I obeyed, sitting in the corner by the window. She faced me and Mr. Masters was in profile.
My friends tell me I am completely devoid of the musical sense. It must be true, for I can not sit through Meistersinger, and there are long reaches of Tristan and Isolde that get on my nerves like a toothache. But I have some kind of appreciation, do derive an intense pleasure from certain scenes in certain operas. It was one of these scenes they were now giving, that one in the second act of Die Walkuere when Brunhilda appears before Siegmund.
It has always seemed to me that the drama rose above the music, overpowered it. I supposed this to be the fancy of my own ignorance and never had the courage to say it. But the other day I read somewhere the opinion of Dujardin, the French critic, and he expressed just what I mean—“It is not the music, no, it is not the music, that counts in the scene, but the words. The music is beautiful—of course it is, it couldn’t be otherwise—but Wagner was aware of the beauty of the poetry and allowed it to transpire.”
That is exactly what I should have said if I had dared.
Masters struck the opening notes and she began to sing.
“Siegmund sieh’ auf mich! Ich bin’s der bald du folgst—
Siegmund, look on me. I come to call thee hence.”
What a greeting!
A stir of irritation passed through me. She looked at Masters with a friendly air and sang the lines with an absence of understanding and emotion that would have robbed them of all meaning if anything could. I wanted to shake her.
Then I forgot—Masters began.