When The Curtain At Last Fell,
He Burst Into The Stormiest Applause, And Kept It Up - As
Did The Whole House - Until The Afflictive Tenor Had
Come Three Times Before The Curtain To Make His Bow.
While The Glowing Enthusiast Was Swabbing The Perspiration
From His Face, I Said:
"I don't mean the least harm, but really, now, do you
think he can sing?"
"Him? NO! GOTT IM HIMMEL, ABER, how he has been able to
sing twenty-five years ago?" [Then pensively.] "ACH, no,
NOW he not sing any more, he only cry. When he think
he sing, now, he not sing at all, no, he only make
like a cat which is unwell."
Where and how did we get the idea that the Germans
are a stolid, phlegmatic race? In truth, they are
widely removed from that. They are warm-hearted,
emotional, impulsive, enthusiastic, their tears come
at the mildest touch, and it is not hard to move them
to laughter. They are the very children of impulse.
We are cold and self-contained, compared to the Germans.
They hug and kiss and cry and shout and dance and sing;
and where we use one loving, petting expressions they pour
out a score. Their language is full of endearing diminutives;
nothing that they love escapes the application of a petting
diminutive - neither the house, nor the dog, nor the horse,
nor the grandmother, nor any other creature, animate or
inanimate.
In the theaters at Hanover, Hamburg, and Mannheim,
they had a wise custom.
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