ot smiling. He bade the
violinist to draw his bow over a single note.
"Imitate it, Gretchen," commanded her highness; "and don't be afraid of
the Herr Direktor or of the ladies and gentlemen in the gallery."
Gretchen lifted her voice. It was sweeter and mellower than the violin.
"Again!" the Herr Direktor cried, no longer curious.
Without apparent effort Gretchen passed from one note to another, now
high, now low, or strong or soft; a trill, a run. The violinist, of his
own accord, began the jewel song from _Faust_. Gretchen did not know the
words, but she carried the melody without mishap. And then, _I Dreamt I
Dwelt in Marble Halls_. This song she knew word for word, and ah, she
sang it with strange and haunting tenderness! One by one the musicians
dropped their instruments to their knees. The grand duke in the gallery
leaned over the velvet-buffered railing. All realized that a great voice
was being tried before them. The Herr Direktor struck his music-stand
sharply. It was enough.
"Your highness has played a fine jest this day. Where does madame your
guest sing, in Berlin or Vienna?"
"In neither," answered her highness, mightily gratified with Gretchen's
success. "She lives in Dreiberg, and till this morning I doubt if I ever
saw her before."
The Herr Direktor stared blankly from her highness to Gretchen, and back
to her highness again. Then he grasped it. Here was one of those moments
when the gods make gifts to mortals.
"Can you read music?" he asked.
"No, Herr," said Gretchen.
"That is bad. You have a great voice, Fraeulein. Well, I shall teach you.
I shall make you a great singer. It is hard work."
"I have always worked hard."
"Good! Your Highness, a thousand thanks! What is your name?" to
Gretchen. She told him. "It is a good name. Come to me Monday at the
opera and I shall put you into good hands. Some day you will be rich,
and I shall become great because I found you."
Then, with the artist's positive indifference to the presence of exalted
bl
Notka biograficzna
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