Little Madame Durand-De Rosa took Margaret behind the scenes just
before the second act of _Romeo and Juliet_ was over. The famous
teacher of singing was a privileged person at the Opera, and the man
who kept the side door of communication between the house and the stage
bowed low as he opened for her and Margaret. Things are well managed in
the great opera-houses nowadays, and it is not easy to get behind when
anything is going on.
The young girl felt a new sensation of awe and excitement. It was the
first time she had ever found herself on the working side of the vast
machinery of artistic pleasure, and her first impression was that she
had been torn from an artificial paradise and was being dragged through
an artificial inferno. Huge and unfamiliar objects loomed about her in
the deep shadows; men with pale faces, in working clothes, stood
motionless at their posts, listening and watching; others lurked in
corners, dressed in mediaeval costumes that glittered in the dark.
Between the flies, Margaret caught glimpses of the darkened stage, and
the sound of the orchestra reached her as if muffled, while the tenor's
voice sounded very loud, though he was singing softly. On a rough bit
of platform six feet above the stage, stood Madame Bonanni in white
satin, apparently laced to a point between life and death, her hands
holding the two sides of the latticed door that opened upon the
balcony. In a loft on the stage left a man was working a lime-light
moon behind a sheet of blue glass in a frame; the chorus of old
retainers in grey stood huddled together in semi-darkness by a fly,
listening to the tenor and waiting to hear Madame Bonanni's note when
she should come out.
[Illustration: "The young girl felt a new sensation of awe and
excitement."]
Margaret would have waited too, but her teacher hurried her along,
holding her by the hand and checking her when they came to any obstacle
which the girl's unpractised eyes might not have seen in time. To the
older woman it was all as familiar as her own sitting-room, for her
life had been spent in the midst of it; to Margaret it was all strange,
and awe-inspiring, and a little frightening. It was to be her own life,
too, before long. In a few months, or perhaps a few weeks, she, too,
would be standing on a platform, like Madame Bonanni, waiting to go out
into the lime-light, waiting to be heard by two thousand people. She
wondered whether she should be frightened, whether by any possibility
her voice would stick in her throat at the great moment and suddenly
croak out a hideous false note, and end her career then and there. Her
heart beat fast at the thought, even now, and she pressed her teacher's
guiding hand nervously; and yet, as the music reached her ears, she
longed to be standing in Madame Bonanni's place with only a latticed
balcony door between her and the great public. She was not thinking of
Lushington now, though she had thought all day of his face when she had
met him for one moment under the trees, yesterday morning, and had felt
that something was gone from her life which she was to miss for a long
time. That was all forgotten in what she felt at the present moment, in
the wild quivering longing to be in front, the centre of the great
illusion, singing as she knew that she could sing, as she had never
sung before.
Madame De Rosa led her quickly down a dark corridor and a moment later
she found herself in a dazzling blaze of light, in the prima donna's
dressing-room.
The ceiling was low, the walls were white, and innumerable electric
lamps, with no shades, filled the place with a blinding glare. It all
looked bare and uncomfortable, and very untidy. There was a
toilet-table, covered with little pots of grease and paint, and
well-worn pads and hare's-feet, and vast stores of hairpins, besides a
quantity of rings and jewels of great value, all lying together in
bowls in the midst of the confusion. A tall mirror stood on one side,
with wing mirrors on hinges, and bunches of lamps that could be moved
about. On one of the walls half-a-dozen theatrical gowns and cloaks
hung limply from pegs. Two large trunks were open and empty not far
from the door. The air was hot and hard to breathe, and smelt of many
things.
There were three people in the room when the two visitors entered;
there was a very tall maid with an appallingly cadaverous face and
shiny black hair, and there was a short fat maid who grinned and showed
good teeth at Madame De Rosa. Both wore black and had white aprons, and
both were perspiring profusely. The third person was an elderly man in
evening dress, who rose and shook hands with the retired singer, and
bowed to Margaret. He seemed to be a very quiet, unobtrusive man, who
was nevertheless perfectly at his ease, and he somehow conveyed the
impression that he must be always dressed for the evening, in a
perfectly new coat, a brand-new shirt, a white waistcoat never worn
before, and a made tie. Perhaps it was the made tie that introduced a
certain disquieting element in his otherwise highly correct appearance.
He wore his faded fair hair very short, and his greyish yellow beard
was trimmed in a point. His fat hands were incased in tight white
gloves. His pale eyes looked quietly through his glasses and made one
think of the eyes of a big fish in an aquarium when it swims up and
pushes its nose against the plate-glass front of the tank to look at
visitors.
The eyes examined Margaret attentively.
'Monsieur Schreiermeyer, this is Miss Donne, my pupil,' said Madame De
Rosa.
'Enchanted,' mumbled the manager.
He continued to scrutinise the young girl's face, and he looked so much
like a doctor that she felt as if he were going to feel her pulse and
tell her to put out her tongue. At the thought, she smiled pleasantly.
'Hum!' Schreiermeyer grunted softly, almost musically, in fact.
Perhaps this was a good sign, for little Madame De Rosa beamed.
Margaret looked about for an empty chair, but there never seemed to be
any in a room used by Madame Bonanni. There was one indeed, but
Schreiermeyer had appropriated it, and sat down upon it again with
perfect calm.
'Sit down,' he said, as he did so himself.
'Yes,' answered Margaret sweetly, and remained standing.
Suddenly he seemed to realise that she could not, and that the maids
were not inclined to offer her a seat. His face and figure were
transfigured in an instant, one fat, gloved hand shot out with extended
forefinger in a gesture of command and his pale eyes flashed through
his glasses, and glared furiously at the maids.
'Clear two chairs!' he shouted in a voice of thunder.
Margaret started in surprise and protest.
'But the things are all ready----' objected the cadaverous maid.
'Damn the things!' yelled Schreiermeyer. 'Clear two chairs at once!'
He seemed, on the verge of a white apoplexy, though he did not move
from his seat. The cadaverous maid lifted an embroidered bodice from
one of the chairs and laid it in one of the black trunks; she looked
like a female undertaker laying a dead baby in its coffin. The fat maid
showed all her teeth and laughed at Schreiermeyer and cleared the other
chair, and brought up both together for the two ladies.
'Give yourselves the trouble to be seated,' said Schreiermeyer, in a
tone so soft that it would not have disturbed a sleeping child.
As soon as he was obeyed he became quite quiet and unobtrusive again,
the furious glare faded from his eyes, and the white kid hand returned
to rest upon its fellow.
'How good you are!' cried Madame De Rosa gratefully, as she sat down on
the cane chair.
'Hum!' grunted Schreiermeyer, musically, as if he agreed with her.
'Miss Donne has a good soprano,' the teacher ventured to say after a
time.
'Ah?' ejaculated the manager in a tone of very indifferent
interrogation.
There was a little pause.
'Lyric,' observed Madame De Rosa, breaking the silence.
Another pause. Schreiermeyer seemed not to have heard, and neither
moved nor looked at the two.
'Lyric?' he inquired, suddenly, but with extreme softness.
'Lyric,' repeated Madame De Rosa, leaning forward a little, and fanning
herself violently.
Another pause.
'Thank God!' exclaimed Schreiermeyer, without moving, but so very
devoutly that Margaret stared at him in surprise.
Madame De Rosa knew that this also was an excellent sign; she looked at
Margaret and nodded energetically. Whatever Schreiermeyer might mean by
returning devout thanks to his Maker at that moment, the retired singer
was perfectly sure that he knew his business. He was probably in need
of a lyric soprano for the next season, and that might lead to an
immediate engagement for Margaret.
'How hot it is!' the latter complained, in an undertone. 'There is no
air at all here!'
The maids were mopping their faces with their handkerchiefs, and Madame
De Rosa's fan was positively whirring. Schreiermeyer seemed quite
indifferent to the temperature.
He must nevertheless have been reflecting on Margaret's last remark
when he slowly turned to her after a silence of nearly a minute.
'Have you a good action of the heart?' he inquired, precisely as a
doctor might have done.
'I don't know.' Margaret smiled. 'I don't know anything about my
heart.'
'Then it is good,' said the manager. 'It ought to be, for you have a
magnificent skin. Do you eat well and sleep well, always?'
'Perfectly. May I ask if you are a doctor?'
Madame De Rosa made furious signs to Margaret. A very faint smile
flitted over the manager's quiet face.
'Some people call me an executioner,' he answered, 'because I kill the
weak ones.'
'I am not afraid of work.' Margaret laughed.
'No. You will grow fat if you sing. You will grow very fat.' He spoke
thoughtfully. 'After you are forty,' he added, as if by way of
consolation.
'I hope not!' cried the young girl.
'Yes, you will. It is the outward sign of success in the profession.
Singers who grow thin lose their voices.'
'I never grew very fat,' said Madame De Rosa, in a tone of regret.
'Precisely, my darling,' answered Schreiermeyer. 'Therefore you
retired.'
Margaret was a little surprised that he should call her teacher 'my
darling,' and that the good lady should seem to think it quite natural,
but her reflections on obesity and the manners of theatrical people
were interrupted, though not by any means arrested for the night, by
the clattering sound of high-heeled shoes in the corridor. The act was
over, and Madame Bonanni was coming back from the stage. In a moment
she was in the doorway, and as she entered the room she unmasked a
third maid who followed her with a cloak.
She saw Margaret first, as the latter rose to meet her. Margaret felt
as if the world itself were putting huge arms round her and kissing her
on both cheeks. The embrace was of terrific power, and a certain amount
of grease paint came off.
'Little Miss Donne,' cried the prima donna, relaxing her hold on
Margaret's waist but instantly seizing her by the wrist and turning her
round sharply, like a dressmaker's doll on a pivot, 'that is
Schreiermeyer! The great Schreiermeyer! The terrible Schreiermeyer! You
see him before you, my child! Tremble! Every one trembles before
Schreiermeyer!'
The manager had risen, but was perfectly imperturbable and silent. He
did not even grunt. Madame Bonanni dropped Margaret's wrist and
shrugged her Juno-like shoulders.
'Schreiermeyer,' she said, as if she had forgotten all about Margaret,
'if that lime-light man plays the moon in my eyes again I shall come
out on the balcony with blue goggles. You shall hear the public then!
It is perfectly outrageous! I am probably blind for life!'
She winked her big painted eyelids vigorously as if trying whether she
could see at all. Margaret was looking at her, not sure that it was not
all a dream, and wondering how it was possible that such a face and
figure could still produce illusions of youth and grace when seen from
the other side of the footlights. Yet Margaret herself had felt the
illusion only a quarter of an hour ago. The paint on Madame Bonanni's
face was a thick mask of grease, pigments and powder; the wig was the
most evident wig that ever was; the figure seemed of gigantic girth
compared with the woman's height, though that was by no means small;
the eye lids were positively unwieldy with paint and the lashes looked
like very thick black horsehairs stuck in with glue, in rows.
She shook her solid fist at Schreiermeyer and blinked violently again.
'It is outrageous!' she cried again. 'Do you understand?'
'Perfectly.'
'Schreiermeyer!' screamed Madame Bonanni. 'If you take no more notice
of my complaints than that I refuse to finish the opera. I will not
sing the rest of it! Find somebody else to go on. I am going home!
Undress me!' she cried, turning to the three perspiring maids, not one
of whom moved an inch at her summons. 'Oh, you won't? You are afraid of
him? Ah, bah! I am not. Schreiermeyer, I refuse to go on; I absolutely
refuse. Go away! I am going to undress.'
Thereupon she tore off her brown wig with a single movement and threw
it across the room. It struck the wall with a thud and fell upon the
floor, a limp and shapeless mass. The cadaverous maid instantly picked
it up and began smoothing it. Madame Bonanni's own dark hair stood on
end, giving her a decidedly wild look.
Schreiermeyer smiled perceptibly.
'Miss Donne will go on and sing the rest of the opera with pleasure, I
have no doubt,' he said, gently, looking at Margaret.
The girl's heart stood still for an instant at this sudden proposal,
before she realised that the manager was not in earnest.
'Of course she can sing it!' chimed in Madame De Rosa, understanding
perfectly. 'But our dear friend is much too kind to disappoint the
Parisian public,' she added, turning to the prima donna and speaking
soothingly.
'Nothing can move that man!' cried Madame Bonanni, in a helpless tone.
'Nothing but the sound of your marvellous voice, my angel artist,' said
Schreiermeyer. 'That always makes me weep, especially in the last act
of this opera.'
Margaret could not fancy the manager blubbering, though she had more
than once seen people in front with their handkerchiefs to their eyes
during the scene in the tomb.
'Put my wig on,' said Madame Bonanni to the cadaverous maid, and she
sat down in front of the toilet-table. 'We must talk business at once,'
she continued, suddenly speaking with the utmost calm. 'The appointment
is at my house, at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, Schreiermeyer. Miss
Donne will sing for us. Bring a pianist and the Minister of Fine Arts
if you can get him.'
'I have not the Minister of Fine Arts in my pocket, dearest lady,'
observed the manager, 'but I will try. Why do you name such a very
early hour?'
'Because I breakfast at eleven. Tell the Minister that the King is
coming too. That will bring him. All Ministers are snobs.'
'The King?' repeated Margaret in surprise, and somewhat aghast.
'He is in Paris,' explained Madame Bonanni carelessly. 'He's an old
friend of mine, and we dined together last night. I told him about you
and he said he would come if he could but you never can count on those
people.'
Margaret was too timid to ask what king Madame Bonanni was talking of,
but she supposed her teacher would tell her in due time; and, after
all, he might not come. Margaret hoped that he would, however, for she
had never spoken to a royalty in her life and thought it would be very
amusing to see a real, live king in the prima donna's eccentric
surroundings.
'I shall turn you all out when you have heard her sing,' continued
Madame Bonanni. You and I will lunch quite alone, my dear, and talk
things over. There is one good point in Schreiermeyer's character. He
never flatters unless he wants something. If he tells you that you sing
well, it means an engagement next year. If he says you sing divinely,
your _debut_ will be next week, or as soon as you can rehearse with a
company.'
She touched up her cheeks with a hare's-foot while she talked.
'So that is settled,' she said, turning sharp round on the stool, which
creaked loudly. 'Go home and go to bed, my children, unless you want to
hear poor old Bonanni sing the rest of this stupid opera!'
She laughed, at herself perhaps; but suddenly in the tones Margaret
heard a far-off suggestion of sadness that went to her heart very
strangely. The singer turned her back again and seemed to pay no more
attention to her visitors. Margaret came close to her, to say goodbye,
and to thank her for all she was doing. The great artist looked up
quietly into the young girl's eyes for a moment, and laid a hand on
hers very kindly.
'Good-night, little Miss Donne,' she said, so low that the others could
not hear distinctly. 'It is the setting sun that bids you good-night,
child--you, the dawn and the sun of to-morrow!'
Margaret pressed the kind hand, and a moment later her teacher was
hurrying her back through the dark wilderness of the stage to the
brilliant house beyond. Schreiermeyer had already disappeared without
so much as a word.