The Family
mond. “Much better than cabbing across Chicago
to meet them all the time, isn’t it?”
At eight o’clock he and his wife were in their places in the Auditorium. The overture brought a smile to his lips and a gracious mood to his heart. The music seemed extraordinarily fresh and genuine still. It might grow old-fashioned, he told himself, but never old, surely, while there was any youth left in men. It was an expression of youth,—that, and no more; with the sweetness and foolishness, the lingering accent, the heavy stresses—the delicacy, too—belonging to that time. After the entrance of the hero, Lillian leaned toward him and whispered: “Am I over-credulous? He looks to me exactly like the pictures of Goethe in his youth.”
“So he does to me. He is certainly as tall as Goethe. I didn’t know tenors were ever so tall. The Mignon seems young, too.”
She was slender, at any rate, and very fragile beside the courtly Wilhelm. When she began her immortal song, one felt that she was right for the part, the pure lyric soprano that suits it best, and in her voice there was something fresh and delicate, like deep wood flowers. "Connais-tu—le pays”—it stirred one like the odours of early spring, recalled the time of sweet, impersonal emotions.
When the curtain fell on the first act, St. Peter turned to his wife.
“A fine cast, don’t you think?
And the harps are very good. Except for the
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