she is the greatest of living lyric artists, that she has
done more to revive the original intention of the Florentines in
inventing the opera to recapture the theatre of the Greeks, than any
one else. She has made opera, indeed, sublimated speech. And she is
certainly the contemporary queen of lyric sigaldry.

It is said by some who do not stop to think, or who do not know what
singing is, that Mary Garden is a great actress but that she cannot
sing.[B] These misguided bigots, who try to make it their business to
misunderstand anything that approaches perfection, remind me of the
incident of Lady Astor and the American sailor. She met the youth just
outside the Houses of Parliament and asked him if he would like to go
in. "I _would_ not," were the words he flung into her astonished face.
"My mother told me to avoid women like you." Some day a few of the most
intelligent of these sacculi may realize that Mary Garden is probably
the greatest living singer. It is, indeed, with her voice, and with her
_singing_ voice that she does her most consummate acting. Indeed her
capacity for colouring her voice to suit the emergencies not only of a
phrase but of an entire role, might give a hint to future interpreters,
were there any capable of taking advantage of such a valuable hint.
But, good God, in such matters as phrasing, _portamento_, _messa di
voce_, and other paraphernalia of the singing teacher's laboratory, she
is past-mistress, and if any one has any complaints to make about the
quality and quantity of tone she used in the second act of _l'Amore dei
Tre Re_ I feel that he did not listen with unprejudiced ears.

There is, perhaps, nothing that need be added at present to what I have
already said of her Sapho, Marguerite, Melisande,[C] Chrysis, Jean,
Louise, and Thais, except that such of these impersonations as still
remain in her repertoire are as clean-cut, as finely chiselled as ever;
probably each is a little improved on each subsequent occasion on which
it is performed. Some day I shall have more to say about her marvellous
Monna Vanna. I am sure I would understand her Salome better now. When I
first saw her in Richard Strauss's music drama I was still under the
spell of Olive Fremstad's impersonation, and was astonished, and perhaps
a little indignant at Miss Garden's divagations. But now I know what I
did not know so well then, that an interpreter must mould a part to suit
his own personality. It is probable that