“I can scarcely believe it, Andor. I can see her now, that clumsy girl, hunched up over your piano. I can see her shoulders. She always seemed to labor so with her back. And I shall never forget that night when you found her voice.”
The audience kept up its clamor until, after many reappearances with the tenor, Kronborg came before the curtain alone. The house met her with a roar, a greeting that was almost savage in its fierceness. The singer’s eyes, sweeping the house, rested for a moment on Harsanyi, and she waved her long sleeve toward his box.
“She ought to be pleased that you are here,” said Mrs. Harsanyi. “I wonder if she knows how much she owes to you.”
“She owes me nothing,” replied her husband quickly. “She paid her way. She always gave something back, even then.”
“I remember you said once that she would do nothing common,” said Mrs. Harsanyi thoughtfully.
“Just so. She might fail, die, get lost in the pack. But if she achieved, it would be nothing common. There are people whom one can trust for that. There is one way in which they will never fail.” Harsanyi retired into his own reflections.
After the second act Fred Ottenburg brought Archie to the Harsanyis’ box and introduced him as an old friend of Miss Kronborg. The head of a musical publishing house joined them, bringing with him a journalist and the president of a German singing society. The conversation was chiefly about the new Sieglinde. Mrs. Harsanyi was gracious and enthusiastic, her husband nervous and uncommunicative. He smiled mechanically, and politely answered questions addressed to him. “Yes, quite so.” “Oh, certainly.” Every one, of course, said very usual things with great conviction. Mrs. Harsanyi was used to hearing and uttering the commonplaces which such occasions demanded. When her husband withdrew into the shadow, she covered his retreat by her sympathy and cordiality. In reply to a direct question from Ottenburg, Harsanyi said, flinching, “Isolde? Yes, why not? She will sing all the great roles, I should think.”
The chorus director said something about “dramatic temperament.” The journalist insisted that it was “explosive force,” “projecting power.”
Ottenburg turned to Harsanyi. “What is it, Mr. Harsanyi? Miss Kronborg says if there is anything in her, you are the man who can say what it is.”
The journalist scented copy and was eager. “Yes, Harsanyi. You know all about her. What’s her secret?”