within the heart. The Sphinx was gazing on it all with those eyes that
will never grow old, neither for years nor tears; but though I seemed to
be seeing nothing but an advertisement of Paderewski pianos on the
programme, I saw it--oh, didn't I see it?--all. The house had grown
dark, and the music low and passionate, and for a moment no one was
speaking. Only, deep in the thickets of my heart there sang a tragic
nightingale that, happily, only I could hear; and I said to myself, 'Now
the young fool is climbing the orchard wall! Yes, there go Benvolio and
Mercutio calling him; and now,--"he jests at scars who never felt a
wound"--the other young fool is coming out on to the balcony. God help
them both! They have no eyes--no eyes--or surely they would see the
shadow that sings "Love! Love! Love!" like a fountain in the moonlight,
and then shrinks away to chuckle "Death! Death! Death!" in the
darkness!'

But, soft, what light from yonder window breaks!

The Sphinx turned to me for sympathy--this time it was the soul of
Shakespeare in her eyes.

'Yes!' I whispered, 'it is the Opening of the Eternal Rose, sung by the
Eternal Nightingale!'

She pressed my hand approvingly; and while the lovely voices made their
heavenly love, I slipped out my silver-bound pocket-book of ivory and
pressed within it the rose which had just fallen from my lips.

The worst of a great play is that one is so dull between the acts. Wit
is sacrilege, and sentiment is bathos. Not another rose fell from my
lips during the performance, though that I minded little, as I was the