Great singers and, generally, all good singers, are perfectly healthy
animals with solid nerves, in which respect they differ from other
artists, with hardly an exception. They have good appetites, they sleep
soundly, they are not oppressed by morbid anticipations of failure nor
by the horrible reaction that follows a great artistic effort of any
kind except singing. Without a large gift of calm physical strength
they could not possibly do the physical work required of them, and as
they possess the gift they have also the characteristics that go with
it and help to preserve it.
It does not follow that they have no feelings; but it does follow that
their feelings are natural and healthy, when those of other musicians
are apt to be frightfully morbid. A great deal of nonsense has been
thought and written about the famous Malibran, because Alfred de Musset
was moved to write of her as if she were a consumptive and devoured by
the flame of genius. Malibran was a genius, but she was no more
consumptive than Hercules. She died of internal injuries caused by a
fall from a horse.
Margaret Donne, when she was about to go on the stage as Margarita da
Cordova, was a perfectly normal young woman; which does not mean that
she felt no anxiety about her approaching _debut_, but only that her
actual diffidence as to the result did not keep her awake or spoil her
appetite, though it made her rather more quiet and thoughtful than
usual, because so very much depended on success.
At least, she had thought so when Logotheti had set her down at the
gate. Five minutes later that aspect of the matter had changed. Mrs.
Rushmore met her at the door of the morning room and gathered her in
with a large embrace.
'My dear child!' cried the good lady. 'My dear child!'
This was indefinite, but Margaret felt that something more was coming,
of a nature which Mrs. Rushmore considered fortunate in the extreme,
and in a short time she had learned the news, but with no mention of
Logotheti's name.
Six months earlier Margaret would have rejoiced at her good fortune.
Yesterday she might still have hesitated about keeping the engagement
she had signed with Schreiermeyer; but between yesterday and to-day
there was her first rehearsal, there was the echo of that little round
of real applause from fellow-artists, there was the sound of her own
voice, high and true, singing 'Anges pures'; and there was the smell of
the stage, with its indescribable attraction. To have gone back now
would have been to gainsay every instinct and every aspiration she
felt. She told Mrs. Rushmore this, as quietly as she could.
'You're quite mad,' said Mrs. Rushmore. 'You may say what you please. I
maintain that you are quite mad.'
'I can't help it,' Margaret answered without a smile. 'I began by
wishing to do it to earn my living, if I could, but as it turns out, I
have a great voice. I believe I have one of the great voices of the
day. I'm born to sing, and I should sing if you told me I had millions.
I feel it now, and I am not boasting in the least. Ask Schreiermeyer,
if you like.'
'Who is that person with the queer name?' inquired Mrs. Rushmore
severely.
'He's one of the big managers--the one who has engaged me.'
'Engaged fiddlesticks!' commented Mrs. Rushmore, with contempt. 'I say
you are quite mad. If not, how do you account for your wishing to go on
the stage?'
Margaret was thinking how she could account for it, when Mrs. Rushmore
went on.
'I'll have a specialist out this afternoon to look at you,' she said.
'You're not sane. I wonder who the best man is.'
The last sentence was spoken in an undertone of reflection.
'Nonsense!' exclaimed Margaret emphatically, and adding to the emphasis
by taking off her hat and throwing her head back, shaking it a little
as if she wished her hair were down.
Mrs. Rushmore turned upon her with the moral dignity of five
generations of Puritan ancestors.
'Do you mean to say that after all I've done to get you this money, you
are going to give me up to be an actress?' she demanded with scorn.
'That you're going to give up your best friends, and your position as a
lady, and the chance of making a respectable marriage, not to mention
your immortal soul, just for the pleasure of showing yourself every
night half-dressed to every commercial traveller in Europe? It's
disgraceful. I don't care what you say. You're insane. You shan't do
it!'
At this view of the case Margaret's forehead flushed a little.
'You talk as if I were going to be a music-hall singer,' she said.
'That's where you'll end!' retorted Mrs. Rushmore, without the
slightest regard for facts. 'That's where they all end! There, or in
the divorce courts--or both! It's the same thing!' she concluded
triumphantly.
'I never heard a divorce court compared to a music-hall,' observed
Margaret.
'You know exactly what I mean,' answered Mrs. Rushmore angrily. 'Don't
take me up at every word! Contradicting isn't reasoning. Anybody can
contradict.'
'And besides,' continued Margaret, growing cooler as the other grew
warm, 'one cannot be divorced till one has been married.'
'Oh, you'll marry soon enough!' cried Mrs. Rushmore, infuriated by her
calm. 'You'll marry an adventurer with dyed moustaches and a sham
title, who'll steal your money and beat you! And though I am your dear
mother's best friend, Margaret, I'm bound to say that it will serve you
right. It's useless to deny it. It will serve you right.'
'It would certainly serve me right if I married the individual with the
dyed moustaches,' said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself.
'I'm glad you agree with me at last. It shows that you're not so
perfectly mad as you seemed. If you had gone on as you were talking at
first I should certainly have had a mad doctor to examine you. As it
is, I don't believe you're fit to have all that money. You mean well, I
daresay. But you have no sense. None at all.'
Margaret laughed and took the opportunity of the lull in the battle to
escape to her own room. A moment later Mrs. Rushmore followed her and
knocked at the door.
'I'm sure you've had nothing to eat all day,' she called out anxiously,
before Margaret could answer.
Margaret opened and put her head out, to explain that she had lunched,
but she did not say where.
'Oh, very well!' answered Mrs. Rushmore, unwilling to show that her
anger had subsided so soon. 'That's all I wanted to know.'
Like most Anglo-Saxons, she vaguely connected regular meals with
morality.
When Margaret was alone she realised that she was more disturbed by
Lushington's unexpected appearance at Logotheti's door than she had
thought it possible to be. At the time, she had been surprised to see
him and a little hurt by his manner, but she had attributed the latter
to his natural shyness. Now that she could think quietly about the
meeting, she remembered his eyes and the look of cold resentment she
had seen in them for the first time since she had known him. He had no
right to be angry with her for lunching with Logotheti, she was quite
sure. He had parted from her, giving her to understand that they were
to meet as little as possible in future. How could he possibly claim to
criticise her actions after that? A few days ago, she would have
married him, if he had not insisted that it was impossible. She was not
sure that she would marry him now, if he came back. He had looked as if
he meant to interfere in her life, after refusing to share it. No woman
will tolerate that.
Yet she was disturbed, and a little sad, now that the day was over.
Logotheti had found words for a thought that had passed through her
mind, it was true; if Lushington loved her, how could he make an
obstacle of what she had been so ready to overlook? The Greek's direct
speeches had appealed to her, while he had been at her side. But now,
she wished with all her heart that Lushington would appear to ask her
questions, and let her answer them. She had a most unreasonable
impression that she had somehow angered him, and wronged herself in his
eyes. She would not ask herself whether she loved him still, or whether
she had really loved him at all, but she longed to see him. He had said
that he was leaving again in the evening, but perhaps he would think
better of it and come out to see her. She even thought of writing to
him, for she knew his London address. He lived in Bolton Street,
Piccadilly, and she remembered his telling her that his windows looked
upon a blank brick wall opposite, in which he sought inspiration and
sometimes found it. Sometimes, he had said, he saw her face there.
Then she remembered the last hour they had spent together at Madame
Bonanni's, and the quiet dignity and courage of his behaviour under
circumstances that might almost have driven a sensitive man out of his
senses.
She thought of him a great deal that afternoon, and the result of her
thoughts was that she resolved not to go to Logotheti's house again,
though she had a vague idea that such a resolution should not be
connected with Lushington, if she meant to respect her own
independence. But when she had reached this complicated state of mind,
both Lushington and Logotheti took themselves suddenly out of the
sphere of her meditations, and she was standing once more on the
half-lighted stage, singing 'Anges pures' into the abyss of the dark
and empty house.
The evening post brought Margaret three notes from Paris. One, in bad
French, was from Schreiermeyer, to say that he had changed his mind,
that she was to make her _debut_ in _Rigoletto_ instead of in _Faust_,
and that a rehearsal of the former opera was called for the next day
but one at eleven o'clock, at which, by kindness of the director of the
Opera, she would be allowed to sing the part of Gilda.
When she read this, her face fell, and she felt a sharp little
disappointment. She had already fancied herself Marguerite, the
fair-haired Gretchen, mass-book in hand and eyes cast down, and then at
the spinning-wheel, and in the church, and in the prison, and it was an
effort of imagination to turn herself into the Italian Duke's Gilda,
murdered to save her lover and dragged away in the sack--probably by
proxy!
The next note was from Logotheti, who begged her to use his motor car
for going in to her rehearsals. The chauffeur would bring it to Mrs.
Rushmore's gate, the day after to-morrow, in plenty of time. The note
was in French and ended with the assurance of 'most respectful homage.'
When she had read it she stared rather vacantly into the corner of her
room for a few seconds, and then tossed the bit of paper into the
basket under her writing-table.
The third letter was from Lushington. She had recognised the small
scholarly handwriting and had purposely laid it aside to read last. It
was rather stiffly worded, and it contained a somewhat unnecessary and
not very contrite apology for having seemed rude that morning in
answering her question so roughly and in hurrying away. He had not much
else to say, except that he was going back at once to his London
lodgings in Bolton Street--a hint that if Margaret wished to write to
him he was to be found there.
She bit her lip and frowned. The note was useless and tactless as well.
If he had wished to please her he might have written a word of
greeting, as if nothing had happened, just to say that he wished he
could have seen her for a few minutes. It would have been so easy to do
that instead of sending a superfluous apology for having been rude on
purpose! She read the note again and grew angry over it. It was so
gratuitous! If he really meant to avoid her always, he need not have
written at all. 'Superfluous' was the word; it was superfluous. She
tore the letter into little bits and threw them into the basket; and
then, by an afterthought, she fished up Logotheti's note, which she had
not torn, and read it again.
At all events, he was a man of the world and could cover two pages of
note-paper without saying anything that could irritate a woman. Like
everything he said, what he wrote was just right. He did not protest
that he could not use his motor car himself, and he did not apologise
for taking the liberty of offering her the use of it; he did not even
ask for an answer, as if he were trying to draw her into writing to
him. The car would be at the gate, and he would be glad if she could
use it; meaning that if she did not want it she could send it away.
There was not the least shade of familiarity in the phrases.
'Respectful homage' was certainly not 'familiar.' Just because he did
not ask for an answer, he should have one!
She took up her pen and began. When she had written three or four lines
to thank him, she found herself going on to say more, and she told him
of the change in regard to her _debut_, and asked if he knew why it
was made so suddenly. She explained why she preferred _Faust_ to
_Rigoletto_, and all at once she saw that she had filled a sheet and
must either break off abruptly or take another. She finished the note
hastily and signed her name. When it was done she remembered that she
had not told him anything about the money which had unexpectedly come
to her, and she hesitated a moment; but she decided that it was none of
his business, and almost wondered why she had thought of telling him
anything so entirely personal. She sealed the letter, stamped it and
sent it to be posted.
Then she sat down at her piano to look over _Rigoletto_, whistling her
part softly while she played, in order to save her voice, and in a few
minutes she had forgotten Logotheti, Schreiermeyer and Lushington.