ess upon you one thing, if I can,
that is--Silence, _meine Herren_!" he called sharply toward the tenors,
who were giggling inanely among themselves. "A chorus of damned souls,"
he proceeded, composedly, "would not sing in the same unruffled manner
as a young lady who warbles, 'Spring is come--tra, la, la! Spring is
come--lira, lira!' in her mamma's drawing-room. Try to imagine yourself
struggling in the tortures of hell"--(a delighted giggle and a sort of
"Oh, you dear, wicked man!" expression on the part of the young ladies;
a nudging of each other on that of the young gentlemen), "and sing as if
you were damned."

Scarcely any one seemed to take the matter the least earnestly. The
young ladies continued to giggle, and the young gentlemen to nudge each
other. Little enough of expression, if plenty of noise, was there in
that magnificent and truly difficult passage, the changing choruses of
the condemned and the blessed ones--with its crowning "WEH!" thundering
down from highest soprano to deepest bass.

"Lots of noise, and no meaning," observed the conductor, leaning himself
against the rail of the estrade, face to his audience, folding his arms
and surveying them all one after the other with cold self-possession. It
struck me that he despised them while he condescended to instruct them.
The power of the man struck me again. I began to like him better. At
least I venerated his thorough understanding of what was to me a
splendid mystery. No softening appeared in the master's eyes in answer
to the rows of pretty appealing faces turned to him; no smile upon his
contemptuous lips responded to the eyes--black, brown, gray, blue,
yellow--all turned with such affecting devotion to his own. Composing
himself to an insouciant attitude, he began in a cool, indifferent
voice, which had, however, certain caustic tones in it which stung me
at least to the quick:

"I never heard anything worse, even from you. My honored Fraeulein, my
_gnaedigen Herren_, just try once to imagine what you are singing about!
It is not an exercise--it is not a love song, either of which you would
no doubt perform excellently. Conceive what is happening! Put yourself
back into those mythical times. Believe, for this evening, in the story
of the forfeited Paradise. There is strife between the Blessed and the
Damned; the obedient and the disobedient. There are thick clouds in the
heavens--smoke, fire, and sulphur--a clashing of swords in the serried
ra