Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘Doubtless by a mistake of my father’s, dear lady; quite unpardonable since you are displeased! If he had lived, he certainly would have rectified it to please you, but the Turks killed him when I was a baby in arms; and that was before you were born.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ answered Madame Bonanni, who must have been just about to be married at that time. ‘But that is no reason why we should stand here starving to death while you chatter.’

  Thereupon she put her arm through Margaret’s and led her away at a brisk pace, Logotheti following at a little distance and contemplating the young girl’s moving figure with the satisfaction that only an Oriental feels in youthful womanly beauty. It was long since he had seen any sight that pleased him as well, for his artistic sense was fastidious in the highest degree where the things of daily life were not concerned. He might indeed wear waistcoats that inspired terror and jewellery that dazzled the ordinary eye, but there were few men in Paris who were better judges of a picture, a statue, an intaglio, or a woman.

  In a few moments the three were seated at a carved and polished table overloaded with silver and cut glass, one on each side of Madame Bonanni. Three other places were set, but no one appeared to fill them. The cheerful servant with the moustache was arrayed in a neat frock coat and a white satin tie, and he smiled perpetually.

  ‘I adore plover’s eggs!’ cried Madame Bonanni, as he set a plate before her containing three tiny porcelain bowls, in each of which a little boiled plover’s egg lay buried in jelly.

  It was evident that she was speaking the truth, for they disappeared in an instant, and were followed by a bisque of shrimps of the most creamy composition.

  ‘It is my passion!’ she said.

  She took her spoon in her hand, but appeared to hesitate, for she glanced first at Margaret, then down at her green tea-gown, and then at Margaret again. At last she seemed to make up her mind, and quickly unfolding the damask napkin she tied it round her neck in a solid knot. The stiff points stood out on each side behind her ears. She emitted a sigh of satisfaction and went to work at the soup. Margaret pretended to see nothing and made an indifferent remark to Logotheti.

  Madame Bonanni made a good deal of noise, finally tipping up her plate and scraping out the contents to the last drop.

  ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed with immense satisfaction. ‘That was good!’

  ‘Perfect,’ assented Logotheti, who ate delicately and noiselessly, as Orientals do.

  ‘Delicious!’ said Margaret, who was hungry.

  ‘I taught my cook the real way to make it,’ Madame Bonanni said. ‘I am a good cook, a very good cook! I always did the cooking at home before I came to Paris to study, because my mother was not able to stand long. One of the farm horses had kicked her and broken her leg and she was always lame after that. Well?’ she asked suddenly turning to the cheerful servant. ‘Is that all we are to have to-day? I am dying of hunger!’

  A marvellous salmon trout made its appearance a moment later.

  ‘Oh yes!’ exclaimed the prima donna. ‘I am fond of eating! You may laugh at me if you like, Logotheti. I am perfectly indifferent!’

  And she was. She did all sorts of things that surprised Margaret, and when a dish of ortolans with a rich brown sauce was put before her, she deliberately discarded her knife and fork altogether and ate with her hands. By way of terminating the operation, she stuck every finger of each hand into her mouth as far as it would go, licked all ten thoroughly, and then looked at them critically before drying them on her napkin. By this time Margaret was past being surprised at anything.

  ‘Logotheti says that in the East they all eat with their fingers,’ the singer observed.

  ‘It is much cleaner,’ Logotheti answered imperturbably.

  Margaret uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise.

  ‘Of course it is!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know who washes my fingers. I don’t know who washes the forks, nor who used them last. If one stopped to think about it, one would never use a fork or a spoon that was not one’s own or washed by oneself. I am sure that every sort of disease is caught from other people’s forks and spoons.’

  ‘What a horrible idea!’ exclaimed Margaret with disgust. ‘I shall never want to eat at a hotel or a restaurant again.’

  ‘You will forget it,’ replied Logotheti reassuringly. ‘Civilisation makes us forget a great many little things of the sort, I assure you!’

  ‘But is there no way of protecting oneself?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘It is absurd!’ cried Madame Bonanni. ‘I don’t believe in germs and microbes and such silly things! If they exist we are full of them, and I have no doubt they do us good.’

  ‘It would be just as easy to boil the forks and spoons for ten minutes in clean water, after they are washed,’ observed Logotheti. ‘But after all, fingers are safer.’

  ‘Things taste better with fingers,’ said Madame Bonanni thoughtfully.

  ‘In the East,’ Logotheti answered, ‘people pour water on their hands after each course. Why don’t you try that?’

  ‘I wash my hands afterwards; it is less trouble.’

  Logotheti laughed, but Margaret was disgusted, and did not even smile. Madame Bonanni’s proceedings had made an impression on her which it would be hard to forget, and she sat silent for a while, not tasting what followed.

  ‘Logotheti,’ said Madame Bonanni later, with her mouth full of strawberries and cream, ‘you must do something for me.’

  ‘An investment, dear lady? I suppose you want some of the bonds of the new electric road, don’t you? They are not to be had, but of course you shall have them at once. Or else you have decided to give your whole fortune to an eccentric charity. Is that it?’

  ‘No,’ answered the singer, swallowing. ‘This charming young lady — what is your name, my dear? I have forgotten it twenty times this morning!’

  ‘Donne. Margaret Donne.’

  ‘This charming Miss Donne sings, Logotheti.’

  ‘So I gathered while we were talking.’

  ‘No, you didn’t! You gathered no such thing! She told you that she took lessons, perhaps. But I tell you that she sings. It is quite different.’

  Madame Bonanni pushed away her plate, planted her large white elbows on the table and looked thoughtfully at Margaret. Logotheti looked at the young girl, too, for he knew very well what his old friend meant by the simple statement, slightly emphasised.

  ‘Ah!’ he ejaculated. ‘I understand. I am at your service.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Margaret, blushing a little and turning from one to the other.

  ‘Logotheti knows everybody,’ answered Madame Bonanni. ‘He is rich, immensely rich, fabulously rich, my dear. He is in the “high finance,” in fact. It is disgusting, how rich he is, but it is sometimes useful. He wants a theatre, a newspaper; he buys it and does what he likes with it. It makes no difference to him, for he always sells it again for more than he gave for it, and besides, it amuses him. You would not think it, but Logotheti is often dreadfully bored.’

  ‘Very often,’ assented the Greek, ‘but never when I am with you.’

  ‘Ah, bah! You say that! But why should I care? You always do what I want.’

  ‘Invariably.’

  ‘And out of pure friendship, too.’

  ‘The purest!’ Logotheti uttered the two words with profound conviction.

  ‘I never could induce this creature to make love to me,’ cried Madame Bonanni, turning to Margaret with a laugh. ‘It is incredible! And yet I love him — almost as well as plover’s eggs! It is true that if he made love to me, I should have him turned out of the house. But that makes no difference. It is one of the disappointments of my life that he doesn’t!’

  ‘What I admire next to your genius, is your logic, dear lady,’ said Logotheti.

  ‘Precisely. Now before you have your coffee you will give me your word of honour that Miss Donne shall have a triumph and an ovation at her début, and an engagement to sing next season a
t the Opéra.’

  ‘Really — —’ Margaret tried to protest.

  ‘You know nothing about business,’ interrupted Madame Bonanni. ‘You are nothing but a child! These things are done in this way. Logotheti, give me your word of honour.’

  ‘Are you sure of the voice?’ asked the Greek quietly.

  ‘As sure as I am of my own.’

  ‘Very well. I give you my word. It is done.’

  ‘Good. I hate you, Logotheti, because you are so cautious, but you always do what you promise. You may have your coffee now! What name are you going to take, my dear?’ she asked, turning to Margaret, who felt very uncomfortable. ‘The name is very important, you know, even when one has your genius.’

  ‘My genius!’ exclaimed the young girl in confusion.

  ‘I know what I am talking about,’ answered Madame Bonanni in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘You will get up on the morning of your début as little Miss Donne, nobody! You will go to bed as the great new soprano, famous! That is what you will do. Now don’t talk, but let me give you a name, and we will drink your health to it in a drop of that old white Chartreuse. You like that old white Chartreuse, Logotheti. You shall have none till you have found a name for Miss Donne.’

  ‘May I not keep my own?’ Margaret asked timidly.

  ‘No. It is an absurd name for the stage, my dear. All the people would make jokes about it. Of course you must be either Italian, or French, or German, or Hungarian, or Spanish. There is no great Italian soprano just now. I advise you to be an Italian. You are Signorina — Signorina what? Logotheti, do make haste! You know Italian.’

  ‘May I ask where you were born, Miss Donne?’ inquired Logotheti.

  ‘In Oxford. But what has that to do with it?’

  ‘Translate into Italian: ox, “bove,” ford, “guado.” No, that won’t do’

  ‘Certainly not!’ cried Madame Bonanni. ‘Guado — guano! Fancy! Try again. Think of a pretty Italian name. It must be very easy! Take an historical name, the name of a great family. Those people never object.’

  ‘Cordova is a fine name,’ observed Logotheti. ‘She may just as well be Spanish, after all. Margarita da Cordova. That sounds rather well.’

  ‘Yes. Do you like it, my dear?’ asked Madame Bonanni.

  ‘But I don’t know a word of Spanish — —’

  ‘What in the world has that to do with it? It is a good name. You may have your Chartreuse, Logotheti. Margarita da Cordova, the great Spanish soprano! Your health! You were born in the little town of Boveguado in Andalusia.’

  ‘Your father was the famous contrabandier Ramon da Cordova, who sang like an angel and played the guitar better than any one in Spain.’

  ‘Was there ever such a man?’

  ‘No, of course not! And besides, he was stabbed in a love affair when you were a baby, so that it does not matter. You ought to be able to make something out of that for the papers, Logotheti. Carmen, don’t you know? Heavens, how romantic!’

  Margaret had a vague idea that she was dreaming, that Madame Bonanni and Logotheti were not real people, and that she was going to waken in a few minutes. The heavy, middle-aged woman with the good-natured face and the painted cheeks could not possibly be the tragic Juliet, the terrible Tosca, the poor, mad, fluttering Lucia, whose marvellous voice had so often thrilled the young girl to the heart, in Paris and in London. It was either a dream or a cruel deception. Her own words sounded far away and unsteady when she was at last allowed to speak.

  ‘I am sure I cannot sing in public in less than a year,’ she said. ‘You are very kind, but you are exaggerating my talent. I could never get through the whole opera well enough.’

  Madame Bonanni looked at her curiously for a moment, not at all certain that she was in earnest; but she saw that Margaret meant what she said. There was no mistaking the troubled look in the girl’s eyes.

  ‘I suppose you are not afraid to come here and sing before an impresario and three or four musicians, are you?’ inquired the singer.

  ‘No!’ cried Margaret. ‘But that is different.’

  ‘Did you think that any manager would engage you, even for one night, merely on my word, my child? You will have to show what you can do. But I can tell you one thing, little Miss Donne!’ A great, good-natured laugh rolled out before Madame Bonanni proceeded to state the one thing she could tell. ‘When you have sung the waltz song in Romeo and Juliet, and the duo in the fifth act, to four or five of the men who make a living out of us artists, you will be surprised at what happens afterwards! Those people will not risk their money for your handsome eyes, my dear! And they know their business, don’t they, Logotheti?’

  He answered by speaking directly to Margaret.

  ‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘that you can have confidence in Madame Bonanni’s opinion.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said the prima donna — suddenly, and for some unknown reason, rubbing all the rouge off her right cheek with the corner of her napkin and then inspecting curiously the colour that adhered to the linen— ‘listen to me! I sing day after to-morrow, for the last time before going to London. Come to my dressing-room after the second act. I will have Schreiermeyer there, and we will make an appointment for the next day, and settle the matter at once. It’s understood, isn’t it?’

  Margaret was delighted, for Logotheti’s quiet words had reassured her a little. Madame Bonanni rose suddenly, untying her napkin from her neck as she got up, and throwing it on the floor behind her. Before she had reached the door she yawned portentously.

  ‘I always go to sleep when I have eaten,’ she said. ‘Find a cab for little Miss Donne, Logotheti — for the famous Señorita da Cordova!’ She laughed sleepily, and waved her hand to Margaret.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ the young girl began, but before she got any further Madame Bonanni had disappeared.

  A few moments later Margaret and Logotheti were in the street. The noonday air was warm and bright and she drew in deep breaths of it, as she had done in the morning. Logotheti looked at her from under the brim of his Panama hat.

  ‘We shall find a cab in a minute,’ he said, in an indifferent tone.

  ‘Yes.’

  They walked a few steps in silence.

  ‘I hope you don’t really mean to do what Madame Bonanni asked of you,’ Margaret said, rather awkwardly. ‘I mean, about my début, if it really comes off.’

  Logotheti laughed lightly.

  ‘She always talks in that way,’ he said. ‘She thinks I can do anything, but as a matter of fact I have no influence to speak of, and money has nothing to do with an artist’s success. I shall certainly be there on your first night, and you will not object to my splitting my gloves in applauding you?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Margaret laughed, too. ‘You are welcome to do that! There is a cab.’

  She held up her parasol to attract the driver’s attention, and Logotheti made a few steps forward and called him.

  ‘Where shall I tell the man to take you?’ Logotheti asked, as she got in.

  ‘To the Saint Lazare station, please. Thank you very much!’

  She smiled pleasantly and nodded as she drove away. He stood still a moment on the pavement, looking after her, and then turned in the opposite direction, lighting a cigarette as he walked.

  He was a Greek, and an educated one, and as he sauntered along on the shady side of the Avenue Hoche, the cigarette twitched oddly in his mouth, as if he were talking to himself. From four and twenty centuries away, in the most modern city of the world, broken lines of an ode of Anacreon came ringing to his ears, and his lips formed the words noiselessly:

  ‘I wish I were the zone that lies

  Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs ...

  Oh, anything that touches thee!

  Nay, sandals for those fairy feet ...’

  That, at least, is the English for it, according to Thomas Moore.

  CHAPTER IV

  MARGARET WAS NOT quite sure how she could find her way to Madam
e Bonanni’s dressing-room at the Opéra, but she had no intention of missing the appointment. The most natural and easy way of managing matters would be to ask her teacher to go with her, and she could then spend the night at the latter’s house. She accordingly stopped there before she went to the station.

  The elderly artist burst into tears on hearing the result of the interview with Madame Bonanni, and fell upon Margaret’s neck.

  ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I was sure of it, but I did not dare to tell you so!’

  Margaret was very happy, but she was a little nervous about her frock and wondered whether tears stained, as sea water does. The old singer was of a very different type from Madame Bonanni, and had never enjoyed such supremacy as the latter, even for a few months. But she had been admired for her perfect method, her good acting, and her agreeable voice, and for having made the most of what nature had given her; and when she had retired from the stage comparatively young, as the wife of the excellent Monsieur Durand, she had already acquired a great reputation as a model for young singers, and she soon consented to give lessons. Unfortunately, Monsieur Durand had made ducks and drakes of her earnings in a few years, by carefully mis-investing every penny she possessed; but as he had then lost no time in destroying himself by the over-use of antidotes to despair, such as absinthe, his widow had soon re-established the equilibrium of her finances by hard work and was at the present time one of the most famous teachers of singers for the stage. Madame Durand was a Neapolitan by birth and had been known to modest fame on the stage as Signora De Rosa, that being her real name; for Italian singers seem to be the only ones who do not care for high-sounding pseudonyms. She was a voluble little person, over-flowing with easy feeling which made her momentarily intensely happy, miserable, or angry, as the case might be. Whichever it might be, she generally shed abundant tears.

  Margaret went back to Versailles feeling very happy, but determined to say nothing of what had happened except to Mrs. Rushmore, who need only know that Madame Bonanni had spoken in an encouraging way and wished to see her at the theatre. For the girl herself found it hard to believe half of what the prima donna had told her, and was far from believing that she was on the eve of signing her first engagement.