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Book 1Five
The recital this evening was given in a small hall, before an audience made up of Germans and Jews. Lucy arrived very early and was able to change her seat (which was near Auerbach`s) for one at the back of the house, in the shadow of a pillar, where she could feel very much alone. She had never heard Die Winterreise sung straight through as an integral work. For her it was being sung the first time, something newly created, and she attributed to the artist much that belonged to the composer. She kept feeling that this was not an interpretation, this was the thing itself, with one man and one nature behind every song. The singing was not dramatic, in any way she knew. Sebastian did not identify himself with this melancholy youth; he presented him as if he were a memory, not to be brought too near into the present. One felt a long distance between the singer and the scenes he was recalling, a long perspective.
This evening Lucy tried to give some attention to the accompanist-- there was good reason, surely, if she were to attempt to take his place tomorrow! Even at the other concert she had felt that she had never heard anyone play for the voice so well. Die Krahe, Der Wegweiser . . . there was something uncanny in that young man`s short, insinuating fingers. She admired him, but she didn`t like him. Was she jealous, already? No, something in his physical personality set her on edge a little. He was picturesque--too picturesque. He had the very white skin that sometimes goes with red hair, and tonight, as he sat against an olive-green velvet curtain, his features seemed to disappear altogether. His face looked like a handful of flour thrown against the velvet. His head was rather flat behind the ears, and his red hair seemed to clasp it in a wreath of curls that were stiff but not tight. She thought she remembered plaster casts in the Art Museum with just such curls. For some reason she didn`t like the way he moved across the stage. His lameness gave him a weak, undulating walk, "like a rag walking," she thought. It was contemptible to hold a man`s infirmity against him; besides, if this young man weren`t lame, she would not be going to Sebastian`s studio tomorrow,--she would never have met him at all. How strange it was that James Mockford`s bad hip should bring about the most important thing that had ever happened to her!
After the concert Paul Auerbach, in his old-fashioned dress coat and white lawn tie, came up to her. "I am going back to the artists` room, Lucy. Would you like to go with me?"
She hesitated. "No, thank you, Mr. Auerbach. I`d rather not. Will he really expect me tomorrow, do you think?"
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