he
French watering places. Since that night, nearly ten years ago, however,
it has become the most stable feature of her repertoire. She has sung it
frequently in Paris, and during the long tours undertaken by the
Chicago Opera Company this sentimental tale of the Alexandrian courtesan
and the hermit of the desert has startled the inhabitants of hamlets in
Iowa and California. It is a very brilliant scenic show, and is utterly
successful as a vehicle for the exploitation of the charms of a fragrant
personality. Miss Garden has found the part grateful; her very lovely
figure is particularly well suited to the allurements of Grecian
drapery, and the unwinding of her charms at the close of the first act
is an event calculated to stir the sluggish blood of a hardened
theatre-goer, let alone that of a Nebraska farmer. The play becomes the
more vivid as it is obvious that the retiary meshes with which she
ensnares Athanael are strong enough to entangle any of us.
Thais-become-nun--Evelyn Innes should have sung this character before
she became Sister Teresa--is in violent contrast to these opening
scenes, but the acts in the desert, as the Alexandrian strumpet wilts
before the aroused passion of the monk, are carried through with equal
skill by this artist who is an adept in her means of expression and
expressiveness.

The opera is sentimental, theatrical, and over its falsely constructed
drama--a perversion of Anatole France's psychological tale--Massenet
has overlaid as banal a coverlet of music as could well be devised by
an eminent composer. "The bad fairies have given him [Massenet] only one
gift," writes Pierre Lalo, "...the desire to please." It cannot be said
that Miss Garden allows the music to affect her interpretation. She
sings some of it, particularly her part in the duet in the desert, with
considerable charm and warmth of tone. I have never cared very much for
her singing of the mirror air, although she is dramatically admirable at
this point; on the other hand, I have found her rendering of the
farewell to Eros most pathetic in its tenderness. At times she has
attacked the high notes, which fall in unison with the exposure of her
attractions, with brilliancy; at other times she has avoided them
altogether (it must be remembered that Miss Sanderson, for whom this
opera was written, had a voice like the Tour Eiffel; she sang to G above
the staff). But the general tone of her interpretation has not been
weakened