y, and I remember one instance of this. The stage
manager, in a vile humour, had come storming into the midst of a room
rehearsal one day, with some trivial complaint against me, and had
succeeded in making me cry, not a difficult matter at that time as I was
always in a state of nerve strain owing to continuous over-fatigue. The
Kapellmeister did his best to comfort me, telling me not to mind,
praising my work, and finally pressing upon me his huge, brand new silk
handkerchief--a real sacrifice, as he had probably intended to use it
for days! His fingertips used to split in the cold weather from much
piano pounding and I won his heart by prescribing collodion for them. He
continually praised my sight reading and quickness in learning and it
was he who gave me the nick-name of "Notenfresserin."

CHAPTER XII

MISPLACED MOISTURE AND THE STORY OF A COURT-LADY

The Bohemian, Hungarian and Croatian singers nearly always add to one's
joy in work by eating garlic. The "high dramatic" soprano in my next
engagement was from Croatia. The first time I went to Prague to sing, on
alighting from the train I sniffed a strangely familiar odour. The
impression of familiarity grew stronger and stronger as I drove to the
hotel--but I couldn't place it. At last it came to me--the whole town
smelled like our soprano! I have often wished, while on the stage, for
temporary atrophy of the senses. In addition to the fustiness of much
worn clothes and infrequent bathing, you really have all kinds of
horrors to endure.

Some terrible creatures with a passion for distinct enunciation and with
unfortunate dental formation, spray you copiously when uttering words
like _Mutter_ or _Freude_. This always seems to happen in some
impassioned scene when you simply can't get away from them, and have
absolutely no defence. Others have painfully hot and wet, or painfully
cold and wet hands with which they persistently paw you. I remember one
lyric tenor who was my bugbear because he had hands like a fresh, cold
fish. The soprano and I had a scene with him in one opera, in which she
had to say, "_Die Hand, so weich, so warm_" (the hand, so soft, so
warm), speaking of his clammy member. I dared her one night, to say
instead, "_Die Hand, so feucht, so kalt_" (The hand, so moist, so cold),
and when it came to the point, sure enough she did so, her voice so
shaky with suppressed laughter, that it came out in a tremulous
pianissimo. We both had to turn