“Supposing,” said Valeria after a long pause, “that you could live your life over again, what would you do?”
“I don’t know. It is my impression that in my life, as in the lives of most women, all roads lead to Rome. Whether one does this or that, one finds oneself in pretty much the same position at the end. It doesn’t answer to rebel against the recognized condition of things, and it doesn’t answer to submit. Only generally one must, as in my case. A choice of calamities is not always permitted.”
“It is so difficult to know which is the least,” said Valeria.
“I don’t believe there is a ‘least.’ They are both unbearable. It is a question which best fits one’s temperament, which leads soonest to resignation.”
“Oh, Hadria, you would never achieve resignation!” cried Valeria.
“Oh, some day, perhaps!”
Valeria shook her head. She had no belief in Hadria’s powers in that direction. Hopelessness was her nearest approach to that condition of cheerful acquiescence which, Hadria had herself said, profound faith or profound stupidity can perhaps equally inspire.
“At least,” said Valeria, “you know that you are useful and helpful to those around you. You make your mother happy.”
“No, my mother is not happy. My work is negative. I just manage to prevent her dying of grief. One must not be too ambitious in this stern world. One can’t make people happy merely by reducing oneself, morally, to a jelly. Sometimes, by that means, one can dodge battle and murder and sudden death.”
“It is terrible!” cried Valeria.