He had, for
instance, never been to the opera that he didn't happen to get a seat
right behind a lady with a sharply bulging corset line, and he was
condemned to stare at this ghastly back during three, four long
intermissions. Then there was the performance itself, the brass
instruments close to the ear, and then the singers who tried with all
their might to drown their blatant blare in a roar of noise. At first one
would appear who made strange contortions and meanwhile produced song;
then another would stalk forth who did not want to take a back seat
either, and who likewise did his utmost; then a third, a fourth, men and
women, long processions, an army; and all sang their questions and sang
their answers and beat their arms in the air and rolled their eyes,
exercising their vocal chords without a moment's pause. Wasn't it true?
They wept to music, sobbed to music, gritted teeth, sneezed, and fainted
to music, and the conductor urged them on frantically with an ivory
hammer-handle. She might laugh, but it was just that way. Then all of a
sudden the conductor appears to become terror-stricken because of that
infernal noise he has inspired; he swings his hammer-handle as a sign that
there must be a change.
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