When Ethel Taylor came home, at nineteen, her grandmother seemed like
a little ghost from the past, utterly unconnected with her present
life. She still went to visit the old lady, and sat in the familiar
room in her little cottage, where the bronze bust of Dante appeared to
impose a dignified calm; but these visits were nothing but interludes
to real life, and real life, just now, was a miserable thing.
The trouble was that Aunt Amy kept on being Aunt Amy, while the
childish Ethel and the nineteen-year-old one were entirely different
persons. Aunt Amy wanted her to come out, and to be a nice, happy
débutante like other girls; but something in Ethel’s blood rebelled
against that. She called it a “modern spirit,” and never realized that
instead of being modern, it was the old Mazetti strain, come down to
her from people who for generations had not lived by bread alone.
She told her aunt that she wanted to be a singer.
“That’s a charming accomplishment,” said Aunt Amy affably.
“I mean I want really to study—for years and years!”
“Certainly, dear, if you can find the time.”
“Time!” said Ethel. “What else do I ever do but waste time?”
“Naturally you can’t neglect your social duties—”
“Duties!”
“Please don’t repeat my words in that odd way,” said Aunt Amy, a
little hurt. “If you want to study singing, there’s no reason why you
shouldn’t, so long as you’re not excessive about it.”
“But I want to be excessive! I want to give all my time to it! I want
to be a professional singer!”
Aunt Amy laughed, not in order to be irritating, but because she
really thought it was funny. Not being a woman of much penetration,
she told some of her friends about that absurd little Ethel’s
fantastic idea.
As a result, the girl was teased about it. Ethel couldn’t endure being
teased. She had that queer lack of self-confidence, combined with
tremendous resolution and a little vanity, that belong to young
artists, and she felt that she was absurd, although she really knew
that she wasn’t. She was ashamed to practice now, and at the same time
she exulted in her clear, strong, flexible voice. When she was asked
to sing, she refused; yet sometimes, when she knew there were people
in the drawing-room, she would go up the stairs or through the hall,
singing her loudest and sweetest, half terrified, half delighted, at
the glorious flood of melody that rose from her heart.
She didn’t want anything else. She couldn’t and wouldn’t be bothered
with “social duties.” She wanted to work hard, all day and every day,
until she was mistress of this great gift of hers, until she could
sing in reality as she did in imagination. She had fits of black
depression, when the sounds that came from her throat seemed a mockery
of what she intended. At other moments she was in wild spirits,
because she was sure she had made a little progress.
Her changing humors were so marked that Aunt Amy was gravely
perturbed. She felt that Ethel was becoming “eccentric,” which was the
worst thing any one could be, and she attributed it all to this
annoying obsession with singing. In all good faith, she did what she
thought best for the girl—she stopped her lessons.
Ethel wept and stormed and entreated and argued until she was almost
ill, but without moving Aunt Amy.
“No!” that lady said firmly. “If you’ll put all that nonsense out of
your head, and lead a normal, sensible life like other girls, I’ll let
you take up singing again in a year.”
She hoped and believed that within a year’s time such a pretty and
delightful girl would surely find something better to think about.
Ethel was helpless. She was exquisitely dressed, and she lived in
great comfort and luxury, but she hadn’t a penny of her own to pay for
lessons.
Artists, however—even young and undeveloped ones—are very hard to deal
with, because they will not give up and be sensible. Instead of
resigning herself to doing without what she wanted, Ethel did nothing
but think how she could get at least a part of it. Being nineteen, and
rash, and terribly in earnest, she was dallying with a singularly
unsuitable idea.