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.