IX
PRELUDE
Even the most delightful vacation following a death in the family must end, and after two months Dorothy and her mother terminated their two weeks’ visit to Atlantic City. There had been talk of a trip to Europe, but Uncle Elliott had vetoed the plan. Dorothy was ready for her début. A year in Europe would postpone this important event. Dorothy was prepared to begin her professional career. A year in Europe would find her stale. There is no time like the present. Do it now!
Dorothy abandoned heavy mourning apparel on her return from the city of too little trouble, but her mother preferred to retain the emblems of bereavement. Samuel Charles Loamford was fading quickly. He was already a fairly well-established tradition. Dorothy rarely mentioned him, and her mother brought him into conversation in only one way: “As I used to tell my poor dear husband.”
It was late in September that Dorothy rummaged through her desk for the address of the Underwood Concert Corporation. The bureau was in a great office building in the early forties near Fifth Avenue. It was an edifice seemingly dedicated to concert managements. The doors to most of these establishments were almost always ajar, and the voyager in the corridors had only to peep within to see enormous lithographs of most of the popular artists of the day. Surrounded by half a dozen rival agencies was the Underwood Concert Corporation, Saul Maxwell, Mgr.
Mrs. Loamford had made an appointment with Mr. Maxwell, “who sounded very nice over the phone.”
“Now for heaven’s sake, Dorothy,” she warned her daughter, “don’t fidget when you get there. Remember you’re twenty-two. You're an artist. Let me do the talking.”
The Underwood office was arranged much like the other bureaus in the building. The door led into a small outer chamber inhabited by a switchboard operator and a typist. Back of a wooden railing were four small doors, side by side. Reading from left to right as you entered they announced that behind the doors were to be found Saul Maxwell, Mgr., Hamilton Harper, Asst. Mgr., Press Dept., and Shipping Room respectively. The proprietress of the switchboard announced “Mrs. Loamford calling on Mr. Maxwell,” and invited the visitors to wait until Mr. Maxwell had completed a conference. She offered them copies of musical magazines of July to while away the interval.
“Mr. Maxwell will see you now.”
Dorothy and Mrs. Loamford instinctively smoothed their garments and powdered their noses.
“First door to your left.”
Mrs. Loamford led the way through the little swinging gate and opened the first door to her left. A plump gentleman of medium height, almost bald save for a few long reddish‘blond hairs carefully plastered down arose from a mahogany armchair. He smiled, showing small white teeth, and motioned for them to enter, indicating chairs on either side of a large, glass-topped table. Dorothy noticed that a tall pale woman with obviously henna hair had her hand on the knob of a door which led to the adjoining compartment.
“Mrs, Loamford?” said Maxwell in a soft, precise voice.
His pale blue eyes shifted to Dorothy.
“And Miss Loamford? How do you do? I am Mr. Maxwell.”
“Well, Saul, I might as well-
Maxwell turned to the woman at the door.
"All right, Elsie," he said. "You can take that date at South Bend. You'll be at Indianapolis on the twenty-second anyhow. We'll weire you there if anything turns up-"
He looked at Dorothy and Mrs. Loamford.
"Mrs. and Miss Loamford," he remarked, with an introductory gesture. "This is Madame Else Freron of the Metropolitan Opera Company."
Madame Freron smiled brightly.
"So glad to know you, I'm sure," she observed.
The Loamfords bowed in return.
"One of our brightest stars," continued Maxwell.
He squeezed Madame Freron's hand cordially.
"All set, Elsie?"
"I guess so. Think I'll see ITam [?] before I go."
"Good."
Madame Freron departed.
"Probably you've heard her," commented Maxwell, as he returned to the desk.
Dorothy recalled Madame Freron as a mezzo-soprano who appeared two or three times annually at the Metropolitan in small roles.
Maxwell shoved aside a collection of letters on his desk and turned to Mrs. Loamford.
"From what you told me the other day," he began, "I take it that Miss Loamford contemplates a recital. You were recommended here, I believe, by Mr. Fleming. We are always glad to meet artists from Mr. Fleming."
"My daughter," said Mrs, Loamford, "is a soprano," as I told you. Mr. Fleming and her teachers believe that she has an unusual career ahead of her. We are anxious, of course, to have her come under a good management, and Mr. Fleming suggested this bureau.”
“Miss Loamford has never given a recital?”
“Not yet. Of course she sang at the recitals at St. Cecilia’s Conservatory when she was a student there, but I didn’t think it wise for Dorothy to give a public concert until she was ready.”
“You believe that she is prepared?”
“Oh, indeed yes! In fact, we gave up a trip to Europe so that she could make her début now.”
Maxwell studied his finger-tips reflectively.
“You realize, I suppose,” he said, “the importance of a New York début. A singer’s future really depends on it. There are hundreds of débuts every year and only a few artists succeed in making any impression on the critics or the public. There would be thousands of débuts if all the artists who thought that they were fit to appear were in a position to see a concert through. We have anywhere from five to ten applications a day. I have four in the morning’s mail on my desk. Most of them—all of them, I should say—are from people who have no business appearing in public. Your daughter isn’t a coloratura?”
Mrs. Loamford denied the charge. Dorothy was a lyric soprano. An unusually talented lyric soprano.
“That’s promising. It’s amazing how many coloraturas there are. I can’t understand it. Almost everyone who writes in is a coloratura.”
Dorothy thought of Rose Manning and smiled a little maliciously.
“The policy of this management is to make débuts possible for any promising artist. Many bureaus are interested only in the management fee. What I am driving at is that the mere appearance, as such, is available to anyone who can afford it. We have a certain standard, The artists who appear under our direction gain a certain prestige by that connection. I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing Miss Loamford sing.”
“Dorothy will be delighted to sing for you at almost any time, Mr. Maxwell,” suggested Mrs. Loamford. “I am sure of that——”
“One of the curious things about this business,” he said, “is that we have several artists whom I’ve never heard. They came to us well recommended. They made successful débuts. We’ve booked them all over the country. But I’ve never had the opportunity to attend one of their concerts. Now, in the case of Miss Loamford, I’m willing to take Mr. Fleming’s word. I admit that Miss Loamford’s experience is limited, but I frequently go on impressions. I hardly think that Miss Loamford would become panic-stricken in front of an audience and critics.”
Maxwell seemed to be a man of experience, thought Dorothy.
“How much would it cost?” interposed Mrs. Loamford rather impatiently.
Her mother, Dorothy fancied, was too eager to bring up the commercial side of things. “That is up to you for the most part. Your chief expenses will be rental, advertising, circulars, if you want them, postage and an accompanist. You can keep these costs within five hundred dollars if you care to. Of course, if you want to do the thing elaborately you can spend almost any amount. Including the management fee, you can give the recital for six to seven hundred dollars at the outside."
It seemed reasonable enough to Dorothy.
Mrs. Loamford looked rather determined.
“Is this customary?” she inquired. “I thought that artists were paid for giving recitals!”
Why, Dorothy wondered sorrowfully, did her mother insist on being so naive?
“Established artists who draw at the box-office are. I have never heard of a début recital on any other basis except the one I outlined for you.”
“That’s—that’s what I had heard,” said Mrs. Loamford, and wondered why Maxwell suppressed a grin.
“You are in a position to go through with this program?” he asked.
“We are,” she answered. “Of course you will arrange concerts for my daughter which will bring her a fee.”
“That depends entirely on the success of the début recital. If her notices are good, we shall consider the matter. You realize, of course, that the concert field is overcrowded. But there is always room for able young singers who can build up a following. I have in mind a young soprano who came to us about three years ago. To be frank, I was not greatly impressed by this young woman. She pleaded so hard, however, for an opportunity to appear under our auspices that we arranged a recital for her. Much to my surprise, the critics hailed her as the greatest find of the year, and requests for appearances came from all parts of the country. Today we can book her for fifty or sixty concerts annually at a very nice fee. Of course, that was an exceptional case.
“Mind you, I don’t mean to imply that Miss Loamford will not be able to do the same thing. I merely wish to acquaint you with the facts, so that you will give the recital with your eyes open.”
The telephone bell jangled. Maxwell answered in a low voice. While he was speaking, Mrs. Loamford summoned Dorothy to a corner of the room.
“T don’t know, Dorothy,” she said softly. ‘He seems to be honest.”
“Mr. Fleming said-——”
“For all you know, he may be in with Mr. Fleming in some way.”
“I like Mr. Maxwell. He seems to know what he’s talking about.”
(And her mother didn’t.)
“Oh, I grant you that. Probably they’re all pretty much alike in this business, anyhow.”
Maxwell's voice interrupted them.
"If you'd care to have a private conference," he suggested, "I can-"
"No!"
Mrs. Loamford and Dorothy returned to their chairs.
“I'll tell you, Mr. Maxwell,” said Mrs. Loamford. “We've decided to give this recital. We expect you to keep down the expenses as much as possible, but I want my daughter to have a really fine début. A great many important people are interested in her, and-"
“You understand, I take it, that the box-office receipts, whatever they may be, are yours? I didn’t mention that because most début recitals draw almost nothing.”
“Then how does it happen that the papers always speak of full houses?”
“It seems to be fashionable for critics who do not attend recitals to mention full houses. Very often the house may be crowded when the total receipts amount to twenty-five dollars. We have plenty of ways of filling a house. Ever so many people are willing to go to concerts if some one will send them passes.”
“Anyone who wants to hear my daughter should pay for their tickets!”
“That’s not an uncommon point-of-view. If you wish it, we can suspend the pass list. In that event, however, I won’t answer for the attendance.”
He turned to Dorothy.
“May I ask you, Miss Loamford, how you feel about it?"
She saw no grounds for debate in the matter.
“I’d rather have a good audience,” said Dorothy.
“It is rather discouraging to sing to rows of empty seats,” observed Maxwell. “There’s nothing degrading about issuing passes. I assure you that we have to do it, much as I regret it, for several of our most famous artists. There are very few concerts given in this city which do not depend for their patronage to some ex- tent on the holders of free admissions. I dare say that you received many passes when you were at the conservatory.
“Let me give you an instance. You may remember Klopfer, who despite his name was a violinist, not a pianist. He had a tremendous reputation abroad. It was said that his name on one poster in a public place was sufficient to sell out any concert hall in Vienna. When he came here he was certain that he could draw equally well. His manager permitted Klopfer to place in the contract a clause to the effect that no free tickets were to be issued to any of his recitals. Klopfer scored a great artistic success as a performer of serious music. Yet, when his second recital was announced, the total box-office sale amounted to seventeen dollars the day before the concert. His manager begged him to waive the clause relative to passes. Klopfer insisted that no free admissions be granted. There were exactly sixty-four parquet seats occupied at the second recital. Klopfer’s heart was broken. The critics noted a lack of brilliancy in his playing. After all, Klopfer could not do his best in a large, empty hall. He grew bitter. He decided that the American public had no taste. He returned to Europe long before the expiration of his contract. He has never returned to this country. In Europe, however, he is one of the greatest drawing cards among violinists.
“I sometimes wish that Klopfer had been with us. I think that I could have persuaded him to let us fill his early houses for him. He had the admiration of the critics and he would have won the public eventually had he adjusted himself to American ways. But that is the way of the concert business. Here was an artist, as great in his way as Kreisler or Heifetz, whose American visit is notorious among managers as a monumental failure.”
Maxwell came out of his reverie.
“That’s that, anyhow,” he remarked, crisply. “Now we might as well consider a date for your recital. I take it you’d like Aeolian Hall.”
“That would be lovely,” agreed Dorothy.
Maxwell consulted a note-book.
“I can give you the second Saturday afternoon in October,” he said. “That date was held for another recital which has been canceled. Saturday afternoons are particularly good for débuts.”
The Loamfords nodded.
“You sing under your own name?"
Dorothy looked puzzled. If she had had an impossible, unpronounceable name-
“Why, yesMrs. Loamford edged nearer the desk.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Maxwell,” she said, “but you’ve hit on something that’s been on my mind for a long time. I think that my daughter ought to appear as Dorothy Reitz. That’s her middle name— Reitz. It’s my maiden name. I think it’s a prettier name than Loamford for the concert stage, and Dorothy’s uncle, Mr. Elliott Reitz—you must know him; the famous hat man—is so well known that the name would arouse interest. I may be old-fashioned, too, but I think it preferable to have her sing as Dorothy Reitz. Don’t you think so, Mr. Maxwell?”
“I’m afraid that my jurisdiction doesn’t extend so far. If you prefer—I was only asking so that I could notify the hall management for whom to hold the auditorium.”
“Then hold it for Dorothy Reitz, please,” beamed Mrs. Loamford. “That'll make everything much easier for you, Dorothy.”
She turned solemnly to Maxwell.
“Besides,” she added, “my poor dear husband isn’t dead a year, and some people might think it curious daughter sang in public so soon after his death.”
“Very well,” assented Maxwell. “Dorothy Reitz it is—if Miss Loamford has no objections.”
For once, her mother seemed to be right. “Loamford” was a little—what? It didn’t sound like the name of a singer. Neither did “Reitz’”—but “Dorothy Reitz” had a more artistic ring to it. Dorothy was a bit vexed that she had not thought of it first.
“Now I’ll introduce you to Mr. Harper, my associate, who takes care of the recital itself. You can make all arrangements with him. He will see to your tickets, printing, advertising and so on.”
He wrote a few lines on a “Snappygram” blank, issued by an enterprising music publisher for the use of big executives.
“Just pass through this door to the next office. Mr. Harper is at his desk. You will pardon me. There are several people waiting to see me, I believe. Don’t hesitate to call on me when I can be of service. We'll meet soon again, I’m sure.”
He opened the door to the next office.
“Mr, Harper,” he said, “I want you to meet Miss Reitz and Mrs. Loamford. Miss Reitz has that open date at Aeolian.”
They entered a small office, where Hamilton Harper was dictating to a pretty young stenographer.
“-we want you to put over this concert in a big way,” they heard him dictate, “and we beg to advise you that the advertising material—just a minute, Classy.”
The stenographer poised her pencil. Hamilton Harper rose.
“Have a chair, ladies,” he said.
“You can do the rest of the mail now, Classy,” he added. “Come back later, Or go out and feed your face.”