I am a republican, Mr. Ibbetson--a cosmopolite--a born Bohemian!
_"'Mon grand pere etait rossignol; Ma grand mere etait hirondelle!"_
[Illustration]
Look at my dear people there--look at your dear people! What waifs and
strays, until their ship comes home, which we know it never will! Our
fathers forever racking their five wits in the pursuit of an idea! Our
mothers forever racking theirs to save money and make both ends
meet!... Why, Mr. Ibbetson, you are nearer to the _rossignol_ than I am.
Do you remember your father's voice? Shall I ever forget it! He sang to
me only last night, and in the midst of my harrowing anxiety about you I
was beguiled into listening outside the window. He sang Rossini's
_'Cujus Animam.'_ He _was_ the nightingale; that was his vocation, if he
could but have known it. And you are my brother Bohemian; that is
_yours!_ ... Ah, _my_ vocation! It was to be the wife of some busy
brain-worker--man of science--conspirator--writer--artist--architect,
if you like; to fence him round and shield him from all the little
worries and troubles and petty vexations of life. I am a woman of
business _par excellence_--a manager, and all that. He would have had a
warm, well-ordered little nest to come home to after hunting his idea!
"Well, I thought myself the most unhappy woman alive, and wrapped myself
up in my affection for my much-afflicted little son; and as I held him
to my breast, and vainly tried to warm and mesmerize him into feeling
and intelligence, Gogo came back into my heart, and I was forever
thinking, 'Oh, if I had a son like Gogo what a happy woman I should be!'
and pitied Madame Pasquier for dying and leaving him so soon, for I had
just begun to dream true, and had seen Gogo and his sweet mother
once again.
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