o be confounding the
limits of the several arts.' 'What!' I continued, 'is the drama but
emotion presented in its most external forms as action? And what is
music but emotion, in its most genuine essence, expressed by sound?
Where then can a more complete artistic harmony be found than in the
opera?'

'The opera,' replied our host, 'is a hybrid. You will probably learn
to dislike artistic hybrids, if you have the taste and sense I give
you credit for. My own opinion has been already expressed. In the
_Nozze_, Beaumarchais' _Mariage de Figaro_ is simply spoiled. My
friend the professor declares Mozart's music to be sufficient by
itself, and the libretto to be a sort of machinery for its display.
Miranda, I think, agrees with him. You plead eloquently for the
hybrid. You have a right to your own view. These things are matters,
in the final resort, of individual taste rather than of demonstrable
principles. But I repeat that you are very young.' The critic drained
his Lambrusco, and smiled at me.

'Yes, he is young,' added Miranda. 'He must learn to distinguish
between music, his own imagination, and a pretty woman. At present he
mixes them all up together. It is a sort of transcendental omelette.
But I think the pretty woman has more to do with it than metaphysics!'

All this while Edoardo had bestowed devout attention on his supper.
But it appeared that the drift of our discourse had not been lost by
him. 'Well,' he said, 'you finely fibred people dissect and analyse.
I am content with the _spettacolo_. That pleases. What does a man
want more? The _Nozze_ is a comedy of life and manners. The music
is adorable. To-night the women were not bad to look at--the Lucca
was divine; the scenes--ingenious. I thought but little. I came away
delighted. You could have a better play, Caro Signore!' (with a bow
to our host). 'That is granted. You might have better music, Cara
Signora!' (with a bow to Miranda). 'That too is granted. But when the
play and the music come together--how shall I say?--the music helps
the play, and the play helps the music; and we--well we, I suppose,
must help both!'

Edoardo's little speech was so ingenuous, and, what is more, so true
to his Italian temperament, that it made us all laugh and leave the
argument just where we found it. The bottles of Lambrusco supplied us
each with one more glass; and while we were drinking them, Miranda,
woman-like, taking the last word, but contradicting herself, soft