My passion for the theatre was a source of great anxiety to good Frau Eberlein.  She did not have a very good opinion of the art in general, but the comedy she despised from the bottom of her heart.  Therefore she made my visiting the theatre as difficult as possible, and it was only after long discussions, and after the shop-girl had added her voice, that she would hand over the necessary amount for purchasing a ticket.  The shop-girl was an oldish person, as thin as a giraffe which had fasted for a long time, and was very well read.  She subscribed regularly to a popular periodical with the motto, “Culture is freedom,” and Frau Eberlein was influenced somewhat by her judgment.  This kind-hearted woman was friendly towards me, and as often as her employer asked, “Is the play a proper one for young people?” she would answer, “Yes,” and Frau Eberlein would have to let me go.

Those were glorious evenings.  Long before it was time for the play to begin, I was in my seat in the gallery, looking down from my dizzy height, into the house, still unlighted.  Now a servant comes and lights the lamps in the orchestra.  The parquet and the upper seats fill, but the reserved seats and the boxes are still empty.  Now it suddenly grows light; the chandelier comes down from an opening in the ceiling.  The musicians appear and tune their instruments.  It makes a horrible discord, but still it is beautiful.  The doors slam; handsomely dressed ladies, in white cloaks, gay officers, and civilians in stiff black and white evening dress take their seats in the boxes.  The conductor mounts his elevated seat and now it begins.  The overture is terribly long, but it comes to an end.  Ting-aling-aling,—­the curtain rises.  Ah!—­

I soon decided in my own mind that it should be my destiny, some time, to delight the audience from the stage, but I was still undecided whether I would devote myself to the drama or the opera, for it seemed to me an equally desirable lot to shoot charmed bullets in “Der Freischutz,” or, hidden behind elderberry bushes, to shoot at tyrannical Geslers in “William Tell.”  In the meantime I learned Tell’s monologue, “Along this narrow path the man must come,” by heart, and practised the aria, “Through the forest, through the meadows.”

Providence seemed to favor my plan, for it led me into an acquaintance with a certain Lipp, who, on account of his connections, was in a position to pave my way to the stage.

Lipp was a tall, slender youth, about sixteen years old, with terribly large feet and hands.  He usually wore a very faded, light-blue coat, the sleeves of which hardly came below his elbows, and a red vest.  He had a rather stooping gait, and a beaming smile continually played about his mouth.  Besides, the poor fellow was always hungry, and it was this peculiarity which brought about our acquaintance.

On afternoons when there was no school, and I went out on the green to play ball with my companions or fly my kite, Frau Eberlein used to put something to eat in my pocket.  Lipp soon spied it out, and he knew how to get a part, or even the whole of my luncheon for himself.  He would pick up a pebble off the ground, slip it from one hand to the other several times, then place one fist above the other, saying: