"Of course," said the director, "because a Fräulein never has joined the class is no reason why a Fräulein never can."
"Not at all," said the secretary. The gravity of his expression was worthy a crisis in the affairs of state.
The two men walked to the other side of the room, and while they conversed in whispers I stood gazing out of the window at the equestrian statue in the Platz, unable to hide the smile at the corners of my mouth. Although conscious of my many peculiarities, I had never before considered myself an abnormal being, and to be so regarded struck me as amusing.
It seemed to take them a long time to come to a decision. When my impatience had subsided to a state of hopelessness, Stavenhagen came forward.
"Your request is unusual, Fräulein," he began, "but—but—well, you may come on Friday at three o'clock."
With a sigh of relief I bowed myself out in approved German fashion, feeling as might the immortal Napoleon after a hard-won victory.
The first Kaim-Saal concert of the season came in the evening. The Kaim-Saal is a splendid hall with a large organ, where most of the concerts are held. There was a fine program including Beethoven's first symphony. I was greatly interested to see Weingartner conduct. He looked very young as he stepped to the platform. He is slight and dark, with brown, clever eyes. I must confess that at first I did not like his conducting at all. It seemed to me extreme and even sensational. However, as I became accustomed to his extravagant methods, the earnestness and power of the man impressed me more and more. When it came to the Beethoven number he directed without score. He fairly swept the orchestra along, and his every gesture was pregnant with meaning. I could not help thinking of Gericke's straight immovable figure as I saw Weingartner wave wildly to right and left, rise on tiptoe, sway forward, and now, by one tense, quick movement of his stick, bring his men to a grand climax. Sometimes he even let his beat cease entirely and his arm drop to his side, while the orchestra seemed to carry itself along like a wheel which continues revolving after the force which propelled it has stopped.
My enthusiasm caught fire from his, and at the close of the concert I was cheering as wildly as the rest of the audience. I can't tell you how many times he came forward to bow his thanks amid the cries of "Bravo! Bravo!" He seemed to enjoy it all hugely and kept smiling down on us. When he does that his face loses every bit of dignity and he looks like nothing so much as a roguish boy.
On our way down to the Garderobe, where every one checks one's things for the fee of twenty pfennigs (five cents), we met Mr. B——. He is a harmless young curate from the north of England; one of those men who have soft, gentle voices, Van Dyke beards, and always sit on the edge of a chair. He had been to the church tea that afternoon, and shown a praiseworthy desire to make himself agreeable.
"Ah, good evening," he said, "was it not a beautiful concert? And so uplifting! I see you have the score to—to——"