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 début, 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.




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