“Then he is so very accomplished!—speaks French so perfectly—and plays the pianoforte as I have never heard it played. Fancy his being able to compose for hours together without ever being at a loss! able to follow all his thoughts, and express them beautifully in music! sometimes so sad, so melancholy, then gay and passionate, according to the impulse.”
“I was not in the least aware that you cared for music,” said Hamilton, interrupting her with a look of unfeigned surprise, “you play the pianoforte so seldom, and——”
“And so badly,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him in her turn, “so badly, that you concluded I must be incapable of appreciating good music when I heard it? On the contrary, I am so sensitively alive to its beauties that I cannot endure mediocrity, and beyond that I know I should never arrive, when I take into consideration my want of time and patience!”
“Of your want of patience you are the best judge—time you have enough, if you want to employ it on music—for instance, you read enormously. Were the hours which you devote to——”
“Ah, bah!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently; “why should I plague myself studying music, which, after all, is half mechanical expertness most difficult to acquire, when in reading I gain information and amuse myself at the same time. If I could hope to play like Oscar, it would be different, but nothing else would satisfy me.”
“Then you do not care for vocal music,” said Hamilton.
“I rather give it the preference; because one has words to direct the thoughts; but then the voice is also an instrument—requires incessant practice, and so—and so—but you know very well that I have no patience!”
“So I thought, until I discovered that you had learned English so perfectly without an instructor; this proves that you have both patience and perseverance.”
“But, then, think of the reward! a new and extensive literature!”
“And if you really liked music, would it not also have rewarded you?”