Chapter XVII: Part VI: Kronborg (2)

After the tenor came on, the doctor ceased trying to make the woman before him fit into any of his cherished recollections. He took her, in so far as he could, for what she was then and there. When the knight raised the kneeling girl and put his mailed hand on her hair, when she lifted to him a face full of worship and passionate humility, Archie gave up his last reservation. He knew no more about her than did the hundreds around him, who sat in the shadow and looked on, as he looked, some with more understanding, some with less. He knew as much about _Ortrude_ or _Lohengrin_ as he knew about _Elsa_—more, because she went further than they, she sustained the legendary beauty of her conception more consistently. Even he could see that. Attitudes, movements, her face, her white arms and fingers, everything was suffused with a rosy tenderness, a warm humility, a gracious and yet—to him—wholly estranging beauty.

During the balcony singing in the second act the doctor’s thoughts were as far away from Moonstone as the singer’s doubtless were. He had begun, indeed, to feel the exhilaration of getting free from personalities, of being released from his own past as well as from Thea Kronborg’s. It was very much, he told himself, like a military funeral, exalting and impersonal. Something old died in one, and out of it something new was born. During the duet with _Ortrude_, and the splendors of the wedding processional, this new feeling grew and grew. At the end of the act there were many curtain calls and _Elsa_ acknowledged them, brilliant, gracious, spirited, with her far-breaking smile; but on the whole she was harder and more self-contained before the curtain than she was in the scene behind it. Archie did his part in the applause that greeted her, but it was the new and wonderful he applauded, not the old and dear. His personal, proprietary pride in her was frozen out.

He walked about the house during the _entr’acte_, and here and there among the people in the foyer he caught the name “Kronborg.” On the staircase, in front of the coffeeroom, a long-haired youth with a fat face was discoursing to a group of old women about “die Kronborg.” Dr. Archie gathered that he had crossed on the boat with her.

After the performance was over, Archie took a taxi and started for Riverside Drive. He meant to see it through to-night. When he entered the reception hall of the hotel before which he had strolled that morning, the hall porter challenged him. He said he was waiting for Miss Kronborg. The porter looked at him suspiciously and asked whether he had an appointment. He answered brazenly that he had. He was not used to being questioned by hall boys. Archie sat first in one tapestry chair and then in another, keeping a sharp eye on the people who came in and went up in the elevators. He walked about and looked at his watch. An hour dragged by. No one had come in from the street now for about twenty minutes, when two women entered, carrying a great many flowers and followed by a tall young man in chauffeur’s uniform. Archie advanced toward the taller of the two women, who was veiled and carried her head very firmly. He confronted her just as she reached the elevator. Although he did not stand directly in her way, something in his attitude compelled her to stop. She gave him a piercing, defiant glance through the white scarf that covered her face. Then she lifted her hand and brushed the scarf back from her head. There was still black on her brows and lashes. She was very pale and her face was drawn and deeply lined. She looked, the doctor told himself with a sinking heart, forty years old. Her suspicious, mystified stare cleared slowly.

“Pardon me,” the doctor murmured, not knowing just how to address her here before the porters, “I came up from the opera. I merely wanted to say good-night to you.”

Without speaking, still looking incredulous, she pushed him into the elevator. She kept her hand on his arm while the cage shot up, and she looked away from him, frowning, as if she were trying to remember or realize something. When the cage stopped, she pushed him out of the elevator through another door, which a maid opened, into a square hall. There she sank down on a chair and looked up at him.

“Why didn’t you let me know?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

Archie heard himself laughing the old, embarrassed laugh that seldom happened to him now. “Oh, I wanted to take my chance with you, like anybody else. It’s been so long, now!”

She took his hand through her thick glove and her head dropped forward. “Yes, it has been long,” she said in the same husky voice, “and so much has happened.”

“And you are so tired, and I am a clumsy old fellow to break in on you to-night,” the doctor added sympathetically. “Forgive me, this time.” He bent over and put his hand soothingly on her shoulder. He felt a strong shudder run through her from head to foot.

Still bundled in her fur coat as she was, she threw both arms about him and hugged him. “Oh, Dr. Archie, _Dr. Archie_,”—she shook him,—“don’t let me go. Hold on, now you’re here,” she laughed, breaking away from him at the same moment and sliding out of her fur coat. She left it for the maid to pick up and pushed the doctor into the sitting-room, where she turned on the lights. “Let me _look_ at you. Yes; hands, feet, head, shoulders—just the same. You’ve grown no older. You can’t say as much for me, can you?”

She was standing in the middle of the room, in a white silk shirtwaist and a short black velvet skirt, which somehow suggested that they had ‘cut off her petticoats all round about.’ She looked distinctly clipped and plucked. Her hair was parted in the middle and done very close to her head, as she had worn it under the wig. She looked like a fugitive, who had escaped from something in clothes caught up at hazard. It flashed across Dr. Archie that she was running away from the other woman down at the opera house, who had used her hardly.

He took a step toward her. “I can’t tell a thing in the world about you, Thea—if I may still call you that.”

She took hold of the collar of his overcoat. “Yes, call me that. Do: I like to hear it. You frighten me a little, but I expect I frighten you more. I’m always a scarecrow after I sing a long part like that—so high, too.” She absently pulled out the handkerchief that protruded from his breast pocket and began to wipe the black paint off her eyebrows and lashes. “I can’t take you in much to-night, but I must see you for a little while.” She pushed him to a chair. “I shall be more recognizable to-morrow. You mustn’t think of me as you see me to-night. Come at four to-morrow afternoon and have tea with me. Can you? That’s good.”

She sat down in a low chair beside him and leaned forward, drawing her shoulders together. She seemed to him inappropriately young and inappropriately old, shorn of her long tresses at one end and of her long robes at the other.

“How do you happen to be here?” she asked abruptly. “How can you leave a silver mine? I couldn’t! Sure nobody’ll cheat you? But you can explain everything tomorrow.” She paused. “You remember how you sewed me up in a poultice, once? I wish you could to-night. I need a poultice, from top to toe. Something very disagreeable happened down there. You said you were out front? Oh, don’t say anything about it. I always know exactly how it goes, unfortunately. I was rotten in the balcony. I never get that. You didn’t notice it? Probably not, but I did.”

Here the maid appeared at the door and her mistress rose. “My supper? Very well, I’ll come. I’d ask you to stay, doctor, but there wouldn’t be enough for two. They seldom send up enough for one,”—she spoke bitterly. “I haven’t got a sense of you yet,”—turning directly to Archie again. “You haven’t been here. You’ve only announced yourself, and told me you are coming to-morrow. You haven’t seen me, either. This is not I. But I’ll be here waiting for you to-morrow, my whole works! Goodnight, till then.” She patted him absently on the sleeve and gave him a little shove toward the door.

V

When Archie got back to his hotel at two o’clock in the morning, he found Fred Ottenburg’s card under his door, with a message scribbled across the top: “When you come in, please call up room 811, this hotel.” A moment later Fred’s voice reached him over the telephone.

“That you, Archie? Won’t you come up? I’m having some supper and I’d like company. Late? What does that matter? I won’t keep you long.”

Archie dropped his overcoat and set out for room 811. He found Ottenburg in the act of touching a match to a chafing-dish, at a table laid for two in his sitting-room. “I’m catering here,” he announced cheerfully. “I let the waiter off at midnight, after he’d set me up. You’ll have to account for yourself, Archie.”

The doctor laughed, pointing to three wine-coolers under the table. “Are you expecting guests?”

“Yes, two.” Ottenburg held up two fingers,—“you, and my higher self. He’s a thirsty boy, and I don’t invite him often. He has been known to give me a headache. Now, where have you been, Archie, until this shocking hour?”

“Bah, you’ve been banting!” the doctor exclaimed, pulling out his white gloves as he searched for his handkerchief and throwing them into a chair. Ottenburg was in evening clothes and very pointed dress shoes. His white waistcoat, upon which the doctor had fixed a challenging eye, went down straight from the top button, and he wore a camelia. He was conspicuously brushed and trimmed and polished. His smoothly controlled excitement was wholly different from his usual easy cordiality, though he had his face, as well as his figure, well in hand. On the serving-table there was an empty champagne pint and a glass. He had been having a little starter, the doctor told himself, and would probably be running on high gear before he got through. There was even now an air of speed about him.

“Been, Freddy?”—the doctor at last took up his question. “I expect I’ve been exactly where you have. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming on?”

“I wasn’t, Archie.” Fred lifted the cover of the chafingdish and stirred the contents. He stood behind the table, holding the lid with his handkerchief. “I had never thought of such a thing. But Landry, a young chap who plays her accompaniments and who keeps an eye out for me, telegraphed me that Madame Rheinecker had gone to Atlantic City with a bad throat, and Thea might have a chance to sing _Elsa_. She has sung it only twice here before, and I missed it in Dresden. So I came on. I got in at four this afternoon and saw you registered, but I thought I wouldn’t butt in. How lucky you got here just when she was coming on for this. You couldn’t have hit a better time.” Ottenburg stirred the contents of the dish faster and put in more sherry. “And where have you been since twelve o’clock, may I ask?”

Archie looked rather self-conscious, as he sat down on a fragile gilt chair that rocked under him, and stretched out his long legs. “Well, if you’ll believe me, I had the brutality to go to see her. I wanted to identify her. Couldn’t wait.”

Ottenburg placed the cover quickly on the chafing-dish and took a step backward. “You did, old sport? My word! None but the brave deserve the fair. Well,”—he stooped to turn the wine,—“and how was she?”

“She seemed rather dazed, and pretty well used up. She seemed disappointed in herself, and said she hadn’t done herself justice in the balcony scene.”

“Well, if she didn’t, she’s not the first. Beastly stuff to sing right in there; lies just on the ‘break’ in the voice.” Fred pulled a bottle out of the ice and drew the cork. Lifting his glass he looked meaningly at Archie. “You know who, doctor. Here goes!” He drank off his glass with a sigh of satisfaction. After he had turned the lamp low under the chafing-dish, he remained standing, looking pensively down at the food on the table. “Well, she rather pulled it off! As a backer, you’re a winner, Archie. I congratulate you.” Fred poured himself another glass. “Now you must eat something, and so must I. Here, get off that bird cage and find a steady chair. This stuff ought to be rather good; head waiter’s suggestion. Smells all right.” He bent over the chafing-dish and began to serve the contents. “Perfectly innocuous: mushrooms and truffles and a little crab-meat. And now, on the level, Archie, how did it hit you?”

Archie turned a frank smile to his friend and shook his head. “It was all miles beyond me, of course, but it gave me a pulse. The general excitement got hold of me, I suppose. I like your wine, Freddy.” He put down his glass. “It goes to the spot to-night. She _was_ all right, then? You weren’t disappointed?”

“Disappointed? My dear Archie, that’s the high voice we dream of; so pure and yet so virile and human. That combination hardly ever happens with sopranos.” Ottenburg sat down and turned to the doctor, speaking calmly and trying to dispel his friend’s manifest bewilderment. “You see, Archie, there’s the voice itself, so beautiful and individual, and then there’s something else; the thing in it which responds to every shade of thought and feeling, spontaneously, almost unconsciously. That color has to be born in a singer, it can’t be acquired; lots of beautiful voices haven’t a vestige of it. It’s almost like another gift—the rarest of all. The voice simply is the mind and is the heart. It can’t go wrong in interpretation, because it has in it the thing that makes all interpretation. That’s why you feel so sure of her. After you’ve listened to her for an hour or so, you aren’t afraid of anything. All the little dreads you have with other artists vanish. You lean back and you say to yourself, ‘No, _that_ voice will never betray.’ _Treulich geführt, treulich bewacht_.”

Archie looked envyingly at Fred’s excited, triumphant face. How satisfactory it must be, he thought, to really know what she was doing and not to have to take it on hearsay. He took up his glass with a sigh. “I seem to need a good deal of cooling off to-night. I’d just as lief forget the Reform Party for once.

“Yes, Fred,” he went on seriously; “I thought it sounded very beautiful, and I thought she was very beautiful, too. I never imagined she could be as beautiful as that.”

“Wasn’t she? Every attitude a picture, and always the right kind of picture, full of that legendary, supernatural thing she gets into it. I never heard the prayer sung like that before. That look that came in her eyes; it went right out through the back of the roof. Of course, you get an _Elsa_ who can look through walls like that, and visions and Grail-knights happen naturally. She becomes an abbess, that girl, after _Lohengrin_ leaves her. She’s made to live with ideas and enthusiasms, not with a husband.” Fred folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, and began to sing softly:—

“In lichter Waffen Scheine, Ein Ritter nahte da.”

“Doesn’t she die, then, at the end?” the doctor asked guardedly.

Fred smiled, reaching under the table. “Some _Elsas_ do; she didn’t. She left me with the distinct impression that she was just beginning. Now, doctor, here’s a cold one.” He twirled a napkin smoothly about the green glass, the cork gave and slipped out with a soft explosion. “And now we must have another toast. It’s up to you, this time.”

The doctor watched the agitation in his glass. “The same,” he said without lifting his eyes. “That’s good enough. I can’t raise you.”

Fred leaned forward, and looked sharply into his face. “That’s the point; how _could_ you raise me? Once again!”

“Once again, and always the same!” The doctor put down his glass. “This doesn’t seem to produce any symptoms in me to-night.” He lit a cigar. “Seriously, Freddy, I wish I knew more about what she’s driving at. It makes me jealous, when you are so in it and I’m not.”

“In it?” Fred started up. “My God, haven’t you seen her this blessed night?—when she’d have kicked any other man down the elevator shaft, if I know her. Leave me something; at least what I can pay my five bucks for.”

“Seems to me you get a good deal for your five bucks,” said Archie ruefully. “And that, after all, is what she cares about,—what people get.”

Fred lit a cigarette, took a puff or two, and then threw it away. He was lounging back in his chair, and his face was pale and drawn hard by that mood of intense concentration which lurks under the sunny shallows of the vineyard. In his voice there was a longer perspective than usual, a slight remoteness. “You see, Archie, it’s all very simple, a natural development. It’s exactly what Mahler said back there in the beginning, when she sang _Woglinde_. It’s the idea, the basic idea, pulsing behind every bar she sings. She simplifies a character down to the musical idea it’s built on, and makes everything conform to that. The people who chatter about her being a great actress don’t seem to get the notion of where _she_ gets the notion. It all goes back to her original endowment, her tremendous musical talent. Instead of inventing a lot of business and expedients to suggest character, she knows the thing at the root, and lets the musical pattern take care of her. The score pours her into all those lovely postures, makes the light and shadow go over her face, lifts her and drops her. She lies on it, the way she used to lie on the Rhine music. Talk about rhythm!”

The doctor frowned dubiously as a third bottle made its appearance above the cloth. “Aren’t you going in rather strong?”

Fred laughed. “No, I’m becoming too sober. You see this is breakfast now; kind of wedding breakfast. I feel rather weddingish. I don’t mind. You know,” he went on as the wine gurgled out, “I was thinking to-night when they sprung the wedding music, how any fool can have that stuff played over him when he walks up the aisle with some dough-faced little hussy who’s hooked him. But it isn’t every fellow who can see—well, what we saw tonight. There are compensations in life, Dr. Howard Archie, though they come in disguise. Did you notice her when she came down the stairs? Wonder where she gets that bright-and-morning star look? Carries to the last row of the family circle. I moved about all over the house. I’ll tell you a secret, Archie: that carrying power was one of the first things that put me wise. Noticed it down there in Arizona, in the open. That, I said, belongs only to the big ones.” Fred got up and began to move rhythmically about the room, his hands in his pockets. The doctor was astonished at his ease and steadiness, for there were slight lapses in his speech. “You see, Archie, _Elsa_ isn’t a part that’s particularly suited to Thea’s voice at all, as I see her voice. It’s over-lyrical for her. She makes it, but there’s nothing in it that fits her like a glove, except, maybe, that long duet in the third act. There, of course,”—he held out his hands as if he were measuring something,—“we know exactly where we are. But wait until they give her a chance at something that lies properly in her voice, and you’ll see me rosier than I am to-night.”

Archie smoothed the tablecloth with his hand. “I am sure I don’t want to see you any rosier, Fred.”

Ottenburg threw back his head and laughed. “It’s enthusiasm, doctor. It’s not the wine. I’ve got as much inflated as this for a dozen trashy things: brewers’ dinners and political orgies. You, too, have your extravagances, Archie. And what I like best in you is this particular enthusiasm, which is not at all practical or sensible, which is downright Quixotic. You are not altogether what you seem, and you have your reservations. Living among the wolves, you have not become one. _Lupibus vivendi non lupus sum_.”

The doctor seemed embarrassed. “I was just thinking how tired she looked, plucked of all her fine feathers, while we get all the fun. Instead of sitting here carousing, we ought to go solemnly to bed.”

“I get your idea.” Ottenburg crossed to the window and threw it open. “Fine night outside; a hag of a moon just setting. It begins to smell like morning. After all, Archie, think of the lonely and rather solemn hours we’ve spent waiting for all this, while she’s been—reveling.”

Archie lifted his brows. “I somehow didn’t get the idea to-night that she revels much.”

“I don’t mean this sort of thing.” Fred turned toward the light and stood with his back to the window. “That,” with a nod toward the wine-cooler, “is only a cheap imitation, that any poor stiff-fingered fool can buy and feel his shell grow thinner. But take it from me, no matter what she pays, or how much she may see fit to lie about it, the real, the master revel is hers.” He leaned back against the window sill and crossed his arms. “Anybody with all that voice and all that talent and all that beauty, has her hour. Her hour,” he went on deliberately, “when she can say, ‘there it is, at last, _wie im Traum ich_—

“‘As in my dream I dreamed it, As in my will it was.’”

He stood silent a moment, twisting the flower from his coat by the stem and staring at the blank wall with haggard abstraction. “Even I can say to-night, Archie,” he brought out slowly,

“‘As in my dream I dreamed it, As in my will it was.’

Now, doctor, you may leave me. I’m beautifully drunk, but not with anything that ever grew in France.”

The doctor rose. Fred tossed his flower out of the window behind him and came toward the door. “I say,” he called, “have you a date with anybody?”

The doctor paused, his hand on the knob. “With Thea, you mean? Yes. I’m to go to her at four this afternoon—if you haven’t paralyzed me.”

“Well, you won’t eat me, will you, if I break in and send up my card? She’ll probably turn me down cold, but that won’t hurt my feelings. If she ducks me, you tell her for me, that to spite me now she’d have to cut off more than she can spare. Good-night, Archie.”

VI

It was late on the morning after the night she sang _Elsa_, when Thea Kronborg stirred uneasily in her bed. The room was darkened by two sets of window shades, and the day outside was thick and cloudy. She turned and tried to recapture unconsciousness, knowing that she would not be able to do so. She dreaded waking stale and disappointed after a great effort. The first thing that came was always the sense of the futility of such endeavor, and of the absurdity of trying too hard. Up to a certain point, say eighty degrees, artistic endeavor could be fat and comfortable, methodical and prudent. But if you went further than that, if you drew yourself up toward ninety degrees, you parted with your defenses and left yourself exposed to mischance. The legend was that in those upper reaches you might be divine; but you were much likelier to be ridiculous. Your public wanted just about eighty degrees; if you gave it more it blew its nose and put a crimp in you. In the morning, especially, it seemed to her very probable that whatever struggled above the good average was not quite sound. Certainly very little of that superfluous ardor, which cost so dear, ever got across the footlights. These misgivings waited to pounce upon her when she wakened. They hovered about her bed like vultures.

She reached under her pillow for her handkerchief, without opening her eyes. She had a shadowy memory that there was to be something unusual, that this day held more disquieting possibilities than days commonly held. There was something she dreaded; what was it? Oh, yes, Dr. Archie was to come at four.

A reality like Dr. Archie, poking up out of the past, reminded one of disappointments and losses, of a freedom that was no more: reminded her of blue, golden mornings long ago, when she used to waken with a burst of joy at recovering her precious self and her precious world; when she never lay on her pillows at eleven o’clock like something the waves had washed up. After all, why had he come? It had been so long, and so much had happened. The things she had lost, he would miss readily enough. What she had gained, he would scarcely perceive. He, and all that he recalled, lived for her as memories. In sleep, and in hours of illness or exhaustion, she went back to them and held them to her heart. But they were better as memories. They had nothing to do with the struggle that made up her actual life. She felt drearily that she was not flexible enough to be the person her old friend expected her to be, the person she herself wished to be with him.

Thea reached for the bell and rang twice,—a signal to her maid to order her breakfast. She rose and ran up the window shades and turned on the water in her bathroom, glancing into the mirror apprehensively as she passed it. Her bath usually cheered her, even on low mornings like this. Her white bathroom, almost as large as her sleeping-room, she regarded as a refuge. When she turned the key behind her, she left care and vexation on the other side of the door. Neither her maid nor the management nor her letters nor her accompanist could get at her now.

When she pinned her braids about her head, dropped her nightgown and stepped out to begin her Swedish movements, she was a natural creature again, and it was so that she liked herself best. She slid into the tub with anticipation and splashed and tumbled about a good deal. Whatever else she hurried, she never hurried her bath. She used her brushes and sponges and soaps like toys, fairly playing in the water. Her own body was always a cheering sight to her. When she was careworn, when her mind felt old and tired, the freshness of her physical self, her long, firm lines, the smoothness of her skin, reassured her. This morning, because of awakened memories, she looked at herself more carefully than usual, and was not discouraged. While she was in the tub she began to whistle softly the tenor aria, “_Ah! Fuyez, douce image_,” somehow appropriate to the bath. After a noisy moment under the cold shower, she stepped out on the rug flushed and glowing, threw her arms above her head, and rose on her toes, keeping the elevation as long as she could. When she dropped back on her heels and began to rub herself with the towels, she took up the aria again, and felt quite in the humor for seeing Dr. Archie. After she had returned to her bed, the maid brought her letters and the morning papers with her breakfast.

“Telephone Mr. Landry and ask him if he can come at half-past three, Theresa, and order tea to be brought up at five.”

When Howard Archie was admitted to Thea’s apartment that afternoon, he was shown into the music-room back of the little reception room. Thea was sitting in a davenport behind the piano, talking to a young man whom she later introduced as her friend Mr. Landry. As she rose, and came to meet him, Archie felt a deep relief, a sudden thankfulness. She no longer looked clipped and plucked, or dazed and fleeing.

Dr. Archie neglected to take account of the young man to whom he was presented. He kept Thea’s hands and held her where he met her, taking in the light, lively sweep of her hair, her clear green eyes and her throat that came up strong and dazzlingly white from her green velvet gown. The chin was as lovely as ever, the cheeks as smooth. All the lines of last night had disappeared. Only at the outer corners of her eyes, between the eye and the temple, were the faintest indications of a future attack—mere kitten scratches that playfully hinted where one day the cat would claw her. He studied her without any embarrassment. Last night everything had been awkward; but now, as he held her hands, a kind of harmony came between them, a reëstablishment of confidence.

“After all, Thea,—in spite of all, I still know you,” he murmured.

She took his arm and led him up to the young man who was standing beside the piano. “Mr. Landry knows all about you, Dr. Archie. He has known about you for many years.” While the two men shook hands she stood between them, drawing them together by her presence and her glances. “When I first went to Germany, Landry was studying there. He used to be good enough to work with me when I could not afford to have an accompanist for more than two hours a day. We got into the way of working together. He is a singer, too, and has his own career to look after, but he still manages to give me some time. I want you to be friends.” She smiled from one to the other.

The rooms, Archie noticed, full of last night’s flowers, were furnished in light colors, the hotel bleakness of them a little softened by a magnificent Steinway piano, white bookshelves full of books and scores, some drawings of ballet dancers, and the very deep sofa behind the piano.

“Of course,” Archie asked apologetically, “you have seen the papers?”

“Very cordial, aren’t they? They evidently did not expect as much as I did. _Elsa_ is not really in my voice. I can sing the music, but I have to go after it.”

“That is exactly,” the doctor came out boldly, “what Fred Ottenburg said this morning.”

They had remained standing, the three of them, by the piano, where the gray afternoon light was strongest. Thea turned to the doctor with interest. “Is Fred in town? They were from him, then—some flowers that came last night without a card.” She indicated the white lilacs on the window sill. “Yes, he would know, certainly,” she said thoughtfully. “Why don’t we sit down? There will be some tea for you in a minute, Landry. He’s very dependent upon it,” disapprovingly to Archie. “Now tell me, Doctor, did you really have a good time last night, or were you uncomfortable? Did you feel as if I were trying to hold my hat on by my eyebrows?”

He smiled. “I had all kinds of a time. But I had no feeling of that sort. I couldn’t be quite sure that it was you at all. That was why I came up here last night. I felt as if I’d lost you.”

She leaned toward him and brushed his sleeve reassuringly. “Then I didn’t give you an impression of painful struggle? Landry was singing at Weber and Fields’ last night. He didn’t get in until the performance was half over. But I see the _Tribune_ man felt that I was working pretty hard. Did you see that notice, Oliver?”

Dr. Archie looked closely at the red-headed young man for the first time, and met his lively brown eyes, full of a droll, confiding sort of humor. Mr. Landry was not prepossessing. He was undersized and clumsily made, with a red, shiny face and a sharp little nose that looked as if it had been whittled out of wood and was always in the air, on the scent of something. Yet it was this queer little beak, with his eyes, that made his countenance anything of a face at all. From a distance he looked like the groceryman’s delivery boy in a small town. His dress seemed an acknowledgment of his grotesqueness: a short coat, like a little boys’ roundabout, and a vest fantastically sprigged and dotted, over a lavender shirt.

At the sound of a muffled buzz, Mr. Landry sprang up.

“May I answer the telephone for you?” He went to the writing-table and took up the receiver. “Mr. Ottenburg is downstairs,” he said, turning to Thea and holding the mouthpiece against his coat.

“Tell him to come up,” she replied without hesitation. “How long are you going to be in town, Dr. Archie?”

“Oh, several weeks, if you’ll let me stay. I won’t hang around and be a burden to you, but I want to try to get educated up to you, though I expect it’s late to begin.”

Thea rose and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Well, you’ll never be any younger, will you?”

“I’m not so sure about that,” the doctor replied gallantly.

The maid appeared at the door and announced Mr. Frederick Ottenburg. Fred came in, very much got up, the doctor reflected, as he watched him bending over Thea’s hand. He was still pale and looked somewhat chastened, and the lock of hair that hung down over his forehead was distinctly moist. But his black afternoon coat, his gray tie and gaiters were of a correctness that Dr. Archie could never attain for all the efforts of his faithful slave, Van Deusen, the Denver haberdasher. To be properly up to those tricks, the doctor supposed, you had to learn them young. If he were to buy a silk hat that was the twin of Ottenburg’s, it would be shaggy in a week, and he could never carry it as Fred held his.

Ottenburg had greeted Thea in German, and as she replied in the same language, Archie joined Mr. Landry at the window. “You know Mr. Ottenburg, he tells me?”

Mr. Landry’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, I regularly follow him about, when he’s in town. I would, even if he didn’t send me such wonderful Christmas presents: Russian vodka by the half-dozen!”

Thea called to them, “Come, Mr. Ottenburg is calling on all of us. Here’s the tea.”

The maid opened the door and two waiters from downstairs appeared with covered trays. The tea-table was in the parlor. Thea drew Ottenburg with her and went to inspect it. “Where’s the rum? Oh, yes, in that thing! Everything seems to be here, but send up some currant preserves and cream cheese for Mr. Ottenburg. And in about fifteen minutes, bring some fresh toast. That’s all, thank you.”

For the next few minutes there was a clatter of teacups and responses about sugar. “Landry always takes rum. I’m glad the rest of you don’t. I’m sure it’s bad.” Thea poured the tea standing and got through with it as quickly as possible, as if it were a refreshment snatched between trains. The tea-table and the little room in which it stood seemed to be out of scale with her long step, her long reach, and the energy of her movements. Dr. Archie, standing near her, was pleasantly aware of the animation of her figure. Under the clinging velvet, her body seemed independent and unsubdued.

They drifted, with their plates and cups, back to the music-room. When Thea followed them, Ottenburg put down his tea suddenly. “Aren’t you taking anything? Please let me.” He started back to the table.

“No, thank you, nothing. I’m going to run over that aria for you presently, to convince you that I can do it. How did the duet go, with Schlag?”

She was standing in the doorway and Fred came up to her: “That you’ll never do any better. You’ve worked your voice into it perfectly. Every _nunance_—wonderful!”

“Think so?” She gave him a sidelong glance and spoke with a certain gruff shyness which did not deceive anybody, and was not meant to deceive. The tone was equivalent to “Keep it up. I like it, but I’m awkward with it.”

Fred held her by the door and did keep it up, furiously, for full five minutes. She took it with some confusion, seeming all the while to be hesitating, to be arrested in her course and trying to pass him. But she did not really try to pass, and her color deepened. Fred spoke in German, and Archie caught from her an occasional _Ja? So?_ muttered rather than spoken.

When they rejoined Landry and Dr. Archie, Fred took up his tea again. “I see you’re singing _Venus_ Saturday night. Will they never let you have a chance at _Elizabeth?_”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not here. There are so many singers here, and they try us out in such a stingy way. Think of it, last year I came over in October, and it was the first of December before I went on at all! I’m often sorry I left Dresden.”

“Still,” Fred argued, “Dresden is limited.”

“Just so, and I’ve begun to sigh for those very limitations. In New York everything is impersonal. Your audience never knows its own mind, and its mind is never twice the same. I’d rather sing where the people are pig-headed and throw carrots at you if you don’t do it the way they like it. The house here is splendid, and the night audiences are exciting. I hate the matinees; like singing at a _Kaffeklatsch_.” She rose and turned on the lights.

“Ah!” Fred exclaimed, “why do you do that? That is a signal that tea is over.” He got up and drew out his gloves.

“Not at all. Shall you be here Saturday night?” She sat down on the piano bench and leaned her elbow back on the keyboard. “Necker sings _Elizabeth_. Make Dr. Archie go. Everything she sings is worth hearing.”

“But she’s failing so. The last time I heard her she had no voice at all. She _is_ a poor vocalist!”

Thea cut him off. “She’s a great artist, whether she’s in voice or not, and she’s the only one here. If you want a big voice, you can take my _Ortrude_ of last night; that’s big enough, and vulgar enough.”

Fred laughed and turned away, this time with decision. “I don’t want her!” he protested energetically. “I only wanted to get a rise out of you. I like Necker’s _Elizabeth_ well enough. I like your _Venus_ well enough, too.”

“It’s a beautiful part, and it’s often dreadfully sung. It’s very hard to sing, of course.”

Ottenburg bent over the hand she held out to him. “For an uninvited guest, I’ve fared very well. You were nice to let me come up. I’d have been terribly cut up if you’d sent me away. May I?” He kissed her hand lightly and backed toward the door, still smiling, and promising to keep an eye on Archie. “He can’t be trusted at all, Thea. One of the waiters at Martin’s worked a Tourainian hare off on him at luncheon yesterday, for seven twenty-five.”

Thea broke into a laugh, the deep one he recognized. “Did he have a ribbon on, this hare? Did they bring him in a gilt cage?”

“No,”—Archie spoke up for himself,—“they brought him in a brown sauce, which was very good. He didn’t taste very different from any rabbit.”

“Probably came from a push-cart on the East Side.” Thea looked at her old friend commiseratingly. “Yes, _do_ keep an eye on him, Fred. I had no idea,” shaking her head. “Yes, I’ll be obliged to you.”

“Count on me!” Their eyes met in a gay smile, and Fred bowed himself out.

VII

On Saturday night Dr. Archie went with Fred Ottenburg to hear “Tannhäuser.” Thea had a rehearsal on Sunday afternoon, but as she was not on the bill again until Wednesday, she promised to dine with Archie and Ottenburg on Monday, if they could make the dinner early.

At a little after eight on Monday evening, the three friends returned to Thea’s apartment and seated themselves for an hour of quiet talk.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have had Landry with us tonight,” Thea said, “but he’s on at Weber and Fields’ every night now. You ought to hear him, Dr. Archie. He often sings the old Scotch airs you used to love.”

“Why not go down this evening?” Fred suggested hopefully, glancing at his watch. “That is, if you’d like to go. I can telephone and find what time he comes on.”

Thea hesitated. “No, I think not. I took a long walk this afternoon and I’m rather tired. I think I can get to sleep early and be so much ahead. I don’t mean at once, however,” seeing Dr. Archie’s disappointed look. “I always like to hear Landry,” she added. “He never had much voice, and it’s worn, but there’s a sweetness about it, and he sings with such taste.”

“Yes, doesn’t he? May I?” Fred took out his cigarette case. “It really doesn’t bother your throat?”

“A little doesn’t. But cigar smoke does. Poor Dr. Archie! Can you do with one of those?”

“I’m learning to like them,” the doctor declared, taking one from the case Fred proffered him.

“Landry’s the only fellow I know in this country who can do that sort of thing,” Fred went on. “Like the best English ballad singers. He can sing even popular stuff by higher lights, as it were.”

Thea nodded. “Yes; sometimes I make him sing his most foolish things for me. It’s restful, as he does it. That’s when I’m homesick, Dr. Archie.”

“You knew him in Germany, Thea?” Dr. Archie had quietly abandoned his cigarette as a comfortless article. “When you first went over?”

“Yes. He was a good friend to a green girl. He helped me with my German and my music and my general discouragement. Seemed to care more about my getting on than about himself. He had no money, either. An old aunt had loaned him a little to study on.—Will you answer that, Fred?”

Fred caught up the telephone and stopped the buzz while Thea went on talking to Dr. Archie about Landry. Telling some one to hold the wire, he presently put down the instrument and approached Thea with a startled expression on his face.

“It’s the management,” he said quietly. “Gloeckler has broken down: fainting fits. Madame Rheinecker is in Atlantic City and Schramm is singing in Philadelphia tonight. They want to know whether you can come down and finish _Sieglinde_.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight fifty-five. The first act is just over. They can hold the curtain twenty-five minutes.”

Thea did not move. “Twenty-five and thirty-five makes sixty,” she muttered. “Tell them I’ll come if they hold the curtain till I am in the dressing-room. Say I’ll have to wear her costumes, and the dresser must have everything ready. Then call a taxi, please.”

Thea had not changed her position since he first interrupted her, but she had grown pale and was opening and shutting her hands rapidly. She looked, Fred thought, terrified. He half turned toward the telephone, but hung on one foot.

“Have you ever sung the part?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve rehearsed it. That’s all right. Get the cab.” Still she made no move. She merely turned perfectly blank eyes to Dr. Archie and said absently, “It’s curious, but just at this minute I can’t remember a bar of ‘Walküre’ after the first act. And I let my maid go out.” She sprang up and beckoned Archie without so much, he felt sure, as knowing who he was. “Come with me.” She went quickly into her sleeping-chamber and threw open a door into a trunk-room. “See that white trunk? It’s not locked. It’s full of wigs, in boxes. Look until you find one marked ‘Ring 2.’ Bring it quick!” While she directed him, she threw open a square trunk and began tossing out shoes of every shape and color.

Ottenburg appeared at the door. “Can I help you?”

She threw him some white sandals with long laces and silk stockings pinned to them. “Put those in something, and then go to the piano and give me a few measures in there—you know.” She was behaving somewhat like a cyclone now, and while she wrenched open drawers and closet doors, Ottenburg got to the piano as quickly as possible and began to herald the reappearance of the Volsung pair, trusting to memory.

In a few moments Thea came out enveloped in her long fur coat with a scarf over her head and knitted woolen gloves on her hands. Her glassy eye took in the fact that Fred was playing from memory, and even in her distracted state, a faint smile flickered over her colorless lips. She stretched out a woolly hand, “The score, please. Behind you, there.”

Dr. Archie followed with a canvas box and a satchel. As they went through the hall, the men caught up their hats and coats. They left the music-room, Fred noticed, just seven minutes after he got the telephone message. In the elevator Thea said in that husky whisper which had so perplexed Dr. Archie when he first heard it, “Tell the driver he must do it in twenty minutes, less if he can. He must leave the light on in the cab. I can do a good deal in twenty minutes. If only you hadn’t made me eat—Damn that duck!” she broke out bitterly; “why did you?”

“Wish I had it back! But it won’t bother you, to-night. You need strength,” he pleaded consolingly.

But she only muttered angrily under her breath, “Idiot, idiot!”

Ottenburg shot ahead and instructed the driver, while the doctor put Thea into the cab and shut the door. She did not speak to either of them again. As the driver scrambled into his seat she opened the score and fixed her eyes upon it. Her face, in the white light, looked as bleak as a stone quarry.

As her cab slid away, Ottenburg shoved Archie into a second taxi that waited by the curb. “We’d better trail her,” he explained. “There might be a hold-up of some kind.” As the cab whizzed off he broke into an eruption of profanity.

“What’s the matter, Fred?” the doctor asked. He was a good deal dazed by the rapid evolutions of the last ten minutes.

“Matter enough!” Fred growled, buttoning his overcoat with a shiver. “What a way to sing a part for the first time! That duck really is on my conscience. It will be a wonder if she can do anything but quack! Scrambling on in the middle of a performance like this, with no rehearsal! The stuff she has to sing in there is a fright—rhythm, pitch,—and terribly difficult intervals.”

“She looked frightened,” Dr. Archie said thoughtfully, “but I thought she looked—determined.”

Fred sniffed. “Oh, determined! That’s the kind of rough deal that makes savages of singers. Here’s a part she’s worked on and got ready for for years, and now they give her a chance to go on and butcher it. Goodness knows when she’s looked at the score last, or whether she can use the business she’s studied with this cast. Necker’s singing _Brünnhilde;_ she may help her, if it’s not one of her sore nights.”

“Is she sore at Thea?” Dr. Archie asked wonderingly.

“My dear man, Necker’s sore at everything. She’s breaking up; too early; just when she ought to be at her best. There’s one story that she is struggling under some serious malady, another that she learned a bad method at the Prague Conservatory and has ruined her organ. She’s the sorest thing in the world. If she weathers this winter through, it’ll be her last. She’s paying for it with the last rags of her voice. And then—” Fred whistled softly.

“Well, what then?”

“Then our girl may come in for some of it. It’s dog eat dog, in this game as in every other.”

The cab stopped and Fred and Dr. Archie hurried to the box office. The Monday-night house was sold out. They bought standing room and entered the auditorium just as the press representative of the house was thanking the audience for their patience and telling them that although Madame Gloeckler was too ill to sing, Miss Kronborg had kindly consented to finish her part. This announcement was met with vehement applause from the upper circles of the house.

“She has her—constituents,” Dr. Archie murmured.

“Yes, up there, where they’re young and hungry. These people down here have dined too well. They won’t mind, however. They like fires and accidents and _divertissements_. Two _Sieglindes_ are more unusual than one, so they’ll be satisfied.”

After the final disappearance of the mother of Siegfried, Ottenburg and the doctor slipped out through the crowd and left the house. Near the stage entrance Fred found the driver who had brought Thea down. He dismissed him and got a larger car. He and Archie waited on the sidewalk, and when Kronborg came out alone they gathered her into the cab and sprang in after her.

Thea sank back into a corner of the back seat and yawned. “Well, I got through, eh?” Her tone was reassuring. “On the whole, I think I’ve given you gentlemen a pretty lively evening, for one who has no social accomplishments.”

“Rather! There was something like a popular uprising at the end of the second act. Archie and I couldn’t keep it up as long as the rest of them did. A howl like that ought to show the management which way the wind is blowing. You probably know you were magnificent.”

“I thought it went pretty well,” she spoke impartially. “I was rather smart to catch his tempo there, at the beginning of the first recitative, when he came in too soon, don’t you think? It’s tricky in there, without a rehearsal. Oh, I was all right! He took that syncopation too fast in the beginning. Some singers take it fast there—think it sounds more impassioned. That’s one way!” She sniffed, and Fred shot a mirthful glance at Archie. Her boastfulness would have been childish in a schoolboy. In the light of what she had done, of the strain they had lived through during the last two hours, it made one laugh,—almost cry. She went on, robustly: “And I didn’t feel my dinner, really, Fred. I am hungry again, I’m ashamed to say,—and I forgot to order anything at my hotel.”

Fred put his hand on the door. “Where to? You must have food.”

“Do you know any quiet place, where I won’t be stared at? I’ve still got make-up on.”

“I do. Nice English chop-house on Forty-fourth Street. Nobody there at night but theater people after the show, and a few bachelors.” He opened the door and spoke to the driver.

As the car turned, Thea reached across to the front seat and drew Dr. Archie’s handkerchief out of his breast pocket.

“This comes to me naturally,” she said, rubbing her cheeks and eyebrows. “When I was little I always loved your handkerchiefs because they were silk and smelled of Cologne water. I think they must have been the only really clean handkerchiefs in Moonstone. You were always wiping my face with them, when you met me out in the dust, I remember. Did I never have any?”

“I think you’d nearly always used yours up on your baby brother.”

Thea sighed. “Yes, Thor had such a way of getting messy. You say he’s a good chauffeur?” She closed her eyes for a moment as if they were tired. Suddenly she looked up. “Isn’t it funny, how we travel in circles? Here you are, still getting me clean, and Fred is still feeding me. I would have died of starvation at that boarding-house on Indiana Avenue if he hadn’t taken me out to the Buckingham and filled me up once in a while. What a cavern I was to fill, too. The waiters used to look astonished. I’m still singing on that food.”

Fred alighted and gave Thea his arm as they crossed the icy sidewalk. They were taken upstairs in an antiquated lift and found the cheerful chop-room half full of supper parties. An English company playing at the Empire had just come in. The waiters, in red waistcoats, were hurrying about. Fred got a table at the back of the room, in a corner, and urged his waiter to get the oysters on at once.

“Takes a few minutes to open them, sir,” the man expostulated.