From composers the conversation travels to executants, and we name the favourite singers. After we have pretty well exhausted the list, and objected to this one as having a head voice, or to that as using the vibrato, or to the other as dwelling on an upper note ("queer sort of existence," says Puller, gradually coming up, as it were to the surface to open his mouth for breath,—whereat Cousin Jane smiles, and Miss Casanova lazily nods approbation of the joke—while the rest of us ignore Puller, putting him aside as not wanted just now,—when down he goes again), we generally agree that Gayarré is about the best tenor we have had in London for some time; that Santley is still unequalled as a baritone; that there is no one now to play and sing Mephistopheles like Faure; that M. Maurel is about the finest representative of Don Giovanni; that Miss Arnoldson shows great promise; that Albany is unrivalled; that Marie Roze is difficult to beat as Carmen; and that it is a pity that Patti's demands are so exorbitant; and having exhausted the list of operatic artists,—Madame and her daughters holding that certain Germans, with whose names we, unfortunately for us, are not even acquainted, are far superior to any French or Italian singers that can be named—there ensues a pause in the conversation, of which the Countess Casanova takes advantage, and extending her right hand, which movement sharply jingles her bracelets, and so, as it were, sounds a bell to call us to attention, cuts in quickly with an emphatic, "Well, I don't profess to understand music as you do. I know what I like"—("Hear! hear!" sotto voce from Puller, coming up again to the surface, which draws a languidly approving inclination of the head from Miss Casanova, and a smile, deprecating the interruption, from Cousin Jane),—"and I must say," continues the Countess, emphatically, "I would rather have one hour of Salvini in Othello, than a whole month of the best Operas by the best composers,—Wagner included," and down comes her hand on the table, all the bracelets ringing down the curtain on the first act.
We, the non-combatants, feel that the mailed gauntlet has been thrown down by the Countess as a challenge to the Metterbruns.
"O Mother!" faintly remonstrates Miss Casanova, who loves a stall at the Opera. She fears that her mother's energetic declaration means war, and fans herself helplessly.
I am preparing to reconcile music and the drama, and am getting ready a supply of oil for what I foresee will be troubled waters, as the Metterbruns are beginning to rustle their feathers and flap their wings,—when Puller, leaning well forward, and stretching out an explanatory hand, with his elbow planted firmly on the table, ("Very bad manners," says Cousin Jane afterwards to me) says genially, "Well, voyez vous, look here, you may talk of your Wagners and Shakspeares, and Gayarrés, and Pattis, but, for singing and acting, give me Arthur Roberts. Yes," he repeats pleasantly but defiantly, and taking up, as it were, the Countess's gauntlet, "Salvini's not in it with Arthur Roberts."
The Countess's fan spreads out and works furiously. The steam is getting up. The Metterbruns open their eyes, and regard one another in consternation. They don't know who Arthur Roberts is.
"Not know!" exclaims Puller, quite in his element. "Well, when you come to London, you send to me, and I'll take you to hear him."
"He's a Music-Hall singer," says the Countess, fanning herself with an air of contemptuous indifference.
"Music-Hall Ar-tiste!" returns Puller, emphasising the second syllable, which to his mind expresses a great deal, and makes all the difference. "Now, Miladi," he goes on, imitating the manner of one of his own favourite counsel, engaged by Puller & Co., conducting a cross-examination, "Have you ever seen him?"
"Yes," she replies, shrugging her shoulders, "once. And," she adds, making the bracelets jingle again, as with a tragedy queen's action of the right arm she sweeps away into space whole realms of Music Halls and comic singers, "that was quite enough."