“That you are kinder to me than any one has ever been since I left home; and that I am very, very grateful,” Zuleime said, very gently.
“But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow it, even for bread,” said the actress, bitterly.
“No, no—I did not say or mean that, indeed—but I, you see, have neither the taste, talent, nor courage requisite!”
“Why not?”
“I was brought up in the privacy of domestic life; in the deep seclusion of the country. I have never been used to society, much less to publicity, and I am sure, that no matter how well I might be instructed in my part, when I should come before an audience, I should forget all about it, and half die of shame.”
“Ah, I suppose you have no vocation for it. An actress forgets her own identity in that of the character she represents, and that enables her to go through things she could not otherwise endure. But, my dear, I do not see anything else you can do; and as for the ‘stage fright,’ as it is called among us, you would soon get that off.”
Zuleime shook her head.
“My dear, you do not yet know the plan I have for you. I never thought—no one would ever think of a sudden grand debut for you. Nothing but great genius, strong vocation, and perfect self-possession on the part of the debutante, would justify such a thing. No—the art must be acquired, as other arts are—slowly. This is the plan I had for you, and it entirely precludes the possibility of a stage fright, since you are gradually inured to it. Do you understand me, now?”
“No, I do not!”
“Well, then, for instance—and to come to the point! The opera season is about to commence, and the manager wishes to engage about half a dozen young girls as chorus singers. Will you be one? The lowest salary they ever give a chorus singer is six dollars a week—that is four times as much as you ever earned by the tedious needle. Will you consent?”