Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-06-08
BY PAUL WEST

Sharpstein. 2The only thing care is, does
it SELF Oh, know what you mean, and
I'm with you. The amt nobody got it on
me when it comes to approaching good
music-don't | have my regular seats at
And don't know that the stuff we pub
ish is All junk? But it's junk that buys
automobiles. and you've got to write it or
go to work. And you can do it. Why.
look at Harry Delaney He come in here
like you, and all he wanted to write was
masses and cantatas. You'd have thought
he was hopeless; but we introduced him to
Ernest Helm, and they teamed up. Look
at Harry now-with his own car, and he
can sign his name to check you wouldn't
believed And did he get it writing cam
tatas2 Not unless Kiss Me On the VIII
liamsburg Bridge is cantata! And you
can do the same: but not unless you cut
loose from guys like this here Jim Keith
or whatever his name is, and tie up with
live one. Come-if you re sore on Benny
O'Brien, there's plenty more
"No,' said Davenant, Il don't need any
body. l can attend to the lyrics myself. :
But you amt got good judgment. Our
fellers know the game.
$50 do l. I've known it right along-or
have intelligence enough to learn it. All
l want is some copies of your latest and
most popular songs, and a few sheets Of
music paper.
Sure said Sharpstein. GAIL you want
I'll pick you out a bunch of our high-class
hits"
aGive me all kinds-ragtime, bobtail-
time, trash-anything worst you have
is none too bad! And then-well, Mr..
Sharpstein, if l come back here tomorrow
with something which proves that am
what you call a live one. will you re-
consider your refusal to make me another
advance"
Sharpstein looked searchingly at him.
@Davenant," he said. "you bring me some
thing that looks like it might move. even
little, and while l don't make no def
mite promises about what my brothers
will say-well, you won't lose nothing by
us. Now, go to it,
AN hour later Eric Davenant sat before
his piano in his scantilv furnished
apartment far uptown. In the ten-by-
eleven room there was little but the piano.
which was grand of one of the best makes.
The instrument represented the blood
sweat of its owner; for he had bought it
and Heaven could tell to what extremities
he had been to pay for it. 1t was not yet
his, as matter of fact. There was already
payment overdue, and he had no money.
His position as an under teacher in a
modest conservatory of music brought him
only small salary, and he had no other
income, the little savings which he had
brought with him from his home town, a
year since, having long been exhausted.
Only as last resort had he visited Sharp
stein & Brothers with a hastily written
manuscript, a musical setting to poem
by his favorite poet.
The top of the piano was almost hidden
in an artistically confused pile of stuff
music, the works of the masters from Bach
to Macdowell, showing constant but careful
usage; books, the poets and technical treat
cal subjects: bust of Chopin, violin in a
e, folded music stand, and, prominent in
neatly arranged stack of music manuscript.
5 life's hope, his "magnus opus, his Sym
Poem in Eight Parts, "The Passions ar
al orchestra. 1t was not yet complete, nor
for sometime: for Eric worked only when
ion seized him, and inspiration had been
ntly.
ore the niano q StacL, of sheet music on the