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.