more exquisite. She heard him say what she wished
him to say, and she saw the white villa in its garden
planted with rhododendrons and chestnut trees in flower.
The mild spring air, faint with perfume, dilated her
nostrils, and her eyes drank in the soft colour of
the light shadows passing over the delicate grass and
the light shadows moving among the trees. She
lay back in her chair, her eyes fixed on a distant
corner of the room, and her life went by, clear and
surprising as pictures seen in a crystal. When
she grew weary of the villa, she saw herself on the
stage, and heard her own voice singing as she wished
to sing. Nor did she forsee any break in the lulling
enchantment of her life of music and love. She
knew that Owen did not love her at present, but she
never doubted that she could get him to love her,
and once he loved her it seemed to her that he must
always love her. What she had heard and read
in books concerning the treachery of men, she remembered,
but she was not influenced, for it did not seem to
her that any such things were to happen to her.
She closed her eyes so that she might drink more deeply
of the vision, so that she might bring it more clearly
before her. Like aspects seen on a misty river,
it was as beautiful shadows of things rather than
the things themselves. The meditation grew voluptuous,
and as she saw him come into her room and take her
in his arms, her conscience warned her that she should
cease to indulge in these thoughts; but it was impossible
to check them, and she dreamed on and on in kisses
and tendernesses of speech.
That afternoon she was going to have tea with some
friends, and as she paused to pin her hat before the
glass, she remembered that if Owen were right, and
that there was no future life, the only life that she
was sure of would be wasted. Then she would endure
the burden of life for naught; she would not have
attained its recompense; the calamity would be irreparable;
it would be just as if she had not lived at all.
Thought succeeded thought in instantaneous succession,
contradicting and refuting each other. No, her
life would not be wasted, it would be an example to
others, it was in renunciation that we rose above the
animal and attained spiritual existence. At that
moment it seemed to her that she could renounce everything
but love. Could she renounce her art? But
her art was not a merely personal sacrifice. In
the renunciation of her art she was denying a great
gift that had been given to her by Nature, that had
come she knew not whence nor how, but clearly for exercise
and for the admiration of the world. It therefore
could not have been given to her to hide or to waste;
she would be held responsible for it. Her voice
was one of her responsibilities; not to cultivate her
voice would be a sort of suicide. This seemed
quite clear to her, and she reflected, and with some
personal satisfaction, that she had incurred duties
toward herself. Right and wrong, as Owen said,