"After all, Shakespeare concerned himself very little about such
matters," said Lydia, conversationally.
"No doubt. I seldom read him."
"Is this part of Lady Constance a favorite one of yours?"
"Troublesome, my dear," said Mrs. Byron, absently. "The men look
ridiculous in it; and it does not draw."
"No doubt," said Lydia, watching her face. "But I spoke rather of
your personal feeling towards the character. Do you, for instance,
like portraying maternal tenderness on the stage?"
"Maternal tenderness," said Mrs. Byron with sudden nobleness, "is
far too sacred a thing to be mimicked. Have you any children?"
"No," said Lydia, demurely. "I am not married."
"Of course not. You should get married. Maternity is a liberal
education in itself."
"Do you think that it suits every woman?"
"Undoubtedly. Without exception. Only think, dear Miss Carew, of the
infinite patieuce with which you must tend a child, of the necessity
of seeing with its little eyes and with your own wise ones at the
same time, of bearing without reproach the stabs it innocently
inflicts, of forgiving its hundred little selfishnesses, of living
in continual fear of wounding its exquisite sensitiveness, or
rousing its bitter resentment of injustice and caprice. Think of how
you must watch yourself, check yourself, exercise and develop
everything in you that can help to attract and retain the most
jealous love in the world! Believe me, it is a priceless trial to be
a mother. It is a royal compensation for having been born a woman."
"Nevertheless," said Lydia, "I wish I had been born a man. Since you
seem to have thought deeply into these problems, I will venture to
ask you a question. Do you not think that the acquirement of an art
demanding years of careful self-study and training--such as yours,
for example--is also of great educational value? Almost a sufficient
discipline to make one a good mother?"
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Byron, decidedly. "People come into the world
ready-made. I went on the stage when I was eighteen, and succeeded
at once. Had I known anything of the world, or been four years
older, I should have been weak, awkward, timid, and flat; it would
have taken me twelve years to crawl to the front. But I was young,
passionate, beautiful, and indeed terrible; for I had run away from
home two years before, and been cruelly deceived. I learned the
business of the stage as easily and thoughtlessly as a child learns
a prayer; the rest came to me by nature. I have seen others spend
years in struggling with bad voices, uncouth figures, and
diffidence; besides a dozen defects that existed only in their
imaginations. Their struggles may have educated them; but had they
possessed sufficient genius they would have had neither struggle nor
education. Perhaps that is why geniuses are such erratic people, and
mediocrities so respectable. I grant you that I was very limited
when I first came out; I was absolutely incapable of comedy. But I
never took any trouble about it; and by and by, when I began to
mature a little, and to see the absurdity of most of the things I
had been making a fuss about, comedy came to me unsought, as
romantic tragedy had come before. I suppose it would have come just
the same if I had been laboring to acquire it, except that I would
have attributed its arrival to my own exertions. Most of the
laborious people think they have made themselves what they are--much
as if a child should think it had made itself grow."