I was sorry on arriving in Vienna not to see once more the venerable old singer, Marianne Brandt, but she had died, aged eighty-four, during the previous winter. In 1884-85 she had been one of the main props of my father’s inaugural German opera season; and her emotional intensity in “Fidelio” and as the mother in “Le Prophète” had made a deep impression on our public. Nature had not endowed her with beauty of face or figure, and she always insisted: “I have been a virtuous woman all my life because I am so ugly that no man would ever look at me.” Wagner had invited her to Bayreuth to sing the part of _Kundry_ in “Parsifal,” but whether because of her lack of beauty or because, as she thought, of terrible intrigues on the part of Madame Materna, she sang the rôle only once and always remained exceedingly jealous of Madame Materna, whose rather amplitudinous charms, she insisted, had completely hypnotized Wagner. She simply adored my father and his single-minded idealism, and the spirituality of his character appealed to her to such an extent that she was willing to undergo any amount of work and to sing any rôle which he wanted of her, whether it were a star part or one of the Valkyries in “Walküre.” After his death she was inconsolable, and always went on the anniversary to Woodlawn Cemetery to deposit a wreath on his grave. She also sought to demonstrate her veneration for his memory by helping me in every way possible, both as superb artist and as one well versed in the practical side of operatic life through years of experience in Vienna and at the Royal Opera in Berlin. She always called me “Mein Sohn,” and her encouragement and faith in my future as a musician during many trying times can never be forgotten by me. She had a delightful sense of humor, but also a very quick temper, and I remember her telling me one day that she had received a notice from the New York Post-Office Department that a registered letter was awaiting her down in the General Post-Office at City Hall. She went there and inquired at the proper window for her letter. “Yes,” said the official, “we have it here. Have you got some document to prove that you are Marianne Brandt?—a letter, a bank-book, or a passport?” “I have none of these things, but I am Marianne Brandt and I want that letter.” “I am sorry, madame, but the rules are strict, and you will have to bring some one to identify you.” By this time Brandt was in a state of high indignation. “You will not give me the letter? I will prove to you that I am Marianne Brandt!” And then she proceeded with full voice to sing the great cadenza from her principal aria in “Le Prophète.” Her glorious voice echoed and re-echoed through the vaulted corridors of the post-office. Men came running from all sides to find out what had happened and finally the agitated official handed her the letter, saying: “Here is your letter, but for God’s sake be quiet!”