As she undressed, the memories of the evening being rehearsed by her dramatic self and shamedly admitting she had been a stupid country lass who had not sung one-tenth as well as she could, Thurley realized another valuable thing, one which the public does not take the pains to decipher, that artists, in order to be successes, must, _per se_, acquire definite and almost narrow ways and methods of living such as dressing, recreation and so on, _their personalities must crystallize and become impenetrable to the onslaught of the personalities which they will undertake to interpret or create_. Here, in part, lies the secret of fame. Once one has one’s own self quite modelled and secure from invasion, the tortures of creation and interpretation become but the day’s work just as the man with grimy hands polishes the most expensive limousine body and returns homeward via a street car.
The members of the family had distinct and original personalities—true, they did not seem to be the complement of their forms of artistic achievement; Collin’s pictures never reminded one of Collin nor Ernestine’s programs have many of her own favorites, but back of their work, a haven to temperament, stood these people’s personalities which carried them bravely on the tidal wave of success. Whether or not something else stood behind these personalities and formed the universal trinity of expression was to be determined later—when one did not suggest cut glass punch bowls with hooks as wedding gifts!
But as Thurley lay down to sleep, too excited to remember Birge’s Corners, she determined with amusing worldliness to set to work developing her own personality, to both pamper and crystallize it, pitting it against this wild rose Thurley who blushed and who sneezed—unpoetic truth—just when she should not!
Instead of the Christmas season making Thurley homesick, it lent a vivacious joy that caused Ernestine Christian and Polly Harris to marvel at her development. The atmosphere of the city had its foothold. She thought, if at all, of the Christmas preparations in Birge’s Corners, with passing scorn.
Thurley’s thoughts had been rather well regulated by routine until she was left with but scant time for reminiscence. No lesson had been done away with but more added. She spent twice as much time at Hobart’s studio, either with him or with the Bohemian singing teacher whom she loathed but who knew how to guide her voice into unsurpassed channels.