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

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 nuance⁠—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 pigheaded 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 pushcart 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