ing one leg at the side of the chair. I often felt
like singing quite a long phrase with no gestures at all, instead of
keeping up a succession of undulating arm-movements.

Our dramatic coach, a fiery individual, who chewed coffee-berries
persistently, struggled in vain to teach me to lay one hand on my heart
in the traditional manner, two middle fingers together, little one
crooked, thumb in. Sometimes mine looked like a starfish, and sometimes
like a fist, and both were taboo. Gestures had to melt into each other;
there were different ones for different emotions, and woe betide you if
you mixed them! There was a sort of test speech beginning, "_Moi, qui
vous parle._" The hand at "_moi_" had to be laid upon the chest in the
approved manner. I have forgotten the middle, but the end was, "_Et vous
jure, que je le ferai jamais!_" At _jure_ one elevated the right hand,
the first two fingers raised, and at _jamais_ the right arm described a
figure eight across the upper half of the body, with the gesture of
tearing away a long beard. We did this all winter and never reached
perfection, that is, an exact copy of Valdejo, our instructor.

We had to practice the classic walk--slowly advancing, foot dragging,
stomach out, very lordly to see, one arm bent from the elbow with the
forearm and hand resting against the body--a most difficult thing. The
different versions were very comic, but the idea was excellent and I
used it later in "Orfeo." Certainly a pulled back tummy would not be in
character in a Greek tunic.

Later, we had to act scenes from our operas, and there I got on better.
I used to get absorbed in the character to the extent of becoming
perfectly oblivious of my surroundings. I remember once, as _Dalila_,
throwing myself so hard upon the supposed couch of _Dalila_, that I
thumped my head on the marble mantel behind me. My watching class mates
burst into a snicker, and I into real tears of anger, not of pain. I had
entirely forgotten them when their giggles wrenched me back into the
present; but their great pride was never to forget themselves and always
to be ready to imitate the coach in cold blood. He, however, appreciated
that I had something in me, and used to thump me on the back, and call
me "Canaille!" when I did anything that pleased him--a curious
expression of approval.

I am not denouncing the ordinary "opera class." This method of slavish
imitation doubtless has its usefulness for some people. The o