THE SONG OF THE LARK
If I had been a trombone player, it would have been the same; you would have wanted to play trombone. But all the while you have been working with such good-will, something has been struggling against me. See, here we were, you and I and this instrument,"—he tapped the piano,—"three good friends, working so hard. But all the while there was something fighting us: your gift, and the woman you were meant to be. When you find your way to that gift and to that woman, you will be at peace. In the beginning it was an artist that you wanted to be; well, you may be an artist, always."
Thea drew a long breath. Her hands fell in her lap. "So I 'm just where I began. No teacher, nothing done. No money."
Harsanyi turned away. "Feel no apprehension about the money, Miss Kronborg. Come back in the fall and we shall manage that. I shall even go to Mr. Thomas if necessary. This year will not be lost. If you but knew what an advantage this winter's study, all your study of the piano, will give you over most singers. Perhaps things have come out better for you than if we had planned them knowingly."
"You mean they have if I can sing."
Thea spoke with a heavy irony, so heavy, indeed, that it was coarse. It grated upon Harsanyi because he felt that it was not sincere, an awkward affectation.
He wheeled toward her. "Miss Kronborg, answer me this. You know that you can sing, do you not? You have always known it. While we worked here together you sometimes said to yourself, 'I have something you know nothing about; I could surprise you.' Is that also true?"
Thea nodded and hung her head.
"Why were you not frank with me? Did I not deserve it?"
She shuddered. Her bent shoulders trembled. "I don't know," she muttered. "I did n't mean to be like that. I could n't. I can't. It 's different."
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