unconscious of these hostile prepossessions, the elder Signora chatted on very gayly to the visitor. She was in excellent spirits; people had been very civil to her both at Colonel Morley’s and M. Louvier’s. The American Minister had praised the scarlet jacket. She was convinced she had made a sensation two nights running. When the amour propre is pleased, the tongue is freed.
The Venosta ran on in praise of Paris and the Parisians; of Louvier and his soiree and the pistachio ice; of the Americans, and a certain creme de maraschino which she hoped the Signor Inglese had not failed to taste,—the creme de maraschino led her thoughts back to Italy. Then she grew mournful. How she missed the native beau ciel! Paris was pleasant, but how absurd to call it “le Paradis des Femmes,”—as if les Femmes could find Paradise in a brouillard!
“But,” she exclaimed, with vivacity of voice and gesticulation, “the Signor does not come to hear the parrot talk; he is engaged to come that he may hear the nightingale sing. A drop of honey attracts the fly more than a bottle of vinegar.”
Graham could not help smiling at this adage. “I submit,” said he, “to your comparison as regards myself; but certainly anything less like a bottle of vinegar than your amiable conversation I cannot well conceive. However, the metaphor apart, I scarcely know how I dare ask Mademoiselle to sing after the confession I made to her last night.”
“What confession?” asked the Venosta.
“That I know nothing of music and doubt if I can honestly say that I am fond of it.”
“Not fond of music! Impossible! You slander yourself. He who loves not music would have a dull time of it in heaven. But you are English, and perhaps have only heard the music of your own country. Bad, very bad—a heretic’s music! Now listen.”
Seating herself at the piano, she began an air from the “Lucia,” crying out to Isaura to come and sing to her accompaniment.
“Do you really wish it?” asked Isaura of Graham, fixing on him questioning, timid eyes.
“I cannot say how much I wish to hear you.”
Isaura moved to the instrument, and Graham stood behind her. Perhaps he felt that he should judge more impartially of her voice if not subjected to the charm of her face.
But the first note of the voice held him spell-bound. In itself the organ was of the rarest order, mellow and rich, but so soft that its power was lost in its sweetness, and so exquisitely fresh in every note.
But the singer’s charm was less in voice than in feeling; she conveyed to the listener so much more than was said by the words, or even implied by the music. Her song in this caught the art of the painter who impresses the mind with the consciousness of a something which the eye cannot detect on the canvas.
She seemed to breathe out from the depths of her heart the intense pathos of the original romance, so far exceeding that of the opera,-the human tenderness, the mystic terror of a tragic love-tale more solemn in its sweetness than that of Verona.
When her voice died away no applause came,—not even a murmur. Isaura bashfully turned round to steal a glance at her silent listener, and beheld moistened eyes and quivering lips. At that moment she was reconciled to her art. Graham rose abruptly and walked to the window.
“Do you doubt now if you are fond of music?” cried the Venosta.
“This is more than music,” answered Graham, still with averted face. Then, after a short pause, he approached Isaura, and said, with a melancholy half-smile,—
“I do not think, Mademoiselle, that I could dare to hear you often; it would take me too far from the hard real world: and he who would not be left behindhand on the road that he must journey cannot indulge frequent excursions into fairyland.”
“Yet,” said Isaura, in a tone yet sadder, “I was told in my childhood, by one whose genius gives authority to her words, that beside the real world lies the ideal. The real world then seemed rough to me. ‘Escape,’ said my counsellor, ‘is granted from that stony thoroughfare into the fields beyond its formal hedgerows. The ideal world has its sorrows, but it never admits despair.’ That counsel then, methought, decided my choice of life. I know not now if it has done so.”
“Fate,” answered Graham, slowly and thoughtfully, “Fate, which is not the ruler but the servant of Providence, decides our choice of life, and rarely from outward circumstances. Usually the motive power is within. We apply the word ‘genius’ to the minds of the gifted few; but in all of us there is a genius that is inborn, a pervading something which distinguishes our very identity, and dictates to the conscience that which we are best fitted to do and to be. In so dictating it compels our choice of life; or if we resist the dictate, we find at the close that we have gone astray. My choice of life thus compelled is on the stony thoroughfares, yours in the green fields.”
As he thus said, his face became clouded and mournful. The Venosta, quickly tired of a conversation in which she had no part, and having various little household matters to attend to, had during this dialogue slipped unobserved from the room; yet neither Isaura nor Graham felt the sudden consciousness that they were alone which belongs to lovers. “Why,” asked Isaura, with that magic smile reflected in countless dimples which, even when her words were those of a man’s reasoning, made them seem gentle with a woman’s sentiment,—“why must your road through the world be so exclusively the stony one? It is not from necessity, it can not be from taste; and whatever definition you give to genius, surely it is not your own inborn genius that dictates to you a constant exclusive adherence to the commonplace of life.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle, do not misrepresent me. I did not say that I could not sometimes quit the real world for fairyland,—I said that I could not do so often. My vocation is not that of a poet or artist.”
“It is that of an orator, I know,” said Isaura, kindling; “so they tell me, and I believe them. But is not the orator somewhat akin to the poet? Is not oratory an art?”
“Let us dismiss the word orator; as applied to English public life, it is a very deceptive expression. The Englishman who wishes to influence his countrymen by force of words spoken must mix with them in their beaten thoroughfares; must make himself master of their practical views and interests; must be conversant with their prosaic occupations and business; must understand how to adjust their loftiest aspirations to their material welfare; must avoid as the fault most dangerous to himself and to others that kind of eloquence which is called oratory in France, and which has helped to make the French the worst politicians in Europe. Alas! Mademoiselle, I fear that an English statesman would appear to you a very dull orator.”
“I see that I spoke foolishly,—yes, you show me that the world of the statesman lies apart from that of the artist. Yet—”
“Yet what?”
“May not the ambition of both be the same?”
“How so?”
“To refine the rude, to exalt the mean; to identify their own fame with some new beauty, some new glory, added to the treasure-house of all.”
Graham bowed his head reverently, and then raised it with the flush of enthusiasm on his cheek and brow.
“Oh, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “what a sure guide and what a noble inspirer to a true Englishman’s ambition nature has fitted you to be, were it not—” He paused
