第4部分(第7/7 頁)

tes　crossed　by　thunderous

tones　in　the　〃Walkuere；〃　where　_Wotan_　kindles　the　dread　flames　that

guard　the　sleeping　_Brunhild_。　How　wonderful　is　the　instrument　on　which

a　great　musician　sings　with　his　hands！　I　have　never　succeeded　in

distinguishing　one　position　from　another。　I　think　this　is　impossible；

but　the　concentration　and　strain　upon　my　attention　would　be　so　great

that　I　doubt　if　the　pleasure　derived　would　be　mensurate　to　the

effort。

Nor　can　I　distinguish　easily　a　tune　that　is　sung。　But　by　placing　my　hand

on　another's　throat　and　cheek；　I　enjoy　the　changes　of　the　voice。　I　know

when　it　is　low　or　high；　clear　or　muffled；　sad　or　cheery。　The　thin；

quavering　sensation　of　an　old　voice　differs　in　my　touch　from　the

sensation　of　a　young　voice。　A　Southerner's　drawl　is　quite　unlike　the

Yankee　twang。　Sometimes　the　flow　and　ebb　of　a　voice　is　so　enchanting

that　my　fingers　quiver　with　exquisite　pleasure；　even　if　I　do　not

understand　a　word　that　is　spoken。

On　the　other　hand；　I　am　exceedingly　sensitive　to　the　harshness　of　noises

like　grinding；　scraping；　and　the　hoarse　creak　of　rusty　locks。

Fog…whistles　are　my　vibratory　nightmares。　I　have　stood　near　a　bridge　in

process　of　construction；　and　felt　the　tactual　din；　the　rattle　of　heavy

masses　of　stone；　the　roll　of　loosened　earth；　the　rumble　of　engines；　the

dumping　of　dirt…cars；　the　triple　blows　of　vulca