wouldn't give a look-in."
Elkan made no reply. As a result of Benson's gesture he was busy
estimating the value of eight and a quarter carats at eighty-seven
dollars and fifty cents a carat.
"Because," Benson continued, "the profits is something you could really
call enormous! If you got the time I would like to show you a few
figures."
"I got all evening," Elkan answered, whereat Benson pulled from his
waistcoat pocket a fountain pen ornamented with gold filigree.
"First," he said, "is the costumes."
And therewith he plunged into a maze of calculation that lasted for
nearly an hour. Moreover, at the end of that period he entered into a
new series of figures, tending to show that by the investment of an
additional five thousand dollars the profits could be increased
seventy-five per cent.
"But I'm satisfied to invest my ten thousand," he said, "because five
thousand is my own and the other five thousand I could get easy from the
Kosciuscko Bank, whereas the additional five thousand I must try to
interest somebody he should invest it with me. And so far as that goes I
wouldn't bother myself at all."
"You're dead right," Elkan said by way of making himself agreeable,
whereat Benson grew crimson with chagrin.
"Sure I'm dead right," he said; "and if you and Mrs. Lubliner would come
down to my office in the Siddons Theatre Building to-morrow night, eight
o'clock, I would send one of my associates round with you and he will
get you tickets for the 'Diners Out,' understand me; and then you would
see for yourself what a big house they got there. Even on Monday night
they turn 'em away!"
"I'm much obliged to you," Elkan replied. "I'm sure Mrs. Lubliner and me
would enjoy it very much."
"I'm sorry for you if you wouldn't," Benson retorted; "and that
there 'Diners Out' ain't a marker to the show I'm putting on, Mr.
Lubliner--which you can see for yourself, a business proposition,
which pans out pretty near two hundred thousand dollars on a
fifteen-thousand-dollar investment, is got to be right up to the mark.
Ain't it?"
"I thought you said ten thousand dollars was the investment," Elkan
remarked.
"I did," Benson replied with some heat; "but if some one comes along and
wants to invest the additional five thousand dollars I wouldn't turn him
down, Mr. Lubliner."
He rose to his feet to join the pinocle players in the dining room.
"So I hope you enjoy the show to-morrow night," he added as he strolled
away.
* * * * *
From six to eight every evening Max Merech underwent a gradual
transformation, for six o'clock was the closing hour at Polatkin,
Scheikowitz & Company's establishment, while eight marked the advent of
the Sarasate Trio at the Cafe Roman, on Delancey Street. Thus, at six,
Max Merech was an assistant cutter; and, indeed, until after he ate his
supper he still bore the outward appearance of an assistant cutter,
though inwardly he felt a premonitory glow. After half-past seven,
however, he buttoned on a low, turned-down collar with its concomitant
broad Windsor tie, and therewith he assumed his real character--that of
a dilettante.
At the Cafe Roman each evening he specialized on music; but with the
spirit of the true dilettante he neglected no one of the rest of the
arts, and was ever to be found at the table next to the piano, a warm
advocate of the latest movement in painting and literature, as well as
an appreciative listener to the ultramodern music discoursed by the
Sarasate Trio.
"If that ain't a winner I ain't no judge!" he said to Boris Volkovisk,
the pianist, on the evening of the conversation with Elkan set forth
above. He referred to a violin sonata of Boris' own composition which
the latter and Jacob Rekower, the violinist, had just concluded.
Boris smiled and wiped away the perspiration from his bulging forehead,
for the third movement of the sonata, marked in the score _Allegro con
fuoco_, had taxed even the technic of its composer.
"A winner of what?" Boris asked--"money? Because supposing a miracle
happens that somebody would publish it nobody buys it."
Max nodded his head slowly in sympathetic acquiescence.
"But anyhow you ain't so bad off like some composers," he said. "You've
anyhow got a good musician to play your stuff for you."
He smiled at Jacob Rekower, who plunged his hands into his trousers
pockets and shrugged deprecatingly.
"Sure, I know," Rekower said; "and if we play too much good stuff
Marculescu raises the devil with us we should play more popular music."
He spat out the words "popular music" with an emphasis that made a
_Tarrok_ player at the next table jump in his seat.
"_Nu_," said the latter as the deal passed, "what is the matter with
popular music? If it wouldn't be for writing popular music, understand
me, many a decent, respectable composer would got to starve!"
He turned his chair round and abandoned the card game the better to air
his views on popular music.
"Furthermore," he said, "I know a young feller by the name Milton Jassy
which last year he makes two thousand dollars already from syncopating
_Had gadyo_ and calling it the "Wildcat Rag," and this year he is
writing the music for a new show and I bet yer the least he makes out of
it is five thousand dollars."
"Yow! Five thousand dollars!" Merech exclaimed. "Such people you hear
about, but you _oser_ see 'em."
"Don't you?" said the _Tarrok_ player, drawing a cardcase from his
breast pocket. "Well, you see one now."
He laid face upward on the table a card which read:
+============================================+
| |
| "THE SONGS YOU ALL SING" |
| |
| |
| MILTON JASSY |
| SIDDONS THEATRE BUILDING |
| ROOM 1400 |
| |
| "STUFF WITH A PUNCH" |
| |
| LAZY DAISY EDDIE |
| WILDCAT RAG ALL ABOARD FOR SLEEPYTOWN |
| |
+============================================+
For a brief interval Volkovisk, Rekower, and Merech regarded Jassy's
card in silence.
"Well," Merech said at last, "what of it?"
Jassy shrugged and waved his hand significantly.
"Nothing of it," he said, "only your friend there is knocking popular
music; and though I admit that I didn't got to go to the _Wiener_
conservatory so as I could write popular music exactly, y'understand,
still I could write sonatas and trios and quartets and even concerti and
symphonies till I am black in the face already and I couldn't pay my
laundry bill even."
For answer Volkovisk turned to the piano and seized from the pile of
music a blue-covered volume. It was the violin sonata of Richard
Strauss, and handing the violin part to Rekower he seated himself on the
stool. Then with a premonitory nod to Rekower he struck the opening
chords, and for more than ten minutes Jassy and Merech sat motionless
until the first movement was finished.
"When Strauss wrote that he could _oser_ pay his laundry bill either,"
Volkovisk said, rising from the stool. He sat down wearily at the table
and lit a cigarette.
"So you see," he began, "Richard Strauss----"
"Richard Strauss nothing!" cried an angry voice at his elbow. "If you
want to practise, practise at home. I pay you here to play for my
customers, not for yourselves, Volkovisk; and once and for all I am
telling you you should cut out this nonsense and _spiel_ a little music
once in a while."
It was the proprietor, Marculescu, who spoke, and Volkovisk immediately
seated himself at the piano. This time he took from the pile of music
three small sheets, one of which he placed on the reading desk and the
other on Rekower's violin stand. After handing the other sheet to the
'cellist he plunged into a furious rendition of "Wildcat Rag."
In the front part of the cafe a group of men and women, whose clothes
and manners proclaimed them to be slummers from the upper West Side,
broke into noisy applause as the vulgar composition came to an end, and
in the midst of their shouting and stamping Jassy rose trembling from
his seat. He slunk between tables to the door, while Volkovisk began a
repetition of the number, and it was not until he had turned the corner
of the street and the melody had ceased to sound in his ears that he
slackened his pace. When he did so, however, a friendly hand fell on his
shoulder and he turned to find Max Merech close behind him.
"_Nu_, Mr. Jassy," Max said, "you shouldn't be so broke up because you
couldn't write so good as Richard Strauss."
Jassy stood still and looked Max squarely in the eye.
"That's just the point," he said in hollow tones. "Might I could if I
tried; but I am such an _Epikouros_ that I don't want to try. I would
sooner make money out of rubbish than be an artist like Volkovisk."
Max shrugged and elevated his eyebrows.
"A man must got to live," he said as he seized Jassy's arm and began
gently to propel him back to the Cafe Roman.
"Sure, I know," Jassy said; "but living ain't all having good clothes to
wear and good food to eat. Living for an artist like Volkovisk is
composing music worthy of an artist. _Aber_ what do I do, Mister----"
"Merech," Max said.
"What do I do, Mr. Merech?" Jassy continued. "I am all the time throwing
away my art in the streets with this rotten stuff I am composing."
* * * * *
"Well, I tell you," Max said after they had reentered the cafe and had
seated themselves at a table remote from the piano, "composing music is
like manufacturing garments, Mr. Jassy. Some one must got to cater to
the popular-price trade and only a few manufacturers gets to the point
where they make up a highgrade line for the exclusive retailers. Ain't
it?"
Jassy nodded as the waiter brought the cups of coffee.
"Now you take me, for instance," Max continued. "Once I worked by B.
Gans, which I assure you, Mr. Jassy, it was a pleasure to handle the
goods in that place. What an elegant line of silks and embroidery they
got it there! Believe me, Mr. Jassy, every day I went to work there like
I would be going to a wedding already, such a beautiful goods they made
it! _Aber_ now I am working by a popular-price concern, Mr. Jassy,
which, you could take it from me, the colors them people puts together
in one garment gives me the indigestion already!"
Again Jassy nodded sympathetically.
"And why did I make a change?" Max went on. "Because them people pays
me seven dollars a week more as B. Gans, Mr. Jassy; and though art is
art, understand me, seven dollars a week ain't to be coughed at
neither."
For a few minutes Jassy sipped his coffee in silence.
"That's all right, too," he said; "but with garments you could make just
so much money manufacturing a highgrade line as you could if you are
making a popular-price line."
Max nodded sapiently.
"I give you right there," he agreed, "and that's because the
manufacturer of the highgrade line does business in the same way as the
popular-price concern. _Aber_ you take the composer of highgrade music
and all he does is compose. He's too proud to poosh it, Mr. Jassy;
whereas the feller what composes popular music he's just the same like
the feller what manufacturers a popular-price line of garments--he not
only manufacturers his line but he pooshes it till he gets a market for
it."
"There ain't no market for a highclass line of music," Jassy said
hopelessly.
"Why ain't there?" Max demanded. "Did you ever try to market a symphony?
Did Volkovisk ever try to get anybody with money interested in his
stuff? No, sirree, sir! All that feller does is to play it to a lot of
_Schnorrers_ like me, which no matter how much we like his work we
couldn't help him none. Now you take your own case, for instance. You
told us a few minutes ago you are writing some music for a new show.
Now, if you wouldn't mind my asking, who is putting in the capital for
that show?"
"Well," Jassy replied, "a feller called Benson is putting it in and part
of the capital is from his own money and the rest he borrows."
"Just like a new beginner would do in the garment business," Max
commented. "_Aber_ who does he borrow it from? A bank maybe--what?"
"Some he gets from a bank," Jassy replied, "and the rest is he trying to
raise elsewheres. To-night he tells me he is getting an introduction to
a business man which he hopes to lend from him five _oder_ ten thousand
dollars."
"Five _oder_ ten thousand dollars!" Max cried. "_Shema beni._ For five
thousand dollars Volkovisk could publish all the music he ever wrote and
give a whole lot of recitals in the bargain. One thousand dollars would
be enough even."
"That I wouldn't deny at all," Jassy rejoined. "_Aber_ who would you
find stands willing he should invest in Volkovisk's music a thousand
dollars? Would he ever get back his thousand dollars even, let alone any
profits?"
"It's a speculation, I admit," Max commented; "but you take Richard
Strauss, for instance, and if some feller would staked Strauss to a
thousand dollars capital when he needed it, understand me, not alone he
would got his money back but if we would say, for example, the thousand
dollars represents a ten-per-cent interest in Strauss' business, to-day
yet the feller would be worth his fifty thousand dollars, because
everybody knows what a big success Strauss made. Actually the feller
must got orders at least six months ahead. Why for one song alone they
pay him a couple thousand dollars!"
"Well," Jassy asked, "if you feel there's such a future in it why don't
you raise a thousand dollars and finance Volkovisk?"
Max laughed aloud.
"Me--I couldn't raise nothing," he said; "_aber_ you--you are feeling
sore at yourself because you are writing popular stuff. Here's a chance
for you to square yourself with your art. Why don't you help Volkovisk
out? All you got to do is to find out who is loaning this here Benson
the ten thousand dollars and get him to stake Volkovisk to a thousand."
Jassy tapped the table with his fingers.
"For that matter I could say the same thing to you," he declared. "You
consider Volkovisk's talent so high as a business proposition, Merech,
why don't you get some business man interested--one of your bosses, for
instance?"
He rose from his chair as he spoke and placed ten cents on the table as
his share of the evening's expenses.
"Think it over," he said; and long after he had closed the door behind
him Max sat still with his hands in his trousers pocket and pondered the
suggestion.
"After all," he mused as Marculescu began to turn out the lights one by
one, "why shouldn't I--the very first thing in the morning?"
It was not, however, until Polatkin and Scheikowitz had gone out to
lunch the following day, leaving Elkan alone in the office, that Max
could bring his courage to the sticking point; and so fearful was he
that he might regret his boldness before it was too late, he fairly ran
from the cutting room to the office and delivered his preparatory
remarks in the outdoor tones of a political spellbinder.
"Mr. Lubliner," he cried, "could I speak to you a few words something?"
Elkan rose and slammed the door.
"Say, lookyhere, Merech," he said, "if you want a raise don't let the
whole factory know about it, otherwise we would be pestered to death
here. Remember, also," he continued as he sat down again, "you are only
working for us a few weeks--and don't go so quick as all that."
"What d'ye mean, a raise?" Max asked. "I ain't said nothing at all about
a raise. I am coming to see you about something entirely different
already."
Elkan looked ostentatiously at his watch.
"I ain't got too much time, Merech," he said.
"Nobody's got too much time when it comes to fellers asking for raises,
Mr. Lubliner," Max retorted; "_aber_ this here is something else again,
as I told you."
"Well, don't beat no bushes round, Merech!" Elkan cried impatiently.
"What is it you want from me?"
"I want from you this," Max began huskily: "Might you know Tschaikovsky
maybe _oder_ Rimsky-Korsakoff."
"Tschaikovsky I never heard of," Elkan replied, "nor the other concern
neither. Must be new beginners in the garment business--ain't it?"
"They never was in the garment business, so far as I know," Max
continued; "_aber_ they made big successes even if they wasn't, because
all the money ain't in the garment business, Mr. Lubliner, and
Tschaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff, even in the old country, made so much
money they lived in palaces yet. Once when I was a boy already,
Tschaikovsky comes to Minsk and they got up a parade for him--such a big
_Macher_ he was!"
"I don't doubt your word for a minute, Merech; _aber_ what is all this
got to do _mit_ me?"
"It ain't got nothing to do with you, Mr. Lubliner," Max declared--"only
I got a friend by the name Boris Volkovisk, and believe me or not, Mr.
Lubliner, in some respects Tschaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff could learn
from that feller, because, you could take it from me, Mr. Lubliner,
there's some passages in the Fifth Symphony, understand me, which I hate
to say it you could call rotten!"
Elkan stirred uneasily in his chair.
"I don't know what you are talking about at all," he said.
"I am talking about this," Max replied; and therewith he began to
explain to Elkan the aspirations and talent of Boris Volkovisk and
his--Max'--scheme for their successful development. For more than half
an hour he unfolded a plan by which one thousand dollars might be
judiciously expended so as to secure the maximum benefit to Volkovisk's
career--a plan that during the preceding two years Volkovisk and he had
thoroughly discussed over many a cup of coffee in Marculescu's cafe.
"And so you see, Mr. Lubliner," he concluded, "it's a plain business
proposition; and if you was to take for your thousand dollars, say, for
example, a one-tenth interest in the business Volkovisk expects to do,
understand me, you would get a big return for your investment."
Elkan lit a cigar and puffed away reflectively before speaking.
"_Nu_," he said at last; "so that is what you wanted to talk to me
about?"
Max nodded.
"Well, then, all I could say is," Elkan went on, "you are coming to the
wrong shop. A business proposition like that is for a banker, which he
is got so much money he don't know what to do with it, Merech."
Max' face fell and he turned disconsolately away.
"At the same time, Max," Elkan added, "I ain't feeling sore that you
come to me with the proposition, understand me. The trouble ain't with
you that you got such an idee, Max; the trouble is with me that I
couldn't see it. It's like a feller by the name Dalzell, a buyer for
Kammerman's store, says to me this morning. 'Lubliner,' he says, 'I
couldn't afford to take no chances buying highgrade garments from a
feller that is used to making a popular-price line,' he says, 'because
no matter how well equipped your factory would be the trouble is a
popular-price manufacturer couldn't think big enough to turn out
expensive garments. To such a manufacturer goods at two dollars a yard
is the limit, and goods at ten dollars a yard he couldn't imagine at
all. And even if he could induce himself to use stuff at ten dollars a
yard, y'understand, it goes against him to be liberal with such
high-priced goods, so he skimps the garment.'"
He blew a great cloud of smoke as a substitute for a sigh.
"And Dalzell was right, Max," he concluded. "You couldn't expect that a
garment manufacturer like me is going to got such big idees as investing
a thousand dollars in a highgrade scheme like yours. With me a thousand
dollars means so many yards piece goods, so many sewing machines or a
week's payroll; _aber_ it don't mean giving a musician a show he should
compose highgrade music. I ain't educated up to it, Max; so I wish you
luck that you should raise the money somewheres else."
* * * * *
When M. Sidney Benson entered his office in the Siddons Theatre Building
late that afternoon he found Jassy seated at his desk in the mournful
contemplation of some music manuscript.
"_Nu_, Milton," Benson cried, "you shouldn't look so _rachmonos_. I
surely think I got 'em coming!"
"You think you got 'em coming!" Jassy repeated with bitter emphasis.
"You said that a dozen times already--and always the feller wasn't so
big a sucker like he looked!"
"That was because I didn't work it right," Benson replied. "This time I
am making out to do the feller a favour by letting him in on the show,
and right away he becomes interested. His name is Elkan Lubliner, a
manufacturer by cloaks and suits, and to-night he is coming down with
his wife yet, and you are going to take 'em round to the 'Diners Out.'"
"I am going to the 'Diners Out' _mit_ 'em?" Milton ejaculated with every
inflection of horror and disgust.
"Sure!" Benson replied cheerfully. "Six dollars it'll cost us, because
Ryan pretty near laughs in my face when I asked him for three seats. But
never mind, Milton, it'll be worth the money."
"Will it?" Jassy retorted. "Well, not for me, Mr. Benson. Why, the last
time I seen that show I says I wouldn't sit through it again for a
hundred dollars."
"A hundred dollars is a lot of money, Milton," Benson said. "_Aber_ I
think if you work it right you will get a hundred times a hundred
dollars before we are through, on account I really got this feller
going. So you should listen to me and I would tell you just what you
want to say to the feller between the acts."
Therewith Benson commenced to unfold a series of "talking points" which
he had spent the entire day in formulating; and, as he proceeded,
Jassy's eyes wandered from the title page of the manuscript music
inscribed "Opus 47--Trio in G moll," and began to glow in sympathy with
Benson's well-laid plan.
"There's no use shilly-shallying, Milton," Benson concluded. "The season
is getting late, and if we're ever going to put on that show now is the
time."
Milton nodded eagerly.
"_Aber_ why don't you take 'em to the show yourself, Mr. Benson?" he
asked hopefully. "Because, not to jolly you at all, Mr. Benson, I must
got to say it you are a wonderful talker."
Benson shrugged his shoulders and smiled weakly.
"I am a wonderful talker, I admit," he agreed; "but I got a hard face,
Milton, whereas you, anyhow, look honest. So you should meet me at
Hanley's afterward, understand me, and we would try to close the deal
there and then."
He dug his hand into his trousers pocket and produced a modest roll of
bills, from which he detached six dollars.
"Here is the money," he added, "and you should be here to meet them
people at eight o'clock sharp."
On the stroke of eight Milton Jassy returned to Benson's office in the
Siddons Theatre Building and again seated himself at his desk in front
of the pile of manuscript music. This time, however, he brushed aside
the title page of his Opus 47 and spread out an evening paper to beguile
the tedium of awaiting Benson's "prospects." Automatically he turned to
the department headed Music and Musicians, and at the top of the column
his eye fell on the following item:
Ferencz Lanczhid, the Budapest virtuoso, will be the soloist
at the concert this evening of the Philharmonic Society. He
will play the Tschaikovsky Violin Concerto, Opus 35, and the
remainder of the program will consist of Dvorak's Symphony,
_Aus der Neuen Welt_, and the ever-popular Meistersinger
Overture.
Jassy heaved a tremulous sigh as he concluded the paragraph and
leaned back in his chair, while in his ears sounded the adagio passage
that introduces the first movement of the "New World Symphony."
Simultaneously the occupant of the next office slammed down his rolltop
desk and began to whistle a lively popular melody. It was "Wildcat Rag,"
and Milton struck the outspread newspaper with his clenched fist. Then
rising to his feet he gathered together the loose pages of his "Opus 47"
and placed them tenderly in a leather case just as the door opened and
Elkan and Yetta entered.
"I hope we ain't late," Elkan said.
"Not at all," Milton replied. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Lubliner--ain't it?"
As he drew forward a chair for Yetta he saluted his visitors with a
slight, graceful bow, a survival of his conservatory days.
"Sit down," he said; "we got lots and lots of time."
"I thought the show started at a quarter-past eight--ain't it?" Elkan
asked.
"It does and it doesn't," Milton replied hesitatingly; "that is to say,
some shows start at a quarter-past eight and others not till half-past
eight."
"But I mean this here 'Diners Out' starts at a quarter-past eight--ain't
it?" Elkan insisted.