"Na—na!" he cried, "Was that F, I ask you? You bellow like bulls! Again—again, I tell you! On the D and approach the note softly.
"Hist-st!—Pianissimo!"
He stamped his foot in vexation and the baton struck the desk sharply: "Again—the sopranos alone! Hist! Piano—piano I say! Potztausend!"
The chorus glanced at one another sheepishly and a flush crept over the faces of the sopranos. The Kapellmeister was in a bad mood to-day; nothing suited him, and he beat the desk as if he would have liked to strike them all and fling the baton at their heads.
"Sheep!" he said, "Oxen—cows! You have no temperament, no feeling—nothing—nothing! Where are your souls? Haven't you any souls? Don't you hear what I say? Piano! P-i-a-n-o! When I say piano, do I mean forte?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes flashed scornfully over the stage and the singers. "Now ladies, attention if you please! Look at me—keep your eyes on my baton! Now—piano!"
The voices of the sopranos rose softly.
"Crescendo!" They increased.
"Donnerwetter! May the devil take you! Crescendo, I say! Crescendo! Do you need all day to make crescendo?" He shrieked at them; and then, in a tempest of rage, he flung the baton down and leaped from the platform.
"Enough!" he said, "My teeth are on edge; my ears burn! Sit down.—Is Fraulein Neumann here?"