But in the scale of emotion and excitement the theatre comes next to
fighting, whether you be the author of the play or opera to be given
for the first time before the greatest and most critical audience in
the world, or the actor, or actress, or singer, who has not yet been
heard or seen and of whom wonders are expected on the great night.
Margaret had not believed it true, though she had often heard it, and
now she was amazed at the strangeness of the physical sensation which
came over her and grew till it was almost intolerable. It was not
fright, for she longed for the moment of appearing; it was not ordinary
nervousness, for she felt that she was as steady as a rock, and now and
then, when she tried a few notes, to 'limber' her voice, it was steady,
too, and exactly what it always was. Yet she felt as if some
tremendous, unseen shape of strength had hold of her and were pressing
her to itself; and then again, she was sure that she was going to see
something unreal in her brightly-lighted, whitewashed dressing-room,
and that if she did see it, she should be frightened. But she saw
nothing; nothing but the dresses she was to wear, the handsome court
gown of the second act, the limp purple silk tights, the doublet, long
cloak and spurred boots of the third, all laid out carefully in their
newness, on the small sofa and the chairs. She saw Madame Bonanni's
cadaverous maid, too, standing motionless and ready if wanted, and
looking at her with a sort of inscrutable curiosity; for the retired
prima donna had insisted upon doing Margaret the signal service of
passing on to her one of the most accomplished theatrical dressers in
Europe. A woman who had made Madame Bonanni look like Juliet or Lucia
could make Margarita da Cordova look a goddess from Olympus; and she
did, from the theatrical point of view. But Margaret was not yet used
to seeing herself in the glass when her face was made up, beautifully
though it was done, and she kept away from the two mirrors as much as
she could while she slowly paced the well-worn carpet, moving her
shoulders now and then, and her arms, as if to make sure that she was
at ease in her stage clothes.
There was no one in the room but she and the maid. She had particularly
asked Schreiermeyer not to come and see her till the end of the second
act, and Madame Bonanni stayed away of her own accord, rather to
Margaret's surprise, but greatly to her relief. At the last minute Mrs.
Rushmore had refused to come at all, and had stayed in France, in a
state of excitement and almost terror which made her very unlike
herself, and would have rendered her a most disturbing companion. She
could not see it, she said. The daughter of her old friend should
always be welcome in her house, but Mrs. Rushmore could not face the
theatre, to see Margaret come on in the last scene booted and spurred
like a man. That was more than she could bear. You might say what you
liked, but she would never see Margaret on the stage, never, never! And
so she would keep her old illusions about the girl, and it would be
easier to welcome her when she came on a visit. Margaret must have a
chaperon of course, but she must hire one of those respectable-looking
stage mothers who are always to be had when young actresses need them.
It would have broken her old friend's heart to see her daughter
chaperoned by a 'stage mother,' but it could not be helped. That much
protection was necessary. She had burst into a very painful fit of
crying when Margaret had left her, and had really suffered more than at
any time since the death of the departed Mr. Rushmore.