ght before the opening, which was
attended by the musical elite of Europe (whatever that may mean),
poets, critics, managers, composers, princely folk, musical parasites,
and other east winds, as Nietzsche has it, the performance went on
leaden feet. The acting of Victor Arnold (Berlin) as prosy old
Jourdain just bordered on the burlesque; Camilla Eibenschuetz, not
unknown to New York, cleared the air with her unaffected merriment.
Strauss, after a delightful overture in the rococo manner of Gretry,
contributes some fascinating dance measures, a minuetto, a polonaise,
a gavotte, and a march. The table-music is wholly delightful. A
brilliant episode is that of the fencing-master, who is musically
pictured by a trumpet and pianoforte (with Max von Pauer at the
keyboard). Nothing could be more dazzling. You hear the snapping
of the foil in the hand of the truculent bully. The music
that accompanies the tailor is capital, as are also the two
dances--parodies of the dances in Salome and Elektra--for the kitchen
boy, who leaps out of a huge omelette (like the pie-girl years ago in
naughty New York), and for a tailor's apprentice. These were both
danced with seductive charm by the youthful Grete Wiessenthal
(Vienna), and were the bright particular spot of the play.

After a transition, not particularly well done, the curtains part and
disclose a stage upon a stage, a problematic question under the most
favourable conditions. Herr Jourdain makes by-remarks and interrupts
the mimic opera. It is all as antique as the clown at the circus.
Finally the opera gets under way and Ariadne publishes her views. Von
Hofmannsthal's figure of the deserted lady is not a particularly
moving one. Naturally, much must be allowed for the obviously
artificial character of the piece. Max Reinhardt, maker of stagecraft
and contriver of "atmosphere," has caught the exact shades. In the
dinner scene of the play his stage was chastely beautiful. In the
gaudy foliage of the exotic island, with the three chandeliers of a
bygone epoch, the sharp dissonance of styles is indicated. Aubrey
Beardsley would have rejoiced at this mingling of genres; at the
figures of Harlequin, Scaramuccio; at the quaint and gorgeous
costuming; at the Dryad, Naiad, Echo, and all the rest of
seventeenth-century burlesque appanage. And yet things didn't go as
they should have gone. The music is sparkling for the minor
characters, and for Zerbinetta Strauss has planned an aria, t