GRAND OPERA. A disease which breaks out in society every winter and can be cured only by inward applications of a seat in a box and outward applications of diamonds on the chest.
Bjingle Bjangle, the celebrated Norwegian raconteur, thus describes in his book of travels a visit to the grand opera in New York, as follows:--
I went to the opera last night and enjoyed it unspeakably.
I noticed that most of the ladies in the boxes enjoyed it also, but not unspeakably.
The ladies, Heaven bless them! seemed to be suffering from that operatic disease which is called nervous conversation.
This is a disease which attacks the vocal chords just as soon as the curtain rises and causes the voice to fall out.
I also enjoyed the names of the singers.
Some of the names on the programme looked like a round robin sent out by a Turnverein bowling club, but I suppose if they were baked in the oven until translated they would mean something soft and soothing like a custard pudding.
Why is it that foreign singers and singerettes always have a name which listens like a cuckoo clock with a sore throat.
Perhaps if we knew how to unlock them these names would mean just plain Schmidt or Jones.
There was one singer on the programme that had the most extravagant name I ever witnessed.
If you read it off quick it sounded like the finish of the six-day bicycle race at the Madison Square Garden.
Then if you looked at it sideways it seemed to be the report of a skirmish between the Russians and the Japs.
I think that fellow just waded into the alphabet with a dip net and all the letters he caught he kept.
I liked the plot of the Opera.
She was a blonde lady with one of those embonpoint faces which must cost a good deal to keep in repair.
The hero was a young gentleman with a sweet expression and a forehead which had moved into his hair when it was very young.
I don't know which was the villain, but I have my suspicions that it was the usher who gave me a seat.
I was interpolated in between a fat man who spoke with an onion accent and a narrow-headed man who whistled softly to himself all the evening without taking 32 bars rest.
My enjoyment under these circumstances was delicious.
The story of the Opera was simple.
A lot of young ladies all ready to go in bathing changed their minds and came out on the stage.
Then a tall gentleman came out and warbled at them and the young ladies went away.
Perhaps he belonged to the crusaders on vice.
Then the lady that drew the largest salary came out and made goo-goo eyes at the tall gentleman.
He was so embarrassed that he walked right down to the footlights and took a couple of high notes.
She took the same.
Then four people came out on the stage and yelled together with so much earnestness that the women in the boxes had an attack of nervous exclamation, and the way they talked about whoever was not present was pitiful.
When you would least expect it the hero jumped on the stage and made some quick motions with his face and arms which resulted in a solo.
The story he told was simplicity itself.
Plainer than words could make it his beautifully imported voice kept saying "Aha! aha-eo! I-am-getting-one-thousand-dollars-a-night--tra-la-la- la!-aha!-aha-eo! For-doing-this,--for-doing-this-with-the-pipes-I-get-one- thousand-plunks-oh-plunks-per-night-aha!-aha-eo!"
Then the soprano responded with much emotion from the orchestra, "Ditto, ditto, ditto! me too, me too! oo-oo-me too!"
It was delicious.
But just then came the bitter moment when all my deliciousness was crushed because the narrow-headed man on my left switched softly into "Hiawatha" with a few personal additions to the coda.
So I stood up and went home.