The Price She Paid [80]
questions. If you had not seen clearly what I meant, you would have been really offended. You'd have gone away and not come back.''
She saw that this was true. And, seeing, she wondered how she could have been so stupid as not to have seen it at once. She had yet to learn that overlooking the obvious is a universal human failing and that seeing the obvious is the talent and the use of the superior of earth--the few who dominate and determine the race.
``You reproach me for not having helped you,'' he went on. ``How does it happen that you are uneasy in mind--so uneasy that you are quarreling at me?''
A light broke upon her. ``You have been drawing me on, from the beginning,'' she cried. ``You have been helping me--making me see that I needed help.''
``No,'' said he. ``I've been waiting to see whether you would rouse from your dream of grandeur.''
``YOU have been rousing me.''
``No,'' he said. ``You've roused yourself. So you may be worth helping or, rather, worth encouraging, for no one can HELP you but yourself.''
She looked at him pathetically. ``But what shall I do?'' she asked. ``I've got no money, no experience, no sense. I'm a vain, luxury-loving fool, cursed with a--with a--is it a conscience?''
``I hope it's something more substantial. I hope it's common sense.''
``But I have been working--honestly I have.''
``Don't begin lying to yourself again.''
``Don't be harsh with me.''
He drew in his legs, in preparation for rising--no doubt to go away.
``I don't mean that,'' she cried testily. ``You are not harsh with me. It's the truth that's harsh--the truth I'm beginning to see--and feel. I am afraid-- afraid. I haven't the courage to face it.''
``Why whine?'' said he. ``There's nothing in that.''
``Do you think there's any hope for me?''
``That depends,'' said he.
``On what?''
``On what you want.''
``I want to be a singer, a great singer.''
``No, there's no hope.''
She grew cold with despair. He had a way of saying a thing that gave it the full weight of a verdict from which there was no appeal.
``Now, if you wanted to make a living,'' he went on, ``and if you were determined to learn to sing as well as you could, with the idea that you might be able to make a living--why, then there might be hope.''
``You think I can sing?''
``I never heard you. Can you?''
``They say I can.''
``What do YOU say?''
``I don't know,'' she confessed. ``I've never been able to judge. Sometimes I think I'm singing well, and I find out afterward that I've sung badly. Again, it's the other way.''
``Then, obviously, what's the first thing to do?''
``To learn to judge myself,'' said she. ``I never thought of it before--how important that is. Do you know Jennings--Eugene Jennings?''
``The singing teacher? No.''
``Is he a good teacher?''
``No.''
``Why not?''
``Because he has not taught you that you will never sing until you are your own teacher. Because he has not taught you that singing is a small and minor part of a career as a singer.''
``But it isn't,'' protested she.
A long silence. Looking at him, she felt that he had dismissed her and her affairs from his mind.
``Is it?'' she said, to bring him back.
``What?'' asked he vaguely.
``You said that a singer didn't have to be able to sing.''
``Did I?'' He glanced down the shore toward the house. ``It feels like lunch-time.'' He rose.
``What did you mean by what you said?''
``When you have thought about your case a while longer, we'll talk of it again--if you wish. But until you've thought, talking is a waste of time.''
She rose, stood staring out to sea. He was observing her, a faint smile about his lips. He said:
``Why bother about a career? After all, kept woman is a thoroughly respectable occupation--or can be made so by any preacher or justice of the peace. It's followed by many of our best women--those who pride themselves on their high characters--and on their pride.''
``I could not belong to a man unless I cared for him,''
She saw that this was true. And, seeing, she wondered how she could have been so stupid as not to have seen it at once. She had yet to learn that overlooking the obvious is a universal human failing and that seeing the obvious is the talent and the use of the superior of earth--the few who dominate and determine the race.
``You reproach me for not having helped you,'' he went on. ``How does it happen that you are uneasy in mind--so uneasy that you are quarreling at me?''
A light broke upon her. ``You have been drawing me on, from the beginning,'' she cried. ``You have been helping me--making me see that I needed help.''
``No,'' said he. ``I've been waiting to see whether you would rouse from your dream of grandeur.''
``YOU have been rousing me.''
``No,'' he said. ``You've roused yourself. So you may be worth helping or, rather, worth encouraging, for no one can HELP you but yourself.''
She looked at him pathetically. ``But what shall I do?'' she asked. ``I've got no money, no experience, no sense. I'm a vain, luxury-loving fool, cursed with a--with a--is it a conscience?''
``I hope it's something more substantial. I hope it's common sense.''
``But I have been working--honestly I have.''
``Don't begin lying to yourself again.''
``Don't be harsh with me.''
He drew in his legs, in preparation for rising--no doubt to go away.
``I don't mean that,'' she cried testily. ``You are not harsh with me. It's the truth that's harsh--the truth I'm beginning to see--and feel. I am afraid-- afraid. I haven't the courage to face it.''
``Why whine?'' said he. ``There's nothing in that.''
``Do you think there's any hope for me?''
``That depends,'' said he.
``On what?''
``On what you want.''
``I want to be a singer, a great singer.''
``No, there's no hope.''
She grew cold with despair. He had a way of saying a thing that gave it the full weight of a verdict from which there was no appeal.
``Now, if you wanted to make a living,'' he went on, ``and if you were determined to learn to sing as well as you could, with the idea that you might be able to make a living--why, then there might be hope.''
``You think I can sing?''
``I never heard you. Can you?''
``They say I can.''
``What do YOU say?''
``I don't know,'' she confessed. ``I've never been able to judge. Sometimes I think I'm singing well, and I find out afterward that I've sung badly. Again, it's the other way.''
``Then, obviously, what's the first thing to do?''
``To learn to judge myself,'' said she. ``I never thought of it before--how important that is. Do you know Jennings--Eugene Jennings?''
``The singing teacher? No.''
``Is he a good teacher?''
``No.''
``Why not?''
``Because he has not taught you that you will never sing until you are your own teacher. Because he has not taught you that singing is a small and minor part of a career as a singer.''
``But it isn't,'' protested she.
A long silence. Looking at him, she felt that he had dismissed her and her affairs from his mind.
``Is it?'' she said, to bring him back.
``What?'' asked he vaguely.
``You said that a singer didn't have to be able to sing.''
``Did I?'' He glanced down the shore toward the house. ``It feels like lunch-time.'' He rose.
``What did you mean by what you said?''
``When you have thought about your case a while longer, we'll talk of it again--if you wish. But until you've thought, talking is a waste of time.''
She rose, stood staring out to sea. He was observing her, a faint smile about his lips. He said:
``Why bother about a career? After all, kept woman is a thoroughly respectable occupation--or can be made so by any preacher or justice of the peace. It's followed by many of our best women--those who pride themselves on their high characters--and on their pride.''
``I could not belong to a man unless I cared for him,''