“I? Oh, I told him that, of course, you would do as you pleased about that, but that for my part I should urge you most strongly to do nothing of the kind.”
“And he?”
“He got four inches taller. What is so odd is that as long as I never opposed my father’s wishes, as long as I was the clock on the chimney piece, I was terrified at him. The thought of opposing myself to him made my knees quake. But the moment I began doing so, I found there was nothing to be frightened at.”
Sylvia got up and began walking up and down the long room.
“But what am I to do about it, Michael?” she asked. “Oh, I blush when I think of a conversation I had with Hermann about you, just before Christmas, when I knew you were going to propose to me. I said that I could never give up my singing. Can you picture the self-importance of that? Why, it doesn’t seem to me to matter two straws whether I do or not. Naturally, I don’t want to earn my living by it any more, but whether I sing or not doesn’t matter. And even as the words are in my mouth I try to imagine myself not singing any more, and I can’t. It’s become part of me, and while I blush to think of what I said to Hermann, I wonder whether it’s not true.”
She came and sat down by him again.
“I believe you have got enough artistic instinct to understand that, Michael,” she said, “and to know what a tremendous help it is to one’s art to be a professional, and to be judged seriously. I suppose that, ideally, if one loves music as I do one ought to be able to do one’s very best, whether one is singing professionally or not, but it is hardly possible. Why, the whole difference between amateurs and professionals is that amateurs sing charmingly and professionals just sing. Only they sing as well as they possibly can, not only because they love it, but because if they don’t they will be dropped on to, and if they continue not singing their best, will lose their place which they have so hardly won. I can see myself, perhaps, not singing at all, literally never opening my lips in song again, but I can’t see myself coming down to the Drill Hall at Brixton, extremely beautifully dressed, with rows of pearls, and arriving rather late, and just singing charmingly. It’s such a spur to know that serious musicians judge one’s performance by the highest possible standard. It’s so relaxing to think that one can easily sing well enough, that one can delight ninety-nine hundredths of the audience without any real effort. I could sing ‘The Lost Chord’ and move the whole Drill Hall at Brixton to tears. But there might be one man there who knew, you or Hermann or some other, and at the end he would just shrug his shoulders ever so slightly, and I would wish I had never been born.”
She paused a moment.
“I’ll not sing any more at all, ever,” she said, “or I must sing to those who will take me seriously and judge me ruthlessly. To sing just well enough to please isn’t possible. I’ll do either you like.”
Mrs. Falbe strayed in at this moment with her finger in her book, but otherwise as purposeless as a wandering mist.