LITMIR.BIZ

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and smell musty. I wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be to write books after one’s own taste instead of reading other people’s! Home-made books must be so nice.”

      For an instant Mrs. Arrowpoint’s glance was a little sharper, but the perilous resemblance to satire in the last sentence took the hue of girlish simplicity when Gwendolen added—

      “I would give anything to write a book!”

      “And why should you not?” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, encouragingly. “You have but to begin as I did. Pen, ink, and paper are at everybody’s command. But I will send you all I have written with pleasure.”

      “Thanks. I shall be so glad to read your writings. Being acquainted with authors must give a peculiar understanding of their books: one would be able to tell then which parts were funny and which serious. I am sure I often laugh in the wrong place.” Here Gwendolen herself became aware of danger, and added quickly, “In Shakespeare, you know, and other great writers that we can never see. But I always want to know more than there is in the books.”

      “If you are interested in any of my subjects I can lend you many extra sheets in manuscript,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint—while Gwendolen felt herself painfully in the position of the young lady who professed to like potted sprats.

      “These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: several friends have urged me to do so, and one doesn’t like to be obstinate. My Tasso, for example—I could have made it twice the size.”

      “I dote on Tasso,” said Gwendolen.

      “Well, you shall have all my papers, if you like. So many, you know, have written about Tasso; but they are all wrong. As to the particular nature of his madness, and his feelings for Leonora, and the real cause of his imprisonment, and the character of Leonora, who, in my opinion, was a cold-hearted woman, else she would have married him in spite of her brother—they are all wrong. I differ from everybody.”

      “How very interesting!” said Gwendolen. “I like to differ from everybody. I think it is so stupid to agree. That is the worst of writing your opinions; and make people agree with you.” This speech renewed a slight suspicion in Mrs. Arrowpoint, and again her glance became for a moment examining. But Gwendolen looked very innocent, and continued with a docile air:

      “I know nothing of Tasso except the Gerusalemme Liberata, which we read and learned by heart at school.”

      “Ah, his life is more interesting than his poetry, I have constructed the early part of his life as a sort of romance. When one thinks of his father Bernardo, and so on, there is much that must be true.”

      “Imagination is often truer than fact,” said Gwendolen, decisively, though she could no more have explained these glib words than if they had been Coptic or Etruscan. “I shall be so glad to learn all about Tasso—and his madness especially. I suppose poets are always a little mad.”

      “To be sure—‘the poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling’; and somebody says of Marlowe—

      ’For that fine madness still he did maintain,

      Which always should possess the poet’s brain.’”

      “But it was not always found out, was it?” said Gwendolen innocently. “I suppose some of them rolled their eyes in private. Mad people are often very cunning.”

      Again a shade flitted over Mrs. Arrowpoint’s face; but the entrance of the gentlemen prevented any immediate mischief between her and this too quick young lady, who had over-acted her naïveté.

      “Ah, here comes Herr Klesmer,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, rising; and presently bringing him to Gwendolen, she left them to a dialogue which was agreeable on both sides, Herr Klesmer being a felicitous combination of the German, the Sclave and the Semite, with grand features, brown hair floating in artistic fashion, and brown eyes in spectacles. His English had little foreignness except its fluency; and his alarming cleverness was made less formidable just then by a certain softening air of silliness which will sometimes befall even genius in the desire of being agreeable to beauty.

      Music was soon begun. Miss Arrowpoint and Herr Klesmer played a four-handed piece on two pianos, which convinced the company in general that it was long, and Gwendolen in particular that the neutral, placid-faced Miss Arrowpoint had a mastery of the instrument which put her own execution out of question—though she was not discouraged as to her often-praised touch and style. After this every one became anxious to hear Gwendolen sing; especially Mr. Arrowpoint; as was natural in a host and a perfect gentleman, of whom no one had anything to say but that he married Miss Cuttler and imported the best cigars; and he led her to the piano with easy politeness. Herr Klesmer closed the instrument in readiness for her, and smiled with pleasure at her approach; then placed himself at a distance of a few feet so that he could see her as she sang.

      Gwendolen was not nervous; what she undertook to do she did without trembling, and singing was an enjoyment to her. Her voice was a moderately powerful soprano (some one had told her it was like Jenny Lind’s), her ear good, and she was able to keep in tune, so that her singing gave pleasure to ordinary hearers, and she had been used to unmingled applause. She had the rare advantage of looking almost prettier when she was singing than at other times, and that Herr Klesmer was in front of her seemed not disagreeable. Her song, determined on beforehand, was a favorite aria of Belini’s, in which she felt quite sure of herself.

      “Charming?” said Mr. Arrowpoint, who had remained near, and the word was echoed around without more insincerity than we recognize in a brotherly way as human. But Herr Klesmer stood like a statue—if a statue can be imagined in spectacles; at least, he was as mute as a statue. Gwendolen was pressed to keep her seat and double the general pleasure, and she did not wish to refuse; but before resolving to do so, she moved a little toward Herr Klesmer, saying with a look of smiling appeal, “It would be too cruel to a great musician. You cannot like to hear poor amateur singing.”

      “No, truly; but that makes nothing,” said Herr Klesmer, suddenly speaking in an odious German fashion with staccato endings, quite unobservable in him before, and apparently depending on a change of mood, as Irishmen resume their strongest brogue when they are fervid or quarrelsome. “That makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you sing.”

      Was there ever so unexpected an assertion of superiority? at least before the late Teutonic conquest? Gwendolen colored deeply, but, with her usual presence of mind, did not show an ungraceful resentment by moving away immediately; and Miss Arrowpoint, who had been near enough to overhear (and also to observe that Herr Klesmer’s mode of looking at Gwendolen was more conspicuously admiring than was quite consistent with good taste), now with the utmost tact and kindness came close to her and said—

      “Imagine what I have to go through with this professor! He can hardly tolerate anything we English do in music. We can only put up with his severity, and make use of it to find out the worst that can be said of us. It is a little comfort to know that; and one can bear it when every one else is admiring.”

      “I should be very much obliged to him for telling me the worst,” said Gwendolen, recovering herself. “I dare say I have been extremely ill taught, in addition to having no talent—only liking for music.” This was very well expressed considering that it had never entered her mind before.

      “Yes, it is true: you have not been well taught,” said Herr Klesmer, quietly. Woman was dear to him, but music was dearer. “Still, you are not quite without gifts. You sing in tune, and you have a pretty fair organ. But you produce your notes badly; and that music which you sing is beneath you. It is a form of melody which expresses a puerile state of culture—a dawdling, canting, see-saw kind of stuff—the passion and thought of people without any breadth of horizon. There is a sort of self-satisfied folly about every phrase of such melody; no cries of deep, mysterious passion—no conflict—no sense of the universal. It makes men small as they listen to it. Sing now something larger. And I shall see.”

      “Oh, not now—by-and-by,” said Gwendolen, with a sinking of heart at the sudden width of horizon opened round her small musical

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