“Only Siebel! why, that is a poor little thing.”
“So I thought, till I heard you sing it.”
“And, after Siebel, you bought my photograph.”
“Instantly.”
“And wasted pearls on it.”
“No, madam. I wasted it on pearls.”
“If I were well, I should call that extravagant. But it is permitted to flatter the sick—it is kind. Me you overrate, I fear; but you do well to honor music. Ay, I, who lie here wounded and broken-hearted, do thank God for music. Our bodies are soon crushed, our loves decay or turn to hate, but art is immortal.”
She could no longer roll this out in her grand contralto, but she could still raise her eyes with enthusiasm, and her pale face was illuminated. A grand soul shone through her, though she was pale, weak, and prostrate.
They admired her in silence.
After a while she resumed, and said, “If I live, I must live for my art alone.”