Quick! For the love of Heaven, some bread and butter
and sausage, or I shall faint;" so the first words the heroine of
the evening addressed to me were somewhat blurred owing to her
mouth being full of sausage, which destroyed most of the glamour
of the situation. Hedwig Scheuerlein was a big, jolly, cheery
South-German, and she was a consummate artist in spite of her
large appetite, as was the tenor Schrotter too. Schrotter was a
fair-bearded giant, who was certainly well equipped physically for
playing "heroic" parts. He had one of those penetrating virile
German tenor voices that appeal to me. These good-natured artists
would sing us anything we wanted, but it was from them that I
first got an inkling of those petty jealousies that are such a
disagreeable feature of the theatrical world in every country.
Buxom Scheuerlein was a very good sort, and I used to feel
immensely elated at receiving in my stall a friendly nod over the
footlights from Isolde, Aida, Marguerite, or Lucia, as the case
might be.
I wonder why none of Meyerbeer's operas are ever given in London.
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