entertained, and I could not grasp the greatness of the act, unless it was
in the asking. However, mama urged me (she can never bear me to say no),
and I accepted.

At the appointed time the director called for us in a landau, and we drove
out to the penitentiary. As we entered the double courtyard, and drove
through the much belocked gates, I felt very depressed, and not at all
like bursting forth in song. Mama and I were led up, like lambs to the
slaughter, on to a platform, passing the guilty ones seated in the pews,
the men on one side, the women on the other, of the aisles, all dressed in
stripes of some sort; they looked sleepy and stupid. They had just sat
through the usual Sunday exhortation.

The ladies of the committee ranged themselves so as to make a background
of solemn benevolence on the platform, in the middle of which stood a
primeval melodion with two octaves and four stops. One stop would have
been enough for me, and I needed it later, as you will see.

Here I was! What should I sing? I was utterly at a loss. Why had I not
thought this out before coming?

French love-songs; out of the question.

Italian prayers and German lullabies were plentiful in the _repertoire_,
but seemed sadly out of place for this occasion.

I thought of Lucrezia Borgia's "Brindisi"; but that instantly went out of
my mind. A drinking song urging people to drink seemed absurdly
inappropriate, as probably most of my audience had done their misdeeds
under the influence of drink.