The signal to enter the auditorium is given by a blast of trumpets, generally the four bars of the most well-known melody in the to-be-given opera.  The only boxes in the theater are in the rear, and Madame Wagner sits with her family in the middle one.  After the people have taken their seats the house becomes pitch-dark, and from the depths of the unknown one hears the first notes of the overture.  Then the curtains are noiselessly drawn up.  After this no one dares to breathe—­woe to the unlucky one who gets a fit of sneezing or a tickling in the throat; better die at once than be the recipient of all the inward curses that are hurled at you!  The first act generally lasts an hour, and the people emerge from the stifling auditorium into the fresh air with a sigh of relief.  The Germans make dashes of kangaroo leaps toward the casks of beer, and then rush for the tents where they get something to eat at the price of blood.

The entr’acte lasts an hour; then we hear the blasts of the four heralds again, which is the signal for the second act to commence, and so on until ten o’clock at night.  Then home, where we find a gorgeous diner-soupertoire which triumphantly ends a day of emotion.

Wagner’s operas, which lay about on our tables, all seem to have been given by him to meinem lieben Freund, the doctor.  How I regret that dishonesty did not get the upper hand!  How easy it would have been for me to have purloined a book and its signature, but I am proud to say that I resisted, and my collection of autographs is to this day devoid of anything from Richard Wagner, showing that virtue is not always its own reward, since I regret having been virtuous.

The off days were also delightful.  We drove to the Hermitage, lingered in the grounds belonging to the gentle and clever Margraefin, and wondered if her tiny little court was not a trifle ennuyenx!  One could fancy her sitting under the shady trees of the charmille, sewing beads on some bags, specimens of which were exhibited to us by an officious menial, and were of the most hideous description.  I say hideous because I hate beads and all their works.  I have just finished reading her memoirs, and I can only think how small their talk must have been—­how narrow their visions!

We drove to the other pretty resort, Bellevue, and meandered about the rococco gardens, and sat on the stone benches surrounding the lake, and watched the graceful movements of the swans as they tried to avoid the spray from the fountains.  We tried not to see the native music-lovers who clustered in crowds about the tables, which were covered with red checker-board table-covers and drinking-mugs.  They sit under these lovely shady groves for hours, in their thick coats, which they wear in any season and in any climate, their ponderous field-glasses slung over their fat shoulders and their pockets bulging with guide-books and postal cards, swallowing by barrelfuls the cool and beloved beer and eating Butterbrod by platefuls.