'I am twenty-two,' she said by way of answer.
'I made my début when I was twenty,' answered the prima donna. 'But
then,' she added, as if in explanation, 'I was married before I was
seventeen.' 'Indeed!' Margaret exclaimed politely.
'Yes. He died. Let us sing! I always want to sing when I come out of my
bath. Do you know the duo at the beginning of the fourth act? Yes?
Good. I will sing Romeo. Oh yes, I can sing the tenor part--it is very
high for a man. Sit down. Imagine that you admire me and that the lark
is trying to imitate the nightingale so that we need not part. We have
not heard it yet. The man is beginning to turn up the dawn outside the
window behind us, but we do not see it. We are perfectly happy. Now,
begin!' The chords sounded softly, the two voices blended, rose and fell and
died away. The elder woman's rich lower tones imitated a tenor voice
well enough to give Margaret the little illusion she needed, and her
overflowing happiness did the rest. She sang as she had not sung
before.
'I wish to embrace you!' cried Madame Bonanni, when they had finished.
And forthwith Margaret felt herself enveloped in the Turkish bath-gown,
and entangled in the towzled hair and held by a pair of tremendously
strong white arms; and being thus helpless, she experienced a kindly
but portentous kiss on each cheek; after which she was set at liberty.
'You are a real musician, too!' Madame Bonanni said with genuine
admiration. 'You can play anything, as well as sing. I hope you will
never hear me play. It is awful. I could empty any theatre instantly,
if there were a fire, merely by playing a little!' She laughed heartily at her little joke, for like many great singers
she was half a child and half a genius, and endowed with the huge
vitality that alone makes an opera singer's life possible.
'I would give my playing to have your voice,' Margaret said.
'You would be cheated in your bargain,' observed Madame Bonanni. 'Let
me look at you. Have you a big chest and a thick throat? What are your
arms like? If you have a voice and talent, strength is every thing!
Young girls come and sing to me so prettily, so sweetly! They want to
be singers! Singers, my dear, with chests like paper dolls and throats
like plucked spring chickens! Bah! They are good for nothing, they
catch cold, they give a little croak and they die. Strength is
everything. Let me see your throat! No! You will never croak! You will
never die. And your arms? Look at mine. Yes, yours will be like mine,
some day.' Margaret hoped not, for Madame Bonanni seemed to be a very big woman,
though she still managed to look human as Juliet. Perhaps that was
because the tenors were all fat.