II

The huge auditorium was in twilight; with difficulty could be discerned

a few isolated groups. The high-light was in the orchestral pit full of

chatting men. Seidl had not yet appeared. A punctual conductor; he must

have been detained this morning and the rehearsal had run on a snag.

In the tepid atmosphere, Easter, her eyes greedy for the forthcoming

spectacle, a novel one to her, sat with Stone. As critic of a powerful

morning newspaper he had the privilege of bringing friends to any

rehearsal he wished. This particular affair promised to be peculiarly

interesting. Lilli Lehmann, the divine Lilli, Stone called her, Jean

and Edouard de Reszke, Marie Brema, Anton Van Rooy--what a Tristan and

Isolde cast, with Anton Seidl at the conductor's helm! Easter had never

heard Tristan sung; she knew the vocal score, and in Washington had

with beating heart listened to an orchestra under Seidl play a long

Wagner programme. She became a Wagnerian in a moment. No music before

this had narcotized her senses, lapped her soul into bliss, hypnotized

her faculty of attention until her consciousness had swooned. Already

she had battle royals daily with Madame Ash who tried to make this too

strenuous pupil see that the royal road to a comprehension of Wagner

was through the music of the classics: of Bach, of Beethoven, above

all, of Mozart music. "My dear," admonished the wise teacher, "you will

never be anything but a sloppy amateur if you begin with Wagner. Read

him. That's all. Just read him, and you may realize that he knew what

he was writing about when he lays stress on the old Italian school of

belcanto. Those yelling hausfraus and bier-bassos--what do they know of

the real Wagner melos? Rien! Nichts! Niente! Nothing! Go, if you get a

chance, and hear Lilli Lehmann, even Nordica, who is a child compared

to Lilli; both women know how to sing legato, both have studied the

lieder of Schubert, Schumann, Brahms. Both began as coloratura singers.

"What--you don't know that Lehmann has sung the Queen in Huguenots,

Filina in Mignon? The fact is Esther--drop that silly nickname of

Easter--you are like the majority of American girls. You know it all in

advance. You want to sing Isolde before you can sing Buttercup. Listen

to Jean de Reszke. No, he is more barytone than tenor--that's why I

like him. Those tenors, Italian or German, they make me sick. They

give me nausea with their throaty voices. Only unmusical people admire

tenors. Do you know that?"

But Easter was refractory. She liked the tenor voice, and,

notwithstanding the fulness and richness of her middle and lower

registers, she preferred her fluty upper tones. Madame Ash was pleased

with the voice and told Stone that in two years she would have the

girl in the concert-room. A wonderful talent, a wonderful personality,

hard as nails, and all the better for it. She would keep off the men,

with that cold eye. But when she does break loose--Grand Dieu! The

madame comfortably shivered. She was not averse from hearing about

exciting scandals--if they didn't happen in her own vocal family.

Easter was more than promising material. The kind-hearted teacher and

manufacturer of prima-donnas, as she merrily christened herself, was

interested in the strange girl Alfred Stone had brought to her for

judgment. She also wondered at his noticeable interest, for she knew

him as a celibate, a woman-hater, rather say, a despiser of the cloven

sex. She had persuaded him, without much trouble, to invite Easter to

a full-dress rehearsal at the Opera. The girl couldn't afford to pay

for a seat. This he had done and now Easter was in the sixth heaven of

anticipation.

At half-past ten Frau Seidl telephoned the director that his

assistant-conductor was to go ahead with the first act, which had

been rehearsed by him the week before. He was ill but would be down

at midday. There was some gutteral cursing, it stopped when the

first enigmatic bars welled-up from the mystic abyss. Easter, her

eyes closed, her face flushed, swam out on the muffled ecstasy of

the prelude. The curtain rose. Soon Lilli passionately broke in upon

the song of the seaman, and the glorious symphony of human desire

and renunciation went swirling by. The singers were in costume.

Jean, warrior and lover, met his Isolde in the shock of passion and

remorse, but did not flinch at the climax. Van Rooy and Brema were in

the mood-key. At moments Easter thought she couldn't longer stand the

suspense. She wished to cry, to roll on the floor, to tear her hair, to

press her aching eyeballs till they fell out. She was in the centre of

an emotional typhoon. Her previous life shrivelled up like a scroll in

the clear flame of the mighty master of musical elixirs. Love and Death

and Death and Love. First Things and Last. She was shocked and angered

at Stone's commentary after the curtain had fallen, and the sparsely

scattered auditory busily buzzing.

"Like the caterwauling of erotic cats on a midnight roof," said he.

"Brute!" she murmured, but he overheard. "Brute or no brute, this ocean

of sentiment over a pint of catnip--was it worth the infinite bother

Wagner gave himself to deliver a mouse from the belching volcano?"

"It's a mouse now," she tartly replied, "before it was a tomcat. I

admire your similes." "It doesn't matter much to me whether you do or

do not." He was quite acid. "You don't know anything, while I've been

listening to Tristan for years." "Why be cynical, even if you have

heard it so often? It's a masterpiece among masterpieces"--she paused,

breathless. "And I imagine," he continued, "you expect to sing Isolde

some day better than Lilli." "I do, and if not better, that would be

nearly an impossibility, at least I'll be a younger Irish Princess,"

she announced with the unconscious cruelty of youth. "But I'll first

begin with Brangaene. That rôle I can easily better. Have patience and

you will see my beautiful young witch Brangaene. She isn't supposed to

be ugly and old." "What's this?" he exclaimed, "already a Wagnerian

critic?" Then, suddenly, "Hello! You here?" He squeezed her elbow, and

she saw standing before her in the next row a vaguely familiar figure,

but the dim light puzzled her as to the person.

"Hullo!" came the answer. "Alfred, how did you get home the other

night? I saw you were in for a wet time and I skipped." He looked

inquiringly at the young woman. Stone apologized. "Oh, I fancied that

living in the same hotel you had met. Miss Brandès, this is my very

good friend, Mr. Invern. Ulick, this is the coming Lilli Lehmann. Miss

Brandès is a pupil of Madame Ash, who predicts a big future. Funny,

Miss Easter occupied your apartment for a few days." "Yes, Madame

Felicé told me. I am very glad you did, Miss--Miss--Brandès. What a

picturesque name for the operatic stage? The only Marthe Brandès in

Paris may be jealous. Aren't you from the South, from Richmond--Miss

Brandès?" He had seated himself and was gazing at her, she had herself

well in hand, but her stomach trembled as if sea-sick. She grasped

the velvet arm of her stall and tried to keep her voice steady as she

replied:

"Yes, I'm from Richmond. I was born in Virginia. Why do you ask? Is

my accent so marked?" She had a good central grip on herself and

presently the vibrations ceased. Stone was bored and yearned for a

cigarette. "I see Seidl--I'll go out for a smoke." At once Ulick

seated himself beside Easter. Eagerly he attempted to take the gloved

hand next to him. She crossed her arms. Then she said in commonplace

tones: "Do you know, Mr. Invern--I don't miss that lovely apartment.

They put me on the third floor. I am away from the noisy kitchen and

I can catch a bit of the sky instead of that depressing brick wall--"

He whispered, and his voice was hoarse, as if from excess of feeling:

"How can you ever forgive me--ever forgive me--Miss Richmond--pardon

me, that was your name--down East, in New Hampshire...." Easter seemed

to see smoke. She didn't answer him. Then, in her broadest most

cordial Southern tones, she asked: "Whatever in the world are you

talking about, mister?" He thought: I'm on the wrong tack. She won't

acknowledge that we met--and what a meeting--but, wait, I'll make her

acknowledge--everything. She went on in her desultory conversational

manner: "I was reared in Richmond. That's not my name. What did Mr.

Stone call you?"

He was nettled. Absurd. As if she could pull the wool over his eyes,

those clear piercing blue eyes that looked at life so amusedly, so

cynically. Then Seidl rapped for silence and the curtain rose on the

love-scene of all musical love-scenes.

As she watched the gothic head of Seidl she thought of him as a

magician whose wand evoked magic spells, but soon she forgot Time

and Space and was living in that enchanting fairyland of high daring

and passion transfigured. The deep voice of Brangaene warned the

lovers. Tremulous horns told of the King's return. Edouard de Reszke

intoned his: "Tristan!" in the inflexions of which are compressed

the reproach of betrayed friendship, and chivalry that has vanished.

Passion--passion, the yearnings of the man for the woman, and the

desire of the woman for the desire of the man, had summarily abolished

the walls of duty, of earthy morals. A hand slipped into hers. She

did not resist and the hand was hungrily held. The spell was upon

her. Music, the most sensual of the arts, for it tells us of the

hidden secrets of sex, immersed her body and soul in a magnetic bath;

the sound-fluid entered the porches of her ears. She was as a slave

manacled within the chalked circle of a wizard. To step across the

line would have been an ineluctable attempt. She did not try. And to

make more concrete the illusion of a consciousness transposed from the

key of her everyday life, the embracement of her arm by this strange

man--wasn't he a stranger to her?--sent her spirit cowering into

supernatural coverts. What was she? What was he? Tristan and Isolde;

Isolde and Tristan. She identified herself with the lovers, who, like

the crepuscular figures stitched on some mediaeval tapestry, dreamily

moved across the field of her vision. Tristan fell, and Easter awoke

with a start. Where has that little wretch Stone gone? The sneak,

she thought. Withdrawing her arm she stood up with a sigh of delight

satisfied. The lights were now on. The small but select band of invited

guests, were shaking hands with dear Maurice Grau, and she wondered who

was the affable little bald-headed man.

Ulick quizzically took her in. He hesitated: "Come," he finally said,

"come with me. I'll introduce you to my beloved friend, grand woman

and artiste, Madame Lehmann. She may be of use to you in the future."

For the first time Easter felt as if he were really a friend. Her

chilly reserve couldn't withstand such an invitation. Lilli Lehmann!

And perhaps--Oh! if it would only come true--Jean de Reszke. As she

was conducted upstairs through resounding corridors, her dreams went

on wings to the glorious night when she, Esther Brandès, would hold

an audience spellbound by the imperious magic of her art. Flushed,

her nature sending out warm rays of happiness, Ulick was so carried

away that he put his arm around her waist and cried: "You adorable

girl...." She it was who knocked at the dressing-room door for

admittance. "Komm," was uttered by a deep voice within. The youthful

pair entered....

On the way to the Maison Felicé she complained of hunger. "It's the

emotions of a first Tristan," he told her. "Wagner exhausts one's

soul and stomach. As for Tristan--oh! Tristan is a regular tapeworm.

I always feel like a spaghetti dinner at Moretti's with gallons of

vichy." She looked down at him, he was standing in the street, she

on the sidewalk. His eyes were blazing blue. She had realized their

blueness even in the dark of the auditorium. The glance-motive sounded

in their personal music-drama. And, as he said to himself, with what

a prelude! Almost tragic. She still gazed at him. Ulick felt his

being expand. This girl was dangerous. She was different. He knew he

must love her and he trembled at her hungry eyes. "Let's go to your

Moretti's," she exclaimed. "I'm starving." "So am I--for another

touch of your hand," he interposed. "Let's go to your Moretti's," she

stubbornly repeated, "and if you wish to keep on good terms with me

pray don't call me Miss Richmond, or--'your adorable girl'...." He only

ejaculated, "Christ!"