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"They spoiled the music just the same, with their antics and unrealities." "But don't you like Barillo's voice?" Ruth asked. "He is next to Caruso, they say." "Of course I liked him, and I liked Tetralani even better. Her voice is exquisite or at least I think so." "But, but " Ruth stammered. "I don't know what you mean, then. You admire their voices, yet say they spoiled the music."
I have just been telling you what I think, in order to explain why the elephantine gambols of Madame Tetralani spoil the orchestra for me. The world's judges of music may all be right. But I am I, and I won't subordinate my taste to the unanimous judgment of mankind.
To hear Barillo sing a love passage with the voice of an angel, and to hear Tetralani reply like another angel, and to hear it all accompanied by a perfect orgy of glowing and colorful music is ravishing, most ravishing. I do not admit it. I assert it.
But the whole effect is spoiled when I look at them at Tetralani, five feet ten in her stocking feet and weighing a hundred and ninety pounds, and at Barillo, a scant five feet four, greasy-featured, with the chest of a squat, undersized blacksmith, and at the pair of them, attitudinizing, clasping their breasts, flinging their arms in the air like demented creatures in an asylum; and when I am expected to accept all this as the faithful illusion of a love-scene between a slender and beautiful princess and a handsome, romantic, young prince why, I can't accept it, that's all.
"Yes, but the opera itself?" "That was splendid too; that is, the orchestra was, though I'd have enjoyed it more if those jumping-jacks had kept quiet or gone off the stage." Ruth was aghast. "You don't mean Tetralani or Barillo?" she queried. "All of them the whole kit and crew." "But they are great artists," she protested.
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