Of course, as Bobby Dane had said, with such a name, Thayer's family
tree had sprouted in Massachusetts. His Puritanism was hereditary and
strong; it tempered the artistic side of his nature, but it could not
destroy it. In the musical sense of the word, Cotton Mather Thayer
possessed Temperament; but his Temperament was the battle-field where
two warring temperaments were at constant strife.
In the year of grace sixteen hundred and thirty-five, Richard Thayer,
freeman, landed in America. From Plymouth Rock, he strode straight
towards a position of colonial fame. His children and his children's
children kept up the family tradition and name until one of them, of a
more theological bent than his cousins had been, annulled the custom of
his ancestors and named his oldest son for the grim divine, Cotton
Mather Thayer, and during the next one hundred and fifty years, Cotton
Mathers and Richards had flourished side by side among the Thayers of
eastern Massachusetts. They were strong men, one and all, quiet and
self-contained in years of peace, grim fighters in seasons of war, and
prominent citizens at all times, a godly, gritty, and prosperous race.
Of such is the greatness of New England.
Their records, like the records of all good things, were slightly
monotonous. They were born into orderly nurseries; they were graduated
from the vicissitudes of teething and mumps into orderly, peaceful
adolescence. They invariably married the most suitable damsel of their
own class, and they passed from an orderly old age through an orderly
churchyard into a heaven which the imagination of their surviving kin
peopled with orderly ranks of angels, playing gilt harps in perfect
accord. Their artistic ideals were bounded by _Coronation_ and the
pictures in _The New England Primer_ and _Godey_. Blackberry shrub, to
their minds, was the medium of riotous dissipation.
Under such fostering conditions, ancestral traits strengthened from
generation to generation, until the race of Puritan Thayers culminated
in one Cotton Mather who was born in the early decades of the last
century, a grim deacon, a shrewd lawyer, and the owner of two or three
ships which sailed from his own seaport town. Shrewd as he was, however,
his logic failed him at one point. When his first child, Cotton Mather
Thayer, was a tiny boy, the youngster was allowed and even invited to
toddle about the wharves, clinging to the paternal thumb. On the other
hand, when the boy Cotton was fourteen, he received a round dozen of
canings for lounging about among the shipping. The thirteenth caning was
one too many. It was more severe than the others, and it cracked the
long-strained situation. The caning occurred in his father's office,
after hours, one June night. The _Thankful_ was booked to sail, the next
morning at eight. When, at eight-ten, it slipped down the harbor, it
bore away as cabin-boy and general drudge the stiff and sore, but
unrepentant sinner, Cotton Mather Thayer, age fourteen.
His later adventures have little concern with the story of his son's
life. He sailed over many seas, he visited many lands, mellowing by
contact with many peoples the unyielding temper of his race. The
possibility of failure never once entered into his mind. The Thayers
always had succeeded, for they always had worked. In consequence, he
took it quite as a matter of course that, at twenty-three, he should be
commander of the _Presidenta_, stationed in the Baltic for a year of
chilly inaction. St. Petersburg was near, and St. Petersburg, as the
young commander found, held for him the focal point of the world, in the
person of the pretty daughter of one of the court musicians. Twelve
years later, while the _Presidenta_ was stationed in the Mediterranean,
its young captain died, leaving behind him in Russia a fragile wife and
a little son who had inherited the name and character of the Thayers,
curiously mingled with the artistic, emotional temperament and the rare
musical ability of his mother's race.
It was no common combination. Russian art and Puritan morals are equally
grim; yet the one yields to every passing emotion, the other is girded
up by unyielding strength. Throughout his little boyhood, the child's
nature seemed borne hither and thither by these two counter currents in
his blood, now passing days of quiet, sturdy self-control, now swept by
black gusts of passion which carried all things before them. Then, four
years after his father's death, there came two events into his life: his
mother's death, and the discovery that he had a voice. The one taught
him the meaning of utter, absolute loneliness, for the alien blood of
the Thayers had never been able to win many friends in the land of his
mother's kin. The other proved to be at once a rudder to guide him over
the uncharted future of his life, and an outlet for the pent-up passion
within him. His voice was totally untrained, and as yet it broke into
all manner of distressing falsetto fragments. Nevertheless, it gave him
a cause for living, and it enabled him, the descendant of a taciturn
race, to give utterance to the doubts and questionings which accompanied
his growth to manhood. Bereft of his mother and without his voice, he
might easily have become an ascetic or a criminal.
To a boy of sixteen, trained to a life of strict economy, his slight
income from his father's investments seemed enough for his needs, and he
felt a boyish disgust when, one day, word came to him that his
grandfather had died, leaving him the only heir to the large property
laid up by eight generations of Thayers. His grandfather had refused to
become reconciled to his son; then why should he assume post-mortem
friendship with his son's son? However, by the time he was launched into
German student-life, dividing his time fitfully between his university
and his music, young Cotton Mather was forced to admit that an ancestral
fortune was no despicable addition to the stock in trade of a man
starting in life. He only needed to watch the grinding existences of
some of his comrades to realize the value of money in shaping a broad
artistic career. Instead of wasting his gray matter over details of ways
and means, he could let that side of life take care of itself, while he
gave his whole attention to developing the best that was in his mind and
his voice.
Of course, he was extravagant; of course, he learned, among other
things, some of the blacker lessons of the student world. However, the
Puritanism of his ancestors stood him in good stead. It enabled him to
come into close contact with the seamy side of life; but it decreed that
the friction should never leave a sore spot behind it. It only hardened
the fibre. When he ended his studies, he knew the world at its best and
at its worst, but with this distinction: the best was an integral part
of his life; the worst was an alien, a foe to be recognized and downed,
however often it should face him.
From Goettingen, where he had met Lorimer casually, Thayer went to Berlin
to devote his time entirely to music. Lorimer joined him there, more
because he had nothing to call him back to America than because he had
anything to call him to Berlin. During the next winter, the two men, as
unlike as men could be, had shared a bachelor apartment, the one working
industriously, the other playing just as industriously. It was during
this winter that Lorimer had come into contact with the Arlts. It was
during this winter also that Thayer finally decided to give up his other
plans and make his profession centre in his voice. He had battled
against the idea with the fervor of a race to whom "the stage" offered
no distinction between vaudeville and grand opera, but inclined to the
characteristics of the one and the scope of the other. For years, he had
fought against the temptation; he yielded, one night, during the second
act of _Faust_, and, in after time, he could always identify the chord
which had punctuated his decision. Three hours later, he was studying
that fraction of Baedeker which concerns itself with Italy.
He was in Italy for two years. Then he went back to Berlin for another
year of grinding work, of passing discouragements, and of ultimate
success. There had been many and many a day when his pluck had failed
him, when he had questioned whether his voice was really good, whether,
after all, it were possible to make an artist out of gritty Puritan
stock; whether, in fact, he was not a thing of fibre, rather than a man
of temperament. His progress was great; but his ideals kept pace with
it.
It was one dazzling June morning when he took his final lesson. He had
gone onward and upward until, for months, he had been in the hands of
the _maestro_ universally acknowledged to be the dean of his art. The
_maestro_ was an old man and chary of his words; yet even he was stirred
to enthusiasm.
"My son, it is time for you to go," he said, as he rose from the piano
and took Thayer's hands into his own fragile, elderly fingers. "I can
teach you nothing more. It is now for you to work out your own
reputation. Not much more of life is left in me; but, before it is
ended, I shall hear your name spoken, both often and with praise. While
I live, my house will hold a welcome to you. _Auf wiedersehen!_"
As Thayer went out into the sunshine, the glitter and the brightness of
it all, of the day and of the future, dazzled him and made him afraid.
Then of a sudden the blood of the Thayers, in abeyance during those mad,
sad, glad years of study and of striving, asserted itself again. Obeying
its behest, he turned abruptly from the street where he was seeking the
impresario to whom his master had sent him. In that instant, he turned
his back for many a long month upon opera and upon all that followed in
its train.
One clean, cold night in mid-February, Thayer came down the steps of his
club, where he had been dining with Bobby Dane. At the foot of the steps
he halted long enough to button his coat to the chin and pull his hat
over his eyes, preparatory to facing the cutting wind. Then, turning
southward, he went striding away down the Avenue with the vigorous,
alert tread of the well-fed, contented man. It was still early, so early
that the pavements were dotted with theatre-going groups. He strode
through and beyond them, along the lower end of the Avenue, and came
under the arch, standing in chill, austere dignity at the edge of the
wind-swept square. Over its fretted surface the electric lights shone
coldly, and the deserted benches beyond brought to Thayer, fresh from
the glow and good-fellowship of the club, a sudden depressing sense of
his own aloofness from his kind. The club and Bobby were incidental
points of contact, pleasant, but not permanent. Like the arch, he was
alone, outside the rushing life of the busy town, something to be
watched and commented upon, but never destined to be really in the heart
of things. Bobby was a part of it, and Bobby had held out to him a
welcoming hand. He had taken the hand, and had dropped it again. It was
of no use. He did not belong. The sensation was not a new one to him.
He had met it before and in many places. It came to him suddenly and
unbidden, and it lay, a chilly weight, over all his consciousness. It
always left him wondering whether he would ever become fully adjusted to
his environment, whether it would ever be possible for him to come into
perfect contact with his fellow-men.
As if the depression had brought with it a physical chill, he shook his
broad shoulders and plunged his hands into the side pockets of his
overcoat. Then, facing westward, he went on for a block or two and
stopped at the door of a shabby boarding-house.
"Mr. Arlt?" he said to the maid, in brief interrogation.
She nodded and stood aside to let him pass. Thayer's tread on the dim
stairway showed his familiarity with the place, as did the prompt
calling of his name which answered his knock.
Without laying down his pipe, Arlt rose to greet his guest.
"You were so late that I was afraid you were not coming."
Thayer took off his fur-lined coat and tossed it into a chair.
"Haven't you learned that I always get around?" he asked. "I was dining
with a friend, and we took things lazily."
"And now you expect to sing?" Arlt's accent was rebuking.
"Yes. I walked down here to get myself into condition. How is it? Are
you feeling nervous over the prospect?"
Arlt had seated himself at the grand piano which completely filled one
end of the dreary room. Now he drew a protesting arpeggio from the black
keys and shook his head.
"Oh, that is a terrible woman, that Mrs. Lloyd Avalons! She was here
again, to-day, to tell me about the programme. What does she know of
music? She refuses the Haydn Variations and demands a Liszt Rhapsodie.
If you are not firm with her, she will end by making you sing _The Holy
City_ with a flute obligato."
Thayer laughed unfeelingly.
"She is a Vandal, Arlt; but the world will be at her musicale, they tell
me; and you will find it a good place to make your bow to an American
public. Mrs. Dana told me, over in Berlin, that Mrs. Lloyd Avalons gave
the best private recitals in New York."
"What does she know about music?" Arlt grumbled.
"Nothing, apparently; but the new-rich must have some sort of a fad, if
they are to make themselves count for anything, and people will go to
hear good music, even when they know it is a mere social bribe. Hofman
could fill a Bowery dance-hall with the elect; you only have to lead
them to the latest architectural vagary on Fifth Avenue. They are bound
to be there, for, even while they scoff, they like to keep an eye on
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons for fear she may prove to be worth knowing after they
have snubbed her; so play your best. It may lead to other engagements to
come."
"And the Liszt Rhapsodie?" he asked mournfully.
"Bad, I admit."
"It is detestable. The Rhapsodies are the forlorn hope of artists who
have failed on Beethoven."
"Not so bad as that. Still, there's a way of escape. Announce to your
audience that, by request, you are changing the number from Liszt to
Haydn. I do request it most earnestly."
The boy looked up in admiring relief.
"How is it that such ideas come to you, Mr. Thayer?"
"My Yankee blood, Arlt. Now shall we run over my songs?"
It was characteristic of Thayer that, in consenting to make his American
debut at the recital of Mrs. Lloyd Avalons, he had insisted upon the
condition that he should choose his own assisting artist. How Mrs. Lloyd
Avalons had heard of him in the first place was a mystery which he had
made no effort to solve. From the testimony of several members of the
American colony in Berlin, it appeared that all New York and half of
Boston had heard of Mrs. Lloyd Avalons, who, for three or four seasons
past, had been using her really choice musicales as a species of knocker
upon the portal of New York society. By this time, she had passed the
portal and was disporting herself in the vestibule, with one toe resting
upon the sacred threshold. Socially, she was as yet impossible; but her
recitals had won the reputation of being among the choicest tidbits of
the season's musical feast, for she made up in money what she lacked in
artistic sense, and, thanks to her agent, she had been able to discover
certain new stars before they rose above the horizon. For this reason it
was a distinct honor, Thayer was told, to be bidden to sing for Mrs.
Lloyd Avalons, and therefore Thayer had promptly made up his mind that
Arlt also should have a hearing upon this occasion. The boy already had
decided to come to America. Thayer realized with regret how cold a
welcome the country of his own ancestors was accustomed to extend to
struggling young musicians. Arlt had genius; but he lacked both
influence and initiative. The fight would be a long one, and Arlt's
conquest would be at the expense of many a wound. Teutons are not
necessarily pachyderms, and Arlt was sensitive to a rare degree.
As Arlt's fingers dropped from the keys at the close of _Valentine's_
song of farewell, Thayer laughed suddenly.
"It is rather contrary to custom to be accompanied by the star of the
evening, Arlt. I suppose I ought to have hunted up somebody else; but
these other fellows make frightful work of my accompaniments. They hurry
till they get me out of breath, and then they take advantage of the
moment to drown me out. I'd like a baton, only I should beat the
accompanist with it, before I was half through a programme."
The boy's color came.
"When another man accompanies you, I shall be dead, or incapable," he
returned briefly. "I do not forget."
"Nor I. But do you also remember the last time we did this in Germany?"
"At my home? To Katarina?"
Thayer nodded.
"It is my song, you know. I am superstitious about it."
"Mr. Lorimer was there, that night."
"Oh, that reminds me, Arlt, I heard, to-night, that Lorimer was
engaged."
"Mr. Lorimer?"
"Yes, to a Miss Dane. It is only just announced, to-day. I was dining
with her cousin and he told me."
"She must be good. I hope she is also strong of character," the boy
said, with a curiously deliberate accent which seemed characteristic of
him. "He is a good man and a kind one; but he needs a steadying hand. I
shall write to the mother and Katarina."
"Will they like the news?"
"Why not? Mr. Lorimer is their friend, and they will be glad of any
happiness which shall come to him. To the mother, he is like a son, for
she is simple-hearted and knows nothing of the world. To Katarina, he is
like a god."
"But gods don't usually marry," Thayer suggested whimsically, as he took
up his coat.
However, Arlt was ready for him.
"Zeus did, and Homer tells us how he quarrelled with his wife.'"
"Lorimer never will quarrel; he is too easy-going. By the way, you met
Miss Dane at the Stanley recital. Do you remember her?"
Arlt's lips straightened thoughtfully.
"A tall lady in brown furs, who knew how to praise without making a fool
of herself?" he queried.
"That is the one. I should judge that Lorimer has been making a
systematic campaign ever since he met her, three months ago, and that,
after all, it came suddenly in the end. Dane was noncommittal; but I
think he doesn't like Lorimer any too well. Good-night, Arlt. We'll
rehearse again, Wednesday morning; meanwhile, stick to your Haydn." And
Thayer went away, out into the cold, crisp air, which greeted him now
with all its tonic force.
Arlt's simple, boyish loyalty and lack of self-analysis always put him
into good-humor. It was as infectious as the jovial temper of Bobby
Dane, Thayer reflected enviously, with a sudden memory of the idle talk
over their dinner. Strange what had put him on his nerves afterwards!
Then his thoughts flew to Lorimer, and he wondered how his old chum
would bear the harness of domestic living. Perhaps it was just as well
that no idea crossed his mind of how far his story told to Beatrix Dane,
the Monday before, had had a share in shaping the decision which was to
change the whole character of her life.
The question of one's accountability for others is rarely an edifying
subject of meditation.