ever have been unlocked had I been that
worthy man's wife."

"What a fine moral lesson the old fairy-tale teaches!" said Zara. "I
always think those wives of Blue-Beard deserved their fate for not
being able to obey him in his one request. But in regard to your
pursuits, dear, while I am at work in my studio, you can use the grand
piano in the drawing-room when you please, as well as the little one in
your own room; and you can improvise on the chapel organ as much as you
like."

I was delighted at this idea, and thanked her heartily. She smiled
thoughtfully.

"What happiness it must be for you to love music so thoroughly!" she
said. "It fills you with enthusiasm. I used to dislike to read the
biographies of musical people; they all seemed to find so much fault
with one another, and grudged each other every little bit of praise
wrung from the world's cold, death-doomed lips. It is to me
pathetically absurd to see gifted persons all struggling along, and
rudely elbowing each other out of the way to win--what? A few stilted
commonplace words of approbation or fault-finding in the newspapers of
the day, and a little clapping and shouting from a gathering of
ordinary minded persons, who only clap and shout because it is possibly
the fashion to do so. It is really ludicrous. If the music the musician
offers to the public be really great, it will live by itself and defy
praise or blame. Because Schubert died of want and sorrow, that does
not interfere with the life of his creations. Because Wagner is voted
impossible and absurd by many who think themselves good judges of
musical art, that does not offer any obstacle to the steady spread of
his fame, which is destined to become as universal as that of
Shakespeare. Poor Joachim, the violinist, has got a picture in his
private house, in which Wagner is painted as suffering the tortures of
hell; can anything be more absurd, when we consider how soon the
learned fiddler, who has occupied his life in playing other people's
compositions, will be a handful of forgotten dust, while multitudes yet
to come will shout their admiration of 'Tristran' and 'Parsifal.' Yes,
as I said, I never cared for musical people much, till I met a friend
of my brother's--a man whose inner life was an exquisite harmony."

"I know!" I interrupted her. "He wrote the 'Letters of a Dead
Musician.'"

"Yes," said Zara. "I suppose you saw the book at Raffaello's studio.
Good Raffaello Cellini! his is anot