amy
intuitive longing; recall the amazement shining through her grief at
Golaud's command that she ask Pelleas to accompany her on her search
for the lost ring: "_Pelleas!--Avec Pelleas!--Mais Pelleas ne voudra
pas_..."; and do not forget the terrified cry which signals the
discovery of the hidden Golaud in the park, "_Il y a quelqu'un
derriere nous!_"

In _Monna Vanna_ her most magnificent vocal gesture rested on the
single word _Si_ in reply to Guido's "_Tu ne reviendras pas?_" Her
performance of this work, however, offers many examples of just such
instinctive intonations. One more, I must mention, her answer to
Guido's insistent, "_Cet homme t'a-t-il prise_?"... "_J'ai dit la
verite.... Il ne m'a pas touchee_," sung with dignity, with force,
with womanliness, and yet with growing impatience and a touch of
sadness.

Let me quote Pitts Sanborn: "It is easy to be flippant about Miss
Garden's singing. Her faults of voice and technique are patent to a
child, though he might not name them. One who has become a man can
ponder the greatness of her singing. I do not mean exclusively in
Debussy, though we all know that as a singer of Debussy ... she has
scarce a rival. Take her _mezza voce_ and her phrasing in the second
act of _Monna Vanna_, take them and bow down before them. Ponder a
moment her singing in _Thais_. The converted Thais, about to betake
herself desertward with the insistent monk, has a solo to sing. The
solo is Massenet, simon-pure Massenet, the idol of the Paris
_midinette_. Miss Garden, with a defective voice, a defective
technique, exalts and magnifies that passage till it might be the
noblest air of Handel or of Mozart. By a sheer and unashamed reliance
on her command of style, Miss Garden works that miracle, transfigures
Massenet into something superearthly, overpowering. Will you rise up
to deny that is singing?"

As for her acting, there can scarcely be two opinions about that! She
is one of the few possessors of that rare gift of imparting atmosphere
and mood to a characterization. Some exceptional actors and singers
accomplish this feat occasionally. Mary Garden has scarcely ever
failed to do so. The moment Melisande is disclosed to our view, for
example, she seems to be surrounded by an aura entirely distinct from
the aura which surrounds Monna Vanna, Jean, Thais, Salome, or Sapho.
She becomes, indeed, so much a part of the character she assumes that
the spectator finds great difficulty in diss