of its crude force, and through its mild-mannered conductor at the
Manhattan Opera House, who seemed afraid to make a noise, a great deal
more. I did not make any notes about this performance at the time, but
now, seven years later, it is very vivid to me, an unforgettable
impression. Of how many nights in the theatre can I say as much?

Diabolical ecstasy was the keynote of Mme. Mazarin's interpretation,
gradually developing into utter frenzy. She afterwards assured me that a
visit to a madhouse had given her the inspiration for the gestures and
steps of Elektra in the terrible dance in which she celebrates Orestes's
bloody but righteous deed. The plane of hysteria upon which this singer
carried her heroine by her pure nervous force, indeed reduced many of us
in the audience to a similar state. The conventional operatic mode was
abandoned; even the grand manner of the theatre was flung aside; with a
wide sweep of the imagination, the singer cast the memory of all such
baggage from her, and proceeded along vividly direct lines to make her
impression.

[Illustration: MARIETTE MAZARIN AS ELEKTRA

_From a photograph by Mishkin (1910)_]

The first glimpse of the half-mad princess, creeping dirty and ragged,
to the accompaniment of cracking whips, across the terraced courtyard of
the palace, was indeed not calculated to stir tears in the eyes. The
picture was vile and repugnant; so perhaps was the appeal to the sister
whose only wish was to bear a child, but Mme. Mazarin had her design;
her measurements were well taken. In the wild cry to Agamemnon, the
dignity and pathos of the character were established, and these
qualities were later emphasized in the scene of her meeting with
Orestes, beautiful pages in von Hofmannsthal's play and Strauss's score.
And in the dance of the poor demented creature at the close the full
beauty and power and meaning of the drama were disclosed in a few
incisive strokes. Elektra's mind had indeed given way under the strain
of her sufferings, brought about by her long waiting for vengeance, but
it had given way under the light of holy triumph. Such indeed were the
fundamentals of this tremendously moving characterization, a
characterization which one must place, perforce, in that great memory
gallery where hang the Melisande of Mary Garden, the Isolde of Olive
Fremstad, and the Boris Godunow of Feodor Chaliapine.

It was not alone in her acting that Mme. Mazarin walked on the heights.
I kn