The Ghost: A Modern Fantasy
Page 80"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I do." And she looked up.
Her lovely eyes had a suspicion of moisture. The blood rushed through
my head, and I could feel its turbulent throb-throb across the temples
and at my heart.
I was in heaven, and residence in heaven makes one bold.
"You really would like me to stay?" I almost whispered, in a tone that
was equivalent to a declaration.
Her eyes met mine in silence for a few instants, and then she said,
with a touch of melancholy: "In all my life I've only had two friends--I mean since my mother's
death; and you are the third."
"Is that all?"
"I'm only a prima donna, you know. People think that because I can
make as much money in three hours as a milliner's girl can make in
three years, and because I'm always in the midst of luxuries, and
because I have whims and caprices, and because my face has certain
curves in it, and because men get jealous with each other about
kissing my hand, that therefore I've got all I want."
"Certain curves!" I burst out. "Why, you're the most beautiful
creature I ever saw!"
"There!" she cried. "That's just how they all talk. I do hate it."
"Do you?" I said. "Then I'll never call you beautiful again. But I
"I'm happy when I'm singing well," she answered--"only then. I like
singing. I like to see an audience moved. I must sing. Singing is my
life. But do you know what that means? That means that I belong to the
public, and so I can't hide myself. That means that I am
always--always--surrounded by 'admirers.'"
"Well?"
"Well, I don't like them. I don't like any of them. And I don't like
them in the mass. Why can't I just sing, and then belong simply to
myself? They are for ever there, my 'admirers.' Men of wealth, men of
talent, men of adventure, men of wits--all devoted, all respectful,
standard, others probably dishonorable. And there is not one but whose
real desire is to own me. I know them. Love! In my world, peculiar in
that world in which I live, there is no such thing as love--only a
showy imitation. Yes, they think they love me. 'When we are married
you will not sing any more; you will be mine then,' says one. That is
what he imagines is love. And others would have me for the gold-mine
that is in my throat. I can read their greed in their faces."
Her candid bitterness surprised as much as it charmed me.