“From which?”
“The Corsair. Ah! what a sublime work! what passion! what energy! what knowledge of feminine feeling! what contrast of character! what sentiments! what situations! I wish this were Opera night; Gulnare! my favourite character; beautiful! How do you think they will dress her?”
“Are you an admirer of our Byron?” asked Vivian, of the Baroness.
“I think he is a very handsome man. I once saw him at the carnival at Venice.”
“But his works; his grand works! ma chère petite,” said Madame Carolina, in her sweetest tone: “you have read his works?”
“Not a line,” answered the Baroness, with great naïveté; “I never saw them.”
“Pauvre enfant!” said Madame Carolina; “I will employ you, then, while you are here.”
“I never read,” said the Baroness; “I cannot bear it. I like poetry and romances, but I like somebody to read to me.”
“Very just,” said Madame Carolina; “we can judge with greater accuracy of the merit of a composition when it reaches our mind merely through the medium of the human voice. The soul is an essence, invisible and indivisible. In this respect the voice of man resembles the principle of his existence; since few will deny, though there are some materialists who will deny everything, that the human voice is both impalpable and audible only in one place at the same time. Hence, I ask, is it illogical to infer its indivisibility? The soul and the voice, then, are similar in two great attributes: there is a secret harmony in their spiritual construction. In the early ages of mankind a beautiful tradition was afloat that the soul and the voice were one and the same. We may perhaps recognise in this fanciful belief the effect of the fascinating and imaginative philosophy of the East; that mysterious portion of the globe,” continued Madame Carolina, “from which we should frankly confess that we derive everything; for the South is but the pupil of the East, through the mediation of Egypt. Of this opinion,” said Madame with fervour, “I have no doubt: of this opinion,” continued the lady with enthusiasm, “I have boldly avowed myself a votary in a dissertation appended to the second volume of Haroun: for this opinion I would die at the stake! Oh, lovely East! why was I not oriental! Land where the voice of the nightingale is never mute! Land of the cedar and the citron, the turtle and the myrtle, of ever-blooming flowers and ever-shining skies! Illustrious East! Cradle of Philosophy! My dearest Baroness, why do not you feel as I do? From the East we obtain everything!”
“Indeed!” said the Baroness, with simplicity; “I thought we only got shawls.”