When the children were small, we set strict conditions if they wanted to go to the opera with us — homework done, dressy clothes, no begging for candy at intermission and they had to read the plot beforehand, this being before the use of surtitles. One night the four of us were in the Kennedy Center, on our way to see "Samson and Dalila." Our daughter, who must have been eight years old at most, was wearing a green velvet dress with a matching ribbon in her long, red hair, and drawing the usual reaction — from some who smiled indulgently and others who looked askance because they thought she wouldn’t know how to behave during the performance (but, of course, she did).

We were in an elevator full of opera-goers when she tugged at my hand and said, in her high-pitched, little-girl voice, "Mommy! There’s one thing I don’t understand!"

"Yes, dear?"

"How did she get him to go to sleep?"

The crowd went silent, waiting for my answer. The elevator doors opened, but nobody moved.

So I gave the answer. It was: "I’ll tell you later."