will understand. For Hergesheimer has worked a miracle; he has brought marble to life, created a vibrant chastity. He has described ice in words of flame!
One night, quite accidentally, we saw the name of Clara Barnes on a poster in front of the Metropolitan Opera House. She was singing the rele of the Priestess in Aida. We purchased two general admission tickets and slipped in to hear her. The Priestess, those who have heard Aida will remem' ber, officiates in the temple scene of the first act but, like the impersonator of the Bird in Siegfried, she is invisible. Clara's voice sounded tired and worn, as indeed, it should sound after those long years of study.
We must go back to see her, Peter urged.
We found a changed and broken Clara. She was dressing alone, but on the third floor, and the odour of Cœur de Jeannette persisted. She burst into tears when she saw us.
I can't do it, she moaned. Why did you ever come? I can't doit. I can only sing with my music in front of me. I shall never be able to sing a part which appears and there are so few rôles in opera, which permit you to sing back of the scenery! I can't remember. Now she was wailing. As fast as I learn one part I forget another.
As we walked away on Fortieth Street, Peter began to relate an incident he had once read in Plutarch: There was a certain magpie, belonging to
