The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather (best reads .TXT) 📕

Bowers laughed. “No doubt about that. I’ll have to suggest that you conceal it a little more effectually. That is⁠—necessary, Miss Kronborg,” he added, looking back over the shoulder of the overcoat he was putting on.

He went out to lunch and Thea thought the subject closed. But late in the afternoon, when he was taking his dyspepsia tablet and a glass of water between lessons, he looked up and said in a voice ironically coaxing⁠—

“Miss Kronborg, I wish you would tell me why you hate Jessie.”

Taken by surprise Thea put down the score she was reading and answered before she knew what she was saying, “I hate her for the sake of what I used to think a singer might be.”

Bowers balanced the tablet on the end of his long forefinger and whistled softly. “And how did you form your conception of what a singer ought to be?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Thea flushed and spoke under her breath; “but I suppose I got most of it from Harsanyi.”

Bowers made no comment upon this reply, but opened the door for the next pupil, who was waiting in the reception-room.

It was dark when Thea left the studio that night. She knew she had offended Bowers. Somehow she had hurt herself, too. She felt unequal to the boardinghouse table, the sneaking divinity student who sat next her and had tried to kiss her on the stairs last night. She went over to the waterside of Michigan Avenue and walked along beside the lake. It was a clear, frosty winter night. The great empty space over the water was restful and spoke of freedom. If she had any money at all, she would go away. The stars glittered over the wide black water. She looked up at them wearily and shook her head. She believed that what she felt was despair, but it was only one of the forms of hope. She felt, indeed, as if she were bidding the stars goodbye; but she was renewing a promise. Though their challenge is universal and eternal, the stars get no answer but that⁠—the brief light flashed back to them from the eyes of the young who unaccountably aspire.

The rich, noisy, city, fat with food and drink, is a spent thing; its chief concern is its digestion and its little game of hide-and-seek with the undertaker. Money and office and success are the consolations of impotence. Fortune turns kind to such solid people and lets them suck their bone in peace. She flecks her whip upon flesh that is more alive, upon that stream of hungry boys and girls who tramp the streets of every city, recognizable by their pride and discontent, who are the Future, and who possess the treasure of creative power.

While her living arrangements were so casual and fortuitous, Bowers’s studio was the one fixed thing in Thea’s life. She went out from it to uncertainties, and hastened to it from nebulous confusion. She was more influenced by Bowers than she knew. Unconsciously she began to take on something of his dry contempt, and to share his grudge without understanding exactly what it was about. His cynicism seemed to her honest, and the amiability of his pupils artificial. She admired his drastic treatment of his dull pupils. The stupid deserved all they got, and more. Bowers knew that she thought him a very clever man.

One afternoon when Bowers came in from lunch Thea handed him a card on which he read the name, “Mr. Philip Frederick Ottenburg.”

“He said he would be in again tomorrow and that he wanted some time. Who is he? I like him better than the others.”

Bowers nodded. “So do I. He’s not a singer. He’s a beer prince: son of the big brewer in St. Louis. He’s been in Germany with his mother. I didn’t know he was back.”

“Does he take lessons?”

“Now and again. He sings rather well. He’s at the head of the Chicago branch of the Ottenburg business, but he can’t stick to work and is always running away. He has great ideas in beer, people tell me. He’s what they call an imaginative business man; goes over to Bayreuth and seems to do nothing but give parties and spend money, and brings back more good notions for the brewery than the fellows who sit tight dig out in five years. I was born too long ago to be much taken in by these chesty boys with flowered vests, but I like Fred, all the same.”

“So do I,” said Thea positively.

Bowers made a sound between a cough and a laugh. “Oh, he’s a lady-killer, all right! The girls in here are always making eyes at him. You won’t be the first.” He threw some sheets of music on the piano. “Better look that over; accompaniment’s a little tricky. It’s for that new woman from Detroit. And Mrs. Priest will be in this afternoon.”

Thea sighed. “ ’I Know that my Redeemer Liveth’?”

“The same. She starts on her concert tour next week, and we’ll have a rest. Until then, I suppose we’ll have to be going over her programme.”

The next day Thea hurried through her luncheon at a German bakery and got back to the studio at ten minutes past one. She felt sure that the young brewer would come early, before it was time for Bowers to arrive. He had not said he would, but yesterday, when he opened the door to go, he had glanced about the room and at her, and something in his eye had conveyed that suggestion.

Sure enough, at twenty minutes past one the door of the reception-room opened, and a tall, robust young man with a cane and an English hat and ulster looked in expectantly. “Ah⁠—ha!” he exclaimed, “I thought if I came early I might have good luck. And how are you today, Miss Kronborg?”

Thea was sitting in the window chair. At her left elbow there was a table, and upon this table the young man sat down, holding his