After that evening Thea’s work with Harsanyi changed somewhat. He insisted that she should study some songs with him, and after almost every lesson he gave up half an hour of his own time to practicing them with her. He did not pretend to know much about voice production, but so far, he thought, she had acquired no really injurious habits. A healthy and powerful organ had found its own method, which was not a bad one. He wished to find out a good deal before he recommended a vocal¹ teacher. He never told Thea what he thought about her voice, and made her general ignorance of anything worth singing his pretext² for the trouble he took. That was in the beginning. After the first few lessons his own pleasure and hers were pretext enough. The singing came at the end of the lesson hour, and they both treated it as a form of relaxation³.  
Harsanyi did not say much even to his wife about his discovery. He brooded upon it in a curious way. He found that these unscientific singing lessons stimulated⁴ him in his own study. After Miss Kronborg left him he often lay down in his studio for an hour before dinner, with his head full of musical ideas, with an effervescence in his brain which he had sometimes lost for weeks together under the grind of teaching. He had never got so much back for himself from any pupil as he did from Miss Kronborg. From the first she had stimulated him; something in her personality invariably affected⁵ him. Now that he was feeling his way toward her voice, he found her more interesting than ever before. She lifted the tedium⁶ of the winter for him, gave him curious fancies and reveries. Musically, she was sympathetic to him. Why all this was true, he never asked himself. He had learned that one must take where and when one can the mysterious mental irritant that rouses one’s imagination; that it is not to be had by order. She often wearied him, but she never bored him. Under her crudeness and brusque hardness, he felt there was a nature quite different, of which he never got so much as a hint except when she was at the piano, or when she sang. It was toward this hidden creature that he was trying, for his own pleasure, to find his way. In short, Harsanyi looked forward to his hour with Thea for the same reason that poor Wunsch had sometimes dreaded⁷ his; because she stirred him more than anything she did could adequately explain.
 
One afternoon Harsanyi, after the lesson, was standing⁸ by the window putting some collodion on a cracked finger, and Thea was at the piano trying over “Die Lorelei” which he had given her last week to practice. It was scarcely a song which a singing master would have given her, but he had his own reasons. How she sang it mattered only to him and to her. He was playing his own game now, without interference; he suspected that he could not do so always.
 
When she finished the song, she looked back over her shoulder at him and spoke⁹ thoughtfully. “That wasn’t right, at the end, was it?”
 
“No, that should be an open, flowing tone, something like this,”—he waved his fingers rapidly in the air. “You get the idea?”
 
“No, I don’t. Seems a queer ending, after the rest.”
 
Harsanyi corked¹⁰ his little bottle and dropped it into the pocket of his velvet¹¹ coat. “Why so?

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