The Canoness stood still a moment, apparently gazing at a wide, radiant prospect with a rapt expression I had never seen on her face before.
"I would have been an artist, an actor, or a singer," she said, softly.
"An actor?" I replied, scarcely concealing my horror.
"What do you discover so terrible in that?" she asked, with a slight, sarcastic smile. "Is it not a magnificent thing to embody the characters of a great author, to cast noble, beautiful thoughts among the throng of breathless listeners? But perhaps you know nothing about it. You believe the theatre to be a sink of iniquity, like so many of your class. I can only pity you. I have neither the desire nor the power to convert you to a better view."
"And where were you yourself converted?"
"Oh, I--I, like you, was reared to loathe this so-called jugglery. But, three years ago, I spent several months in Berlin. An old aunt, who was very fond of me, sent for me because she was entirely alone. Uncle Joachim took me to her. There I spent the happiest period of my life, and there the scales fell from my eyes."
"If those are your views, have you never felt tempted to become a singer?" I inquired. "With your beautiful voice and love for music--"
"No," she answered, firmly, "as a girl I should never have ventured into that career. For the very reason that music lies so near my heart, I should feel it a desecration to be compelled to come forward and reveal my inmost soul to strangers, who had paid for tickets. Perhaps, if I had true genius, it would bear me above all such scruples. And yet the greatest singer I ever heard, Milder--have you heard Milder?"
I was forced to confess I had never entered an opera-house.
"Well, then, we will say no more about the matter," she replied. "You could not understand me. But I pity you."