Dorothy's Tour
“We’ll be there in plenty of time, Dorothy dear,” answered Aunt Betty. “Now run along girlie, and don’t forget your violin.”
“Here it is,” cried Alfy from the next room, “I’ll bring it to you.”
“You’re a dear, Alfy,” called Dorothy, who by this time was already in the hall.
Mr. Ludlow escorted Dorothy to the taxicab, getting in with her and, shutting the door, he directed the driver to go to Carnegie Hall.
“Well, Dorothy, child,” asked Mr. Ludlow, “is everything all right? You are not scared, are you? You just try to do your best and everything will be fine.”
“I’m not scared, I’m sure of that; but do you think the people will like me?” questioned Dorothy.
“Sure of that, my dear, sure of that. All you must do is just be your very own self,” laughed Mr. Ludlow. “But here we are and we must get out.”
The driver stopped the cab and they quickly descended and walked into the building.
“Now, Dorothy, I am going to show you around the place. Just follow me,” directed Mr. Ludlow.
Dorothy looked at the large room and the many chairs and said hesitatingly, “Will it be crowded?” – and when Mr. Ludlow said he hoped so, she sighed and murmured: “My, what a lot of people I shall have to please!” then she added softly to herself, “Jim, Alfy and Aunt Betty; they will surely be pleased and the rest will, too, if I can make them.”
Mr. Ludlow then led Dorothy to the stage and made her walk up and down and all over the place so that she would get familiar with it.
“Mr. Ludlow,” asked Dorothy, “where shall I stand?”
“Right about here,” answered Mr. Ludlow, walking to the front of the stage and a little to the left. “Don’t face directly front.”
“Is this right?” asked Dorothy, taking the position Mr. Ludlow requested.
“That will do, – that will do just right,” answered Mr. Ludlow. “Now come inside and I will take you to see some of the noted artists who are going to play or sing.” He led Dorothy in from the stage and through a long narrow passage which terminated in a large room where there were numerous chairs, tables and couches. Dorothy noticed three or four girls talking together in the center of the room but those in other groups all seemed to be older.
Mr. Ludlow walked over to the group in the center of the room and addressing a small, fair girl, said, “Good afternoon, Miss Boothington.”
The girl turned and seeing Mr. Ludlow, exclaimed, “Mr. Ludlow, I am so glad you are here. I did want you to hear my singing and criticize. You will, will you not?”
“Miss Boothington, that shall be as you please. But now let me present you to a little friend of mine. This,” remarked Mr. Ludlow, turning to Dorothy, “is Miss Dorothy Calvert, and Dorothy, this is my ward, Miss Ruth Boothington. Miss Boothington sings, and will be one of our companions on your trip.”
“I am so glad to meet you, Miss Calvert,” replied Miss Boothington.
“As we are to be so much together, please call me Dorothy if you will,” interrupted Dorothy.
“And you will call me Ruth,” Miss Boothington remarked. “I know we shall have some very fine times together. And you are a solo violinist?”
“Yes, I play the violin,” answered Dorothy. “Are you going to sing to-day?”
“Yes,” answered Ruth. “At least I am going to try to.”
“Here, here. That will never do, Miss Ruth. You should have said that you would sing. Of course you would sing,” remarked Mr. Ludlow. Turning to Dorothy, he said, “Well, Dorothy, I think I shall leave you here with Miss Boothington. I guess she can take care of you. I am going to the front and will sit with your Aunt Betty.”
With that Mr. Ludlow left the two girls and walked out and around front where he looked for Aunt Betty.
“Is this the place? My, ain’t it big!” exclaimed Alfy, as Aunt Betty and Jim followed her to the door.
“I have our tickets here,” remarked Jim, presenting them to the doorkeeper.
“I guess we shall have to go right in and get our seats,” added Aunt Betty. “Keep close to me, Alfy, and Jim, you see that Alfy doesn’t get lost.”
They were at last ushered into a large box on the right side of the house.
“My, what a lot of seats. Is there going to be people in all of them?” asked Alfy, leaning so far out of the box that she almost fell over the rail.
“Here! You sit still,” sharply corrected Jim. “And, Alfy, try to act like a young lady, not like a back-woods little girl. Sit still.”
Alfy reluctantly subsided and appeared to be rather angry. Aunt Betty, noticing this said, “Watch me, Alfy, and do as I do and you will be all right.”
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Ludlow,” said Jim, making room for him.
“Good-afternoon, all,” answered Mr. Ludlow, seating himself next Aunt Betty.
“Did you come to keep us company all the afternoon?” asked Aunt Betty. “Or did you just wish to hear Dorothy play?”
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I sat with you,” replied Mr. Ludlow. “I have quite a few young friends who are to help entertain us this afternoon. I do hope you shall enjoy them.”
Ruth had, in the meantime, presented Dorothy to the other girls in the group, and they all chattered gayly for a while.
Ruth glanced at her watch, and drawing Dorothy aside, said, “Let’s sit down quietly for a few minutes, and say nothing at all. It always helps to calm you and give you self-possession.”
The girls walked to a far end of the room and sat down, keeping silent for several minutes.
Then Ruth broke the silence by asking, “Where is your violin, Dorothy?”
“I guess it’s over there where we were standing before,” replied Dorothy, rising and making her way quickly to the spot. But no violin was visible.
“My!” exclaimed Ruth. “What did you do with it?”
“Oh,” lamented Dorothy, “I don’t know.”
“Where did you have it last?” questioned Ruth.
“I had it home in the hotel,” moaned Dorothy, most in tears. “I remember I did bring it. Alfy handed it to me and I took it in the taxi.”
“In the taxi? That’s where you left it, you foolish child,” interrupted Ruth.
“How, oh how, can I get it? I must have it. I have to play,” groaned Dorothy.
“Run! Run and telephone. Call up the New York Taxicab Company,” breathlessly exclaimed Ruth. “Oh, oh, Dorothy, I must go! I must! I just must, yet how can I leave you here – but I have got to sing now. Oh, I am all out of breath.”
“Stop talking, you dear girl, and go and sing your best so as to make them give you an encore, anything to gain more time for me. Now go!” And Dorothy kissed her and pushed her forward.
Running down the length of the room, she flew into a telephone booth, and hastily searching out the number called up Columbus 6,000.
“Hello, hello,” called Dorothy, frantically. “Hello! Is – has – a man come back with a violin in his taxicab – I must have it! I have to play! Yes. Yes. Yes. No. No. Good-bye.”
She hung up the receiver, and sat back despondently. The cab had not returned in which she had ridden to the hall.
“Oh, what shall I do! No violin and my turn to play next. What shall I do, oh, what shall I do?”
“Miss Calvert,” called the boy. “Your turn next.”
“Oh, dear,” moaned Dorothy, “see if you can borrow an instrument for me from one of the musicians in the orchestra.”
Just then a man rushed into the room carrying a violin under his arm. Dorothy ran up to him and fairly snatched the precious thing out of his arms, exclaiming, “I can play now. I can. I can! Oh, thank you, thank you! But I must go. Please come to the Prince Arthur to-night at 8.30 p. m. I will see you then.”
With that she dashed off, and trying to calm herself, walked upon the stage.
She carefully positioned herself just where Mr. Ludlow had told her to stand, and waiting for the introduction to be played by the orchestra, looked around the house, and discovering the box party, smiled at them gayly. When the last few bars of the music were played, gracefully placing her violin in position she commenced to draw her bow gently across the strings and produced clear, vibrant tones. Her body moved rhythmically, swaying back and forward in perfect accord with the music.
The audience listened spellbound, and when she had finished the whole house echoed with applause. She then walked slowly off the stage, only to be motioned back again to play an encore which she did with as much success as she had scored with her first piece.
When she turned from the stage the second time Ruth, who was waiting in the wings, whispered in her ear, “Dorothy dear, you did just splendidly, and you will surely be a great success. The people applauded you so very much I thought they would never stop.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. I do hope Mr. Ludlow liked it, and is satisfied with me,” murmured Dorothy.
“I can answer that, Dorothy,” said a voice in back of her that belonged to Mr. Ludlow, who had left the box just as Dorothy had finished playing and come to speak to them. “Both of you girls did very well indeed. Very well indeed. But come now with me and we’ll go around and sit in the box and listen to the rest of the concert. I want to hear it all.”
With that they traced their way back and soon were seated with the rest of the party. Dorothy told them all about how she had lost her violin and at the last minute recovering it vowed that she would be more careful of it in the future.
The little party was loud in its praises of Dorothy’s playing and Ruth’s singing, for Dorothy presented her new friend to them as soon as she could.
That evening they learned that it was the chauffeur of the taxicab who had found the violin in the auto before he had returned to the garage, and he had immediately started back for the hall with it, knowing it would be needed. Dorothy sent a letter of thanks and a reward, and Aunt Betty, learning the next day that he had a little boy with a broken leg in the hospital, sent a large basket of fruit for the young sufferer.
CHAPTER VI.
THE OPERA
The girls spent the next day in a very quiet manner. The morning passed quickly as they wrote letters and fixed up their rooms. About dinner time Jim knocked at the door and Dorothy answered.
“Dorothy, I have written and ’phoned Mr. Ford and I can’t seem to get any answer from him,” announced Jim.
“What did you want him for, Jim?” questioned Dorothy.
“Why, I wanted to get his opinion on that position I want to take with the Edison Co.,” answered Jim.
“I have it!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Send him a telegram.”
“I might try that, though I have about made up my mind – ”
Just at that moment Aunt Betty called from her room, “Dorothy, Dorothy, girl!”
“Yes, Aunt Betty,” answered Dorothy, going to her aunt’s door. “What may you want?”
“Don’t you think it would be real nice if we four went for a drive this afternoon? It’s a nice warm afternoon and we can go up Fifth avenue and into the park,” suggested Aunt Betty.
“That will be fine. I’ll run and tell Alfy and we’ll get ready,” responded Dorothy, going quickly out of the room. “Alfy! Alfy! Where are you?”
“In here,” called Alfy from her room.
Dorothy rushed into the room, crying, “Alfy dear, just think, we are going driving this afternoon, Aunt Betty, Jim, and you and I. We are going driving – driving.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” exclaimed Alfy, dancing round the room. “It’s fun to go driving in a big city.”
“Let’s get ready right away,” said Dorothy, taking Alfy’s hand and dancing round in a circle with her, singing, “Let’s get ready, let’s get ready, let’s get ready right away.” And then they let go of each other’s hands and danced away to accomplish the art of “getting ready right away.”
Very soon the girls were in the sitting room waiting for Jim and Aunt Betty.
Just then Jim burst into the room crying, “Dorothy, I can’t get a horse and carriage here to drive myself like one has in Baltimore, but I did get a nice automobile. I guess it will not cost any more, for we cover so much ground in a short time. I found a large, red touring car that just holds five and the chauffeur is downstairs now waiting for us, so hustle into your things.”
“An auto ride! That’s better still,” responded Alfy as she rushed to put on her hat and coat.
“I am all ready, dear,” called Aunt Betty from the next room.
“Well, then, come on,” answered Jim. “All come with me.” And they followed him down and out to the automobile.
They were very much delighted with the auto car, and the three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, climbed into the back seat, and Jim took his place with the driver.
Aunt Betty called, “Jim, Jim, please tell the chauffeur to drive slowly and to go up Fifth avenue.”
Away they went. “Oh, oh, oh!” gasped Alfy at the first corner. “Oh, I most thought we would bump into that trolley car!”
“Well,” said Jim, “we didn’t, but it was a pretty close shave.”
“Just think of all the people we might have hurt if we had,” said Dorothy.
“I guess,” replied Jim, “that the only ones hurt would have been ourselves, for the trolley is so heavy we couldn’t have bothered that much.”
Just then they turned into Fifth avenue and joined the procession of already too many machines that were slowly wending their way up and down that old thoroughfare.
“Dorothy and Alfy,” said Aunt Betty, “in those large houses live the very rich of New York.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t live in a house like that,” said Alfy, “if I was rich. I couldn’t, I just could never be happy in one like that,” pointing to a large gray stone mansion. “It hasn’t any garden and windows only in the front, and looks like a pile of boxes, one on top of the other.”
“Don’t the people in New York care for gardens, aunty dear?” questioned Dorothy.
“Yes. Yes, indeed, dear. But these are only their winter homes,” laughed Aunt Betty. “They have summer homes in the country where they have very beautiful gardens. They only spend a few months here in these houses each winter.”
“Well, I would rather have a real home for all the time,” said practical Jim. “A real home, like Bellevieu.”
“Dear, dear old Bellevieu, I wouldn’t exchange it either for all of these places,” whispered Dorothy. “And after this trip is over, and I have made a lot of money, we will all go back there again, and I will build that new sun-parlor Aunt Betty has so long wanted.”
Aunt Betty sighed, for she and she only knew how badly off was the poor old estate. The mortgage that must be paid and the repairs and other things that were needed. She hoped that Dorothy’s trip would be a success, and that she could pay off the mortgage at last.
Then answering Dorothy, she said, “Dear, dear little girl, you are always trying to think of something pleasant for someone else. Never mind your old Aunt Betty, dear.”
“But I do,” whispered Dorothy in her ear, “because I love you more than anyone else in the world.”
“Yes, dear, maybe now you do,” rejoined Aunt Betty, “but some day, some day wait and see.”
They eagerly looked at the beautiful homes, the large and handsome hotels and most of all the happy throng of people who filled the streets, remarking that they had never before seen quite so many people, each hurrying along apparently to do his or her special duty.
From Fifth avenue they went up Riverside Drive, around Grant’s Tomb. Then as the limit of time they had arranged for was nearly up they told the chauffeur to drive home, all happy and full of thoughts of the new things they had seen.
“Well, what next, Dorothy girl?” exclaimed Aunt Betty.
“Why, I don’t quite know. Let me see – just what day is this?” said Dorothy to herself. “It’s – it’s – oh, yes, it’s Friday! Oh, oh! Why we must all hurry, hurry, hurry – dress right at once.”
“Dorothy, child, what ails you?” laughed Aunt Betty. “Talking away so fast and all to yourself. Come now, tell me what you want us to dress for?”
“Why, aunty, I had most forgotten it. It’s Friday, and we promised – I mean I promised – but I forgot all about it,” continued Dorothy.
Just then Alfy interrupted. “Dorothy I am most dead with curiosity; tell us quick, please.”
“Well,” rejoined Dorothy, “it’s just this. You see, I promised – ”
“You said all that before,” interrupted Alfy again.
“Be still, Alfy, or I just won’t tell,” scolded Dorothy. “Mr. Ludlow is coming here at eight o’clock to take us all to the opera. Miss Boothington, Ruth, is going also. He told me to tell you all, and I just guess I must have since then forgotten. I don’t see how I did, but I just did. Oh, aunty, it’s a box Mr. Ludlow has and we must dress all up ’cause all the millionaires of New York go to the opera.”
“Dorothy dear, whatever made you forget?” asked Aunt Betty.
“Guess ’cause she is doing and seeing so much she has lost track of the days. Isn’t that so?” chimed in Alfy.
“That doesn’t excuse my little girl,” remarked Aunt Betty, and turning to Dorothy, “What is it we are going to hear, dearest?”
“I think Mr. Ludlow said ‘Koenigskinder’,” answered Dorothy. “I am not sure but that’s what I think he said.”
“Ah, yes,” said Aunt Betty, “that is a comparatively new opera and Miss Geraldine Farrar sings the principal part in it. She plays the part of the goose-girl. Well, I guess we had better hurry. We must dress and have dinner before Mr. Ludlow gets here for us.”
“Can I wear that new pink dress, Aunty?” called Dorothy.
“Why, dear, I would keep that one for one of your concerts, and if I were you I would wear the little white one with the blue ribbons, and tell Alfy she might wear the white dress Miss Lenox made for her before we left Baltimore,” said Aunt Betty.
“All right,” called back Dorothy.
It didn’t take the girls long to get dressed, and when they were finished they appeared in the sitting room. Both Jim and Aunt Betty declared that there weren’t two finer girls in all New York City. And Jim added under his breath, “In all the world,” thinking only of Dorothy then.
Down they went for dinner, and so anxious were they that they should not be late that the meal was passed over as quickly and quietly as possible.
They had just reached their rooms when Mr. Ludlow was announced, and gathering up their wraps and long white gloves – for Alfy thought more of these white gloves than anything else she owned just then – they went forth to meet Mr. Ludlow.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Ludlow, who was standing beside Ruth in the lobby, “all here and all ready. I do wish you would set the same example of promptness for Ruth. She is always, always late.”
“Well,” replied Ruth, “somehow I always try but just can’t seem to get dressed in time. I didn’t keep you waiting very long to-day, did I?”
“Well, dear, that is because I said that the longer you kept me waiting, the less you could have for dinner,” laughed Mr. Ludlow.
“Maybe that is why, because I do get so tired of boarding house meals,” rejoined Ruth, and, turning to Dorothy, “Come dear, the auto is all ready and we are not so very early.”
The others followed them and soon they reached the Metropolitan Opera House, and after passing through the crowded lobby, entered the foyer. It was quite dark, and very quietly they followed Mr. Ludlow, whose box was on the right hand side, well toward the stage.
They were presently all seated, but before they had time to talk or look around much the music began. And such music. Dorothy was oblivious to all else as she followed the score. For memory’s convenience she wrote out the plot of the opera, the next day, and here is a copy from her diary:
The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the town of Hellabrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on the green grass, beneath the branches of a shady linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears, scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of men. But she implores in vain.
Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving. He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King’s Son, though the Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal crown.
The King’s Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He has left his home, and the King’s service, to be free. The Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her, marvelling at her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and then a gust of wind blows the girl’s wreath away. The King’s Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking she is afraid to roam with him the King’s Son tosses his crown into the grass, tells the girl that she is unworthy to be a King’s mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is blooming near.
The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape.
A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by two citizens of Hellabrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddler scoffs at her and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece, says that the people of Hellabrunn are dying to have a King or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and Broom-maker go back to Hellabrunn. But the Fiddler lingers, suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who assures her she shall wed the King’s Son. The Witch, however, jeers at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the child of a hangman’s daughter. In spite of all, the Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join her sweetheart, and this ends the first act.
In the second act the town of Hellabrunn is in a turmoil of excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an inn. The Innkeeper’s Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid, when the King’s Son enters, poorly clad as before. Though she despises his poverty, the Innkeeper’s Daughter coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and drink, which seem coarse to him, and advises him to get married. He declines and arouses the girl’s anger.
The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants bustle about. He sees the King’s Son, who offers himself to him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents. The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper’s table, to wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when unobserved.
One of the Broom-maker’s daughters asks the King’s Son to play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventures in the woods. The King’s Son is amazed to hear him tell of imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter’s account, however, that on the stroke of twelve a King’s Son, richly clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve. The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the King’s Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the King’s Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe them worthy of the throne.
