sheerly humouristic, yet the entire production reminded one of a
machine that wouldn't work at every point.

There were three performances besides the general rehearsal given at
the low price of fifty marks (twelve dollars and fifty cents) a
performance. One of the jokes of Strauss is to make music-critics pay
for their seats. Screams of agony were heard all over the Continent as
far north as Berlin, as far south as Vienna. A music-critic dearly
hates to pay for a ticket. Hence the Till Eulenspiegel humour of R.
Strauss. Hence the numerous "roasts" all his new works receive. He is
the most unpopular composer alive with the critical confraternity. No
wonder. I simply glory in him. Talk about blood from a stone! Strauss
always makes money, even when his operas do not. Stuttgart, most
charming of residency cities (it holds over two hundred and fifty
thousand souls), was so crowded when I arrived that I was glad I had
taken the hint of a friend and engaged a room in advance. The place
simply overflowed with strangers. Certainly, I thought, they order
these things better in Germany, and was elated because of the
enthusiasm openly displayed over Strauss and the two noble
opera-houses. All for Strauss? Alas! no. The Gordon Bennet balloon
contest had attracted the majority, and until it was fought and done
for there was no comfort to be had in cafe, restaurant, or hotel.

III

The performances of earlier Strauss works were in the main well
attended. Oddly enough the poorest house--and it was far from
empty--was that of The Rosecavalier. Possibly because the composer had
gone over to Tuebingen to conduct a concert there (he always makes hay
while the Strauss shines), there was so little enthusiasm displayed;
possibly also because Max Schillings conducted. He is an excellent
composer, a practical conductor, but he couldn't extract the "ginger"
in the score--and it's full of it, full of fire, of champagne, of
dreamy sentiment and valses that would turn gray with envy the hair of
Johann Strauss if he hadn't thought of them before his namesake
Richard. I didn't grow enthusiastic over the Stuttgart production,
mainly a local affair. The honours of the evening rightfully belonged
to Alwin Swoboda, who looked like De Wolf Hopper, but sang a trifle
better. A favourite there is Iracema-Bruegelmann; another, Erna
Ellmenreich. One can sing, but acts amateurishly; the other screams,
but is a clever ac