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第22节

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of Miss Kronborg。  The head of a musical publishing house



joined them; bringing with him a journalist and the presi…



dent of a German singing society。  The conversation was















chiefly about the new SIEGLINDE。  Mrs。 Harsanyi was gra…



cious and enthusiastic; her husband nervous and uncom…



municative。  He smiled mechanically; and politely an…



swered questions addressed to him。  〃Yes; quite so。〃  〃Oh;



certainly。〃  Every one; of course; said very usual things



with great conviction。  Mrs。 Harsanyi was used to hearing



and uttering the commonplaces which such occasions de…



manded。  When her husband withdrew into the shadow;



she covered his retreat by her sympathy and cordiality。



In reply to a direct question from Ottenburg; Harsanyi



said; flinching; 〃ISOLDE?  Yes; why not?  She will sing all



the great roles; I should think。〃







     The chorus director said something about 〃dramatic



temperament。〃  The journalist insisted that it was 〃ex…



plosive force;〃 〃projecting power。〃







     Ottenburg turned to Harsanyi。  〃What is it; Mr。 Har…



sanyi?  Miss Kronborg says if there is anything in her;



you are the man who can say what it is。〃







     The journalist scented copy and was eager。  〃Yes; Har…



sanyi。  You know all about her。  What's her secret?〃







     Harsanyi rumpled his hair irritably and shrugged his



shoulders。  〃Her secret?  It is every artist's secret;〃he



waved his hand;〃passion。  That is all。  It is an open



secret; and perfectly safe。  Like heroism; it is inimitable



in cheap materials。〃







     The lights went out。  Fred and Archie left the box as



the second act came on。







     Artistic growth is; more than it is anything else; a refining



of the sense of truthfulness。  The stupid believe that to



be truthful is easy; only the artist; the great artist; knows



how difficult it is。  That afternoon nothing new came to



Thea Kronborg; no enlightenment; no inspiration。  She



merely came into full possession of things she had been



refining and perfecting for so long。  Her inhibitions chanced



to be fewer than usual; and; within herself; she entered



into the inheritance that she herself had laid up; into the















fullness of the faith she had kept before she knew its name



or its meaning。







     Often when she sang; the best she had was unavailable;



she could not break through to it; and every sort of dis…



traction and mischance came between it and her。  But



this afternoon the closed roads opened; the gates dropped。



What she had so often tried to reach; lay under her hand。



She had only to touch an idea to make it live。







     While she was on the stage she was conscious that every



movement was the right movement; that her body was



absolutely the instrument of her idea。  Not for nothing



had she kept it so severely; kept it filled with such energy



and fire。  All that deep…rooted vitality flowered in her



voice; her face; in her very finger…tips。  She felt like a tree



bursting into bloom。  And her voice was as flexible as her



body; equal to any demand; capable of every NUANCE。



With the sense of its perfect companionship; its entire



trustworthiness; she had been able to throw herself into



the dramatic exigencies of the part; everything in her at



its best and everything working together。







     The third act came on; and the afternoon slipped by。



Thea Kronborg's friends; old and new; seated about the



house on different floors and levels; enjoyed her triumph



according to their natures。  There was one there; whom



nobody knew; who perhaps got greater pleasure out of



that afternoon than Harsanyi himself。  Up in the top gal…



lery a gray…haired little Mexican; withered and bright as



a string of peppers beside a'dobe door; kept praying and



cursing under his breath; beating on the brass railing



and shouting 〃Bravo!  Bravo!〃 until he was repressed by



his neighbors。







     He happened to be there because a Mexican band was



to be a feature of Barnum and Bailey's circus that year。



One of the managers of the show had traveled about the



Southwest; signing up a lot of Mexican musicians at low



wages; and had brought them to New York。  Among them















was Spanish Johnny。  After Mrs。 Tellamantez died; Johnny



abandoned his trade and went out with his mandolin to



pick up a living for one。  His irregularities had become



his regular mode of life。







     When Thea Kronborg came out of the stage entrance



on Fortieth Street; the sky was still flaming with the last



rays of the sun that was sinking off behind the North



River。  A little crowd of people was lingering about the



doormusicians from the orchestra who were waiting



for their comrades; curious young men; and some poorly



dressed girls who were hoping to get a glimpse of the



singer。  She bowed graciously to the group; through her



veil; but she did not look to the right or left as she crossed



the sidewalk to her cab。  Had she lifted her eyes an instant



and glanced out through her white scarf; she must have



seen the only man in the crowd who had removed his hat



when she emerged; and who stood with it crushed up in



his hand。  And she would have known him; changed as he



was。  His lustrous black hair was full of gray; and his face



was a good deal worn by the EXTASI; so that it seemed to



have shrunk away from his shining eyes and teeth and left



them too prominent。  But she would have known him。



She passed so near that he could have touched her; and he



did not put on his hat until her taxi had snorted away。



Then he walked down Broadway with his hands in his



overcoat pockets; wearing a smile which embraced all the



stream of life that passed him and the lighted towers that



rose into the limpid blue of the evening sky。  If the singer;



going home exhausted in her cab; was wondering what



was the good of it all; that smile; could she have seen it;



would have answered her。  It is the only commensurate



answer。











     Here we must leave Thea Kronborg。  From this time



on the story of her life is the story of her achievement。



The growth of an artist is an intellectual and spiritual















development which can scarcely be followed in a personal



narrative。  This story attempts to deal only with the sim…



ple and concrete beginnings which color and accent an



artist's work; and to give some account of how a Moon…



stone girl found her way out of a vague; easy…going world



into a life of disciplined endeavor。  Any account of the



loyalty of young hearts to some exalted ideal; and the



passion with which they strive; will always; in some of



us; rekindle generous emotions。









End of Part VI


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