The Price She Paid [59]
to make a living by it, if I could. I'll even confess that there are many things I care for more than for music. Does that prove that I can never sing professionally?''
``No, indeed,'' Mrs. Brindley assured her. ``It'd be strange if a girl of your age cared exclusively for music. The passion comes with the work, with progress, success. And some of the greatest--that is, the most famous and best paid--singers never care much about music, except as a vanity, and never understand it. A singer means a person born with a certain shape of mouth and throat, a certain kind of vocal chords. The rest may be natural or acquired. It's the instrument that makes the singer, not brains or temperament.''
``Do let me sing for you,'' said Mildred. ``I think it will help me.''
Between them they chose a little French song-- ``Chanson d'Antonine''--and Mrs. Brindley insisted on her playing her own accompaniment. ``I wish to listen,'' said she, ``and I can't if I play.''
Mildred was surprised at her own freedom from nervousness. She sang neither better nor worse than usual --sang in the clear and pleasant soprano which she flattered herself was not unmusical. When she finished she said:
``That's about as I usually sing. What do you think?''
Mrs. Brindley reflected before she replied: ``I BELIEVE it's worth trying. If I were you, I should keep on trying, no matter what anyone said.''
Mildred was instantly depressed. ``You think Mr. Jennings may reject me?'' she asked.
``I KNOW he will not,'' replied Mrs. Brindley. ``Not as long as you can pay for the lessons. But I was thinking of the real thing--of whether you could win out as a singer.''
``And you don't think I can?'' said Mildred.
``On the contrary, I believe you can,'' replied Mrs. Brindley. ``A singer means so much besides singing. The singing is the smallest part of it. You'll understand when you get to work. I couldn't explain now. But I can say that you ought to go ahead.''
Mildred, who had her share of vanity, had hoped for some enthusiasm. Mrs. Brindley's judicial tone was a severe blow. She felt a little resentful, began to cast about for vanity-consoling reasons for Mrs. Brindley's restraint. ``She means well,'' she said to herself, ``but she's probably just a tiny bit jealous. She's not so young as she once was, and she hasn't the faintest hope of ever being anything more than a piano-teacher.''
Mrs. Brindley showed that she had more than an inkling of Mildred's frame of mind by going on to say in a gentle, candid way: ``I want to help you. So I shall be careful not to encourage you to believe too much in what you have. That would prevent you from getting what you need. You must remember, you are no longer a drawing-room singer, but a candidate for the profession. That's a very different thing.''
Mildred saw that she was mistaken, that Mrs. Brindley was honest and frank and had doubtless told her the exact truth. But her vanity remained sore. Never be- fore had anyone said any less of her singing than that it was wonderful, marvelous, equal to a great deal that passed for fine in grand opera. She had known that this was exaggeration, but she had not known how grossly exaggerated. Thus, this her first experience of the professional attitude was galling. Only her unusual good sense saved her from being angry with Mrs. Brindley. And it was that same good sense that moved her presently to try to laugh at herself. With a brave attempt to smile gayly she said:
``You don't realize how you've taken me down. I had no idea I was so conceited about my singing. I can't truthfully say I like your frankness, but there's a part of me that's grateful to you for it, and when I get over feeling hurt, I'll be grateful through and through.''
Mrs. Brindley's face lighted up beautifully. ``You'll DO!'' she cried. ``I'm sure you'll do. I've been waiting and watching to see how you would take my criticism. That's the test--how they take criticism. If they don't take it at all, they'll not go very far, no matter how talented
``No, indeed,'' Mrs. Brindley assured her. ``It'd be strange if a girl of your age cared exclusively for music. The passion comes with the work, with progress, success. And some of the greatest--that is, the most famous and best paid--singers never care much about music, except as a vanity, and never understand it. A singer means a person born with a certain shape of mouth and throat, a certain kind of vocal chords. The rest may be natural or acquired. It's the instrument that makes the singer, not brains or temperament.''
``Do let me sing for you,'' said Mildred. ``I think it will help me.''
Between them they chose a little French song-- ``Chanson d'Antonine''--and Mrs. Brindley insisted on her playing her own accompaniment. ``I wish to listen,'' said she, ``and I can't if I play.''
Mildred was surprised at her own freedom from nervousness. She sang neither better nor worse than usual --sang in the clear and pleasant soprano which she flattered herself was not unmusical. When she finished she said:
``That's about as I usually sing. What do you think?''
Mrs. Brindley reflected before she replied: ``I BELIEVE it's worth trying. If I were you, I should keep on trying, no matter what anyone said.''
Mildred was instantly depressed. ``You think Mr. Jennings may reject me?'' she asked.
``I KNOW he will not,'' replied Mrs. Brindley. ``Not as long as you can pay for the lessons. But I was thinking of the real thing--of whether you could win out as a singer.''
``And you don't think I can?'' said Mildred.
``On the contrary, I believe you can,'' replied Mrs. Brindley. ``A singer means so much besides singing. The singing is the smallest part of it. You'll understand when you get to work. I couldn't explain now. But I can say that you ought to go ahead.''
Mildred, who had her share of vanity, had hoped for some enthusiasm. Mrs. Brindley's judicial tone was a severe blow. She felt a little resentful, began to cast about for vanity-consoling reasons for Mrs. Brindley's restraint. ``She means well,'' she said to herself, ``but she's probably just a tiny bit jealous. She's not so young as she once was, and she hasn't the faintest hope of ever being anything more than a piano-teacher.''
Mrs. Brindley showed that she had more than an inkling of Mildred's frame of mind by going on to say in a gentle, candid way: ``I want to help you. So I shall be careful not to encourage you to believe too much in what you have. That would prevent you from getting what you need. You must remember, you are no longer a drawing-room singer, but a candidate for the profession. That's a very different thing.''
Mildred saw that she was mistaken, that Mrs. Brindley was honest and frank and had doubtless told her the exact truth. But her vanity remained sore. Never be- fore had anyone said any less of her singing than that it was wonderful, marvelous, equal to a great deal that passed for fine in grand opera. She had known that this was exaggeration, but she had not known how grossly exaggerated. Thus, this her first experience of the professional attitude was galling. Only her unusual good sense saved her from being angry with Mrs. Brindley. And it was that same good sense that moved her presently to try to laugh at herself. With a brave attempt to smile gayly she said:
``You don't realize how you've taken me down. I had no idea I was so conceited about my singing. I can't truthfully say I like your frankness, but there's a part of me that's grateful to you for it, and when I get over feeling hurt, I'll be grateful through and through.''
Mrs. Brindley's face lighted up beautifully. ``You'll DO!'' she cried. ``I'm sure you'll do. I've been waiting and watching to see how you would take my criticism. That's the test--how they take criticism. If they don't take it at all, they'll not go very far, no matter how talented