The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather (best reads .TXT) 📕

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 tonight. 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 tonight. 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 tonight.” He lit a cigar. “Seriously, Freddy, I wish I knew more about what she’s driving at. It makes me jealous, when you