My father had money, and we had finery about us in a disorderly way; always there were men and women coming and going; there was loud laughing and disputing, strutting, snapping of fingers, jeering, faces I did not like to look at--though many petted and caressed me. But then I remembered my mother. Even at first when I understood nothing, I shrank away from all those things outside me into companionship with thoughts that were not like them; and I gathered thoughts very fast, because I read many things--plays and poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good. My father began to believe that I might be a great singer: my voice was considered wonderful for a child; and he had the best teaching for me. But it was painful that he boasted of me, and set me to sing for show at any minute, as if I had been a musical box. Once when I was nine years old, I played the part of a little girl who had been forsaken and did not know it, and sat singing to herself while she played with flowers. I did it without any trouble; but the clapping and all the sounds of the theatre were hateful to me; and I never liked the praise I had, because it all seemed very hard and unloving: I missed the love and trust I had been born into. I made a life in my own thoughts quite different from everything about me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful out of the plays and everything, and made my world out of it; and it was like a sharp knife always grazing me that we had two sorts of life which jarred so with each other--women looking good and gentle on the stage, and saying good things as if they felt them, and directly after I saw them with coarse, ugly manners. My father sometimes noticed my shrinking ways; and Signora said one day, when I had been rehearsing, 'She will never be an artist: she has no notion of being anybody but herself. That does very well now, but by-and-by you will see--she will have no more face and action than a singing-bird.' 
My father had money, and we had finery in a disorderly way; always there were men and women coming and going; laughing and disputing, strutting, snapping fingers, jeering - though many petted and caressed me. But I remembered my mother and shrank away into my thoughts; I read plays and poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good.
"My father began to believe that I might be a great singer: my voice was considered wonderful for a child; and he had the best teaching for me. But it was painful that he boasted of me, and made me sing for show as if I had been a musical box. I did it without any trouble; but the clapping was hateful to me; and the praise I had seemed hard and unloving: I missed the love and trust I had been born into. I made a life in my own thoughts quite different from everything about me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful out of the plays, and made my world out of it; and it was like a sharp knife that the two sorts of life jarred so with each other - women seeming good and gentle on the stage, and directly afterwards using coarse, ugly manners.
"Signora said one day, 'She will never be an artist: she has no notion of being anybody but herself. That does very well now, but by-and-by she will have no more face and action than a singing-bird.' 