together." He opened the
carriage door and spoke to the driver. "I'm stuck on the
way you sing that Grieg song," he declared.
When Thea got into bed that night she told herself that
this was the happiest evening she had had in Chicago. She
had enjoyed the Nathanmeyers and their grand house, her
new dress, and Ottenburg, her first real carriage ride, and
the good supper when she was so hungry. And Ottenburg
WAS jolly! He made you want to come back at him. You
weren't always being caught up and mystified. When
you started in with him, you went; you cut the breeze, as
Ray used to say. He had some go in him.
Philip Frederick Ottenburg was the third son of the
great brewer. His mother was Katarina Furst, the daughter
and heiress of a brewing business older and richer than
Otto Ottenburg's. As a young woman she had been a con-
spicuous figure in German-American society in New York,
and not untouched by scandal. She was a handsome, head-
strong girl, a rebellious and violent force in a provincial
society. She was brutally sentimental and heavily ro-
mantic. Her free speech, her Continental ideas, and her
proclivity for championing new causes, even when she
did not know much about them, made her an object of
suspicion. She was always going abroad to seek out in-
tellectual affinities, and was one of the group of young
women who followed Wagner about in his old age, keep-
ing at a respectful distance, but receiving now and then
a gracious acknowledgment that he appreciated their
homage. When the composer died, Katarina, then a ma-
tron with a family, took to her bed and saw no one for a
week.
After having been engaged to an American actor, a
Welsh socialist agitator, and a German army officer,
Fraulein Furst at last placed herself and her great brewery
interests into the trustworthy hands of Otto Ottenburg,
who had been her suitor ever since he was a clerk, learning
his business in her father's office.
Her first two sons were exactly like their father. Even as
children they were industrious, earnest little tradesmen.
As Frau Ottenburg said, "she had to wait for her Fred,
but she got him at last," the first man who had altogether
pleased her. Frederick entered Harvard when he was
eighteen. When his mother went to Boston to visit him,
she not only got him everything he wished for, but she
made handsome and often embarrassing presents to all
his friends. She gave dinners and supper parties for the
Glee Club, made the crew break training, and was a gen-
erally disturbing influence. In his third year Fred left the
university because of a serious escapade which had some-
what hampered his life ever since. He went at once into
his father's business, where, in his own way, he had made
himself very useful.
Fred Ottenburg was now twenty-eight, and people could
only say of him that he had been less hurt by his mother's
indulgence than most boys would have been. He had never
wanted anything that he could not have it, and he might
have had a great many things that he had never wanted.
He was extravagant, but not prodigal. He turned most of
the money his mother gave him into the business, and
lived on his generous salary.
Fred had never been bored for a whole day in his life.
When he was in Chicago or St. Louis, he went to ball-
games, prize-fights, and horse-races. When he was in
Germany, he went to concerts and to the opera. He
belonged to a long list of sporting-clubs and hunting-
clubs, and was a good boxer. He had so many natural
interests that he had no affectations. At Harvard he kept
away from the aesthetic circle that had already discovered
Francis Thompson. He liked no poetry but German poetry.
Physical energy was the thing he was full to the brim of,
and music was one of its natural forms of expression. He
had a healthy love of sport and art, of eating and drink-
ing. When he was in Germany, he scarcely knew where
the soup ended and the symphony began.
Read next: PART III. STUPID FACES#Chapter 5
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