There was no
melody, and above all there was no form. A musical composition is like
an architectural building; it must be built up and constructed. How
often have I said that! You must have colour, and you must have line,
otherwise I cannot concede you the right to say you have music."
Lucia finished her egg in a hurry, and put her elbows on the table.
"I hope I am not hide-bound and limited," she said, "and I think you
will acknowledge, Georgie, that I am not. Even in the divinest music of
all, I am not blind to defects, if there are defects. The Moonlight
Sonata, for instance. You have often heard me say that the two last
movements do not approach the first in perfection of form. And if I am
permitted to criticise Beethoven, I hope I may be allowed to suggest
that Mr Cortese has not produced an opera which will render Fidelio
ridiculous. But really I am chiefly sorry for Miss Bracely. I should
have thought it worth her while to render herself not unworthy to
interpret Fidelio, whatever time and trouble that cost her, rather than
to seek notoriety by helping to foist on to the world a fresh
combination of engine-whistles and grunts. _Non e vero_, Peppino?
How late you are."
Lucia had not determined on this declaration of war without anxious
consideration. But it was quite obvious to her that the enemy was daily
gaining strength, and therefore the sooner she came to open hostilities
the better, for it was equally obvious to her mind that Olga was a
pretender to the throne she had occupied for so long.
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