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.
Pages:
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531