Before the performance began, the electric lights were turned off, and the only illumination proceeded from two wax candles with pink shades on the table beside Minona. The literary essay was preceded by a musical prologue rendered by the pianist G----, who happened to be in Venice at the time.
He played a paraphrase of Siegmund's and Sieglinda's love-duet, gradually gliding into the motive of Isolde's death, all of which naturally increased the receptive capacity of the audience for the coming treat. The last tone died away. Minona von Rattenfels cleared her throat.
"Tombs!" She hurled the word, as it were, in a very deep voice into the midst of her audience. This was the pleasing title of her latest collection of love-songs.
It consisted of two parts, 'Love-Life' and 'Love-Death.' In the first part there was a great deal said about Dawn and Dew-drops, and in the second part quite as much about Worms and Withered Flowers, while in both there was such an amount of ardent passion that one could not but be grateful to the Baroness for her Bayreuth fashion of darkening the auditorium, thus veiling the blushes of certain sensitive ladies, as well as the sneering looks of others.
Of course Minona's delivery was highly dramatic. She screamed until her voice failed her, she rolled her eyes until she fairly squinted, and Count Treurenberg offered to wager an entire set of her works that one of her eyes was glass.
In most of her verses the lover was cold, hard, or faithless, but now and then she revelled in an 'oasis in the desert of life.' Then she became unutterably grotesque, the only distinguishable word in a languishing murmur being "L--o--ve!"
Suddenly in the midst of this extraordinary performance was heard the clicking of a couple of steel knitting needles, and shortly afterwards the reading came to an end.
Again the room was flooded with light. In the silence that reigned the clicking needles made the only sound. Erika looked to see whence the noise proceeded, and perceived an elderly lady with gray hair brushed smoothly over her temples, and a shrewd--almost masculine--face, sitting very erect, and dressed in a charming old-fashioned gown. Her brows were lifted, and her face showed unmistakably her decided disapproval of the performance. In the midst of the heated atmosphere she produced the impression of a stainless block of ice.
"Who is that?" Erika asked the Countess Mühlberg, who sat beside her.
"Fräulein Agatha von Horn. Shall I present you?"