“Tell me this—am I a real genius?” unconscious of the implied egotism.
“Of course,” he answered simply. “Would I bother so much with you if you were not? Would I send a regiment of teachers and coaches to get you into proper form? But enough of that! Only don’t let it spoil you. Still I don’t think it will, because you’ve the sort of talent that is rock-bottom foundation. You’re going to be immeasurably silly and have all kinds of notions and adventures. I’m not interested in that part of your career. I want you to be clear on this point.” As he spoke, he seemed aloof, absolutely impersonal and removed from workaday affairs, and Thurley experienced the sensation of embarrassment at having asked him any questions.
“Your voice is my hobby just now.” The enthusiasm of youth was in his own. “It is God-given, art concealing art. You have that fire, dash, touch of strangeness that one sees very seldom. You really would have hard work to spoil your voice, Thurley. Moreover, I would have hard work to teach you how to sing. Are you surprised? Oh, you thought as do so many that I would teach you to sing as one learns to dance or paint on china, some systematic, mechanical accomplishment ... all wrong!” He brushed the entire range of keys with his hands as if to express denial of the fact. “God taught you to sing, Thurley. You sang as well in your Birge’s Corners as you will sing in opera—and perhaps better. But you need polish, general education along many lines, endless drill and routine. As for singing, per se, there is nothing I can teach or tell you. I can direct and restrain—that is my part. So it is with all great artists, the gift is quite complete and quite their own; it is for them to be willing to be directed and not to shirk drudgery.” He was about to add something else, something which it seemed to Thurley was a secret of his very heart, but he broke off abruptly with,
“Now, you young country scamp, sing hey and sing ho, for you’re wasting time!” So taking her cue, Thurley fell to work with a zest.
The lesson ended with a surprise.
“Try this aria of Rosina’s in ‘Barber of Seville’—the ‘Una voce poco fa.’ I’ve a notion you can make it celestial harmony if you like. If you can’t do the Italian, take a syllable and stick to it. Now—” Handing her the music he dashed into the aria in contagious spirit.
“Very bad,” he commented, making a wry face and taking the music from her, “but that’s nothing against the voice. A year from now we shall have the music critics sitting up and exclaiming. Run along, Thurley, and don’t let the rustic swains make you lose time from your lessons.”
She was putting on her hat and fancied he could not see her expression. But he surprised her with,
“You will have all the time in the world for nonsense after you’ve mastered the things you need to know. What you want to do is to put your heart in cold storage for a while, as you did your sense of humor. Just be an amiable and obedient genius-flapper and everything else will true up and appear in due season, just as the curtain speeches during the last act reveal the missing will, the lost child and soften the irate parent’s heart against the poor but proud hero.”
“But I don’t want always to have some part of me in cold storage,” Thurley protested. “I’ve always been such—such a very real person that it’s hard to—”