seldom that one can sit with a
feeling of security that is not possible at Covent Garden. In "The
Valkyrie" the fire does not flare up ten minutes late; the coming of
evening does not suggest an unexpected total eclipse of the sun; the
thing that the score indicates is done, and not, as generally happens
at Covent Garden, the reverse thing. The colours of the scenery are
likewise as intolerably German as ever--the greens coarse and rank,
the yellows bilious, the blues tinged with a sickly green, the reds as
violent as the dress of the average German frau. On the other hand,
many of the effects are wonderful--the mountain gorge where Wotan
calls up Erda, Mime's cave, the depths of the Rhine, the burning of
the hall of the Gibichungs. But the most astounding and lovely effects
in the setting of the drama will not avail for long without true,
finished, and beautiful art in the singing and acting; and, with a
few exceptions, the singers do not give us anything approaching true,
finished, and beautiful art. The exceptions are Van Rooy, Brema,
Gulbranson, Brema, and Schumann-Heink. Van Rooy has a noble voice,
admirably suited to Wotan, and he both sings and acts the part with a
majesty and pathos beyond anything dreamed of by any other Wotan I
have heard. He appears to have been the success of the Festival; and
certainly so strong and exquisite an artist deserves all the success
he can gain in Bayreuth. Brema's Fricka is noble and full of charm;
Schumann-Heink sings the music of Erda with some sense of its mystery
and of Waltraute in "Siegfried" with considerable passion; and
Gulbranson has vastly improved her impersonation of Bruennhilde since
last year. She is still unmistakably a student, but no one can doubt
that she will develop into a really grand artist if she avoids ruining
her fine voice by continually using it in a wrong way. Her Bruennhilde
is just now very beautiful and intensely pathetic, but it owes less to
her art than her personality. She does not interpret Bruennhilde--rather
she uses the part as a vehicle for her private emotions; to an
inordinate degree she reads into it her real or imaginary experience;
and she has not learnt the trick of turning her feelings into the
proper channels provided, so to say, by the part--of so directing
them that Gulbranson disappears behind Bruennhilde. Still, it is a
great thing to find an artist of such force and passion and at the
same time such rare delicacy; and I expect