me on by a later one,
and then the sequence of scenes in the opera would be changed quite
regardless of the plot, for we would play all the scenes, in which he
did not appear, first, and do his afterwards. After the opening chorus,
the soprano would go on for her aria, and while she was singing it, we
would decide what to give next. "I'll do my aria!" "Oh no! Not the two
arias together!" "Let's have the duet from the third act, and then the
soprano and tenor can just come in casually and we'll do the big
quartet, and then you can do your aria!" We would see the audience
hunting in a confused sort of way through their libretto, with
expressions rather like Bill the Lizard. This happened once in the
"Merry Wives," which is confusing at best.

After the performance there was no place in which to wait but the cafe
of the station. I was looked upon as recklessly extravagant because I
would order a _Wiener Schnitzel mit Salat_ for sixty pfennigs (15c) and
when I took two cents' worth of butter too, they would raise their
eyebrows and murmur, "_Diese Amerikaner!_" Sometimes the Director came
with us, and then the principals would be invited to his table and
treated to (German) champagne. But we were always glad when he stayed at
home, because we were much freer over our beer. There are always one or
two members of the company who are extremely amusing, and their antics,
imitations and reminiscences make the time fly. There was one little
chap, the son of a Rabbi, who lived on nothing a day and found himself,
and was an extraordinary mimic. His imitations of a director engaging
singers, the shy one, the bold one, the beginner; and his marvellous
take-off of the members of the company kept us in roars of laughter. He
could imitate anything--a horse, a worn-out piano--and is now one of the
most successful "entertainers" in Berlin. The ones in whose compartment
he travelled on the train thought themselves lucky and often arrived so
hoarse from laughing that they could hardly sing.

All this experience is invaluable for the beginner, his
self-consciousness melts like snow in July, and it gives him, as nothing
else can, that poise and authority on the stage which are almost as
important as the voice itself. But the work, especially for a foreigner,
is killing. It is not so much the performances themselves, great as the
strain of these actually is, but the constant, never-ceasing learning by
heart, and the drag of continuous rehears