Our Little Girl/Chapter 12
XII
GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER AND—
It was a chance encounter with Rose Manning that brought to Dorothy a realization of the fact that fame in the concert world was not far away. Dorothy was emerging from Schirmer’s on Forty-third Street, where she had journeyed in quest of “encore songs,” when she almost ran into Rose, who was tripping eastward into the tea-dancing district on the arm of a young man who obviously went to Cornell. Rose disengaged herself from her escort and flung herself upon Dorothy with startling effusiveness.
“Why Dorothy Loamford!” she cried affectionately. “I haven’t seen you in years! Where have you been keeping yourself? I guess you don’t talk to us unimportant people any more, with a recital ’n’ everything!"
Dorothy found herself returning Rose’s kisses.
“Meet Mr. Schuster,” said Rose, shoving forward the young man, who had been left to inspect the windows of the music shop. “This is Miss Reitz, who is singing in Aeolian Hall next week. We used to go to conservatory together but she’s gone way ahead of poor little me. She’s a real, honest concert singer. Wait till you hear her!”
Dorothy acknowledged Mr. Schuster’s greeting.
“Tt sure is good to see you again, Dot,” Rose rattled on. “I’ve often wondered when you'd make your début. We all knew you'd be one of the big stars very soon. You can bet I’ll be there! I'll make Mr. Schuster take me. He hates good music, but we'll show him—what, Dorothy?”
“I'll be very glad to come,” said the abashed Mr. Schuster, who began to wonder what function he had at this love feast.
“I always said you’d be the first one of us to make good,” continued Rose. “It’s simply wonderful to think that you’re going to make your début! You must come and have tea with me real soon, Dot.”
Dorothy remembered that a concert artist was a busy woman.
“T’ll look up my engagements,” she replied with no little dignity. “And when will we hear from you?”
“From me?”
Rose laughed and toddled about in a small circle.
“T haven’t sung a note since I graduated. Maybe you'll hear from me in the Follies. But really, my folks simply won’t let me go on the stage. Isn’t that a crime?”
Mr. Schuster nudged Rose.
“Won't be any tables left,” he muttered.
“Oh, you must excuse me!” exclaimed Rose, kissing Dorothy again. “I’m so sorry I kept you. Please ring me up real soon. We'll see you at the recital, anyhow? It was gorgeous to see you again. Goo’-bye, Dottie dear!”
Mr. Schuster slapped his hat by way of valedictory and continued down the street with Rose.
A short forecast of musical events in an evening paper also helped to show Dorothy where she belonged.
“An unusually busy week,” it ran, “includes recitals by Josef Hofmann, Elly Ney, Bachaus, Fritz Kreisler, Efrem Zimbalist and Erika Morini, along with a good half-dozen débutantes. John McCormack will give the first of six recitals at the Hippodrome, and other vocalists to be heard include Emilio de Gogorza, Anna Case, and several newcomers, including Dorothy Reitz, who, by the way, is a niece of the celebrated hat impresario.”
The reference to Uncle Elliott, thought Dorothy, was a little unnecessary, but she noted with pleasure that she was the only new artist to be mentioned by name in the summary. She bought six copies of the paper.
Suddenly she recalled that she had an appointment with Soedlich at six-thirty. Her mother hadn’t been satisfied with Dorothy’s request that dinner be postponed until late. Why? Dorothy had an important engagement downtown. With whom? Did it matter? Yes, it certainly did matter! Well, it was about some music. Couldn’t that be done just as well at some other time? No—Dorothy had to have it. Since when were the music ‘stores open so late? It—it wasn’t a music store; it was an engagement with Tommy—about publicity—very important.
Mrs. Loamford wanted to know why Dorothy took such pains with her coiffure for a visit to Tommy’s office.
“We might go out to dinner,” explained Dorothy.
“I wish you’d tell me exactly,” expostulated her mother, “whether you’re coming home to dinner or not. I expect Uncle Elliott and I don’t intend to keep him waiting all night.”
“Then don’t wait for me,” retorted Dorothy. “I guess Tommy’ll take me out to dinner.”
Soedlich’s studio occupied the first floor of a house on Fiftieth Street, near Sixth Avenue. What had been a front parlor before the apartmental era had been divided into an office and a dressing-room. The dressing-room included a mirror, two chairs, and a couch. Soedlich’s music-room occupied the space once devoted to a back parlor, and a pantry overlooking a cement backyard had been converted into a kitchenette.
Dorothy was surprised to observe that Soedlich’s secretary, a thin, haughty spinster whom one would have expected to carry a lorgnette, and who did, was still on duty.
As Dorothy entered, the secretary consulted a diary.
“You are Miss Reitz? Mr. Soedlich will be ready for you presently. Take a seat.”
As Dorothy sat in a battered, green plush-covered chair, old, but not antique, the stories that she had heard concerning Soedlich began to surge up. It was hard to reconcile these racy tales with the ponderous lecturer who had exasperated the students at St. Cecilia with his dull drawl—and yet they would not down. Had he really deserted his first wife, eloped with his second and fled to Europe to marry a third? Was it true that he held virtue inimical to bel canto? Were his coaching sessions really amorous episodes rather than instruction in the noble art of song?
The girls had told her some of these rumors, and her mother had not only dropped suggestions but thrown them at her forcibly. What would she do if Soedlich practised his fabled technique on her? Disposing of youths who showed an uncommon inclination to kiss or to hold hands was one thing. Evading the embraces of a sensual music master was something else. She would be alone with him in the studio. Studio! The word had a wanton sound. Of course, Madame Schneider had had a studio, but a woman’s studio was distinct from a man’s. It was always in the man’s studio that The Thing Happened.
She found herself growing nervous. She fidgeted on the chair. She couldn’t retreat now without making her- self ridiculous before the secretary. She wondered what she could say to that dignitary that would make a loop- hole for escape.
The secretary, however, seemed to be little disposed to indulge in conversation. She disregarded Dorothy, and scratched away at a little mound of papers, which Dorothy decided was the last batch of monthly statements. Two raucous buzzes near the desk caused the secretary to look up wearily.
“You can go in now.”
Dorothy looked questioningly at the secretary for instructions.
“Go right through.”
It was too late to withdraw. She would face Soedlich, But if he-
Dorothy passed through the dressing-room and found the door to the music-room open. Soedlich stood near the entrance and greeted her with a smile. She noticed that he wore a cutaway but there was still much of the unkempt, uncouth lecturer whom she had known at St. Cecilia’s.
“Miss Reitz? How do you do?"
He put forward his hand and clasped Dorothy’s.
“Let’s have a little talk first,” he suggested.
He sat beside her on a cozy sofa. Dorothy was surprised that a man so careless of his appearance should have so neat and so delicately designed a studio. An ebony grand piano, draped in a glittering orange cover, took up one corner of the room. There was a little desk near the door and a large cabinet along one wall. Instead of the conventional wall lights or chandeliers there were four large golden lamps, on slender pedestals. The light was diffused and the atmosphere was intimately silky.
“So you are almost ready for your recital,” remarked Soedlich.
Dorothy heard in his ordinarily drab voice lyric overtones which had been absent or unnoticed when he dis- cussed the life of Verdi.
“You have your program?"
“I’m sorry— I forgot to bring it.”
Soedlich chuckled.
It won’t be necessary,” he said. “I have it here.”
He took the Underwood leaflet from the piano.
“Shall we go through it now?” he asked, “or would you care to have a little supper with me first?”
“A little supper” was a dangerous thing.
“Why—I think I’d like to go over it now,” she decided discreetly.
“Very good.”
He went to the piano and struck several chords softly. His touch was precise and delicate. Dorothy had heard that Soedlich had been a popular accompanist before he had given up all of his time to coaching.
She sang her first song for him, wishing all the time that Soedlich were to be at the piano for her at her recital.
“Not bad at all, my dear, he commented, “but why do you hold your head so high when you sing? Give a pretty throat a chance, my child.”
He placed his hands over her hair.
“Like this.”
He moved her head gently.
“Now sing it again from that position.”
Dorothy repeated the song.
“That was so much better. Your Italian diction is re- markably good for an American. Do you speak Italian?”
“I studied it at the conservatory, but I can’t speak it.”
“That’s a pity. One can say so many things in Italian that cannot be said in any other language. You should learn it.”
He turned to her next song.
“Pergolese,” he remarked. “A good old stand-by. But how few sing it well!”
He played the introduction.
Dorothy sang “Se tu m’ami,” as Madame Graaberg had taught it to her. “That is good singing,” commented Soedlich, “but it is no more than that. Do you know what the words mean?"
“Something about being faithful.”
Soedlich smiled, and stroked her hand.
“You do not know the nuances of Italian,” he said. “The English translation you have here is ‘something about being faithful.’ It must have been written by a very: good man who loved his wife and had many, many children. It’s a fair translation of some of the words—but ‘Anglo-Saxons do not always understand these things. If you knew exactly what this song meant, you would sing it so much better-"
He patted her cheeks and laughed. Dorothy didn’t like his familiarity.
“Or perhaps you would not sing it at all. The mean- ing, my child, is this: ‘Good sir, if you would but love me'- which does not mean ‘if you would kiss me,’ but something much more interesting—you must show your passion more directly. In other words, the lady is inviting the gentleman to take her by force. It is a delightful song—a little improper, perhaps, and therefore all the more fascinating. It amuses me so when I hear nice young women sing it as though it were just an exercise in legato.”
He turned to the piano.
“Now, we shall do it again. This time, my dear, for- get about tone production. That will come naturally. Sing it to me, as though you wished to arouse me!"
He stopped playing.
“But perhaps you do not wish to arouse me.”
Dorothy began to suspect that the intangible rumors about Soedlich’s private life probably had good foundations. Was he trying to flirt with her? Or was he making veiled advances ? She looked at the piano moodily.
Dignity would show him that she was no silly girl who had come to be petted.
“Why so serious?” he asked. “I do not mean that you must arouse me—Michel Soedlich—do not think of me as the man in the case. Think of the man you love best and sing as though you wished to stir him to action.”
This was too bold. What right had Soedlich to assume that there was any man she loved best? However, his idea of interpretation probably was right. She repeated the song with archness.
Soedlich left the piano.
“No! no! no!” he cried. “You are flirting with him, but if he did what you asked him to you would run home and tell your mar’ You have missed the idea.”
He advanced toward her. Why did he have to do that? He put a hand on her shoulder. She wouldn’t permit it. She wrenched herself free. If he tried anything like that again she would leave.
Soedlich smiled.
“What did you think I was going to do?” he inquired mildly. “Don’t hunch your shoulders when you sing. How can you breathe that way?”
A lame excuse, Dorothy thought.
“Now, let us try that song again—but really, if you act so contrary, we will never get through the program.”
Program? What program? Was there something extra-musical in his meaning?
The repetition brought an approving nod from Soedlich.
“That was better,” he said. “That is how you should sing everything. Not so much here”’—he pointed to the throat—“and more here”—he indicated the heart. “Let us go on.”
She sang an Italian stand-by which had served singers for several hundred years. She did it pretty well, she thought. Madame Graaberg always had complimented her on the performance of this selection.
Soedlich, however, seemed far from impressed.
“Sit down,” he said.
What would follow this invitation?
She sank into the couch, and Soedlich sat beside her.
“My dear child,” he remarked, “you do not need so much instruction in the mechanics of singing as a talk on interpretation. You are like a princess who is still asleep.”
It was decidedly a dubious speech. Dorothy sought the far corner of the couch. Soedlich looked at her steadily.
“Are you afraid that I will eat you?” he asked, gently.
He arose and walked up and down in front of her. What would he do next? She was sorry that she had come, She had imagined a session with Soedlich to be something rather exciting, but this was only a series of uncomplimentary comments. He treated her like a child; and she was certain that if she would permit it, he would fondle her as he would paw over a very young girl. She remembered Rose Manning’s line about “pash lips.” It made her uncomfortable. The room, with its voluptuous hangings and its subdued lighting, had an air of seduction about it. And why the cutaway?
Soedlich resumed his place on the couch. Dorothy observed that he seemed to smirk a trifle as he deliberately placed himself as far away from her as he could. Had she shown him her attitude on such matters? Or was he preparing for some strange amorous strategy?
“Tell me,” he said, “about your philosophy of life. I think that is what is wrong with your singing.”
An indirect opening for intimacies! Dorothy warded it off with a look of non-comprehension.
“You do not understand? I was afraid that you might not.” He was insulting her intelligence as well!
“How you sing,” he continued, “depends greatly on how you live and how you think. Anyone who knows a few tricks can teach you how to make beautiful tones—if you have a voice. You have a voice. Perhaps not a great voice, but a good voice. Many great singers have had no better. But it is your outlook on life that interests me more than your voice. Which interests you more—another person or yourself?”
Stupid question. Soedlich was a coach of singing. Why did he ask her, “Which interests you more?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, and her tone said that she considered the question beside the point.
“Let me put it differently. Have you ever searched your own heart? Have you ever searched the heart of a friend?”
“Do you mean, do I understand people?”
She didn’t like the mockery in his eyes.
“Not exactly, but it will do.”
“Yes. I think I do understand people.”
That ought to be an end to it.
“Then you ought to put that understanding into your singing. When you sing a song about a young lady whose lover is too shy, you must, for the time, be that young lady and you must feel like a young lady who wishes the embraces of her timid lover. Do you understand?”
And Soedlich, she supposed, would like to be that lover.
“If I may be frank, my dear young lady,” he went on, “I think that your mind is too much on yourself and on how you are singing. Have you ever heard Chaliapin in ‘Boris’ or have you ever heard Schumann-Heink sing ‘Der Erlkonig’? If you have, you will understand. You are too young to have heard Calvé as ‘Carmen,’ but she was ‘Carmen,’ not Calvé. You, my dear, are always Miss Reitz. And when you sing a song of enticement, you should be an enchantress.”
He moved over and patted her hand gently.
“Now, do you understand?”
Yes, but why did he have to pat her hand? He was using this theoretical talk as a pretext for making love to her.
“There is more to it. Great singing may be founded on mere understanding, on knowing the souls of men and women. But it is rooted in human experience. You must have human experience, my child, before you can become a great artist.”
Dorothy rose. She knew what he meant by “human experience.” In a moment he would be offering to supply her with this commodity. He was making improper advances to her.
“I must go,” she said. “I have an appointment.”
Soedlich clenched his fists in exasperation.
“How can I teach you anything if you run away before I have started?”
“I’m very sorry, but I must go.”
She would be firm with him.
“Well,” he said resignedly, “it’s as you please. I don’t think that I’ve been able to help you very much. Do you wish to come again?”
No! He wasn’t what she needed. Goldstein was of more use. So was Madame Graaberg.
“I’ll let you know.”
It was polite but final.
“Very well.”
He opened the door, and walked out with her. He stopped at his secretary’s desk and bade her good-bye.
“That’s a funny girl,” he observed to the secretary. “Do you know, I think she thought that I was trying to make love to her!”