She was the
chalked, thin-armed daughter of Rigoletto. I detested her, her voice had
a chalky squeak in it. And yet, by the end, my heart was overripe in my
breast, ready to burst with loving affection. I was ready to walk on to
the stage, to wipe out the odious, miscreant lover, and to offer her all
myself, saying, 'I can see it is real _love_ you want, and you shall
have it: _I_ will give it to you.'
Of course I know the secret of the Gretchen magic; it is all in the
'Save me, Mr Hercules!' phrase. Her shyness, her timidity, her
trustfulness, her tears foster my own strength and grandeur. I am the
positive half of the universe. But so I am, if it comes to that, just as
positive as the other half.
Adelaida is plump, and her voice has just that moist, plangent strength
which gives one a real voluptuous thrill. The moment she comes on the
stage and looks round--a bit scared--she is _she_, Electra, Isolde,
Sieglinde, Marguerite. She wears a dress of black voile, like the lady
who weeps at the trial in the police-court. This is her modern uniform.
Her antique garment is of trailing white, with a blonde pigtail and a
flower.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114