This was the bad side of our unofficial criticism; the good side was our wild enthusiasm when all went well. How we applauded anything superlative that no one noticed, such as a fine bass, a happy modulation, a telling note of the oboe! The public took us for embryo claqueurs, the claque leader, who knew better and whose little plans were upset, tried to wither us with thunderbolt glances, but we were bomb-proof.
There is no such enthusiasm in France nowadays, not even in the Conservatoire, its last remaining stronghold.
Here is the funniest scene I ever remember at the opera. I had swept off Leon de Boissieux, an unwilling proselyte, to hear Œdipus; however, nothing but billiards appealed to him, and, finding him utterly impervious to the woes of Antigone and her father, I stepped over into a seat in front, giving him up in despair.
But he had a music-loving neighbour and this is what I heard, while my young man was peeling an orange and casting apprehensive glances at the other man, who was evidently in a state of wild excitement.
“Sir, for pity’s sake, do try to be calm.”
“Impossible! It’s killing me! It is so terrible, so overwhelming!”
“My good man, you will be ill if you go on like this. You really shouldn’t.”
“Oh! oh! Leave me alone! Oh!”
“Come! come! Do cheer up a bit. Remember it is nothing but a play. Here, take a piece of my orange.”
“It’s sublime——”