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"Die Walk?re," as given last evening at the Metropolitan Opera House, had certain features of interest which the incoming audience of conventional Monday subscribers had scarcely anticipated. Two dinner parties were broken up in order that Act II could take place at all and nervous tension was so great behind the scenes that even the electricity short-circuited and caused the curtain to fall before the act was ended.

The primary cause of these untoward events was a malicious little microbe which, early in the day, attacked Mme. Gertrude Kappel, the Br?nnhilde of the cast, causing her to wonder if she were going to have the influenza. Rejecting the idea as thoroughly unwelcome, she opposed the microbe's advances all day, fighting him to the last ditch which, in this case, was her dressing room. There, actually in the armor and accoutrements of her role, she capitulated to a coughing spell which left her suddenly without voice.

The curtain was then rising on Act I, which progressed smoothly enough, bringing Maria M?ller back for her New York season, as a gentle and sweet-voiced Sieglinde. But in the rear of these affairs pandemonium reigned. Frantic directors began pursuing potential Br?nnhildes through the city on the telephone. Mme. Easton had gone out, presumably to the theater, and could not be reached. Mme. Matzenauer also had been mislaid somewhere among the possibilities of an opera singer's free evenings.

At last they thought of Julia Claussen who, once before, in Brooklyn, had rescued the company in a somewhat similar situation. She is a contralto and seldom sings the role; she also was giving a dinner party to friends at her home, but agreed to save to day. She made a record trip from her home at 255 West End Avenue to the opera house and was in costume in her place upon the Valkyr's rock in time for the second scene.

The other interrupted dinner party was that of the Maryland Society, which William J. Guard, publicity representative of the company, was attending. He was torn from his repast to go before the Metropolitan's golden curtains and make one of his characteristic speeches, taking the big audience into his confidence concerning the backstage difficulties, asking for sympathy for the victim and applause for the rescuer.

Under these circumstances there could be, of course, nothing but encomiums for Mme. Claussen's courage and for her poise with which she met the exacting situation. It speaks highly for her as an artist that she is so constantly "up" in such difficult roles.

Others in the cast, sensible of the emergency, lent special fervor to their roles, notably the fine Fricka of Karin Branzell and the lovable, almost too human, Wotan of Michael Bohnen.

Feeling that enough had been asked of the artists and that another battle would be excessive, the electricity took things in hand to help Br?nnhilde's schemes, and brought the curtain down before the final duel could take place. Wotan, or some one else ordered it promptly up again, but indicated the wrong one. The actors might then and there have bowed before the familiar yellow apron, but they chose to go on with the act and eventually they were revealed again to the audience, and Hunding died according to the libretto after all.

Others taking conspicuous parts in the evening's affairs were Mr. Kirchhoff as Siegmund and Mr. Gustafson as Hunding. Mr. Bodanzky in the conductor's chair, and an octet of Mmes. Manski, Ryan, Fleischer, Bourskaya, Telva, Alcock, Carroll and Flexer as the Valkyrs.

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