He looked through them for a moment, adjusting them until they were focused. He could see very clearly with them, out into the street.
‘I do like them,’ said the tourist. ‘How much are these?’
The price came as a shock. If he bought them he would have had an expensive day. But these glasses made the street scene so clear!
‘All right then,’ said the tourist. ‘I'll take these.’
He paid for them. And left, with the opera glasses in their case. Now he had to hurry. Suddenly he realised that he had really disliked the birdlike face of that optician. But he dismissed this silly aversion; he often had these strange dislikes, as well as likes, and they were sometimes a nuisance in everyday life.
Now he hurried. There was the Opera, with the black-silhouetted public already streaming across the evening square into the wide illuminated entrances. Nervous, although he knew he was not late, he still hurried. He bounded up the flight of stairs between the slow-moving file of people. He quickly found his place in the first row. He settled down in happy contemplation of enjoying the music.
He took his opera glasses out of their case and placed them, together with the case, in front of him on the wide ledge. Close to him, to the left and right, and behind him the seats were quickly taken up: it was becoming increasingly full: down below the boxes and stalls were also filling up.
Suddenly, it occurred to the young man that the glasses might fall... into the now darkened auditorium, and he put them on his knees.
The performance began in rapt and devoted attention to Wagner. Apart from the tremendous waves of music there was scarcely a sound or movement in the large auditorium, scarcely a cough, just the occasional hand lifting a pair of opera glasses.
In order to bring the scene closer, the young tourist also turned his glasses on Siegmund, whose voice was vibrating blissfully through him.
Suddenly, in the midst of his enjoyment, it flashed through his mind that the auditorium, seen from up there in the gods, was a chasm, and the glasses were heavy. At the same moment, some way off, a programme floated down. It distracted him. He saw it flutter down and come to rest on the head of a grey-coiffured lady whose hand now clutched it as though it were a bird. Seated next to the lady was a gentleman with a gleaming bald skull.
Sieglinde, however, again captured the attention of the young tourist. The pale-blond Teutonic maiden fascinated him and completely imprisoned his surrendering soul in a magical spell of song. He found her, together with Siegmund in Hunding's hut, movingly poetical.
The opera glasses felt heavy on his knee. Again, he set them on the ledge where they stuck up like twin towers. They were safe enough there.
Then, in an almost humorous train of thought, the young man leaned over in order to see who was sitting just below him in the stalls and, should they fall, on whom the glasses would land.
It was an almost mischievous curiosity, welling up around the growing thought of an almost impossible possibility. Because he had now thought of it - that the glasses could fall, the glasses would certainly not fall.
He could not see clearly who was sitting right beneath him. The auditorium was very dark there. But it was precisely because of that darkness, in which the outlines of the audience were blurred, that further along he again