My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin

took a last glance in the glass to say, “You’re ugly, you’re ugly and useless; so don’t forget that and make a fool of yourself again.”
    I was in the habit of doing this; it had long ago taken the place of a morning prayer. I said this, that by familiarity it might lose a little of its sting when I heard it from other lips, but somehow it failed in efficacy.
    I was late for breakfast that morning. All the others were half through the meal when I sat down.
    Grannie had not come home till after twelve, but was looking as brisk as usual.
    â€œCome, Sybylla, I suppose this comes of sitting up too late, as I was not here to hunt you to bed. You are always very livelyat night, but it’s a different tune in the morning,” she said, when giving me the usual morning hug.
    â€œWhen I was a nipper of your age, if I didn’t turn out like greased lightning every morning, I was assisted by a little strap oil,” remarked Uncle Jay-Jay.
    â€œSybylla should be excused this morning,” interposed Mr. Grey. “She entertained us for hours last night. Little wonder if she feels languid this morning.”
    â€œEntertained you? What did she do?” queried Grannie.
    â€œMany things. Do you know, Gran, that you are robbing the world of an artist by keeping Sybylla hidden away in the bush? I must persuade you to let me take her to Sydney and have her put under the best masters in Sydney.”
    â€œUnder masters for what?”
    â€œElocution and singing.”
    â€œI couldn’t afford it.”
    â€œBut I’d bear the expense myself. It would only be returning a trifle of all you have done for me.”
    â€œWhat nonsense! What would you have her do when she was taught?”
    â€œGo on the stage, of course. With her talent and hair she would cause quite a sensation.”
    Now, Grannie’s notions re the stage were very tightly laced. All actors and actresses, from the lowest circus man up to the most glorious cantatrice, were people defiled in the sight of God, and utterly outside the pale of all respectability, when measured with her code of morals.
    She turned energetically in her chair, and her keen eyes flashed with scorn and anger as she spoke. “Go on the stage! A granddaughter of mine! Lucy’s eldest child! An actress—a vile, low, brazen hussy! Use the gifts God has given her with which to do good in showing off to a crowd of vile, bad men! I would rather see her struck dead at my feet this instant! I would rather see her shear off her hair and enter a convent this very hour. Child, promise you will never be a bold, bad actress.”
    â€œI will never be a
bold
,
bad
actress, Grannie,” I said, putting great stress on the adjectives, and bringing out the actress very faintly.
    â€œYes,” she continued, calming down, “I’m sure you have not enough bad in you. You may be boisterous, and not behave with sufficient propriety sometimes, but I don’t think you are wicked enough to ever make an actress.”
    Everard attempted to defend his case. “Look here, Gran, that’s a very exploded old notion about the stage being a low profession. It might have been once, but it is quite the reverse nowadays. There are, of course, low people on the stage, as there are in all walks of life. I grant you that; but if people are good they can be good on the stage as well as anywhere else. On account of a little prejudice it would be a sin to rob Sybylla of the brilliant career she might have.”
    â€œCareer!” exclaimed his foster mother, catching at the word. “Career! That is all girls think of now, instead of being good wives and mothers and attending to their homes and doing what God intended. All they think of is gadding about and being fast, and ruining themselves body and soul. And the men are as bad to encourage them,” looking severely at Everard.
    â€œThere is a great deal of truth in what you say, Gran,