"She is wonderful," said Mathilde. "As for myself, when I have been a half-hour at the piano I am fatigued. It seems to me that my tired soul flies away with the sounds. But what power she has! She laughs at difficulties, and rises even fresher and more radiant."
"It is there, truly, that one finds the difference between her playing and yours. You put your soul into it. Her playing does not affect me at all. It is as if the piano played alone. With you, the soul sings to me."
"No, she is a true artiste. I am only a musician."
"I cannot admire the artists of the present day. They are but the masters of their art, skilled workmen who know all the tricks of their trade. The shepherd who by inspiration plays on his bagpipe a simple air, be it very simple, very primitive, is much more an artist than this or that fashionable performer. Like everything else, art has been profaned in these days; it has become mercenary; it is a bread-winner, and not a priesthood. The artist of to-day strives for the fame that pays best, and not for the contentment of his soul. Who, then, now-a-days would paint frescoes for nothing but piety and for the love of God? Music, literature, painting, all at present go to the highest bidder. Muse belongs to the modern school. She has art, but art without soul. She plays Liszt and Walberg, but Chopin is inaccessible to her. She seizes the bizarre side of Schumann, but the pathetic side, never!"
"You judge her a little too severely. There is in the depths of her heart a little divine light, on her brow a little flame. But, alas! the unfortunates are not sure of to-morrow's bread, and I cannot help regarding with pity this woman and her daughter, for I know their situation."
"Are they not rich?"
"No! They are poor, very poor, though they affect riches."
"This is frightful. This comedy of luxury is odious. The tears of dupes will pay for it. Indigence with courageous labour is a hundred times to be admired."
"It is true, but false pride"--
"That word tells all; it is real deceit."