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It appeared that the singer's husband, who had surveyed the theatre from behind the drop-scene with me, had satisfied himself as to the style of the audience, and decided that the longed-for hour was at hand when, without injuring the operatic enterprise, he could wreak vengeance on his wife's lover.
His daughter was singing at a broken-down piano; Orso was turning over the leaves of her music, and gazing at the fair singer's shoulders and golden hair. The prefect was announced, the piano stopped, the colonel got up, rubbed his eyes, and introduced the prefect to his daughter. "I do not introduce M. della Rebbia to you," said he, "for no doubt you know him already."
She forgot time as it sped, till at length Gorgo made her appearance. She had not deliberately kept out of the little singer's way; on the contrary, she had been detained by her father, for not till now had she dared to tell him that his mother, the beloved mistress of his house, was no more.
When the voice is thus freed under true conditions, it is possible to arouse easily and quickly the mental and emotional power and vitality of the singer. In this way is aroused that which I have called the singer's sensation, or, for want of a better name, the third power of the voice. This power is not a mere fancy.
The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer's hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief: O, the rain falls on my heavy locks And the dew wets my skin, My babe lies cold... "O," exclaimed Mary Jane.
So little "Joy" was gathered up and held in affectionate, motherly arms, close against his mistress' face. It was all very human and natural, and gave another side to the singer's character from the side she shows to the public. At last the ordeal was over, and Madame was free to leave her post and sit in one of the arm chairs, where she could be a little more comfortable.
He had gleaned one fact at the box-office as he hurried out to catch his train: this Hermann was the singer's brother, a teacher of the piano in London, and apparently highly thought of.
Considerably disgusted at the ending to the incident, Selwyn, who had turned to look towards the cabinet particulier, once more sought his companion's eyes. Her face was white; there was not a vestige of colour in the cheeks. 'Miss Durwent, he gasped, 'you are not well. 'I am quite well, she answered quickly, but her voice was weak and quivering. 'I I thought I recognised the singer's voice.
When he reached his final run, he took a long breath, as if it devolved upon him to set in motion all the windmills in Montmartre, and started with a majestic fury; the first forty notes, while they did not resemble Mademoiselle Grisi's pearly tones, ascended and descended without any notable accident; but at the last stages of the descent, the singer's breath and voice failed him at the same moment, the "A" came out weak, the "G" was stifled, the "F" resembled the buzzing of a bee, and the "E" was absent!
I couldn't sing softly if I tried. Can he sing?" he enquired of French. "Don't know. Sing up, Kalman, if you can," said French. Then Kalman sat up and sang. Strong, pure, clear, his voice rose upon the night until it seemed to fill the whole space of clearing and to soar away off into the sky. As the boy sang, French laid down the book and in silence gazed upon the singer's face.
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