There is a certain kind, or perhaps it is only a certain degree, of
theatrical reputation, which makes its coming felt in all sorts of
ways, like a change in the weather. The rise of literary men to fame is
almost always a surprise to themselves, their families, and their
former instructors. Especially the latter, who know much more than the
young novelist does, but have never been able to do anything with their
knowledge, hold up their shrivelled, or podgy, or gouty old hands in
sorrow, declaring that the success of a boy who was such a dolt, such a
good-for-nothing, such a conceited jackanapes at school, only shows
what the judgment of the public is worth, and how very low its standard
has fallen. But the great public does not think much of decayed
schoolmasters at best, and is never surprised that a young man should
succeed, for the very simple reason that if he did not, some other
young man certainly would; and to those who do not know the colour of
the author's hair and eyes, the difference between Mr. Brown, Mr.
Jones, and Mr. Robinson, in private life, must be purely a matter of
imagination.
But theatrical reputation is a different matter, and its rise affects
the professional barometer beforehand. The people who train great
singers and great actors know what they are about and foresee the
result, as no publisher can foresee it with regard to a new writer.
There is a right way and a wrong way of singing, one must sing in tune
unless one sings out of tune, there are standards of comparison in the
persons of the great singers who are still at their best. It is not
easy to be mistaken, where so much is a matter of certainty and so
little depends on chance, and the facts become known very easily. The
first-rate second-rate artists, climbing laboriously in the wake of the
real first-rates, and wishing that these would die and get out of the
way, feel a hopeless sinking at the heart as they hear behind them the
rush of another coming genius. The tired critics sleep less soundly in
the front row of the stalls, the fine and frivolous ladies who come to
the opera to talk the whole evening are told that for once they will
have to be silent, the reporters put on little playful airs of mystery
to say that they have been allowed to assist at a marvellous rehearsal
or have been admitted to see the future diva putting on her cloak after
a final interview with Schreiermeyer, whose attitude before her is
described as being that of the donor of the picture in an old Italian
altar-piece.
And all this is not mere advertisement; much of it is, in fact, nothing
of the sort, and is not even suggested by Schreiermeyer, for he knows
perfectly well that one performance will place his new star very nearly
at her true value before the public, who will flock to hear her and
take infinite pains to find out where and when she is going to sing the
next time. It is just the outward, healthy stir that goes before
certain kinds of theatrical success, and which is quite impossible
where most other arts are concerned; perhaps--I suggest it with
apologies to all living prima donnas and first tenors--the higher the
art, the less can success be predicted. Was ever a great painter, a
great sculptor or a great poet 'announced'? On the other hand, was
there ever a great singer who was not appreciated till after death?
The public probably did not hear the name of Margaret Donne till much
later, and then, with considerable indifference, but long before
Margarita da Cordova made her _debut_, her name was repeated, with more
or less mistakes and eccentricities of pronunciation, from mouth to
mouth, in London and Paris, and was even mentioned in St. Petersburg,
Berlin and New York. Every one connected with the musical world, even
if only as a regular spectator, felt that something extraordinary was
coming.
Madame Bonanni wrote to Margaret that she wished to see her, and would
come over to Paris expressly, if Margaret would only telegraph. She
would come out to Versailles, she would make the acquaintance of that
charming Mrs. Rushmore. Margaret wondered what would happen if the two
women met, and what mutual effect they would produce upon each other,
but her knowledge of Mrs. Rushmore made her doubt whether such a
meeting were desirable. Instead of telegraphing to Madame Bonanni, she
wrote her answer, proposing to go to the prima donna's house. But
Madame Bonanni was impatient, and as no telegram came when she expected
one, she did not wait for a possible letter. To Margaret's dismay and
stupefaction, she appeared at Versailles about luncheon time, arrayed
with less good taste than the lilies of the field, but yet in a manner
to outdo Solomon in all his glory, and she was conveyed in a perfectly
new motor car. When Margaret, looking on from beyond the pond, saw her
descend from the machine, she could not help thinking of a dreadful
fresco she had once seen on the ceiling of an Italian villa,
representing a very florid, double-chinned, powerful eighteenth-century
Juno apparently in the act of getting down into the room from her car,
to the great inconvenience of every one below.
The English servant who opened the door was in distress of mind when he
saw her, for since he had served in Mrs. Rushmore's very proper
household he had never seen anything like Madame Bonanni as she stood
there asking for Miss Donne, and evidently not in a mood to be patient.
He was very much inclined to tell her that she had mistaken the house,
and to shut the door in her face. There were people coming to luncheon,
and it was just possible that she might be one of them; but if she was
not, and if the others came and found such a person there, how truly
awful it would be! Thus the footman reflected as he stood in the
doorway, listening to Madame Bonanni's voluble French speech.
As she paused for a moment, he heard some one on the stairs. It was
Mrs. Rushmore herself. He recognised her step and turned sharp round on
his heels, still filling the door but exposing his broad back to the
visitor.
'Very odd person asking to see Miss Donne, ma'am,' he said in low and
hurried tones. 'Shall I say "not at home," ma'am?'
'By all means "not at home," James,' said Mrs. Rushmore.
James had not miscalculated his breadth, as to the door, but his height
as compared with that of the odd person outside. She put her head over
his shoulder and looked in at Mrs. Rushmore.
'May I please come in?' she asked in comprehensible English. 'I am
Bonanni, the singer, and I want to see Miss Donne. I've come from
London to--please? Yes?'
'Goodness gracious!' cried Mrs. Rushmore. 'Let the lady in at once,
James!'
James disappeared, somehow, and the artist came into the darkened hall,
and met Mrs. Rushmore.
The latter did not often meet a woman much bigger than herself, and
actually felt small when she held out her hand. Madame Bonanni seemed
to fill the little hall of the French cottage, and Mrs. Rushmore felt
as if she were in danger of being turned out of it to make room.
'Margaret is in the garden,' she said. 'I am so pleased to meet you,
Madame Bonanni! I hope you'll stay to lunch. Do come in, and I'll send
for her. James!'
All this was said while the two large hands were mildly shaking one
another; Mrs. Rushmore was not easily startled by the sudden appearance
of lions--or lionesses--and was conscious of being tolerably
consecutive in her speech. It was not Madame Bonanni's greatness that
had taken her by surprise, but her size and momentum. The prima donna
answered in French.
'You understand? Of course! Thank you! Then I will speak in my own
language. I will go out to Miss Donne, if you permit. Luncheon? Ah, if
I could! But I have just eaten. I am sure you have so many good things!
Little Miss Donne--ah! here she is!'
At this point Margaret came in, pulling off the old garden hat she had
worn when Lushington had come to see her. She was surprised that the
prima donna did not throw her arms round her and kiss her, but the
artist had judged Mrs. Rushmore in a flash and behaved with almost
English gravity as she took Margaret's hand.
'I have come to Paris expressly to see you,' she said.
'Let me introduce you to Mrs. Rushmore,' said Margaret.
'It is done,' said Madame Bonanni, making a little stage courtesy at
the elder woman. 'I broke into the house like a burglar, and found a
charming hostess waiting to arrest me with the kindest invitation to
luncheon!'
'What a delightful way of putting it!' cried Mrs. Rushmore, much
pleased.
Margaret felt that Madame Bonanni was showing a side of her nature
which she had not yet seen. It had never occurred to the girl that the
singer could make pretty society speeches. But Madame Bonanni had seen
many things in her time.
Margaret carried her off to her own room, after a few words more, for
it was clear that her visitor had something private to say, and had
come all the way from London to say it, apparently out of pure
friendship. Her manner changed again when they were alone. By force of
habit the big woman sat down on the piano-stool and turned over the
music that was open on the instrument, and she seemed to pay no heed to
what Margaret said. Margaret was thanking her for her visit, arranging
the blinds, asking her if there was enough air, for the day was hot,
inquiring about the weather in London, moving about the room with each
little speech, and with the evident desire to start the conversation so
as to find out why Madame Bonanni had come. But the singer turned over
the pages obstinately, looked up rather coldly at Margaret now and
then, and once or twice whistled a few bars of _Rigoletto_ in a way
that would have been decidedly rude, had it not been perfectly clear
that she did not know what she was doing, and was really trying to make
up her mind how to begin. Margaret understood, and presently let her
alone, and just sat down on a chair at the corner of the piano with a
bit of work, and waited to see what would happen.
'I thought it might help you a little if I ran through the opera with
you,' said Madame Bonanni, after a long time. 'I have sung it very
often.'
But as she spoke she shut the score on the piano rather sharply, as if
she had changed her mind. Margaret looked up quickly in surprise and
dropped her work in her lap.
'You did not come all the way from London for that?' she asked, in a
voice full of gratitude and wonder.
There was a moment's pause, during which the singer looked uneasy.
'No,' she said, 'I didn't. I never could lie very well--I can't at all
to-day! But I would have come, only for that, if I had thought you
needed it. That is the truth.'
'How good you are!' Margaret cried.
'Good!'
The singer's hand covered her big eyes for a moment and her elbow
rested on the edge of the piano desk. There was a very sad note in the
single word she had spoken, a note of despair not far off; but Margaret
did not understand.
'What is the matter?' she asked, leaning forward, and laying one hand
gently on Madame Bonanni's wrist. 'Why do you speak like that?'
'Do you think you would have been any better, in my place?'
The question came in a harsh tone, suddenly, as if it broke through
some opposing medium, the hand dropped from the brow, and the big dark
eyes gazed into Margaret's almost fiercely. Still the girl did not
understand.
'Better? I? In what way? Tell me what it is, if something is
distressing you. Let me help you, if I can. You know I will, with all
my heart.'
'Yes, I know.' Madame Bonanni's voice sank again. 'But how can you? The
trouble is older than you are. There is one thing--yes--there is one
thing, if you could say it truly! It would help me a little if you
could say it--and yet--no--I'm not sure--if you did, it would only show
that you have more heart than he has.'
'Who?' Margaret vaguely guessed the truth.
'Who? Tom--my son! "Edmund Lushington," who feels that he cannot ask a
respectable girl to marry him because his mother has been a wicked
woman.'
The big woman shook from head to foot as she spoke.
Margaret was pained and her fingers tightened nervously on the other's
wrist.
'Oh, please don't!' she cried. 'Please don't!'
'He's right,' answered Madame Bonanni, hanging her large head and
shaking it despairingly. 'Of course, he's right, and it's true! But,
oh!--she looked up again, suddenly--'oh, how much more right it must be
for a man to forgive his mother, no matter what she has done!'
Margaret's fingers glided from the wrist they held, to the large hand,
and pressed it sympathetically, but she could not find anything to say
which would do. The friendly pressure, however, evidently meant enough
to the distressed woman.
'Thank you, dear,' she said gratefully. 'You're very good to me. I know
you mean it, too. Only, you're not placed as he is. If you were my
daughter, you would think as he thinks--you would not live under my
roof! Perhaps you would not even see me when we met in the street! You
would look the other way!'
Margaret could not have told, for her life, what she would have done,
but she was far too kind-hearted not to protest.
'Indeed I wouldn't!' she cried, with so much energy that Madame Bonanni
believed her.
'No matter what I had done?' asked she pathetically eager for the
assurance.
'You'd have been my mother just the same,' answered Margaret softly.
As the girl spoke, she felt a little sharp revolt in her heart against
what she had said, at the mere thought of associating the word 'mother'
with Madame Bonanni.
There was nothing at all psychological in that, and it would hardly
bear analysing even by a professional dissector of character. It was
just the natural feeling, in a natural girl, whose mother had been
honest and good. But Madame Bonanni only heard the kind words.
'Yes,' she answered, 'I should have been your mother, just the same.
But I couldn't have been a better mother to you than I've been to Tom.
I couldn't, indeed!'
'No,' Margaret said, in the same gentle tone as before, 'you've been
very good to him.'
'Yes! I have! He knows it, and he does not deny it!' Madame Bonanni
suddenly sat up quite straight and squeezed Margaret's hands by way of
emphasis. 'But he does not care,' she went on, her anger rising a
little. 'Not he! He would rather that I should have been any sort of
miserable little proper middle-class woman, if I could only have been
technically "virtuous"! If I had been that, I might have beaten him to
an omelette every day when he was a boy, and tormented him like a
gadfly when he was a man! He would have preferred it--oh, by far! That
is the logic of men, my dear, their irrefutable logic that they are
always talking about and facing us down with! The miserable little
animal! I will give up loving him, I will hate him, as he deserves, I
will tell him to go to Peru, where he will never see his wicked old
mother again! Then he will be sorry, he will wish he were dead, but I
shall not go to him, never, never, never!'
She spoke the last words with tremendous energy, and a low echo of her
voice came back out of the open piano from the strings. She clenched
her fist and shook it at an imaginary Lushington in space, and for a
moment her face wore a look of Medean menace.
Margaret might have smiled, if she had not felt that the strange
creature was really and truly suffering, in her own way, to the borders
of distraction. Then, suddenly, the great frame was convulsed again and
quivered from head to foot.
'I'm going to cry,' she announced, in rather shaky tones.
And she cried. She slipped from the piano-stool to the floor, upon her
knees, and her heavy arms fell upon the keys with a crashing discord,
and her face buried itself in the large depths of one bent elbow, quite
regardless of damage to Paquin's masterpiece of a summer sleeve; and
with huge sobs the tears welled up and overflowed, taking everything
they found in their way, including paint, and washing all down between
the ivory keys of Margaret's piano.
Margaret saw that there was nothing to be done. At first she tried to
soothe her as best she could, standing over her, and laying a hand
gently on her shoulder; but Madame Bonanni shook it off with a sort of
convulsive shudder, as a big carthorse gets rid of a fly that has
settled on a part of his back inaccessible to his tail. Then Margaret
desisted, knowing that the fit must go on to its natural end, and that
it was hopeless to try and stop it sooner. Women are very practical
with each other in crying matters, but it is bad for us men if we treat
them in the same sensible way under the identical circumstances.
Margaret sat down again in her chair, and instead of taking up her
work, she leaned forward towards the weeping woman, to be ready with a
word of sympathy as soon as it could be of any use. She watched the
heavy head, the strong and coarse dark hair, the large animal
construction of the neck and shoulders, the massive hands, discoloured
now with straining upon themselves; nothing escaped her, as she quietly
waited for the sobbing to cease; and though she felt the peasant nature
there, close to her, in all its rugged strength, yet she felt, too,
that with certain differences of outward refinement, it was not unlike
her own. Her own hair, for instance, was much finer; but then, fair
hair is generally finer than dark. Her own hands were smaller than
Madame Bonanni's; but then, they had never been used to manual labour
when she had been a girl. And as for the rest of her, she knew that
Madame Bonanni had been reckoned a beauty in her day, such a beauty
that very great and even royal personages indeed had done extremely
foolish things to please her; and that very beauty had been in part the
cause of those very tears the poor woman was shedding now. Margaret was
quite sensible enough to admit that she herself, after a quarter of a
century of stage life, might turn into very much the same type of
woman. While waiting to be sympathetic at the right moment, therefore,
she studied Madame Bonanni's appearance with profound and melancholy
interest. She had never had such a good chance.
The convulsive sobbing grew regular, then more slow, then merely
intermittent, and then it stopped altogether. But before she lifted her
face from the hollow of her elbow, Madame Bonanni felt about for
something with her other hand; and Margaret, being a woman, knew that
she wanted her handkerchief before showing her face, and picked it up
and gave it to her. A man would probably have taken the groping fingers
and pressed them, or kissed them, probably supposing that to be what
was wanted, and thereby much retarding the progress of events.
Madame Bonanni pushed up the handkerchief between her face and her
elbow and moved it about, with a vague idea of equalising her colour in
one general tint, then blew her nose, and then sprang to her feet at
once, with that wonderful elasticity which was always so surprising in
her sudden movements. Moreover, she got up turning her face away from
Margaret, and made for the nearest mirror.
'Lord!' she exclaimed, laconically, as she looked at herself and
realised the full extent of the damage done.
'Wouldn't you like to wash your face?' asked Margaret, following her at
a discreet distance.
'My dear,' answered Madame Bonanni, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone,
'it's awful, of course, but there's nothing else to be done!'
'Come into my dressing-room.'
'If I were at home, I should take a bath and dress over a--a--a----'
One last most unexpected sob half choked her and then made her cough,
till she stamped her foot with anger.
'Bah!' she cried with contempt when she got her breath. 'If I had often
made myself look like such a monster, I should have been a perfectly
good woman! The men would have run from me like mice from a barn on
fire! Have you got any of that Vienna liquid soap, my dear!'
Margaret had the liquid soap, as it chanced, and in a few moments she
was busily occupied in helping Madame Bonanni to restore her
appearance. Though long, the process was only partially successful,
from the latter's own point of view. Having washed away all that had
been, she produced a gold box from the bag she wore at her side. The
box was divided into three compartments containing respectively rouge,
white powder and a miniature puff for applying both, which she
proceeded to do abundantly, sitting at Margaret's toilet-table and
talking while she worked. She had made more confusion in the small
dressing-room in five minutes than Margaret could have made in dressing
twice over. Paint-stained towels strewed the floor, chairs were upset,
soap and water was splashed everywhere. Now she started afresh, by
rubbing plentiful daubs of rouge into her dark cheeks.
'But why do you put on so much?' Margaret asked in wonder.
'My dear, I'm an actress,' said Madame Bonanni. 'I'm not ashamed of my
profession! If I didn't paint, people would say I was trying to pass
myself off for a lady! Besides, now that I have cried, nothing but
powder will hide it. Look at my nose, my dear--just look at my nose!
Little Miss Donne'--she turned upon Margaret with sudden, tragic
energy--'don't ever let that wretched boy know that I cried about him!
Eh? Never! Promise you won't!'
'No, indeed! You may trust me. Why should I tell?'
'But it doesn't matter. Tell him if you like. I don't care. My life is
over now, and there is no reason why I should care about anything, is
there?'
'What do you mean by saying that your life is over?' Margaret asked.
Madame Bonanni's head fell upon the edge of the table and she looked at
herself in the glass for some moments before she answered.
'I have left the stage,' she said, very quietly.
'Left the stage? For good?' Margaret was amazed.
'Yes. I was not going to have any farewells or last appearances. Those
things are only done to make money. Schreiermeyer was very nice about
it. He agreed to cancel the rest of my engagements in a friendly way.'
'But why? Why have you done it?' asked Margaret, still bewildered by
the news.
Madame Bonanni had done one cheek and half the other. She leaned back
in the comfortable chair before the glass and looked at herself again,
not at all at the effect of her work, but at her eyes, as if she were
searching for something.
'There is not room for you and me,' she said, presently.
'I don't understand,' Margaret answered. 'Not room? Where?'
'On the stage. I have been the great lyric soprano a long time. Next
month you will be the great lyric soprano--there is not room----'
'Nonsense!' Margaret broke in. 'I shall never be what you are----'
'Not what I was, perhaps, because this is another age. Taste and
teaching and the art itself--all have changed. But you are young,
fresh, untouched, unheard--all, you have it all, as I had once. You are
not the artist I am, but you will be one day, and meanwhile you have
all I have no more. If I had stayed on the stage, we should have been
rivals next season. They would have said: "Cordova has a better voice,
but Bonanni is still the greater artist." Do you see?'
'Yes. And why should you not be pleased at that?' asked Margaret. 'Or
why should not I be quite satisfied, and more than satisfied?'
'I wasn't thinking of us,' said Madame Bonanni, looking up to
Margaret's face with an expression that was almost beautiful, in spite
of the daubs of paint and the disarranged hair. 'I was thinking of
him.'
Margaret began to guess, and her lip quivered a moment, for she was
touched.
'Yes,' she said. 'I think I see.'
'He loves you,' said Madame Bonanni, still looking at her. 'I have
guessed it. It is very hard for me to get him to like me a little, and
he would not forgive me if the really good critics said I was a better
artist than you. That would be one thing more against me, my dear, and
he has so many things against me already! So I have given it up. Why
should I go on singing, now? He does not care any more. When he has
once heard you he will never want to come again and sit in the middle
of the theatre all alone in the audience just to hear me, as he often
did. Then I sang my best. I never sang as I have sung for him, when I
have caught sight of his face in the audience. No, not for kings. I
used to go and look through the curtain before it went up, if I thought
he was there. And it was just to hear me that he came, just for the
artistic pleasure! He never came to my dressing-room, for that
destroyed the illusion. But now he will go and hear you, and it would
make him very bitter against me if any one said I sang better. Do you
understand?'
'Yes. I understand.'
Margaret bent her head a little and looked down, wondering and puzzled,
yet believing.
'At least I can do that for him.' Madame Bonanni sighed, looking into
the glass again. 'I cannot undo my life, but I need not seem to him to
be a hindrance in yours.'
It was impossible to receive such a confidence without being deeply
touched, and Margaret's own voice shook a little as she answered.
'There have not been many mothers like you since the world began,' she
said.
'I will tell you!' The singer turned half round in her chair with one
of her sudden movements. 'If I had known that I was going to be so fond
of him--and oh, my dear, if I could have guessed that he would care so
much!--I would have led a different life! I would have left the stage
if I could not. Oh, don't think it is so easy to be good! But it's
possible! One can--one could, if one only knew--for the sake of some
one whom one loves very dearly!'
'Of course it is!' answered Margaret, with all the heavenly
self-confidence of untried virtue.
Madame Bonanni looked at her with a peculiar expression. There was a
little pity in the look, and great doubt, a shade of amusement,
perhaps, and a great longing envy through it all.
'Of course?' she repeated, in a thoughtful way. 'Did you mean "of
course it is possible--and easy," my dear? The tone of your voice made
me think that was what you meant. Yes--you meant that, and you have a
right to mean it, but you don't know. That's the great difference--you
don't know! You haven't begun as I did. You're a lady, a real lady,
brought up amongst ladies from your childhood. But that's not what will
keep you good! It's not your refinement, nor your good manners, nor
your white hands that never milked a cow, or swept a stable, or hoed
the weeds out from between the vines in summer. That was my work till I
was seventeen. And my mother was a good woman, my dear, just as good as
yours, though she was only a peasant of Provence. How do I know it? If
she had not been good, my father would have killed her, of course. That
was our custom. And he was good, in his way, too, and kind. He always
told me that if I went wrong he would shoot me--and when the English
artist came and lodged in our house for the summer and made love to me,
my father explained everything to him also. So poor Goodyear saw that
he must marry me, and we were married, before I was eighteen. He took
me away to Paris, and tried to make a lady of me, and he had me taught
to sing, because he loved my voice. Do you see? That was how it all
happened--and still I was good, as good as you are! Yes--"of course,"
as you say! It was easy enough!'
'He died young, didn't he?' Margaret asked quietly.
She had seated herself on the corner of the toilet-table to listen,
while Madame Bonanni leaned back in the low chair and looked at
herself, sometimes absently, sometimes with pity.
'Yes,' she answered. 'He died very soon and left me nothing but Tommy
and my voice. Poor Goodyear! He painted very badly, he never sold
anything, and his father starved him because he had married me. It was
far better that he should die of pneumonia than of hunger, for that
would certainly have been the end of it.
'And you went on the stage at once?' Margaret asked, wishing to hear
more.
Madame Bonanni shrugged her shoulders and leaned forward to the
looking-glass.
'I had a fortune in my throat,' she said, daubing rouge on the cheek
that was only half done. 'I had been well taught in those years, and
there were plenty of managers only too anxious to offer me their
protection--managers and other people, too. What could I do?'
She shrugged her shoulders again, and laughed a little harshly as she
gave a half-shy glance at Margaret. The latter was not a child, but a
grown woman of two-and-twenty. She answered gravely.
'With your voice and talent, I don't see why you needed any protection,
as you call it.'
Madame Bonanni laughed again.
'No? You don't see? All the better, little Miss Donne, all the better
for you that you have never been made to see, and perhaps you never
will now. I hope not. But I tell you that in Paris, or in London, or
Berlin, or Petersburg you may have the voice and talent of Malibran,
Grisi and Patti all in one, but if you are not "protected" you will
never get any further than leading chorus-girl, and perhaps not so
far!'
'No one has protected me,' said Margaret, 'and I've got a good
engagement.'
The prima donna stared at her for a moment in surprise, and then went
on making up her face. The girl had talent, genius, perhaps, but she
must be oddly simple if she did not realise that she owed her
engagement altogether to the woman who was talking to her. Was Margaret
going to take that position from the first? Madame Bonanni wondered.
Was she going to deliberately ignore that she had been taken up bodily,
as it were, and carried through the short cut to celebrity? Or was it
just the simple, stupid, innocent vanity that so often goes with great
gifts, making their possessors quite sure that they can never owe the
least part of their success to any help received from any one else?
Whatever it might be, Madame Bonanni was not the woman to remind
Margaret of what had happened. She only smiled a little and put on more
powder.
'I'm not defending my life, my dear,' she said, quietly, after a little
pause. 'Of what use would that be, now that the best part of it is
over--or the worst part? I'm not even asking for your sympathy, am I?'
Her voice was suddenly bitter. 'I only care for one human being in the
world--I think I never cared for any other, since he was born! Does
that make my life worse? It does, doesn't it? In the name of heaven,
child,' she broke out fiercely and angrily, without the least warning,
'was no woman ever flattered into playing at love? Not even by a King?
Am I the only living woman that has been carried off her feet by
royalty? It wasn't only the King, of course--I don't pretend it
was--there were others. But that's what Tom will never forgive me--the
money and the jewels! What could I do? Throw them in his face, scream
outraged virtue and cry that he was offending me, when he had nothing
more to ask, and I was half drunk with pride and vanity and amusement,
because he was really in love? Tell some great lady, your duchess, your
princess, to do that sort of thing--if you think she will! Don't ask it
of a Provence girl who has milked the cows and hoed the vines, and then
suddenly has half Europe at her feet, and a King into the bargain!
There was only one thing in the world that could have saved me then--it
would have been to know that Tom would never forgive me. And he was
only a little boy--how could I guess?'
She looked up almost wildly into Margaret's eyes, and then bent down,
resting her forehead upon her hands, on the edge of the table.
'Don't be afraid,' she said, 'I'm not going to cry again--never again,
I think! It's over and finished, with the other things!'
She remained in the same position nearly a minute, and then sat up
quite straight before the glass, as if nothing had happened, and
powdered her cheeks again.
Margaret sat still on the corner of the table, not at all sure of what
she had better say or do. She only hoped that Madame Bonanni would not
ask her whether she cared for Lushington and would marry him, supposing
that his scruples could be overcome, and she had a strong suspicion
that it was to ask this that Madame Bonanni had come to see her. It
would be rather hard to answer, Margaret knew, and she turned over
words and expressions in her mind.
She might have spared herself the trouble, for nothing could have been
further from her companion's thoughts just then. The dramatic moment
had passed and Margaret had scarcely noticed it, beyond being very much
surprised at the news it had brought her of the great singer's retiring
from the stage. Perhaps, too, Margaret was a little inclined to doubt
whether Madame Bonanni would abide by her resolution in the future,
though she was perfectly in earnest at present.
'I shall be at your first night,' said the prima donna, finishing her
operations at last, and carefully shutting her little gold box. 'If you
have a dress rehearsal, I'll be at that, too.'
'Thank you,' Margaret answered. 'Yes--there is to be a dress rehearsal
on Sunday. Schreiermeyer insists on it for me. He's afraid I shall have
stage fright because I'm so cool now, I suppose.'
She laughed, contentedly and perfectly sure of herself.
'The only thing I don't like is being brought on in the sack to sing
that last scene.'
'Eh?' Madame Bonanni stared in surprise.
'The sack,' Margaret repeated. 'The last scene. Don't you know?'
'I know--but it's always left out. Nobody has sung that for years. It's
a chorus-girl who is brought on in the bag, and when Rigoletto sees her
face he screams and the curtain goes down. You don't mean to say that
Schreiermeyer wants you to do the whole scene?
'Yes. We've rehearsed it ever so often. I thought it was strange, too.
He says that if it does not please people at the dress rehearsal, we
can leave it out on the real night.'
'I never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life!' Madame Bonanni
was evidently displeased.
She had once done the 'sack' scene herself to satisfy the caprice of a
foreign sovereign who wished to see the effect of it, and she had a
vivid and disagreeable recollection of being half dragged, half
carried, inside a brown canvas bag, and then put down rather roughly;
and then, of not knowing at what part of the stage she was, while she
listened to Rigoletto's voice; and of the strong, dusty smell of the
canvas, that choked her, so that she wanted to cough and sneeze when
Rigoletto tore open the bag and let her head out; and then, of having
to sing in a very uncomfortable position; and, altogether, of a most
disagreeable quarter of an hour just at the very time when she should
have been getting her wig and paint off in her dressing-room. Moreover,
the scene was a failure, as it always has been wherever it has been
tried. She told Margaret this.
'At all events,' she concluded, 'you won't have to do it on the real
night.'
They were in the larger room again. But for the decided damage done to
her sleeve by her tears, Madame Bonanni had restored her outward
appearance tolerably well. She stood at the corner of the piano,
resting one hand upon it.
'I'm sorry for you, my dear,' she said cheerfully, 'because I've given
you so much trouble, but I'm glad I cried as much as I wanted to. It's
horribly bad for the voice and complexion, but nothing really refreshes
one so much. I felt as if my heart were going to break when I got
here.'
'And now?' Margaret smiled, standing beside the elderly woman and idly
turning over the music on the desk of the instrument.
'I suppose it has broken,' Madame Bonanni answered. 'At all events, I
don't feel it any more. No--really--I don't! He may go to Peru, if he
likes--I hope he will, the ungrateful little beast! I'll never think of
him again! When you have made your _debut_, I'm going to live in the
country. There's plenty to do there! Bonanni shall milk cows again and
hoe the furrows between the vines this summer! Bonanni shall go back to
Provence and be an old peasant woman, where she was once a peasant
girl, and married the English painter. Do you think I've forgotten the
language, or the songs?'
One instant's pause, and the singer's great voice broke out in the
small room with a volume of sound so tremendous that it seemed as if it
would rend the walls and the ceiling. It was an ancient Provencal song
that she sang, in long-drawn cadences with strange falls and wild
intervals, the natural music of an ancient, gifted people. It was very
short, for she only sang one stanza of it, and in less than a minute it
was finished and she was silent again. But her big dark eyes, still
swollen and bloodshot, were looking out to a distance far beyond the
green trees she saw through the open window.
Margaret, who had listened, repeated the wild melody very softly, and
sounded each note of it without the words, as if she wished to remember
it always; and a nearer sight came back to the elder woman's eyes as
she listened to the true notes that never faltered, and were as pure as
sounding silver, and as smooth as velvet and as rich as gold. It was a
little thing, but one of those little things that only a born great
singer could have done faultlessly at the first attempt; and Madame
Bonanni listened with rare delight. Then she laughed, as happily as if
she had no heartaches in the world.
'Little Miss Donne, little Miss Donne!' she cried, shaking a fat
finger, 'you will turn many heads before long! You shall come to my
cottage in the autumn, when we have the vintage, and there you will
find old Bonanni looking after the work in a ragged straw hat, with no
paint on her cheeks. And in the evening we will sit upon the door-step
together, and you shall tell me how the heads turned round and round,
and I will teach you all the old songs of Provence. Will you come?'
'Indeed, I will,' Margaret answered, smiling. 'I would cross Europe to
see you--you have been so good to me. Do you know? I want you to
forgive me for what I said in the dressing-room about my engagement. I
remember how you looked when I said it, and now I know that you did not
understand. Of course I owe it all to you--but that isn't what you
meant by--"protection"?'
The prima donna's expression changed again, and grew hard and almost
sullen.
'Never mind that,' she said, roughly. 'I wasn't thinking of that. I
didn't notice what you said.'
She turned her back to Margaret, walked to the window and stood there
looking out while she put on her gloves. But Margaret was humble, in
spite of the rudeness.
'I'm sorry,' she said, following a little way. 'I'm very sorry--I----'
Madame Bonanni did not even turn her head to listen. Margaret did not
try to say anything more, but broke off and waited patiently. Then the
elder woman turned quickly and fiercely, buttoning the last button of
her glove.
'If my own son has done much worse to me, why should I care what any
one else can do?' she asked.
But Margaret was obstinate in her humility and would not be put off.
She took one of Madame Bonanni's hands and made her look at her.
'I would not say or do anything that could hurt you for all the world,'
said Margaret, very earnestly. 'I won't let you go away thinking that I
could, and angry with me. Don't you believe me?'
There was no resisting the tone and the look, and Madame Bonanni was
not able to be angry long. Her large mouth widened slowly in a bright
smile, and the next moment she threw her arms round Margaret and kissed
her on both cheeks.
'Bah!' she cried, 'I didn't think I could still be so fond of anybody,
since that wretched boy of mine broke my heart! It's ridiculous, but I
really believe there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, child!'
She was heartily in earnest, though she little guessed what she was
going to do for Margaret within a few days. But Margaret, who was
really grateful, was nevertheless glad that there was apparently
nothing more that Madame Bonanni could do. She was not quite sure that
the great singer's retirement would prove final; and on cool reflection
she found it hard to believe that the motive for it was the one the
latter alleged, and which had so touched her at first that it had
brought tears to her eyes. The Anglo-Saxon woman could not help looking
at the Latin woman with a little apprehension and a good deal of
scepticism.