Ottenburg dismissed his taxicab at the 91st Street entrance of the Park and floundered across the drive through a wild spring snowstorm. When he reached the reservoir path he saw Thea ahead of him, walking rapidly against the wind. Except for that one figure, the path was deserted1. A flock of gulls2 were hovering3 over the reservoir, seeming bewildered by the driving currents of snow that whirled above the black water and then disappeared within it. When he had almost overtaken Thea, Fred called to her, and she turned and waited for him with her back to the wind. Her hair and furs were powdered with snowflakes, and she looked like some rich-pelted animal, with warm blood, that had run in out of the woods. Fred laughed as he took her hand.
“No use asking how you do. You surely needn’t feel much anxiety about Friday, when you can look like this.”
She moved close to the iron fence to make room for him beside her, and faced the wind again. “Oh, I’m well enough, in so far as that goes. But I’m not lucky about stage appearances. I’m easily upset, and the most perverse4 things happen.”
“What’s the matter? Do you still get nervous?”
“Of course I do. I don’t mind nerves so much as getting numbed,” Thea muttered, sheltering her face for a moment with her muff. “I’m under a spell, you know, hoodooed. It’s the thing I want to do that I can never do. Any other effects I can get easily enough.”
“Yes, you get effects, and not only with your voice. That’s where you have it over all the rest of them; you’re as much at home on the stage as you were down in Panther Canyon5—as if you’d just been let out of a cage. Didn’t you get some of your ideas down there?”
Thea nodded. “Oh, yes! For heroic parts, at least. Out of the rocks, out of the dead people. You mean the idea of standing6 up under things, don’t you, meeting catastrophe7? No fussiness8. Seems to me they must have been a reserved, somber9 people, with only a muscular language, all their movements for a purpose; simple, strong, as if they were dealing10 with fate bare-handed.” She put her gloved fingers on Fred’s arm. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. I don’t know if I’d ever have got anywhere without Panther Canyon. How did you know that was the one thing to do for me? It’s the sort of thing nobody ever helps one to, in this world. One can learn how to sing, but no singing teacher can give anybody what I got down there. How did you know?”
“I didn’t know. Anything else would have done as well. It was your creative hour. I knew you were getting a lot, but I didn’t realize how much.”
Thea walked on in silence. She seemed to be thinking.
“Do you know what they really taught me?” she came out suddenly. “They taught me the inevitable11 hardness of human life. No artist gets far who doesn’t know that. And you can’t know it with your mind. You have to realize it in your body, somehow; deep. It’s an animal sort of feeling. I sometimes think it’s the strongest of all. Do you know what I’m driving at?”
“I think so. Even your audiences feel it, vaguely12: that you’ve sometime or other faced things that make you different.”
Thea turned her back to the wind, wiping away the snow that clung to her brows and lashes13. “Ugh!” she exclaimed; “no matter how long a breath you have, the storm has a longer. I haven’t signed for next season, yet, Fred. I’m holding out for a big contract: forty performances. Necker won’t be able to do much next winter. It’s going to be one of those between seasons; the old singers are too old, and the new ones are too new. They might as well risk me as anybody. So I want good terms. The next five or six years are going to be my best.”
“You’ll get what you demand, if you are uncompromising. I’m safe in congratulating you now.”
Thea laughed. “It’s a little early. I may not get it at all. They don’t seem to be breaking their necks to meet me. I can go back to Dresden.”
As they turned the curve and walked westward14 they got the wind from the side, and talking was easier.
Fred lowered his collar and shook the snow from his shoulders. “Oh, I don’t mean on the contract particularly. I congratulate you on what you can do, Thea, and on all that lies behind what you do. On the life that’s led up to it, and on being able to care so much. That, after all, is the unusual thing.”
She looked at him sharply, with a certain apprehension15. “Care? Why shouldn’t I care? If I didn’t, I’d be in a bad way. What else have I got?” She stopped with a challenging interrogation, but Ottenburg did not reply. “You mean,” she persisted, “that you don’t care as much as you used to?”
“I care about your success, of course.” Fred fell into a slower pace. Thea felt at once that he was talking seriously and had dropped the tone of half-ironical exaggeration he had used with her of late years. “And I’m grateful to you for what you demand from yourself, when you might get off so easily. You demand more and more all the time, and you’ll do more and more. One is grateful to anybody for that; it makes life in general a little less sordid16. But as a matter of fact, I’m not much interested in how anybody sings anything.”
“That’s too bad of you, when I’m just beginning to see what is worth doing, and how I want to do it!” Thea spoke17 in an injured tone.
“That’s what I congratulate you on. That’s the great difference between your kind and the rest of us. It’s how long you’re able to keep it up that tells the story. When you needed enthusiasm from the outside, I was able to give it to you. Now you must let me withdraw.”
“I’m not tying you, am I?” she flashed out. “But withdraw to what? What do you want?”
Fred shrugged18. “I might ask you, What have I got? I want things that wouldn’t interest you; that you probably wouldn’t understand. For one thing, I want a son to bring up.”
“I can understand that. It seems to me reasonable. Have you also found somebody you want to marry?”
“Not particularly.” They turned another curve, which brought the wind to their backs, and they walked on in comparative calm, with the snow blowing past them. “It’s not your fault, Thea, but I’ve had you too much in my mind. I’ve not given myself a fair chance in other directions. I was in Rome when you and Nordquist were there. If that had kept up, it might have cured me.”
“It might have cured a good many things,” remarked Thea grimly.
Fred nodded sympathetically and went on. “In my library in St. Louis, over the fireplace, I have a property spear I had copied from one in Venice,—oh, years ago, after you first went abroad, while you were studying. You’ll probably be singing Brünnhilde pretty soon now, and I’ll send it on to you, if I may. You can take it and its history for what they’re worth. But I’m nearly forty years old, and I’ve served my turn. You’ve done what I hoped for you, what I was honestly willing to lose you fo............