Now there are not many singers living who can sing the waltz song and
accompany themselves without making a terrible mess of the music; but
Margaret did it well, and much more than well, for she was not only a
singer with a beautiful voice but a true musician. There was not a
quaver or hesitation in her singing from beginning to end, nor a false
note in the accompaniment.
When she had finished, her lips closed and she went on playing the
music of the scene that follows. She had not gone on a dozen bars,
however, when a head appeared suddenly round the corner of a picture on
an easel.
'Ah, bah!' exclaimed the head, in an accent of great surprise.
Its thick dark-brown hair was all towzled and standing on end, its
brown eyes were opened very wide in astonishment, and it was showing
magnificently strong teeth, a little discoloured.
Margaret sprang to her feet with an apology for having forgotten
herself, but the head laughed and came forward, bringing with it a
large body wrapped in an enormous gown of white Turkish towelling,
evidently held together by the invisible hands within. Margaret thought
of the statue of Balzac.
'I thought it was Caravita,' said Madame Bonanni. 'We are great friends
you know. I sometimes find her waiting for me. But who in the world are
you?' 'Margaret Donne.'
'Ah, bah!' exclaimed the great singer again, the two syllables being
apparently her only means of expressing surprise.
'But I told your servant----' Margaret began.
'Why have you not made your début?' cried Madame Bonanni, interrupting
her, and shaking her disordered locks as if in protest. 'You have
millions in your throat! Why do you come here? To ask advice? To let me
hear you sing? Let the public hear you! What are you waiting for?
To-morrow you will be old! And all singers are young. How old do you
think I am? Forty-five, perhaps, because it is printed so! Not a bit of
it! A prima donna is never over thirty, never, never, never! Imagine
Juliet over thirty, or Lucia! Pah! The idea is horrible! Fortunately,
all tenors are fat. A Juliet of thirty may love a fat Romeo, but at
forty it would be disgusting, positively disgusting! I am sick at the
mere thought.' Margaret stood up, resting one hand on the corner of the piano and
smiling at the torrent of speech. Yet all the time, while Madame
Bonanni was saying things that sounded absurd enough, the young girl
was conscious that the handsome brown eyes were studying her quietly
and perhaps not unwisely.