We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
126 MY TRIP ABROAD She is touching every human emotion in her song. At times she is tossing away care, then gently wooing, an elusive strain that is almost fairylike, that crescendos into tragedy, going into a crashing climax that diminishes into an ending, searching, yearning and wistfully sad. Her personality is written into every mood of the song. She is at once fine, courageous, pathetic and wild. She finished to an applause that reflected the indifference of the place. In spots it was spontaneous and insistent. In others little attention was paid to her. She is wasted here. But she cares not. In her face you can see that she gets her applause in the song itself. It was glorious, just to be singing with heart, soul and voice. She smiles faintly, then sits down modestly. I knew it. She is Russian. She has everything to suggest it. Full of temperament, talent and real emotional ability, hidden away here in Le Rate Mort. What a sensation she would be in America with a little advertising. This is just a thought, but all sorts of schemes present themselves to me. I can see her in "The Follies" with superb dressing and doing just the song she had done then. I did not under- stand a word of it, but I felt every syllable. Art is universal and needs no language. She has everything from gentle- ness to passion and a startling beauty. I am applauding too much, but she looks and smiles, so I am repaid. They dance again, and while they are gone I call the waiter and have him explain to the manager that I would like to be presented to her. The manager introduces her and I invite her to my table. She sits there with us, while her companion, the dark girl, does a solo dance. She talks charmingly and without restraint. She speaks three languages—Russian, French, and English. Her father was a Russian general during the Czar's reign. I can see now where she gets her imperious carriage. "Are you a Bolshevik?" She flushes as I ask it, and her lips pout prettily as she struggles with English. She seems all afire.