I heard the people talk. There was not one word for the misery of Lady Macbeth, her sighs and her struggles and her wretchedness. The crowd will never recognize the nobility of suffering. No, they spoke of La Dobanelli.... La Dobanelli in her little chemise. The D. D. had been an event.
And the same thing occurred at the next performances. Only that on the first night the audience had been shaking with terror, and that the following times it was shaking with sensation ... or with deception, for many people left the theatre with words of regret:
"Oh—it was not so wicked as all that!"
The snobs of the town fell in love with La Dobanelli by the dozen. One out of each dozen was struck by the sweetness of her voice, by her sublime acting, by her power of remaining lovable even in crime—the other eleven were in love with the D. D.
Anyhow, when we all met half an hour after the end of the performance at the Grand Hotel there was much joy in the air. Dad was offering to my friends a superb supper in honour of my first night—and they were all present, you bet.
I asked mater how she had enjoyed my opera.
"Oh, it's very pretty," she said. "I like the lullaby very much."
And that was all.
Father, on the other hand, was overflowing with enthusiasm. These two were always the same, never had they the same opinion on anything. Yet, there was one point on which they seemed to agree ... perhaps because not one word was pronounced on it. But their eyes seemed to implore me silently: