Madame
Blumenthal, as became a "revolutionist," was obliged to confess that she
could see no charm in it; it was meagre, it was trivial, it lacked soul.
"You must know that in music, too," she said, "I think for myself!" And
she began with a great many flourishes of her fan to explain what it was
she thought. Remarkable things, doubtless; but I cannot answer for it,
for in the midst of the explanation the curtain rose again. "You can't
be a great artist without a great passion!" Madame Blumenthal was
affirming. Before I had time to assent Madame Patti's voice rose
wheeling like a skylark, and rained down its silver notes. "Ah, give me
that art," I whispered, "and I will leave you your passion!" And I
departed for my own place in the orchestra. I wondered afterwards
whether the speech had seemed rude, and inferred that it had not on
receiving a friendly nod from the lady, in the lobby, as the theatre was
emptying itself. She was on Pickering's arm, and he was taking her to
her carriage. Distances are short in Homburg, but the night was rainy,
and Madame Blumenthal exhibited a very pretty satin-shod foot as a reason
why, though but a penniless widow, she should not walk home. Pickering
left us together a moment while he went to hail the vehicle, and my
companion seized the opportunity, as she said, to beg me to be so very
kind as to come and see her.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65