That night Styr sang Isolde. On the morning following, Ordham sent her a box of purple lilies. He expected no acknowledgment, for he knew that she ignored all offerings; but in the course of the afternoon he received a note which banished evil memories, including his struggles with Fr?ulein Lutz.
“Dear Mr. Ordham: I feel Isolde herself with these purple lilies in my hands. She was a great woman and no other colour is worthy of her. I have half promised to sing at Princess Nachmeister’s concert to-morrow night, and now I have a fancy to cover myself with these lilies and sing the Liebestod. One needs inspiration of an uncommon sort when, unsupported by orchestra and footlights, one feels as if one might founder any moment in a sea of impertinent eyes. Your eyes, at least, are kind and encouraging. I will sing to you—for once—in memory of a picturesque hour designed by a king, and one of that unhappy monarch’s rare triumphs.
“Thank you so much!
“Margarethe Tann.”
This note so flattered and delighted him that he went voluntarily to call on Frau von Wass, and further beatified by finding her surrounded, made himself so charming to her guests that although, in spite of a murmured invitation, he would not linger, Hélène was tempted to believe that he kindled alone in the light of her smiles.
But he had no intention of bestowing a thought upon her except when circumstances forced him into her society. She had craved no more than her due, and for a fortnight longer she should have the benefit of all the courtesy he could summon, but not a shadow of superfluous attention. Little dreaming of what was pickling for him, he had already consigned her to the past, and the only wish she inspired was the expiration of the fortnight. He was too indifferent constitutionally to speculate upon her sudden change of front, and too inexperienced, despite his cleverness, to be the match of any adventuress who wore the habit of his own world. With those profound and haunted abysses of wicked women he had had as little contact as with that practical side of life which tapers the wits and sharpens the vision. Ten years hence and the Hélène Wasses would be read and disposed of in short order; to-day he was but the good-natured, honourable, gullible young English aristocrat, who has been taken in time out of mind, and will continue to be until England is Americanized.
On the following evening he took his chair in the concert room of the Nachmeister Palast with an inner ferment so successfully concealed that his face was quite expressionless. For once he did not smile into every pair of eyes turned upon him. He thought of little but the note of Margarethe Styr, which he had read several times. Whatever her motive, he knew that a great compliment had been paid him; and although a too kindly fate disposed him to take most compliments as a matter of course, and humility disturbed him at rare intervals, to-night he was inclined to be not only exultant but grateful.
The immense room, with its old crimson brocades, its heavy dingy rococo gilding, its cosmopolitan assemblage, was an imposing sight, and Ordham was still young enough to love society. Parties at Excellenz Nachmeister’s were seldom dowdy (unless too many royalties were present), and when, as to-night, the entire diplomatic corps was bidden, as well as many army officers and high officials, the men, in their beautiful uniforms, their orders and sashes, made an even more dazzling impression than the women. Uniforms at least were always new, and gowns did duty in aristocratic Munich for many seasons, regardless of changes in style. Waists too were large, and square, and soft; but the materials that covered them, whether old or new, were very rich, and jewels conceal many defects. A few besides Hélène Wass could be relied upon to display the fashions of Paris, and the women of the diplomatic corps were always resplendent.
When Princess Nachmeister received in this room she wore a powdered wig and a brocade as stiff as a hoopskirt, consequently was less of an eyesore than usual. Ordham had murmured his compliments, then after a hasty glance about—he arrived late—taken an empty chair between two people he did not know. Frau von Wass, a siren to-night in pale green tulle, water-lilies, and many pearls, left her seat, took a chair conspicuously apart, drew her eyelids into bows, and sent him a quiverful of arrows. All in vain.
A number of distinguished amateurs played and warbled brilliantly; for in the most musical city of northern Europe no one dared offend the hypercritical ear with a second-rate performance. Possart recited from Manfred. There was a small orchestra, and a tenor from Paris. At the end of two hours, when even the most artistic were thinking wistfully of supper and motion, there was a sharp rustle throughout the Festsaal, a deep intaking of breath: little Baron Walleypeg of the crooked smile had announced that Countess Tann had arrived at the last moment and would sing. (But he made the announcement in redundant phrases and tones of emotion, for he was a German, and he cherished a hopeless passion for Die Styr.)
She appeared suddenly on the platform at the head of the room and received a demonstration. Not only was she the artist best beloved in Munich, but surprise shattered the languor appropriate to so fashionable an occasion.
Ordham saw his lilies. They were in her hair, on her breast, on the front of her skirt. But what diverted his attention from this expected compliment was the surprise afforded by her evening gown. He had seen her only in the heavy white draperies affected by the heroines of Wagnerian romance, and in the still more classic costume she had worn at Neuschwanstein; he had supposed her to be a massive woman built for such r?les, and the more untuned to private life. To-night she wore a closely fitting modish gown of maize-coloured tulle, in which the purple lilies seemed to grow. Her neck and arms were uncovered, every line of her figure was salient. She was almost slender, clean-limbed, with a low small bust, and hips barely accentuated. Her shoulders sloped gracefully, her waist was so round that it looked small if it was not. Ordham was familiar, of course, with her long round throat, the famous arms and hands, and he marvelled that he had not taken for granted that the rest of her figure was built in harmony. Then he wondered what part that incomparable form, which might have risen from the mould of Messalina, had played in her unhappy past; and fancied he understood why she veiled it from the public eye with so complete an indifference. Again he felt sorry for her, and more determined than ever to know her.
She wore her heavy dark hair in a low knot. Her skin, ivory-white, had the luminous effect he had often noted on the stage and missed at Neuschwanstein; her eyes were sullen and heavy, she held her head very high. To the surprise of her audience she sang them several folk-songs. When she paused, there was a spontaneous outburst of approval, then a vocal demand for more. The applause subsided, and as she smiled and bowed, they took for granted that their desire for these old songs of their hearts was about to be gratified.
She burst softly into the Liebestod. Her face remained as immobile as ivory, but she threw the soul of Isolde into her voice. It floated upward in the first rapture of delirium, and few but saw the wild face of the dying queen rise above the body of Tristan, the castle towers, the dead Kurwenal, the weeping figures of King Mark and Br?ngane, the army of retainers in the background. Ordham, at least, shared Isolde’s vision of the valiant soul that had replaced the clay, as she sang, in tones heart-breaking in their sweet frenzy:
“Seht ihr’s Freunde?
?S?h’t ihr’s nicht?”
As her voice, rising on a higher and higher note, clear and sustained in the triumph of the seer, the heaven-given vision of the woman to whom her lost has been restored, it seemed the golden pathway upon which her own soul mounted to disappear among the stars. When she opened the flood-gates many gasped and wept; and Ordham, petrified, wondered if all the passion of the world were being swept out into eternity by that soul of Isolde, whom nothing but the passion of death could satisfy.
The voice, remote, dying, drawn to a mere crystal thread, sank away on the last lines:
“ertrinken,
?versinken,
?unbewusst—
?h?chste Lust!”
A great woman and her passion were dead and the world was poorer.
The applause was long and Styr was forced to return and bow many times; but when Baron Walleypeg announced that she would not sing again, the audience rose, and Ordham went in search of her. She had not glanced in his direction, but he chose to believe that she had kept her word and sung to him. He found her near the door of the supper room, surrounded by so dense a crowd of men and women that he could not approach within two feet of her. But she smiled at him, and a few moments later, when there was a break in the ranks, extended her hand. When he would have lifted it to his lips in the German fashion, which he privately thought beneath his dignity unless the hand were young and shapely, she shook his warmly, as if to remind him that she was an American. It was pleasant to feel a hearty clasp again, and he smiled with quick response, but asked her formally if it did not tire her to sing so often. She replied that nothing tired her; and then her ear was claimed by a personage in a light blue uniform embellished with many orders, whom she addressed as “K?nigliche Hoheit.” It was impossible to interrupt her conversation with a prince of the blood, but Ordham stood his ground and glanced about idly. Nothing could be more formal than Princess Nachmeister’s dinners, and nothing less so than her suppers, when her guests, presumably, had had enough of the straight and narrow chairs of Louis XIV. Only the unfortunate royalties were marshalled to an alcove and seated about a table on a dais; the other guests stood, sat on little sofas, grouped about small tables, as they listed; the women waited upon, not only by the lackeys, but by the young officers and diplomatic attachés. Now and again the imposing and portly, who no doubt commanded the incessant service of their hausfraus at home, were moved to demonstrate their youthful agility.
Ordham’s eye met the fixed gaze of Hélène Wass, sitting conspicuously apart. He nodded carelessly to the wife of the distinguished Geheimrath, heedless of t............