"I cannot tell."
"Well, it costs me $600, and it cost me $15,000 to bring the troupe across the Atlantic. Do you know what it costs me every time I ring up my curtain? Two thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, and then add the weekly hotel bills, $2,200. I am doing opera at Her Majesty's at this moment. Here's the bill"—handing me the programme of Her Majesty's—"doing the same operas as here, and that in order to do them here, I am obliged to get a second set of everything, from a drinking-cup to a bootlace, and this costs me £120,000 before I started at all, as this is a distinct and separate undertaking."
"How many operas does your repertoire include?"
"Thirty. I have thirty with me, and I can play any one of them. Another element I have to deal with is the superstition, or whatever you like to call it, of some of my people. They won't go into any room in a hotel with the number thirteen, and an artist won't make his or her debut on the 13th; it is considered unlucky. I once recollect having engaged Mme. Grisi and Signor Mario for a tour in England, commencing the 13th of September. On sending them the programme, Mme. Grisi's attention was drawn to the 'thirteenth;' She thereupon wrote a very kind letter stating that nothing could induce her to appear on the 'thirteenth;' but to show there was nothing mean about her, she would rather commence it on the 'twelfth,' although her pay was to commence on the 'thirteenth.' I amended her programme and commenced on the 'twelfth,' but as that date happened to be a Friday it was again returned to me with a most amiable letter, which I still preserve, in which she stated again that there was nothing mean about the alteration, as she would be the only loser; she therefore desired me to commence it on the 'eleventh,' when both she and Signor Mario would sing without salary until the proper date of the commencement of the contract. One of the artists went to Tiffany's the other day to purchase a bangle. The price was $13. 'Won't you take less?' 'No.' And would you believe it, she paid $14 sooner than pay $13."
We regained the managerial sanctum.
"Here is more of it," cried the impresario, "a letter from Campanini. I'll read it to you. 'Dear Mr. Mapleson: I am very ill, and cannot possibly sing to-night unless you send me—some tickets for family circle, balcony, parquette, and general circle. Campanini.'"
Here the colonel was summoned to hear a young lady sing—an amateur who aspired to the vocal majesty of grand opera. Upon his return, after the lapse of a few minutes, I asked:—
"What opera pays the best, colonel?"
"Oh, there are a dozen trumps."
"Is not 'Carmen' one of them?"