more careful with their one-pronged pitchforks? They handle them so like parasols that I am afraid my eyes will be poked out some night. Some of these Brünhildas seem a bit touched in their wind, blowing and panting so much that they ought to be condemned as confirmed "roarers." They are overfed, too, and in such bad condition that they can't even trot off the stage at a good, square, level gait. A good "sweat" would clear out their pipes, and if their hay was properly damped before feeding it might help their wind a little and lessen their roaring.
Brünhilda exercises about in a pad- dock with Siegfried, who always has his fur bandages put on his legs wrong (I suppose he is looked after by a green stable hand). He constantly frets and worries about a big brass tie ring which he is afraid of losing. Whenever he is away, Brünhilda is followed by a drove of Valkyries, all lined on the outside with tin, like feed pots. I can't make these Valkyries out. Can they represent insects or birds? They buzz and swarm like horse-flies and then gallop through the air hooting like screech owls.
The part of the opera I detest the most is called the "Fire Music." There is no music to speak of, and they do nothing but let off steam and burn red lights. Here Siegfried is stretched on a hurdle with his back broke, and as they can't get him up on his feet again they are obliged to destroy him. Brünhilda seizes my bridle and tries to make me go through the fire, but as she cannot help stepping on her stable clothes, which fit very badly and are far too long, she trips and bangs my knees with the tin dashboard. She becomes so much upset and so terribly "done" that finally she is obliged to pull out of the race and let a man lead me away. This makes her desperate, and she commits suicide by jumping into the flames. I suppose that is the reason why they keep so many ;;Brünhildas always on hand.
But what is the use of wondering about all these things? Perhaps the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals might explain them, but I don't like to ring for their ambulance, as it would only add to the general noise and confusion, which are about all I can stand. I may find out at the next "benefit," for what is the use of a benefit if nobody gets any good from taking so much trouble? Not the singers, certainly, or they would not grumble about it. Not the audience, which never listens and does nothing but talk and yawn. It must be for the horses, for whom they christen those "off" nights with a stable term. Surely it is but a proper tribute to our interest in the stage.
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YOU WHO LOVE ME
You whom I love I fain would meet to-day,
Content to linger at your side, and say
"Thanks for this meeting," or "The day is bright,"
And follow after in your busy flight.
Content? Ah, yes! Nay, all content above
To be with you—you whom I love.
You who love me I soon shall see to-day,
And by your side shall loiter, and shall say
Wan things and chill, the while my eyes plead loud
To be alone, unspoken midst the crowd.
And you will sigh and throb and laugh to be
There by my side—you who love me.
