operas for some forty years. The wider musical circles knew him as an excellent reader of parts, the inner circles knew him as a happy composer of delightful little lyrics, and all recognized in him an all-around good fellow, a little peevish, to be sure, but always willing to make concessions. Therefore, only to the lighterminded ones of the company did his vivaciousness seem unsuspicious. The others surmised that it was probably more of a cloak, that Beneš talked constantly in order to silence something and that he drank much to drown much. These said nothing but they, too, were gay.
“Aha—our Leon! I was sure you’d come in today!” called Beneš to a new-comer. He was a young man of quick actions, merry face and shrewd glance. Willingly they prepared a place for him.
“Leon is a lion,” said some one in the rear. “Daddy Beneš, did you hear Leo today in church?”
“You fellows would teach me to know him!” Beneš puffed up and the second vest was flung off. Under it appeared a third vest. “You dare to tell me what any one’s worth is! Better keep still! Leo will be a second Ronconi—Ronconi was also as small and with a voice like a thunderous flute. You people have heard a lot in life! If I say that someone will really amount to something, they will! I’ve foretold to this little minx here that she will be as happy and as famous as—as Sontag.” This name slipped from his lips as if by accident.
