and approaching lines, composed of noble faces, waving feathers, sparkling jewels, sculptured shoulders, uniforms, robes of costly stuffs and every conceivable bright colour.  Light poured from the huge lustre in the centre of the roof, ran along the crimson velvet cushions of the boxes, and flashed upon the gilded frame of the proscenium—­satyrs and acanthus scrolls carved in the manner of a century ago.  Pit and orchestra scarcely contained the crowd of men who stood in lively conversation, their backs turned to the stage, their lorgnettes raised from time to time to sweep the boxes.  This surging sea of faces and sober costumes enhanced by contrast the glitter, variety, and luminous tranquillity of the theatre above it.

No one took much thought of the coming spectacle, till the conductor’s rap was heard upon his desk, and the orchestra broke into the overture to Mozart’s Nozze.  Before they were half through, it was clear that we should not enjoy that evening the delight of perfect music added to the enchantment of so brilliant a scene.  The execution of the overture was not exactly bad.  But it lacked absolute precision, the complete subordination of all details to the whole.  In rendering German music Italians often fail through want of discipline, or through imperfect sympathy with a style they will not take the pains to master.  Nor, when the curtain lifted and the play began, was the vocalisation found in all parts satisfactory.  The Contessa had a meagre mezza voce.  Susanna, though she did not sing false, hovered on the verge of discords, owing to the weakness of an organ which had to be strained in order to make any effect on that enormous stage.  On the other hand, the part of Almaviva was played with dramatic fire, and Figaro showed a truly Southern sense of comic fun.  The scenes were splendidly mounted, and something of a princely grandeur—­the largeness of a noble train of life—­was added to the drama by the vast proportions of the theatre.  It was a performance which, in spite of drawbacks, yielded pleasure.

And yet it might have left me frigid but for the artist who played Cherubino.  This was no other than Pauline Lucca, in the prime of youth and petulance.  From her first appearance to the last note she sang, she occupied the stage.  The opera seemed to have been written for her.  The mediocrity of the troupe threw her commanding merits—­the richness of her voice, the purity of her intonation, her vivid conception of character, her indescribable brusquerie of movement and emotion—­into that relief which a sapphire gains from a setting of pearls.  I can see her now, after the lapse of nearly twenty years, as she stood there singing in blue doublet and white mantle, with the slouched Spanish hat and plume of ostrich feathers, a tiny rapier at her side, and blue rosettes upon her white silk shoes!  The Nozze di Figaro was followed by a Ballo.  This had for its theme the favourite legend of a female