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FOR ART’S SAKE
“And now, ladies, we'll see what we can do for you.”
Hamilton Harper swung two chairs into line near his desk.
“Some juggling, what?” He smiled and slapped his hands together with so extraordinary a detonation that Dorothy jumped.
“Daily dozen,” he went on. “Get out of bed, open the window and-"
He went through a series of evolutions.
“Makes you ready to lick your weight in wildcats. I’ve done it, too!”
Dorothy wondered what manner of handmaiden to the arts Hamilton Harper might be. Maxwell didn’t look like an artist or even like one interested in the more cultural aspects of life, but there was something gentle, almost poetic in his intonation. Harper, with his full, protruding underlip, his small but muscular frame, his brilliantly colored cravat and his checked suit, corresponded to her mental picture of a prize fighter. The long, thick yellow hair, coarse and straight, and the flat, pugnacious nose confirmed the impression. Harper’s voice was rough and his speech Dorothy would have characterized as “Western.” He was distinctly a breezy sort, she concluded; a good business man, probably.
Harper studied the “Snappygram” which Mrs. Loamford deposited on the desk.
“So you’ve got the date at Aeolian!” he remarked, and everyone in the next room became aware of the fact. “Good! Soprano! Fine! Got a program?”
Mrs. Loamford was about to answer—and didn’t. She didn’t quite approve of so much energy devoted to the discussion of matters which rested in a higher plane. She could have held forth continuously to Maxwell; she was taken aback by Harper. Dorothy, however, was attracted by the frankness of Harper’s manner. There was something paternal in his ruggedness. She felt that her suggestions would be received sympathetically.
“I was planning a program of four groups,” she said. “Old Italian, Old French, lieder—in German, possibly— and a group of modern songs.”
“That’s a good, safe program for a start,” commented Harper. “Show ’em what you've got. That’s the idea. Later on you can specialize and hand ’em an evening of Bessarabian jazz hymns. But better begin with old man Mozart or old Oratorio—you know, Handel. Show ’em you can sing that stuff. Old French is good, too. Shows class. That’s what you want: Class.”
“And the lieder?” inquired Dorothy. “Had I better sing those in English?”
“Hell, no, little lady!” exploded Harper enthusiastically. “You can sing ’em in Kayser Bill’s own dirty Dutch now. When you sing in Muscatine, Iowa, Little Rock, Arkansas, or Sacramento, California, you’d better do ’em in English, But in little old New York—sing ’em in German!”
Mrs. Loamford became more and more astonished at the vocabulary and the manner of Hamilton Harper. This was a curious person to put in charge of a concert. Was Mr. Maxwell trying to fob them off by turning them over to this loud-mouthed, profane individual?
“Mr. Harper,” she asked, “do you generally take charge of concerts?”
“Generally, Madame?” he returned. “Always! Yes, I’ve been in this game for twenty-three years now. I can remember when Joe Hofmann was a kid piano player and when Kreisler was a baby prodigy. I’ve put on some pretty big shows here, all right.”
Mrs. Loamford wondered what she ought to say.
“Now, about this program,” continued Harper, “make that last group light and effective. Hand ’em something they can sink their teeth in. Give ’em a tune. A lot of singers have been peddling this damn modern stuff till it gives you one wonderful pain to listen to it. It’s all right, I suppose. A lot of ginks jumped on old Dick Wagner when he put on his operas. But if you’re giving a recital for an average audience, remember it’s full of low-down rough-necks like me.”
“My daughter,” said Mrs. Loamford, “knows many melodious songs by very good composers.”
“Well, that’s what I call good news! Just put ’em on the program, little lady.”
Harper pressed a button on the desk and the pretty stenographer entered.
“Listen, Classy,” he said. “Go into the press coop and dig Tommy out, if he’s not too busy.”
“Now,” he resumed, “make up that program and get it down here tomorrow or the day after, so we can get up a little circular. Shoot me a tintype of yourself so we can get a cut made for the circular. Who’s playing the piano for you?”
“We hadn’t selected anyone,” said Mrs. Loamford.
“Well, I guess you want a good young pianist,” ventured Harper. “Some fellow who can make the old box stand up when you're singing.” “Couldn’t we use one of the young women who studied with my daughter at the conservatory?”
“Dangerous, lady, dangerous. Better have a man, for the first recital, anyhow. Somebody like young Goldstein.”
“He played for my daughter at Mr. Fleming’s. I can’t say he impressed me——”
“Hell, you don’t want anybody to impress you!”
Mrs. Loamford stiffened. Harper noted the reaction.
“Pardon my French, Mrs. Loamford,” he apologized. “You get that way when you’ve been in this game so long. What I mean is just this—get a fellow who can play the piano like Goldstein. But don’t get one of those tricky virtuosos who try to hog the works. Goldstein’s played for a lot of good people. He’s steady and he knows the game. Of course, if you don’t want him——”
“Well, if you think so, Mr. Harper-" “You bet I think so,” he affirmed pleasantly. “We'll fix that up right now. DeWitt Goldstein at the piano. Are you tied to any particular make of piano? If you know Fleming, I suppose you'll use one of his lizzies.”
On the edge of the “Snappygram” he wrote “Champion Piano.”
Classy came in, followed by Tommy.
“Ah! bellowed Harper. “Here’s the old dirt dispenser.”
Dorothy was startled momentarily. Tommy didn’t seem like the slightly literary, sentimental, would-be amorist she had known. He looked a bit drawn and she noticed for the first time that his hair was retreating perceptibly from his forehead and that there were faint touches of gray near the temples. He looked neat without an effort. Tis mouth seemed to be drawn in a firmer line than hitherto. Probably he had been working hard. There was the merest hint of surprise in the glance which he directed at Dorothy. Apparently he had acquired poise.
“Here’s a new subject for you, Tommy,” said Harper. “Meet Miss Reitz. Miss Reitz, Mr. Borge, our press chief. He’ll make you notorious.”
“I know Miss L—Reitz,” said Tommy in a voice which had deepened since Dorothy had last heard it. “I also know Mrs. Loamford.”
“Hell, you know everybody!” exclaimed Harper. “You might as well lead ’em into your harem and get their confessions. Here’s the dope on the recital.”
He handed him the “Snappygram.”
“You’re safe with Mr. Borge,” Harper confided to Dorothy. “He’s pretty hard-boiled for one so young, but he’ll land you in all the papers.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Harper.”
“Don’t mention it, Miss Reitz, Come in whenever we can help you. And don’t forget that program and that picture. Good morning, Mrs. Loamford.”
They followed Tommy into the Press Department office. It was a little room with three desks crowded together. Tommy went to his desk, nearest the window. It was covered with an untidy mass of clippings, magazines, newspapers, pictures and typewritten sheets. Another desk was occupied by Classy, who was typing nimbly and gracefully. A stout, pleasant-looking young woman was leaving the office.
“Just a moment, Miss Gray,” commanded Tommy.
Miss Gray turned.
“I want you to meet Miss Reitz, who is singing at Aeolian on the second Saturday in October,” he said. “And Mrs. Loamford. As soon as we-get Miss Reitz’s pictures put them put them through the rotos. Fix up a few captions about a young American soprano, trained entirely in this country and let me see them sometime this. afternoon. That’s all, Miss Gray.”
He waved Dorothy and Mrs. Loamford to chairs.
“So you're Miss Reitz, are you, Dot?” he observed reflectively.
“Mother thought——”
“Oh, all right. It'll make a better-looking ad. Reitz makes up small and we can give you a big display in a small space. Your advertising starts Sunday. Wait a minute.”
He picked up the telephone. “Get me Gorman.”
He hung up again.
“I want your program tomorrow morning, so that we can get it in the racks at Aeolian quickly, Shoot me a picture for the rotos. Better give me three or four if you’ve got them. I know enough about your past to fix up a biography.”
The bell rang. Tommy snatched the receiver.
“Gorman? Borge. Say, kid, I want to take ten lines, single on that ad for Sunday. Yes. It’s another recital. Aeolian, second Saturday in October. See what date that is and put it in. The heroine’s name is Reitz—R-E-I-T-Z —Reitz. It means charm in German. For Christ’s sake jon’t advertise her as Charm. First name, Dorothy, orthodox spelling. Champion piano. Usual prices on tickets. Spend two-fifty on her and send me a schedule. That's all, Gorman.”
Dorothy didn’t understand this conversation literally, but she was even more puzzled by the apparent metamorphosis of Tommy. She had never heard him speak briskly and sharply. He was almost dynamic. Had he come under the influence of Harper? More than that, his manner betrayed no feeling for her. It wasn’t so long ago that he had been close to a proposal. Had he re- covered from his affection for her? It would mean that he wouldn’t annoy her any longer with insinuating declarations of passion, but she didn’t altogether like the idea of having a man who once had made love to her treat her as though she were simply another cog in his professional machine.
Tommy lit his familiar pipe and took up his telephone again.
“Musical Cosmos—Miss Weatherby.”
“Are you very busy here, Tommy?” asked Dorothy.
She would make a dignified exit.
“Busy? No, madame, this is my lunch hour. You ‘ought to see this place when-"
The bell.
“This you, Betty? Yes, Tommy. Two things. One: put on your come-and-kiss-me hat and call for me about one and maybe I’ll pay for my lunch as well as yours. Two: I’m sending you a picture of a new acquisition. Professional, I mean. You're my only social diversion, Betty. Her name’s Dorothy Reitz. She sings soprano at Aeolian Hall next month. I wish you’d run in an interview before the recital. Ring her up at Schuyler 9716. Oh, she’s decorative enough, Betty. Nothing to make you jealous, kid. I'd tell you more but she’s here now. See you later.”
“Well,” he continued, “your picture goes into the Musi- cal Cosmos. Miss Weatherby will ring you up for an interview. Tell her about the interesting new songs you have, why flappers do or don’t, or why camels play chess. Anything you like, but make it entertaining. If you don’t, she will. I don’t know what Eggs has planned for you——”
“Who’s Eggs?” interrupted Dorothy.
“The big boss. Harper’s known as ‘Ham’ so I call Maxwell ‘Eggs.’ Any bill-of-fare will tell you why. I guess that’s all for this hearing.”
Mrs. Loamford rose.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Borge,” she remarked. “Tt’s very kind of you to take such an interest.”
“It’s not,” said Tommy. “I’m paid for it. We give our clients pretty good service in this department. Now, Dot, don’t be scared of Miss Weatherby. She’s a ferociously attractive young woman, but she has a remarkable bean. We always try to start off interviews with her because she’s a sympathetic sort. You'll get some real hot piccolo players later, but Betty’s a good kid.”
The vulgarian in him still manifested himself, Dorothy thought. However, he had had sense enough never to talk to her in the style which he adopted for Miss Gray’s benefit.
“Piccolo players?” demanded Mrs. Loamford.
“Perhaps one of your daughter’s intimate gentlemen friends will be glad to furnish a glossary for that epithet,” explained Tommy. “As far as I’m concerned, you can use it as a generic term meaning unpleasant personalities.”
The bell again.
“Who? What does she look like? A queen? Tell her to wait a minute.” Vulgar. Not a doubt of it.
“Pm afraid we’re taking up your time,” observed Mrs. Loamford.
“Tv’s a lady to see me, says the chief houri of the switchboard. We'll let her wait.”
“No—we mustn’t detain you, Mr. Borge. Thank you so much!”
Mrs. Loamford pressed his hand effusively.
“Tt’s awfully good of you, Tommy,” concurred Dorothy.
She held out her hand. Tommy took it in a desultory way and hardly looked after her as she left the office. She felt slightly depressed. She didn’t care about Tommy but she didn’t like to think that she had lost a certain hold on him.
As Dorothy passed through the reception room she saw a small, plump but alluring girl with unusually black bobbed hair which forced itself out in neat waves from under an attractive red hat. She heard the switchboard impresario tell the girl that Mr. Borge would see her now, second door to the right, where it says “Press Department.”
Dorothy was abstracted as she followed her mother to the elevators. She tried to adjust mentally her conception of Tommy and her relationship to him. Tommy had been reputed clever at college some four years ago. Arnold: at one time had hailed Tommy as a remarkably brilliant youth. Then Arnold’s opinion seemed to change. He regarded Tommy as bright but sloppy and conceited. Gradually the references to Tommy’s sloppiness had dis- appeared in favor of reflections on Tommy’s ego. Dorothy wondered whether she had not always looked on Tommy through Arnold’s eyes. Yet Tommy had been attentive to her. Tommy was not wealthy, but his family was considered well-to-do. He had sufficient money for the usual routine of entertainment, although he had never taken her to some of the more expensive dancing emporia. He was pleasant. He tried to do things for her. She never, she admitted, had shown much gratitude for his efforts. Tommy, she reflected, had really given her a start by referring her to Fleming. Possibly he had even mentioned her to Maxwell.
But why should she think so much of Tommy? She had long since formed her estimate of him—a bright, sloppy, conceited, rather vulgar young man. At least, he would be vulgar if you let him. He had made no par- = ticular impression on her emotions. And yet today—he seemed to have something that she liked, something-
It was the something that she missed in Arnold. Arnold never quite commanded a situation, and she liked to have aman command a situation. Tommy, in his official ca- pacity, showed amazing executive powers. Had she mis- judged him? Or why was it that she was able to subdue his none too violent attempts to make love to her? Did he treat Miss Weatherby in this fashion? And the pretty little dark girl in the outer office? Of course, in a busi- ness way, he would meet many attractive women. Had they diverted him from her? Was she growing jealous about a man for whom she had had something resembling an aversion? Perhaps it was the presence of her mother that had led him to treat her so casually. Perhaps he was trying to forget. That was a pleasing thought.
Yet why should she consider Tommy so seriously now?
“Watch out when you cross the street!”
Her mother spoke sharply.
“What are you dreaming about, Dorothy? Even if you see yourself as a famous singer, don’t forget you're crossing the street.”
The voice softened.
“At that, I don’t blame you. I wish I were young and looking forward to what you’re looking forward to.”
“What did you say, mother?"