The Price She Paid [134]
do what seems best to me.''
``But I'm sure you're wrong. I never knew anyone to act as you're acting. Everyone rests and freshens up.''
Mildred lost patience, almost lost her temper. ``You're trying to tempt me to ruin myself,'' she said. ``Please stop it. You say you never knew anyone to do as I'm doing. Very well. But how many girls have you known who have succeeded?''
Cyrilla hesitatingly confessed that she had known none.
``Yet you've known scores who've tried.''
``But they didn't fail because they didn't work enough. Many of them worked too much.''
Mildred laughed. ``How do you know why they failed?'' said she. ``You haven't thought about it as I have. You haven't LIVED it. Cyrilla, I served my apprenticeship at listening to nonsense about careers. I want to have nothing to do with inspiration, and artistic temperament, and spontaneous genius, and all the rest of the lies. Moldini and I know what we are about. So I'm living as those who have succeeded lived and not as those who have failed.''
Cyrilla was silenced, but not convinced. The amazing improvement in Mildred's health, the splendid slim strength and suppleness of her body, the new and stable glories of her voice--all these she knew about, but they did not convince her. She believed in work, in hard work, but to her work meant the music itself. She felt that the Rivi system and the dirty, obscure little Moldini between them were destroying Mildred by destroying all ``temperament'' in her.
It was the old, old criticism of talent upon genius. Genius has always won in its own time and generation all the world except talent. To talent contemporaneous genius, genius seen at its patient, plodding toil, seems coarse and obvious and lacking altogether in inspiration. Talent cannot comprehend that creation is necessarily in travail and in all manner of unloveliness.
Mildred toiled on like a slave under the lash, and Moldini and the Rivi system were her twin relentless drivers. She learned to rule herself with an iron hand. She discovered the full measure of her own deficiencies, and she determined to make herself a competent lyric soprano, perhaps something of a dramatic soprano. She dismissed from her mind all the ``high'' thoughts, all the dreams wherewith the little people, even the little people who achieve a certain success, beguile the tedium of their journey along the hard road. She was not working to ``interpret the thought of the great master'' or to ``advance the singing art yet higher'' or
even to win fame and applause. She had one object --to earn her living on the grand opera stage, and to earn it as a prima donna because that meant the best living. She frankly told Cyrilla that this was her object, when Cyrilla forced her one day to talk about her aims. Cyrilla looked pained, broke a melancholy silence to say:
``I know you don't mean that. You are too intelligent. You sing too well.''
``Yes, I mean just that,'' said Mildred. ``A living.''
``At any rate, don't say it. You give such a false impression.''
``To whom? Not to Crossley, and not to Moldini, and why should I care what any others think? They are not paying my expenses. And regardless of what they think now, they'll be at my feet if I succeed, and they'll put me under theirs if I don't.''
``How hard you have grown,'' cried Cyrilla.
``How sensible, you mean. I've merely stopped being a self-deceiver and a sentimentalist.''
``Believe me, my dear, you are sacrificing your character to your ambition.''
``I never had any real character until ambition came,'' replied Mildred. ``The soft, vacillating, sweet and weak thing I used to have wasn't character.''
``But, dear, you can't think it superior character to center one's whole life about a sordid ambition.''
``Sordid?''
``Merely to make a living.''
Mildred laughed merrily and mockingly. ``You call that sordid? Then for heaven's sake what is high? You had left you money enough to live on, if you have to. No one left me an income. So, I'm fighting for independence--and
``But I'm sure you're wrong. I never knew anyone to act as you're acting. Everyone rests and freshens up.''
Mildred lost patience, almost lost her temper. ``You're trying to tempt me to ruin myself,'' she said. ``Please stop it. You say you never knew anyone to do as I'm doing. Very well. But how many girls have you known who have succeeded?''
Cyrilla hesitatingly confessed that she had known none.
``Yet you've known scores who've tried.''
``But they didn't fail because they didn't work enough. Many of them worked too much.''
Mildred laughed. ``How do you know why they failed?'' said she. ``You haven't thought about it as I have. You haven't LIVED it. Cyrilla, I served my apprenticeship at listening to nonsense about careers. I want to have nothing to do with inspiration, and artistic temperament, and spontaneous genius, and all the rest of the lies. Moldini and I know what we are about. So I'm living as those who have succeeded lived and not as those who have failed.''
Cyrilla was silenced, but not convinced. The amazing improvement in Mildred's health, the splendid slim strength and suppleness of her body, the new and stable glories of her voice--all these she knew about, but they did not convince her. She believed in work, in hard work, but to her work meant the music itself. She felt that the Rivi system and the dirty, obscure little Moldini between them were destroying Mildred by destroying all ``temperament'' in her.
It was the old, old criticism of talent upon genius. Genius has always won in its own time and generation all the world except talent. To talent contemporaneous genius, genius seen at its patient, plodding toil, seems coarse and obvious and lacking altogether in inspiration. Talent cannot comprehend that creation is necessarily in travail and in all manner of unloveliness.
Mildred toiled on like a slave under the lash, and Moldini and the Rivi system were her twin relentless drivers. She learned to rule herself with an iron hand. She discovered the full measure of her own deficiencies, and she determined to make herself a competent lyric soprano, perhaps something of a dramatic soprano. She dismissed from her mind all the ``high'' thoughts, all the dreams wherewith the little people, even the little people who achieve a certain success, beguile the tedium of their journey along the hard road. She was not working to ``interpret the thought of the great master'' or to ``advance the singing art yet higher'' or
even to win fame and applause. She had one object --to earn her living on the grand opera stage, and to earn it as a prima donna because that meant the best living. She frankly told Cyrilla that this was her object, when Cyrilla forced her one day to talk about her aims. Cyrilla looked pained, broke a melancholy silence to say:
``I know you don't mean that. You are too intelligent. You sing too well.''
``Yes, I mean just that,'' said Mildred. ``A living.''
``At any rate, don't say it. You give such a false impression.''
``To whom? Not to Crossley, and not to Moldini, and why should I care what any others think? They are not paying my expenses. And regardless of what they think now, they'll be at my feet if I succeed, and they'll put me under theirs if I don't.''
``How hard you have grown,'' cried Cyrilla.
``How sensible, you mean. I've merely stopped being a self-deceiver and a sentimentalist.''
``Believe me, my dear, you are sacrificing your character to your ambition.''
``I never had any real character until ambition came,'' replied Mildred. ``The soft, vacillating, sweet and weak thing I used to have wasn't character.''
``But, dear, you can't think it superior character to center one's whole life about a sordid ambition.''
``Sordid?''
``Merely to make a living.''
Mildred laughed merrily and mockingly. ``You call that sordid? Then for heaven's sake what is high? You had left you money enough to live on, if you have to. No one left me an income. So, I'm fighting for independence--and