I
"And you say they met him this afternoon?" ... "Yes, met him in broad
daylight coming from the house of that odious woman." "Well, I never
would have believed it!" "That accounts for his mysterious absence from
the clubs and drawing-rooms. Henry Tannhäuser is not the style of man to
miss London in the season, unless there is a big attraction elsewhere."
... The air was heavy with flowers, and in the windows opening on the
balcony were thronged smartly dressed folk; it was May and the weather
warm. The Landgrave's musicale had been anticipated eagerly by all
music-lovers in town; Wartburg, the large house on the hill, hardly
could hold the invited....
The evening was young when Mrs. Minne, charming and a widow, stood with
her pretty nun-like face inclined to the tall, black Mr. Biterolf, the
basso of the opera. She had been sonnetted until her perfectly arched
eyebrows were famous. Her air of well-bred and conventual calm never had
been known to desert her; and her high, light, colorless soprano had
something in it of the sexless timbre of the boy chorister. With her
blond hair pressed meekly to her shapely head she was the delight and
despair of poets, painters and musicians, for she turned an impassable
cheek to their pleadings. Mrs. Minne would never remarry; and it was her
large income that made water the mouth of the impecunious artistic
tribe....
Just now she seemed interested in Karl Biterolf, but even his vanity did
not lead him to hope. They resumed their conversation, while about them
the crush became greater, and the lights burned more brilliantly. In the
whirl of chatter and conventional compliment stood Elizabeth Landgrave,
the niece of the host, receiving her uncle's guests. Mrs. Minne regarded
her, a sweet, unpleasant smile playing about her thinly carved lips.
"Yet the men rave over her, Mr. Biterolf. Is it not so? What chance has
a passée woman with such a pure, delicate slip of a girl? And she sings
so well. I wonder if she intends going on the stage?" Her companion
leaned over and whispered something.
"No, no, I'll never believe it. What? Henry Tannhäuser in love with that
girl! Jamais, jamais!"
"But I tell you it's so, and her refusal sent him after--well, that
other one." Biterolf looked wise.
"You mean to tell me that he could forget her for an old woman? Stop, I
know you are going to say that the Holda is as fascinating as Diana of
Poitiers and has a trick of making boys, young enough to be her
grandsons, fall madly in love with her. I know all that is said in her
favor. No one knows who she is, where she came from, or her age. She's
fifty if she's a day, and she makes up in the morning." Mrs. Minne
paused for breath. Both women moved in the inner musical set of
fashionable London and both captained rival camps. Mrs. Minne was voted
a saint and Mrs. Holda a sinner--a fascinating one.... There was a
little feeling in the widow's usually placid voice when she again
questioned Biterolf.
"I always fancied that Eschenbach, that man with the baritone voice, son
of the rich brewer--you know him of course?--I always fancied that he
was making up to our pretty young innocent over yonder."
Biterolf gazed in amusement at his companion. Her veiled, sarcastic tone
was not lost on him; he felt that he had to measure his words with this
lily-like creature.
"Oh, yes; Wolfram Eschenbach? Certainly, I know him. He sings very well
for an amateur. I believe he is to sing this evening. Let us go out on
the balcony; it's very warm." "I intend remaining here, for I shall not
miss a trick in the game to-night and if, as you say, that silly
Tannhäuser was seen leaving the Holda's house this afternoon--" "Yes,
with young Walter Vogelweide, and they were quarrelling--" "Drinking, I
suppose?" "No; Henry was very much depressed, and when Eschenbach asked
him where he had been so long--" "What a fool question for a man in love
with Elizabeth Landgrave," interposed Mrs. Minne, tartly. "Henry
answered that he didn't know, and he wished he were in the Thames." "And
a good place for him, say I." The lady put up her lorgnon and bowed
amiably to Miss Landgrave, who was talking eagerly to her uncle....
The elder Landgrave was as fond of hunting as of music, and sedulously
fostered the cultivation of his niece's voice. As she stood beside him,
her slender figure was almost as tall as his. Her eyes were large in the
cup and they went violet in the sunlight; at night they seemed
lustrously black. She was in virginal white this evening, and her
delicately modelled head was turned toward the door. Her uncle spoke
slowly to her.
"He promised to come." Elizabeth flushed. "Whether he does or not, I
shall sing; besides, his rudeness is unbearable. Uncle, dear, what can I
say to a man who goes away for a month without vouchsafing me a word of
excuse?"
Her uncle coughed insinuatingly in his beard. He was a widower.
"Hadn't we better begin, uncle? Go out on the balcony and stop that
noisy gypsy band. I hate Hungarian music." ... She carried herself with
dignity, and Mr. Landgrave admired the pretty curves of her face and
wondered what would happen when her careless lover arrived. Soon the
crowd drifted in from the balcony and the great music-room, its solemn
oak walls and ceilings blazing with light, was jammed. Near the
concert-grand gathered a group of music makers, in which Wolfram
Eschenbach's golden beard and melancholy eyes were at once singled out
by sentimental damsels. He had long been the by-word of match-making
mammas because of his devotion to a hopeless cause. Elizabeth Landgrave
admired his good qualities, but her heart was held by that rake,
_vaurien_ and man about town, dashing Harry Tannhäuser; and as Wolfram
bent over Miss Landgrave her uncle could not help regretting that girls
were so obstinate.
A crashing of chords announced that the hour had arrived. After the
"Tannhäuser" overture, Elizabeth Landgrave arose to sing. Instantly
there was a stillness. She looked very fair in her clinging gown, and as
her powerful, well modulated soprano uttered the invocation to the
Wartburg "Dich, teure Halle, grüss ich wieder," the thrill of excitement
was intensified by the appearance of Henry Tannhäuser in the doorway at
the lower end of the room. If Elizabeth saw him her voice did not reveal
emotion, and she gave, with rhetorical emphasis, "Froh grüss ich dich,
geliebter Raum."
"He looks pretty well knocked out, doesn't he?" whispered Biterolf to
Mrs. Minne. She curled her lip. She had long set her heart on
Tannhäuser, but since he preferred to sing the praises of Mrs. Holda,
she slaked her feelings by cutting up his character in slices and
serving them to her friends with a saintly smile.
"Poor old Harry," went on Biterolf in his clumsy fashion. "Your poor old
Harry had better keep away from his Venus," snapped the other; "he looks
as if he'd been going the pace too fast." Every one looked curiously at
the popular tenor. He stood the inspection very well, though his
clean-shaven face was slightly haggard, his eyes sunken and bloodshot.
But he was such good style, as the women remarked, and his bearing, as
ever, gallant.
Elizabeth ended with "Sei mir gegrüsst," and there was a volley of
handclapping. Tannhäuser made his way to the piano. His attitude was
anything but penitent; the girl did not stir a muscle. He shook hands.
Then he complimented her singing. She bowed her head stiffly. Tannhäuser
smiled ironically.
"I suppose I ought to do the conventional operatic thing," he
murmured--"cry aloud, 'Let me kneel forever here.'" She regarded him
coldly. "You might find it rather embarrassing before this crowd. Do you
ever sing any more?" He was slightly confused. "Let us sing the duo in
the second act; you know it," she curtly said, "and stop the mob's
gaping. Mrs. Minne over there is straining her eyes out." "She cannot
say that I ever sang her praises," laughed Tannhäuser, and as he faced
the audience with Elizabeth there was a hum which modulated clamorously
into noisy applause.
The pair began "Gepriesen sei die Stunde, gepriesen sei die Macht," and
Mr. Landgrave looked on gloomily as the voices melted in lyric ecstasy.
Henry's voice was heroic, like himself, and his friend Wolfram felt a
glow when its thrilling top tones rang out so pure, so clear. What a
voice, what a man! If he would only take care of himself, he thought and
looked at Elizabeth's spiritual face wondering if she knew--if she knew
of the other woman who was making Henry forget his better self!
The duo ceased and congratulations were heaped upon the singers....
"How do you manage to keep it up, old man?" asked Biterolf while Mrs.
Minne engaged Elizabeth.
Tannhäuser smiled. "You old grim wolf, Biterolf, you cling to the notion
that a singer must lead the life of an anchorite to preserve his voice.
I enjoy life. I am not a monk, but a tenor--" "Yes, but not a
professional one!" "No; therefore I'm happy. If I had to sing to order,
I'd jump into the river." "That's what you said this afternoon," replied
Biterolf, knowingly.
Henry's face grew dark. "You've said nothing, have you? That's a good
fellow. I assure you, Karl, I'm in the very devil of a fix. I've got rid
of Holda, but no one can tell how long. She's a terror." "Why don't you
travel?" "I have, I swear I have, but she has a trick of finding where
my luggage goes and then turns up at Pau or Paris as if I expected her.
She's a witch! That's what she is."
"She is Venus," said Biterolf moodily. "Aha! you've been hard hit, too?
I believe she does come from the Hollow Hill. Her cavern must be full of
dead men's bones, trophies of her conquests. I think I've escaped this
time." Tannhäuser's face grew radiant. "Don't be too sure, she may turn
up here to-night." "Good Lord, man, she's not invited, I hope." "I don't
know why not--she goes with the best people. Take a tip from me, Harry.
Don't waste any more time with her for Eschenbach may cut you out. He's
very fond of Elizabeth, and you'd better cut short that duet over there
now; Mrs. Minne is not fond of you." "Nonsense!" said Tannhäuser, but he
lounged over toward the two women and his big frame was noted by all the
girls in the room.
Tannhäuser had a very taking way with him. His eyes were sky-blue and
his hair old gold. He was a terrific sportsman and when not making love
was singing. From his Teutonic ancestry he had inherited a taste for
music which desultory study in a German university town, combined with a
musical ear, had improved. He had been told by managers that if he would
work hard he could make a sensation, but Henry was lazy and Henry was
rich, so he sang, shot big game and flirted his years away. Then he met
Mrs. Holda, of Berg Street, Piccadilly.
The women were not looking at each other with loving eyes when he drew
near. Elizabeth turned to him, her face aglow: "Let us walk a bit before
Mr. Eschenbach sings." Her manner was almost seductive. Mrs. Minne
sneered slightly and waved her fan condescendingly at the two as they
moved slowly up the room. "There go the biggest pair of fools in all
Christendom," she remarked to Biterolf; "why, she will believe
everything he tells her. She wouldn't listen to my advice." Biterolf
shook his head. When Tannhäuser and Elizabeth returned both looked
supremely happy.
"That woman has actually been abusing you, Harry." He pressed her arm
reassuringly. Wolfram Eschenbach began to sing "Blick' ich umher in
diesem edlen Kreise," and once more silence fell upon the bored crowd.
Sympathy was in his tones and he sang tenderly, lovingly. Elizabeth
listened unmoved. She now had eyes for Tannhäuser only, and she laughed
aloud when he proposed to follow Wolfram with a solo.
"Do," she said enthusiastically, "it will stir them all up." Although
this number was not down on the program, Tannhäuser was welcomed as he
went to the piano. Wolfram seemed uneasy and once looked fixedly at
Elizabeth. Then he walked out on the balcony as if seeking some one, and
Mrs. Minne nudged her stolid neighbor. "Mark my words, there's trouble
brewing," she declared.
By this time Tannhäuser was in his best form. He seemed to have regained
all his usual elasticity, for Berg Street, with its depressing memories,
had completely vanished. He expanded his chest and sang, his victorious
blue eyes fastened on Elizabeth. He sang the song of Venus, "Dir, Göttin
der Liebe," and all the old passion came into his voice; when he uttered
"Zieht in den Berg der Venus ein" he was transported, his surroundings
melted and once more he was gazing at the glorious woman, his Venus, his
Holda. The audience was completely shaken out of its fashionable
immobility, and "superb," "bravo," "magnificent," "encore," "bis," were
heard on all sides. Elizabeth alone remained mute. Her skin was the
pallor of ivory, and into her glance came the look of a lovely fawn run
down by the hounds.
"He'd better pack his traps and make a pilgrimage to Rome," remarked
Mrs. Minne with malice in her secular eyes as Tannhäuser strode to the
balcony. Wolfram, looking anxious, went to Elizabeth and led her to her
uncle; then the supper signal sounded and the buzz and struggle became
tremendous.
Mrs. Minne disappeared. Ten minutes later she was at Miss Landgrave's
side, and presently the pair left the table, slowly forced a passage
through the mob of hungry and thirsty humans and reached the balcony.
The night was rich with May odors, but the place seemed deserted.
Plucking at the girl's sleeve, her companion pointed to a couple that
stood looking into the garden, the arm of the man passed about the waist
of the woman. Even in the starlight Elizabeth recognized the exquisite
head and turned to leave; the woman with her was bent on seeing the
game. In sharp staccato she said, "What a relief after that hot
supper-room!" and the others turned. Elizabeth did not pause a moment.
She went to Tannhäuser's companion and said:
"My dear Mrs. Holda, where have you been hiding to-night? I fear you
missed the music and I fear now you will miss the supper; do let us go
in." ...
Five minutes later Mrs. Holda left with Tannhäuser in her brougham,
telling the coachman to drive to Berg Street.