It was lovely!
I wish I could tell Giovanni all about it, he would so understand. Once
he was furious; he told mother I had an extraordinary voice, and mother
laughed and said she did not doubt it.
Cheneston used the words at the Gilpins' to-night.
"You have an extraordinary voice, Pam!" he said, "amazing."
Grace sings. Cheterton and Pouiluex of the Paris Conservatoire trained
her voice.
To-night we all went over to the Gilpins' for coffee--mother, father,
Cheneston, and I--and when we arrived Grace was singing "Jeunesse," that
funny little song about "taking your picture out of its frame, and out
of my heart I have taken your name"--it wasn't very effective. It needs
a lot of sorrow in the voice, and Grace's voice is full of light
laughter; it was rather like a tom-tit trying to dance a minuet.
I was feeling stirred up and rebellious. It seemed so hard that I had
only a funny little face and homely little ways in which to express all
the beautiful big, swishy feelings that were eating me up inside, and
Grace was so lovely that she could express things she didn't really feel
at all.
It seemed so awfully unfair and rotten, just as if we were both trying
to touch Cheneston's heart with the same melody, and she had a glorious
grand to work on, and I just a little boarding-house upright.
They had blue chinese lanterns with apple-blossom pattern on the stoep,
and great copper bowls of larkspurs and pale pink carnations everywhere,
and black cushions on all the white wicker chairs; and Grace wore black
with an enormous blue sash.
She was singing in the drawing-room, with Walter Markham turning over
her music, and when she came out on to the stoep she said:
"Surely, Pam, you play or something?"
"I sing a little," I said.
"Then do try," said she--you know the sort of woman who always asks
another woman to "try" to sing.
I went straight to the piano and I sang "Melisande in the Wood,"
accompanying myself.
I think my voice has a funny register, it seems to surprise people.
It's terrifically deep and strong and soft--almost "furry."
It's rather disconcerting, because it doesn't sound as if it belonged to
me at all; I am like a doll's house fitted with a church organ.
I don't think I have _ever_ sung as I did that night. I was pealing and
ringing and chanting inside before ever I started, and all that was
there in my heart seemed to rush into my voice.
It was like some great big longing, hoping, sad she-spirit singing.
When the last "sleep" had sort of slid away, I turned round; they were
all in the room staring--just staring.
Walter Markham came over to see me.
"You are wonderful!" he said. "Pam--you are wonderful!"
I looked at Cheneston, suddenly I felt as if I had taken control of my
background.
Cheneston's face was white.
His face was the face of a discoverer.
He bent over me.
"You have an extraordinary voice, Pam," he said, "amazing---- But of
course it lies--women use their singing voices to tell lies--wonderful,
beautiful, sweet-sounding lies."
"Sing again," Grace said.
But I would not sing again; I had made my effect--I own it quite, quite
honestly--I could have shrieked with triumph.
So Grace sang.
She sang "Rose in the Bud"--and it was like the trickling after the pour
had ceased.