time.”

“And last?” I asked.

“This is another anecdote.  The other day, Unter den Linden, I saw on a bookseller’s counter a little pink-covered romance—‘Sophronia,’ by Madame Blumenthal.  Glancing through it, I observed an extraordinary abuse of asterisks; every two or three pages the narrative was adorned with a portentous blank, crossed with a row of stars.”

“Well, but poor Clorinda?” I objected, as Niedermeyer paused.

“Sophronia, my dear fellow, is simply Clorinda renamed by the baptism of fire.  The fair author came back, of course, and found Clorinda tumbled upon the floor, a good deal scorched, but, on the whole, more frightened than hurt.  She picks her up, brushes her off, and sends her to the printer.  Wherever the flames had burnt a hole she swings a constellation!  But if the major is prepared to drop a penitent tear over the ashes of Clorinda, I shall not whisper to him that the urn is empty.”

Even Adelina Patti’s singing, for the next half-hour, but half availed to divert me from my quickened curiosity to behold Madame Blumenthal face to face.  As soon as the curtain had fallen again I repaired to her box and was ushered in by Pickering with zealous hospitality.  His glowing smile seemed to say to me, “Ay, look for yourself, and adore!”  Nothing could have been more gracious than the lady’s greeting, and I found, somewhat to my surprise, that her prettiness lost nothing on a nearer view.  Her eyes indeed were the finest I have ever seen—the softest, the deepest, the most intensely responsive.  In spite of something faded and jaded in her physiognomy, her movements, her smile, and the tone of her voice, especially when she laughed, had an almost girlish frankness and spontaneity.  She looked at you very hard with her radiant gray eyes, and she indulged while she talked in a superabundance of restless, rather affected little gestures, as if to make you take her meaning in a certain very particular and superfine sense.  I wondered whether after a while this might not fatigue one’s attention; then meeting her charming eyes, I said, Not for a long time.  She was very clever, and, as Pickering had said, she spoke English admirably.  I told her, as I took my seat beside her, of the fine things I had heard about her from my friend, and she listened, letting me go on some time, and exaggerate a little, with her fine eyes fixed full upon me.  “Really?” she suddenly said, turning short round upon Pickering, who stood behind us, and looking at him in the same way.  “Is that the way you talk about me?”

He blushed to his eyes, and I repented.  She suddenly began to laugh; it was then I observed how sweet her voice was in laughter.  We talked after this of various matters, and in a little while I complimented her on her excellent English, and asked if she had learnt it in England.

“Heaven forbid!” she cried.  “I have never been there and wish never to go.  I should never get on with the—” I wondered what she was going to say; the fogs, the smoke, or whist with sixpenny stakes?—“I should never get on,” she said, “with the aristocracy!  I am a fierce democrat—I am not ashamed of it.  I hold opinions which would make my ancestors turn in their graves.  I was born in the lap of feudalism.  I am a daughter of the crusaders.  But I am a revolutionist!  I have a passion for freedom—my idea of happiness is to die on a great barricade!  It’s to your great country I should like to go.  I should like to see the wonderful spectacle of a great people free to do everything it chooses, and yet never doing anything wrong!”

I replied, modestly, that, after all, both our freedom and our good conduct had their limits, and she turned quickly about and shook her fan with a dramatic gesture at Pickering.  “No matter, no matter!” she cried; “I should like to see the country which produced that wonderful young man.  I think of it as a sort of Arcadia—a land of the golden age.  He’s so delightfully innocent!  In this stupid old Germany, if a young man is innocent he’s a fool; he has no brains; he’s not a bit interesting.  But Mr. Pickering says the freshest things, and after I have laughed five minutes at their freshness it suddenly occurs to me that they are very wise, and I think them over for a week.”  “True!” she went on, nodding at him.  “I call them inspired solecisms, and I treasure them up.  Remember that when I next laugh at you!”

Glancing at Pickering, I was prompted to believe that he was in a state of beatific exaltation which weighed Madame Blumenthal’s smiles and frowns in an equal balance.  They were equally hers; they were links alike in the golden chain.  He looked at me with eyes that seemed to say, “Did you ever hear such wit?  Did you ever see such grace?”  It seemed to me that he was but vaguely conscious of the meaning of her words; her gestures, her voice and glance, made an absorbing harmony.  There is something painful in the spectacle of absolute enthralment, even to an excellent cause.  I gave no response to Pickering’s challenge, but made some remark upon the charm of Adelina Patti’s singing.  Madame Blumenthal, as became a “revolutionist,” was obliged to confess that she could see no charm in it; it was meagre, it was trivial, it lacked soul.  “You must know that in music, too,” she said, “I think for myself!”  And she began with a great many flourishes of her fan to explain what it was she thought.  Remarkable things, doubtless; but I cannot answer for it, for in the midst of the explanation the curtain rose again.  “You can’t be a great artist without a great passion!”  Madame Blumenthal was affirming.  Before I had time to assent Madame Patti’s voice rose wheeling like a skylark, and rained down its silver notes.  “Ah, give me that art,” I whispered, “and I will leave you your passion!”  And I departed for my own place in the orchestra.  I wondered afterwards whether the speech had seemed rude, and inferred that it had not on receiving a friendly nod from the lady, in the lobby, as the theatre was emptying itself.  She was on Pickering’s arm, and he was taking her to her carriage.  Distances are short in Homburg, but the night was rainy, and Madame Blumenthal exhibited a very pretty satin-shod foot as a reason why, though but a penniless widow, she should not walk home.  Pickering left us together a moment while he went to hail the vehicle, and my companion seized the opportunity, as she said, to beg me to be so very kind as to come and see her.  It was for a particular reason!  It was reason enough for me, of course, I answered, that she had given me leave.  She looked at me a moment with that extraordinary gaze of hers which seemed so absolutely audacious in its candour, and rejoined that I paid more compliments than our young friend there, but that she was sure I was not half so sincere.  “But it’s about him I want to talk,” she said.  “I want to ask you many things; I want you to tell me all about him.  He interests me; but you see my sympathies are so intense, my imagination is so lively, that I don’t trust my own impressions.  They have misled me more than once!”  And she gave a little tragic shudder.