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She had begged
Van Kuyp to cancel the habit of not listening to his own music except at
rehearsal, and, annoyed by his stubbornness, neglected to tell him of
the other invitation. The house was quite full when the music began.
Uneasiness overtook her as the Oberon slowly stole upon her
consciousness. She forgot Rentgen; a more disquieting problem presented
itself. Richard's music--how would it sound in the company of the old
masters, those masters who were newer than Wagner, newer than Strauss
and the "moderns"! She envisaged her husband--small, slim, with his
bushy red hair, big student's head--familiarly locking arms with Weber
and Beethoven in the hall of fame. No, the picture did not convince her.
She was his severest censor. Not one of the professional critics could
put their fingers on Van Kuyp's weak spots--"his sore music," as he
jestingly called it--so surely as his wife. She had studied; she had
even played the violin in public; but she gave up her virtuosa ambitions
for the man she had married during their student years in Germany.


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