“It is the most beautiful opera ever made,” Wunsch declared solemnly. “You know the story, eh? How, when she die, Orpheus went down below for his wife?”
“Oh, yes, I know. I didn’t know there was an opera about it, though. Do people sing this now?”
“Aber ja! What else? You like to try? See.” He drew her from the stool and sat down at the piano. Turning over the leaves to the third act, he handed the score to Thea. “Listen, I play it through and you get the rhythmus. Eins, zwei, drei, vier.” He played through Orpheus’ lament, then pushed back his cuffs with awakening interest and nodded at Thea. “Now, vom blatt, mit mir.”
“Ach, ich habe sie verloren,
All’ mein Glück ist nun dahin.”
Wunsch sang the aria with much feeling. It was evidently one that was very dear to him.
“Noch einmal, alone, yourself.” He played the introductory measures, then nodded at her vehemently, and she began:—
“Ach, ich habe sie verloren.”
When she finished, Wunsch nodded again. “Schön,” he muttered as he finished the accompaniment softly. He dropped his hands on his knees and looked up at Thea. “That is very fine, eh? There is no such beautiful melody in the world. You can take the book for one week and learn something, to pass the time. It is good to know—always. Euridice, Eu—ri—di—ce, weh dass ich auf Erden bin!” he sang softly, playing the melody with his right hand.
Thea, who was turning over the pages of the third act, stopped and scowled at a passage. The old German’s blurred eyes watched her curiously.
“For what do you look so, immer?” puckering up his own face. “You see something a little difficult, may-be, and you make such a face like it was an enemy.”