myself--for I always had an anger in my heart about
my mother--and when we were alone, I said, 'Father, you ought not to
mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be
bad if I mimicked you, that they might mock you?' But he only shrugged
his shoulders and laughed and pinched my chin, and said, 'You couldn't
do it, my dear." It was this way of turning off everything, that made a
great wall between me and my father, and whatever I felt most I took
the most care to hide from him. For there were some things--when they
were laughed at I could not bear it: the world seemed like a hell to
me. Is this world and all the life upon it only like a farce or a
vaudeville, where you find no great meanings? Why then are there
tragedies and grand operas, where men do difficult things and choose to
suffer? I think it is silly to speak of all things as a joke. And I saw
that his wishing me to sing the greatest music, and parts in grand
operas, was only wishing for what would fetch the greatest price. That
hemmed in my gratitude for his affectionateness, and the tenderest
feeling I had toward him was pity. Yes, I did sometimes pity him. He
had aged and changed. Now he was no longer so lively. I thought he
seemed worse--less good to others than to me. Every now and then in the
latter years his gaiety went away suddenly, and he would sit at home
silent and gloomy; or he would come in and fling himself down and sob,
just as I have done myself when I have been in trouble. If I put my
hand on his knee and say, 'What is the matter, father?' he would make
no answer, but would draw my arm round his neck and put his arm round
me and go on crying. There never came any confidence between us; but
oh, I was sorry for him. At those moments I knew he must feel his life
bitter, and I pressed my cheek against his head and prayed. Those
moments were what most bound me to him; and I used to think how much my
mother once loved him, else she would not have married him.

"But soon there came the dreadful time. We had been at Pesth and we
came back to Vienna. In spite of what my master Leo had said, my father
got me an engagement, not at the opera, but to take singing parts at a
suburb theatre in Vienna. He had nothing to do with the theatre then; I
did not understand what he did, but I think he was continually at a
gambling house, though he was careful always about taking me to the
theatre. I was very miserable. The plays I acted in were