“And so badly,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him in her turn, “so badly, that you concluded I must be incapable of appreciating good music when I heard it? On the contrary, I am so sensitively alive to its beauties that I cannot endure mediocrity, and beyond that I know I should never arrive, when I take into consideration my want of time and patience!” “Of your want of patience you are the best judge—time you have enough, if you want to employ it on music—for instance, you read enormously. Were the hours which you devote to——” “Ah, bah!” cried Hildegarde, impatiently; “why should I plague myself studying music, which, after all, is half mechanical expertness most difficult to acquire, when in reading I gain information and amuse myself at the same time. If I could hope to play like Oscar, it would be different, but nothing else would satisfy me.” “Then you do not care for vocal music,” said Hamilton. “I rather give it the preference; because one has words to direct the thoughts; but then the voice is also an instrument—requires incessant practice, and so—and so—but you know very well that I have no patience!” “So I thought, until I discovered that you had learned English so perfectly without an instructor; this proves that you have both patience and perseverance.” “But, then, think of the reward! a new and extensive literature!” “And if you really liked music, would it not also have rewarded you?” “I see you have got the best side of the argument; and I must therefore suppose that I have no real talent for music. To appreciate Oscar’s playing, however, only requires feeling—it is a sort of thing one never could get tired of—something like the conversation of a person who talks well. I only hope you may soon have an opportunity of judging for yourself. I wish, too, you could hear him read aloud. I never imagined anything like it. He read for Mademoiselle de Hoffmann and me, and we both felt cold and warm alternately—it was too delightful!” “What did he read?” asked Crescenz. “Heine’s poems,” answered Hildegarde, drawing from her pocket a small volume—“this is called the _Book of Songs_; and he has given it to me. Shall I read you _The Dream_?” “By all means,” said Hamilton. Hildegarde began, her voice trembling from eagerness. She had, however, scarcely read a couple of verses, when her mother entered the room, and asked directly, “What have you got there, Hildegarde?” “A book, mamma.” “That is evident: but what book? You know I do not wish you to read anything but French; and this is German, and poetry into the bargain—and Count Raimund’s too!” she said, taking it out of Hildegarde’s unwilling hand—“You see, Major, he has already begun with his books, just as you told me. I dare say it is full of improprieties!” “As well as I can recollect, you are mistaken,” said Hamilton. “Some of the poems are beautiful, and all original, and full of talent.”