several of the Wagnerian roles, and when
the curtain rises we see him getting his trunks in order, his room at
the hotel filled with flowers and letters. He must sing Tristan the
next night in Brussels, and has but an hour to spare before his train
departs. If he misses it his contract will be void, and in Europe that
means business, tenor or no tenor. He sends the servant to pack his
costumes, snatches up the score of Tristan, and as he hums it, he is
aware that some one is lurking behind one of the window-curtains. It
is a young miss, presumably English--she says: "Oh, yes"--and she
confesses her infatuation. Vain as is our handsome singer he has no
time for idle flirtations. He preaches a tonic sermon, the girl weeps,
promises to be good, promises to study the music of Wagner instead of
his tenors, and leaves with a paternal kiss on her brow. The comedy is
excellent, though you dimly recall a little play entitled: Frederic
Lemaitre. It is a partial variation on that theme. But what follows is
of darker hue. An old opera composer has sneaked by the guard at the
door and begs with tears in his eyes that the singer will listen to
his music. He is met with an angry refusal. Gradually, after he has
explained his struggles of a half-century, he, the friend of Wagner,
to secure a hearing of his work, the tenor, who is both brutal and
generous, consents, though he is pressed for time. Then the tragedy of
ill luck is unfolded. The poor musician doesn't know where to begin,
fumbles in his score, while the tenor, who has just caught another
woman behind a screen, a piano teacher--here we begin to graze the
edge of burlesque--grows impatient, finally interrupts the composer,
and in scathing terms tells him what "art" really means to the world
at large and how useless has been his sacrifice to that idol "art"
with a capital "A." I don't know when I ever enjoyed the exposition of
the musical temperament. The Concert, by Bahr, is mere trifling in
comparison, all sawdust and simian gestures. We are a luxury for the
bourgeois, the tenor tells his listener, who do not care for the music
or words we sing. If they realised the meanings of Walkuere they would
fly the opera-house. We singers, he continues, are slaves, not to our
"art," but to the public; we have no private life.

He dismisses the old man.

Then a knock at the door, a fresh interruption. This time it is surely
serious. A young, lovely society woman enters. She has been hi