ation: the composer having in his
work chosen one mood, and the singer another, we obtain in the fusion or
juxtaposition of the two works, of the two moods, that very thing we
desired, that very shimmer and oscillation of character which the poet
could give, that dualism of nature required for Cherubino. What
is Cherubino? A sentimental jackanapes. Mozart in his notes has
given us the sentiment, and now we can get the levity from the
performer--unthought-of combination, in which the very irrational,
illogical choice made by the composer will help us. Here are Mozart's
phrases, earnest, tender, noble--Mozart's love song fit for a Bellario
or a Romeo; now let this be sung quickly, lightly, with perverse musical
head-tossing and tripping and ogling, let this passion be gabbled out
flippantly, impudently--and then, in this perfect mixture of the noble
and ignoble, of emotion and levity, of poetry and prose, we shall
have, at last, the page of Beaumarchais. A brilliant combination, a
combination which, thus reasoned out, seems so difficult to conceive;
yet one which the instinct of half, nay, of nearly all the performers in
creation would suggest. A page? A jackanapes? Sing the music as befits
him; giggle and ogle, and pirouette, and languish out Mozart's music: an
universal idea now become part and parcel of tradition: the only new
version possible being to give more or less of the various elements of
giggling, ogling, pirouetting, and languishing; to slightly vary the
style of jackanapes.

But no, another version did remain possible: that strange version given
by that strange solemn little Spanish singer, after whose singing of
"Voi che sapete" we all felt dissatisfied, and asked each other, "What
has she done with the page?" That wonderful reading of the piece in
which every large outline was so grandly and delicately traced, every
transition so subtly graduated or marked, every little ornament made to
blossom out beneath the touch of the singular crisp, sweet voice: that
reading which left out the page. Was it the blunder of an idealess vocal
machine? or the contradictory eccentricity of a seeker after impossible
novelty? Was it simply the dullness of a sullen, soulless little singer?
Surely not. She was neither an idealess vocal machine, nor a crotchetty
seeker for new readings, nor a soulless sullen little creature; she was
a power in art. A power, alas! wasted for ever, of little or no profit
to others or herself; a b