his heart musing upon other scenes; himself the unconscious hero of a
living drama.

Or, if you choose to lift your eyes, you see that woman with the
sweet, fair face, composed, not sad, turned with placid interest
towards the loves of Gretchen and Faust. She sees the eager delight of
the meeting; she hears the ardent vow; she feels the rapture of the
embrace. With placid interest she watches all--she, and the sedate
husband by her side. And yet when her eyes wander it is to see a man
in the parquette below her on the other side, who, between the acts,
rises with the rest and surveys the house, and looks at her as at all
the others. At this distance you cannot say if any softer color steals
into that placid face; you cannot tell if his survey lingers longer
upon her than upon the rest. Yet she was Gretchen once, and he was
Faust. There is no moonlight romance, no garden ecstasy, poorly
feigned upon the stage, that is not burned with eternal fire into
their memories. Night after night they come. They do not especially
like this music. They are not infatuated with these singers. They have
seats for the season; she with her husband, he in the orchestra
chairs. She has a pleasant home and sweet children and a kind mate,
and is not unhappy. He is at ease in his fortunes, and content. They
do not come here that they may see each other. They meet elsewhere as
all acquaintances meet. They cherish no morbid repining, no
sentimental regret. But every night there is an opera, and the theme
of every opera is love; and once, ah! once, she was Gretchen and he
was Faust.

Do you see? These are three out of the three thousand. There is
nothing to distinguish them from the rest. Look at them all, and
reflect that all have their history; and that it is known, as this one