which illy concealed her fine movements, she at once gave
the picture, not alone of the _cocotte_ of the period but of a whole
life, a whole atmosphere, and this she maintained throughout the
disclosure of the tableaux. In the prison scene she attained heights of
tragic acting which I do not think even she has surpassed elsewhere. The
pathos of her farewell to her two little Lesbian friends, and the
gesture with which she drained the poison cup, linger in the memory,
refusing to give up their places to less potent details.

I first heard Debussy's lyric drama, _Pelleas et Melisande_, at the
Opera-Comique, with Miss Garden as the principal interpreter. It is
generally considered the greatest achievement of her mimic art. Somehow
by those means at the command of a fine artist, she subdued her very
definite personality and moulded it into the vague and subtle personage
created by Maurice Maeterlinck. Even great artists grasp at straws for
assistance, and it is interesting to know that to Miss Garden a wig is
the all important thing. "Once I have donned the wig of a character, I
am that character," she told me once. "It would be difficult for me to
go on the stage in my own hair." Nevertheless, I believe she has
occasionally inconsistently done so as Louise.

In Miss Garden's score of _Pelleas_ Debussy has written, "In the future,
others may sing Melisande, but you alone will remain the woman and the
artist I had hardly dared hope for." It must be remembered, however,
that composers are notoriously fickle; that they prefer having their
operas given in any form rather than not at all; that ink is cheap and
musicians prolific in sentiments. In how many _Manon_ scores did
Massenet write his tender eternal finalities? Perhaps little Maggie
Teyte, who imitated Mary Garden's Melisande as Elsie Janis imitates
Sarah Bernhardt, cherishes a dedicated score now. Memory tells me I have
seen such a score, but memory is sometimes a false jade.

In her faded mediaeval gowns, with her long plaits of golden hair,--in
the first scene she wore it loose,--Mary Garden became at once in the
spectator's mind the princess of enchanted castles, the cymophanous
heroine of a _feerie_, the dream of a poet's tale. In gesture and in
musical speech, in tone-colour, she was faithful to the first wonderful
impression of the eye. There has been in our day no more perfect example
of characterization offered on the lyric stage than Mary Garden's lovely
Meli