“That is very true,” she said; “he cannot sing now; it is already many years that he has lost his voice, but in other times he sang, yes, divinely!  So whenever he comes now, you shall see, yes, that the theater will not hold the people.  JAWOHL BEI Gott! his voice is WUNDERSCHOEN in that past time.”

I said she was discovering to me a kindly trait in the Germans which was worth emulating.  I said that over the water we were not quite so generous; that with us, when a singer had lost his voice and a jumper had lost his legs, these parties ceased to draw.  I said I had been to the opera in Hanover, once, and in Mannheim once, and in Munich (through my authorized agent) once, and this large experience had nearly persuaded me that the Germans preferred singers who couldn’t sing.  This was not such a very extravagant speech, either, for that burly Mannheim tenor’s praises had been the talk of all Heidelberg for a week before his performance took place—­yet his voice was like the distressing noise which a nail makes when you screech it across a window-pane.  I said so to Heidelberg friends the next day, and they said, in the calmest and simplest way, that that was very true, but that in earlier times his voice had been wonderfully fine.  And the tenor in Hanover was just another example of this sort.  The English-speaking German gentleman who went with me to the opera there was brimming with enthusiasm over that tenor.  He said: 

“Ach Gott! a great man!  You shall see him.  He is so celebrate in all Germany—­and he has a pension, yes, from the government.  He not obliged to sing now, only twice every year; but if he not sing twice each year they take him his pension away.”

Very well, we went.  When the renowned old tenor appeared, I got a nudge and an excited whisper: 

“Now you see him!”

But the “celebrate” was an astonishing disappointment to me.  If he had been behind a screen I should have supposed they were performing a surgical operation on him.  I looked at my friend—­to my great surprise he seemed intoxicated with pleasure, his eyes were dancing with eager delight.  When the curtain at last fell, he burst into the stormiest applause, and kept it up—­as did the whole house—­until the afflictive tenor had come three times before the curtain to make his bow.  While the glowing enthusiast was swabbing the perspiration from his face, I said: 

“I don’t mean the least harm, but really, now, do you think he can sing?”

“Him?  No!  Gott Im Himmel, aber, how he has been able to sing twenty-five years ago?” [Then pensively.] “Ach, no, now he not sing any more, he only cry.  When he think he sing, now, he not sing at all, no, he only make like a cat which is unwell.”