# Our Little Girl/Chapter 6

VI
GRADUS AD PARNASSUM
The glamorous nights with Arnold, the semi-professional evenings with Tommy and the occasional dancing jaunts with Benny Wallace, Howard Richardson, Sylvester Lee and other spasmodic visitors gradually dwindled into mere incidents, as St. Cecilia took possession of Dorothy. The prophecy that there would be little time for social diversion proved to be hopelessly accurate. From the time that a distinguished European pianist made the opening address in October to the evening that a distinguished European violinist made the graduating speech in June two years later, Dorothy was occupied with a continuous sequence of vocal lessons, “secondary piano” instruction, lectures on why Jenny Lind was a great artist, how Beethoven enlarged the scope of the symphony, the development of the present piano, Wagner and the leit-motif, diseases of the larynx, and Richard Strauss’ demands on the virtuosity of piccolo players.
Dorothy’s chief instructor was Elma Graaberg, an elderly Dutch woman, who, according to the catalogue of St. Cecilia, had been leading mezzo-soprano at many famous Continental opera houses. She was a tall, heavy woman, with impenetrable dark brown eyes, a hooked nose, a receding chin, and a disarray of reddish gray hair. Dorothy wondered at first whether the irregularity of the color was due to the use of a peruke or whether Mme. Graaberg was an inept manipulator of dye-stuffs.
​She decided finally that the one-time opera singer was no chemist.
Contrary to all tradition, Mme. Graaberg had high praise for the instruction of Mme. Schneider-Miss Eldridge.
“You have been taught to breathe, my child,” she would say in her rather meticulous English, of which only the intonation betrayed a foreign origin. “Somebody has taught you how to support your tone. You lucky girl!” Mme. Graaberg’s texts for vocal sermons seemed to be derived chiefly from the life of her late husband, an obscure tenor, who so far as Dorothy could learn, had never achieved success because of his capacity for conviviality and his incapacity for singing upper tones.
“Diction! diction!’ she would cry out, as Dorothy bent all of her energies on producing a smooth tone. “Ah, my child, diction is very important. My poor Paul-
“When his voice was almost gone—but you should have heard it when he was young—but they never gave him a chance in the big opera—when his voice was almost gone, he sang with me in Amsterdam. Manrico he sang. Think of that? Such a hard tenore robusto part and his voice is nothing, only a shadow. Here and there a note like in the old days, but that is all. And so many big arias and duets with so many hard high notes! “He could not really sing any more, the other men used to say. These young fellows with their bull throats! They would laugh when he took his high C falsetto because he could not sing it full voice. Ah, but once he could sing it to shake the chandeliers! They would laugh when he sang that big aria because he could not shout out big tones. But my Paul was an artist.
“And that night, when he came to that cruel aria with its high C, I could see the young tenors standing in the ​back of the house, ready to laugh at the poor old man. A funny weak Troubadour, they said. But my Paul was an artist. When he sang that aria every word was so clear that the last student in the gallery could hear it. They listened when he sang it. He sang with more than a voice. He sang with his soul. He could not sing a big high C—no—but he could sing with his heart. He moved them, my child! He moved them! And when he finished, the applause—oh, you never heard anything like it!
“And why? Because his beautiful diction was so fine. Because they knew that my poor Paul was singing. . . . Now let us try it again.”
Under the maternal methods of Mme. Graaberg, Dorothy could feel herself developing. Her first appearance at one of the Friday afternoon students’ recitals was no ordeal, for all of the stories that she had heard of girls collapsing from nervousness on these occasions. In the back row of the little auditorium she could see Mme. Graaberg smiling at her. She sang for Mme. Graaberg. And the shaking of pedagogic heads in the vicinity of her preceptress told her that she had made an impression.
“They liked you, my child!” cried Mme. Graaberg after the recital.
“Did they say much?” inquired Dorothy.
“They were much pleased with your intelligence, your poise and your diction,” said Mme. Graaberg. “They liked your interpretation. We have not worked together for nothing, eh?”
She squeezed Dorothy’s hand affectionately.
“And how calm you were! If you are always so at ease, it will be wonderful. My poor Paul was always so nervous. Even near the end, when he had been singing twenty years, he was so frightened. I would have to sit with him in his dressing-room and hold his hand for ​half an hour before he appeared. But once he was on the stage—then it was different. He lost himself in the music.”
“Did they say anything about my voice?” asked Dorothy.
“A good voice, yes.”
Dorothy was dismayed.
“But if they weren’t impressed with my voice-"
Mme. Graaberg waved her hand grandly.
“It’s a fine voice—do not worry about that. Many a big singer might envy you such freshness of tone and your beautiful diction. It is there your strength lies. Such a lovely diction!”
Dorothy soon discovered that her achievements at the concert had not gone unnoticed by her fellow pupils. Rose Manning, a slim little girl, whose bright brown eyes and deep red hair made her the centre of attraction at the visits of the St. Michael choristers, approached her one afternoon in the library, bearing compliments. Dorothy had always mistrusted Rose. She was a little precocious. Her attainments as a coloratura soprano had been nothing remarkable, but it was said that no male instructor ever criticized her singing adversely. Rose was always rumored engaged—although she denied indignantly the charge direct. The report was that Rose had been breaking hearts since she was fifteen—and sometimes she didn’t look much more than that, even now. There were two opinions of Rose: one, that she “sang with her hair": two, that beneath her artless ways there was something very lovely, if you could find it. Rose’s contemporaries were inclined to accept the first dictum.
“Madame Graaberg certainly taught you something!” cooed Rose.
Was there mockery back of this? Dorothy nodded at ​the girl, who was balancing herself on her heels, and swinging to and fro. Rose often assumed this position, and it seemed to carry an indication of insincerity with it, Dorothy thought.
“I could get every word you sang,” continued Rose. “You certainly made them talk about you.”
It would be ungracious not to acknowledge this tribute.
“You do pretty well yourself,” remarked Dorothy. “Are you going into opera when you get out?”
“Opera? Me?”
A derisive chortle followed.
“I'm not kidding myself. I'll be in Mr. Ziegfeld’s opera—if anything.”
“You'll be in real opera!”
Dorothy could see Rose as Lucia, perhaps. She would be effective in the mad scene, with her hair down. In concert, Rose would be rather funny.
“Maybe.”
It was a peculiar answer.
Dorothy looked sharply at Rose, who was performing a mild gymnastic exercise on the edge of a table. There of her was a suspicious-looking ring on the fourth finger left hand. Rose evidently recognized Dorothy’s glance.
“Don’t get too excited about that.”
Which probably meant that she really was engaged.
“Aren’t you-"
"Ooh——"
It was a cool little sound.
“Men don’t interest me,” Rose remarked, placing her elbows behind her on the table and lifting herself. "I can't be annoyed about them. I only love one man."
The girl was talking nonsense.
"I'm terribly interested in poor Paul. 'His voice was gone, my child, but his diction-'"
​Rose mimicked Mme. Graaberg with irreverent accuracy.
"You've got a wicked diction," she added suddenly. “Each word a pearl, each pearl a prayer. You'll be in recital quick after they let you out.”
Rose swung up on the table, and perched there, swinging her attractive legs.
Dorothy shook her head. She couldn’t talk to Rose.
“You'll be down at Aeolian—see if you aren’t! Miss Dorothy Reitz Loamford—soprano—tickets fifty cents to two dollars, tax ten per cent extra. Free list positively suspended. I know!”
“And you'll be—singing ‘Lucia.’”
Dorothy hoped that there was no sarcasm in her voice, but if there was Rose overlooked it. She laughed.
“That’s quaint, old dear. More likely Reisenweber’s or such. They'll call me Rosemanara, the Hawaiian Hot Water Bottle.”
She performed a restrained but proficient shoulder movement, singing softly:
"All the boys along Broadway are strong for chicken raw,
But down in Honolulu they like turkey in the straw-"
“That’s not a nice song to sing here, is it?” she concluded. “Wonder how poor Paul would have sung it. With soul, I suppose.”
The library clock buzzed and clicked on the hour. Rose skipped to the door.
“You ought to go tea-dancing—I know of two bright eyes, waiting for me’-—wonderful for diction—‘Old Jim Ryan had a small Hawaiian way down, Way down on Honolulu bay-ay.’”
A serious student, Rose. Tea dancing when she was supposed to be studying the history of church music!
​Dorothy reflected that there hadn’t been much tea dancing, supper dancing, dinner dancing, breakfast dancing or other meal-time calisthenics since her entry into the home of serious students only.
Life at St. Cecilia, however, was satisfactory enough. The bright promises of the brochure were fulfilled-except that Dorothy had had no contact with the brilliant Michel Soedlich. Soedlich, it appeared, was a visiting lecturer on the lives of famous composers. And as a speaker he was decidedly dull. He was not nearly so fascinating as the young music critic who spoke every two weeks on the theory of aesthetics. Soedlich apparently had memorized a popular pocket dictionary of musicians. He stood awkwardly beside a table and droned out facts in a colorless, almost inaudible voice. He halted frequently to refer to stacks of yellow notes. On warm afternoons, his naturally florid countenance would become glowingly carmine. His baggy clothes hung clumsily about his tall, somewhat adipose figure.
"The kid's got pash lips," Rose whispered to Dorothy while Soedlich was explaining that Mendelsshohn took great interest in his sister's work. But in spite of this flattering reference to Soedlich's powers, Dorothy wondered why he had acquired so great a reputation as a coach and a lover. His attractions were few, so far as she could see. She could hardly imagine him as an inspiring preceptor. Yet it was gossiped that Soedlich had prepared almost every Metropolitan star for important roles and that few eminent recital singers failed to coach with him several times weekly.
A few days before the graduating exercises, Dorothy came home to find the parlor crowded with her mother's friends.
"We expect big things of Dorothy," she heard her ​mother say. “Her teachers say she is the finest student in the conservatory. Not that I’m the one to boast, especially of my own daughter, but I heard the other day that everyone in the conservatory considers her the most promising singer in years.”
The assembly nodded astonishment, pleasure and congratulations over the teacups and knitting.
“And the finest part of it,” Dorothy heard Mrs. Loamford continue, “from a mother’s point of view, at least, is that Dorothy is the same sweet, dear child she always has been. Her success hasn’t turned her head at all.” Dorothy slipped upstairs into the living-room.
Uncle Elliott Reitz was sitting in the big armchair smoking a large cigar and puffing pompously into space.
“Well, if it isn’t the little prima donna!” he exclaimed as Dorothy came in. “Going to show Galli-Curci how to sing one of these days, what?”
Dorothy kissed him as she had been brought up to do.
“Your mother tells me big things, Dorothy, big things,” he continued. “I can see you as a big proposition in the music game.”
“Please,” objected Dorothy, “wait till I’ve made some sort of start. It’s very nice of you, of course, but-"
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“Sit down, girl,” said Uncle Elliott. “I want to talk cold turkey to you. You're really serious about going into the singing business?”
Dorothy nodded emphatically.
“No nonsense about it, of course,” he continued; “shouldn’t be; can’t be. No boys, I mean?”
Dorothy shook her head.
“No snappy young fellow coming in to put an end to all your work,” he went on. “Fine! Work, is what I say, and let marriage take care of itself. A pretty girl ​like you's bound to find the right man sooner or later. That's been my observation and I've rubbed shoulders with people in every walk of life.
He bent forward with his hands on his knees.
"Fact is, if I'd known a pretty girl like you when I was a young fellow, I might have taken the plunge myself," he remarked, and laughed like the merry wag he thought himself.
"But seriously," he resumed, "you've got a big job ahead of you. I want to see you go at it in a big way. Don't want for things to come to you. Go after them. Be a go-getter. Remember-you've got to sell your stuff to the other fellow if you want to get anywheres. You may be good, but you've got to make good, too. You're an intelligent girl. You understand me?"
"Oh, indeed yes!"
"Good. I hope you don't think your old uncle's butting in with advice where it isn't wanted, but I'm interested in you, Dorothy, and I feel I wouldn't be doing my duty if I didn't hand you the benefit of my experience."
Dorothy thanked him and rewarded him with a kiss.
"And just to think!" pondered Uncle Elliott. "The little baby I used to bring toy pianos to is going to be a great singer. Maybe she'll forget all about old Uncle Elliott. But I guess not! You're a Reitz, Dorothy-don't forget that. The Reitzes make good. That's our way. If I can be of any help-if my twenty-five years of experience is of any use to you-call on me.
"I handled a sort of musical deal the other day. One of my big accounts came in and after I'd sold him a nice fat bill, he told me his wife was giving a benefit concert. They'd hired a hall and everything, but they hadn't sold many tickets. Of course I bought a couple, you can use them if you want to; I haven't much time for ​those things-and then I told him what was what.
"'The Way to make this show a success,‘ I told, him, 'is to get back of it and push. Now, if I were you, I’d never leave the house without a pocketful of tickets, and I’d never come back to the house without having sold them.
“‘Vou’re the boss of a big organization,’ I told him, ‘and what you want to do is get everybody in your shop together and make them work. Sell the proposition to your employees. Get ’em out selling tickets. Offer a bonus for the man who brings in the biggest returns. Make every mother’s son of them take a couple of seats for himself. Let him take them on deferred payments if necessary; but see that nobody, man, or woman or child, in your place is anywhere on the night of that concert except at the concert. That’s the way to put it over. Get together and push!’”
Uncle Elliott ground the burnt end of his cigar aggressively in the ash-stand.
“Mind you,” he added, “hats are my line. But business is business, whether you’re selling hats or shoes or automobiles or concerts. It’s the man who goes out and puts the business on the books that wins! So call on me when you're ready to give a concert, and we'll show them whether we can’t put the thing across—and put it across big!”
It seemed to Dorothy as though everyone were expecting her to rush from the platform after graduation to Aeolian Hall and to burst into the opening selection of a recital program. Her father looked at her with a quixotic pride. She would have been little surprised if he had kissed her suddenly and said, “What wonders hath God wrought!” Mrs. Loamford took her out to buy a graduation dress and informed the saleswomen that the wearer ​of this dress would soon be ranked with the really great artists of the concert stage. Her mother made a point of stopping all chance acquaintances on the street when she was with Dorothy and of mentioning Dorothy’s achievements. If Mrs. Loamford had said, “Do you know the soprano?” instead of “Do you know my daughter?” Dorothy would have been no more embarrassed. Arnold announced that he would buy a box for her first recital. Tommy suggested that he might be able to do something for her, although he omitted to specify the nature of his assistance. The distant relatives looked at her as though she were Mary Garden at least, and mumbled “Fancy that!” in its multifold ramifications to each other.
On graduation day, an envelope from the Harmony Concert Bureau arrived.
“Dear Miss Loamford,” ran the enclosed letter. “We are glad to congratulate you on this happy day—the day that marks the end of your career as a student—and greet you as a full-fledged artist ready to show your wares to the public.
“We have heard fine reports of your ability and gifts. We understand that you are on the highroad to a brilliant future, and we take pleasure in offering our services as managers for your first recital, which doubtless you will give early in the coming season. A successful first recital is essential to future artistic prosperity. We can insure a successful first recital. Artists making their debut under our auspices frequently have made many hundreds of dollars as well as receiving fine reviews from critics.
"We shall be glad to see you at any time and will be glad to hear from you to make an appointment at your earliest convenience."
Mrs. Loamford borrowed the letter and devoted a ​morning to displaying it to the community. She also passed meaningful hints about various interests that sought Dorothy’s services the very minute she was graduated.
At the graduation exercises that night, every student had two documents.
One was the diploma of the St. Cecilia Conservatory of Music.
The other was a letter from the Harmony Concert Bureau.