Cashel Byron's Profession

"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."