very freely to me; she is nothing very particular--has nothing
to boast of--no money, no knowledge, nothing superior; in fact, she is
simple and ignorant to quite a surprising extent; but she has just cut
me dead. What do you think of her?'"

Until the curtain went up, I sat in torture. When the play began,
however, even my discomfort vanished in my wonder at the spectacle. It
was the first I had seen. Try to picture it, oh, worn-out and _blase_
frequenter of play and opera! Try to realize the feelings of an
impressionable young person of seventeen when "Lohengrin" was revealed
to her for the first time--Lohengrin, the mystic knight, with the
glamour of eld upon him--Lohengrin, sailing in blue and silver like a
dream, in his swan-drawn boat, stepping majestic forth, and speaking in
a voice of purest melody, as he thanks the bird and dismisses it:

"Dahin, woher mich trug dein Kahn
Kehr wieder mir zu unserm Glueck!
Drum sei getreu dein Dienst gethan,
Leb wohl, leb wohl, mein lieber Schwan."

Elsa, with the wonder, the gratitude, the love, and alas! the weakness
in her eyes! The astonished Brabantine men and women. They could not
have been more astonished than I was. It was all perfectly real to me.
What did I know about the stage? To me, yonder figure in blue mantle and
glittering armor was Lohengrin, the son of Percivale, not Herr Siegel,
the first tenor of the company, who acted stiffly, and did not know what
to do with his legs. The lady in black velvet and spangles, who
gesticulated in a corner, was an "Edelfrau" to me, as the programme
called her, not the chorus leader, with two front teeth missing, an
inartistically made-up countenance, and large feet. I sat through the
first act with my eyes riveted upon the stage. What a thrill shot
through me as the tenor embraced the soprano, and warbled melodiously,
"_Elsa, ich liebe Dich!_" My mouth and eyes were wide open, I have no
doubt, till at last the curtain fell. With a long sigh I slowly brought
my eyes down and "Lohengrin" vanished like a dream. There was Eugen
Courvoisier standing up--he had resumed the old attitude--was twirling
his mustache and surveying the company. Some of the other performers
were leaving the orchestra by two little doors. If only he would go too!
As I nervously contemplated a graceful indifferent remark to Herr
Brinks, who sat next to me, I saw Courvoisier step forward. Was he,
could he be going to speak to me? I shoul