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Unfortunately, Mrs. Cultus’ ideas about leading up to anything in the domain of music had been originally formed upon her experience when leading in the german, and in spite of her short but higher experience in Germany, her natural propensities often prevailed. As to any preparation of the mind and ear for the reception of given musical sounds and kindred forms of artistic and poetic expression, she was lamentably wanting, in fact her tactics often little better than a box of tacks to irritate the acuter sensibilities of those to whom she appealed with so much apparent appreciation. Mrs. Cultus never listened for the tone-color, simply because she could not constitutionally; she really could not, it was not in her to hear what she could hear.

The music commenced, and Mrs. Cultus waited for the stunts. Henri Semple opened with some of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances, charmingly vivacious and contagious, also played in some duets with the Doctor on Creole and Florida negro themes. Racial and national dance music seemed not a bad overture to harmonize with the gay spirits already in vogue, yet lead on to something else. Herr Krantz then favored the company with some German songs; he appreciated the value of continuity, yet did not ignore the power of contrast. Herr Krantz was an artist; his first song in rather quick tempo with a dramatic climax, his second full of suppressed emotion; each most artistic in effect. All enjoyed his robust tenor voice, also his admirable interpretation of the sentiment of what he sang. Mrs. Cultus and the Doctor led in the applause; Mrs. Cultus because she detected that the whole thing was as it ought to be, especially the dramatic climax of the first song, and the tears suggested when the second song died away. Mrs. Cultus was much given to applauding when songs died away in tears, she wished the singer to understand that he died with good effect. The Doctor admired all artistic productions and renditions of any kind; even a good performance on a jew’s-harp or a xylophone was appreciated by him from the standpoint of art as art. If it did not manifest the sacred fire of the soul above all else, it was to be enjoyed and applauded nevertheless, as truth for its own sake, if not the highest form of truth through musical expression. He had heard mocking-birds sing like nightingales, yet they were not the veritable rossignole; he had long since learned that perfect technique was not the only way of expression, since the sacred fire burst through all bounds and made terrible mistakes (technical), yet was truth enduring, truth soaring towards immortality and enduring as memory endures.