told me once that she
would like to sing both roles in a single evening--a possible feat, as
the two characters never appear together; Rita Fornia, I believe,
accomplished the dual impersonation on one occasion at the behest of
Colonel Savage. She had in mind a heroine with a dual nature, sacred and
profane love so to speak, and Tannhaeuser at the mercy of this
gemini-born wight. She never was permitted to try this experiment at the
Metropolitan, but during her last season there she appeared as
Elisabeth. Montreal, and perhaps Brooklyn, had seen this impersonation
before it was vouchsafed New York. Mme. Fremstad never succeeded in
being very convincing in this role. I do not exactly understand why, as
its possibilities seem to lie within her limitations. Nor did she sing
the music well. On the other hand, her abundantly beautiful and
voluptuous Venus, a splendid, towering, blonde figure, shimmering in
flesh-coloured garments, was one of her astoundingly accurate
characterizations. At the opposite pole to her Sieglinde it was equally
a masterpiece of interpretative art, like Duse's Camille "positively
enthralling as an exhibition of the gymnastics of perfect suppleness
and grace." In both these instances she was inspired perhaps to realize
something a little more wonderful than the composer himself had dreamed
of. The depth and subtlety and refinement of intense passion were in
this Venus--there was no suggestion here of what Sidney Homer once
referred to as Mme. Homer's platonic Venus!

[Illustration: OLIVE FREMSTAD AS SIEGLINDE

_from a photograph by Aime Dupont_]

Her Sieglinde is firmly intrenched in many of our memories, the best
loved of her Wagnerian women and enchantresses. Will there rise another
singing actress in our generation to make us forget it? I do not think
so. Her melting womanliness in the first act, ending with her complete
surrender to Siegmund, her pathetic fatigue in the second act (do you
not still see the harassed, shuddering figure stumbling into view and
falling voiceless to sleep at the knees of her brother-lover?) remain in
the memory like pictures in the great galleries. And how easily in the
last act, in her single phrase, by her passionate suggestion of the
realization of motherhood, did she wrest the scene from her
fellow-artists, no matter who they might be, making such an effect
before she fled into the forest depths, that what followed often seemed
but anticlimax.

Mme. Fremstad