“Well, well. ’S ist mir egal. But now, as you have wasted half an hour in vanity and vexation, will you be good enough to let your thoughts return here to me and to your duty? or else—I must go, and leave the lesson till you are in the right voice again.”
“I am all right—try me,” said I, my pride rising in arms as I thought of Courvoisier’s behavior a short time ago.
“Very well. Now. You are Eva, please remember, the first woman, and you have gone wrong. Think of who is questioning you, and—”
“Oh, yes, yes, I know. Please begin.”
He began the accompaniment, and I sung for the fifth time Eva’s scattered notes of shame and excuse.
“Brava!” said he, when I had finished, and I was the more startled as he had never before given me the faintest sign of approval, but had found such constant fault with me that I usually had a fit of weeping after my lesson; weeping with rage and disappointment at my own shortcomings.
“At last you know what it means,” said he. “I always told you your forte was dramatic singing.”
“Dramatic! But this is an oratorio.”
“It may be called an oratorio, but it is a drama all the same. What more dramatic, for instance, than what you have just sung, and all that goes before? Now suppose we go on. I will take Adam.”
Having given myself up to the music, I sung my best with earnestness. When we had finished von Francius closed the book, looked at me, and said: