Margaret, however, deserved no pity on that afternoon, for she was not

in the least afraid of anything, except that the courtiers who were to

carry her off at the end of her first scene might be clumsy, or that

the sack in the last act would be dusty inside and make her sneeze. But

as for that, she was willing that the ending should be a failure, as

Madame Bonanni said it must be, for she did not mean to do it again if

she could possibly help it.

She was not afraid, but she was not so very calm as she fancied she

was, for afterwards, even on that very evening, she found it impossible

to remember anything that happened from the moment when the sallow maid

entered the dressing-room again, closely followed by the call-boy, who

knocked on the open door and spoke her stage name, until she found

herself well out on the stage, in Rigoletto's arms, uttering the

girlish cry which begins Gilda's part. The three notes, not very high,

not very loud, were drowned in the applause that roared at her from the

house.

It was so loud, so unexpected, that she was startled for a moment, and

remained with one arm on the barytone's shoulder looking rather shyly

across the lowered footlights and over the director's head. He had

already laid down his baton to wait.

'You must acknowledge that, and I must begin over again,' said the

barytone, so loud that Margaret fancied every one must hear him.

He moved back a little when he had spoken and left her in the middle of

the stage. She drew herself up, bent her head, smiled, and made a

little courtesy, all as naturally as if she had never done anything

else. Thereupon the clapping grew louder for one instant, and then

ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The director raised his baton and

looked at her, Rigoletto came forward once more calling to her, and she

fell into his arms again with her little cry. There was no sound from

the house now, and the silence was so intense that she could easily

fancy herself at an ordinary rehearsal, with only a dozen or fifteen

people looking on out of the darkness.

But she was thinking of nothing now. She was out of the world, in the

Play-King's palace, herself a part, and a principal part, of an

illusion, an imaginary personage in one of the dreams that great old

Verdi had dreamt long ago, in his early manhood. Her lips parted and

her matchless voice floated out of its own accord, filling the darkened

air; she moved, but she did not know it, though every motion had been

studied for weeks; she sung as few have ever sung, but it was to her as

if some one else were singing while she listened and made no effort.




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