A stout soprano in a velvet bodice, her arms bare and
brawny, the arms of a lass accustomed to ploughing and digging potatoes,
sang something about turtle doves. She was odious. Odious, too, was her
companion, in a duo through which they screamed and rumbled--"Verlassen
bin i." At last she came out and he saw by the programme that her name
was Roeselein Gich. What an odd name, what an attractive girl! He
finished his coffee and frantically signalled his waitress. It was
against the doctor's orders to take more than one cup, and then the
sugar! Hang the doctor, he cried, and drank a second cup.
She sang. Her voice was an unusually heavy, rich contralto. That she was
not an accomplished artiste he knew. He did not haunt opera houses for
naught, and, like all fat men who wear red ties in the forenoon, he was
a trifle dogmatic in his criticism. The young woman had the making of an
opera singer. What a Fricka, Brangaene, Ortrud, Sieglinde, Erda, this
clever girl might become! She was musical, she was dramatic in
temperament--he let his imagination run away with him.
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