Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

She sang very beautifully that night, especially after the second act, and Lushington thought he had hardly ever heard so much real feeling in her marvellous voice. Afterwards he walked home, and he heard it all the way, and for an hour after he had gone to bed, when he fell asleep at last, and dreamt that he himself had turned into a very fat tenor and was singing Romeo, but the Juliet was Margaret Donne instead of Madame Bonanni, and though she sang like an angel, she was evidently disgusted by his looks; which was very painful indeed, and made him sing quite out of tune and perspire terribly.

  ‘You look hot,’ said Margaret-Juliet, with cruel distinctness, just as he was trying to throw the most intense pathos into the words, ‘’tis not the lark, it is the nightingale!’

  Perhaps dreaming nonsense is also a subject for the inquiries of psychology. At the moment the poor man’s imaginary sufferings were positively frightful, and he awoke with a gasp. He had always secretly dreaded growing fat, he had always felt a horror of anything like singing or speaking in public, and the only thing in the world he really feared was the possibility of being ridiculous in Margaret’s eyes. Of course the ingenious demon of his dreams found a way of applying all these three torments at once, and it was like being saved from sudden death to wake up in the dark and smell the stale smoke of the pipe he had enjoyed before putting out his light.

  Then he fell asleep again and did not awake till morning, being naturally a very good sleeper. It was raining when he got up, and he looked out disconsolately upon the dull street. It seemed to him that if it was going to rain in Paris he might as well go back to London, where he had plenty to do, and he began to consider which train he should take, revolving the advantages and disadvantages of reaching London early in the evening or late at night. He knew the different time-tables by heart.

  But it stopped raining while he was dressing, and the sun came out, and a bird began to sing somewhere at a window high above the street, and it was suddenly spring again. It was a great thing to be alone in spring. If he went back to London he must see people he knew, and dine with people he hardly knew at all, and be asked out by others whom he had not even met, because he was the distinguished critic, flattered and feared and asked to dinner by everybody who had a seventh cousin in danger of literary judgment. He belonged to the flock of dramatic lions and must herd with them, eat with them and roar with them, for the greater glory of London society and his native country generally. Under ordinary circumstances such an existence was bearable and at times delightful, but just now he wanted to roar in the wilderness and assert his leonine right of roaming in desolate places not less than two geographical degrees east of Pall Mall.

  He went out at last and strolled towards the bridge, and across it and much farther, but not aimlessly, for though he did not always take the shortest way, he kept mainly in the same direction till he came to the Avenue Hoche.

  At the end of the street he stopped and looked at his watch. It was five minutes to eleven. Looking along the pavement in front of him his eye was attracted by the striped awning that distinguished Madame Bonanni’s house from the others on the same side, and he noticed an extremely smart brougham that stood just before the door. The handsome black horse stood perfectly motionless in the morning sunshine, the stony-faced English coachman sat perfectly motionless on the box, looking straight between the horse’s ears; he wore a plain black livery that fitted to perfection and there was no cockade on his polished hat. No turnout could have been simpler and yet none could have looked more overpoweringly smart.

  Lushington suddenly turned on his heel and walked off in the opposite direction, as if he were not pleased, but he had not gone fifty yards when he heard the brougham behind him, and in a few seconds it passed him at a sharp pace. He caught sight of the elderly man inside — a tremendous profile over a huge fair beard that was half grey, one large and rather watery blue eye behind a single eyeglass with a broad black ribbon, a gardenia in the button-hole of a smart grey coat, a cloud of cigarette smoke, one very large and aristocratic hand, with a plain gold ring, holding the cigarette and resting on the edge of the window. He smelt the smoke after the brougham had passed, and he recognised the fact that it was superlatively fragrant.

  He turned back again in a few moments and saw that three men were just coming out of Madame Bonanni’s house. One was Schreiermeyer, whom he knew, and one looked like a poor musician. The third was the Minister of Fine Arts, whom he did not know but recognised. The Minister and the pianist walked one on each side of Schreiermeyer, and were talking excitedly, but the manager looked at neither of them and never turned his head. They went down the Avenue Hoche away from Lushington, who walked very slowly and looked at his watch twice before he reached Madame Bonanni’s door. There he stopped, rang and was admitted without question, as if he were in the habit of coming and going as he pleased. He apparently took it for granted that the prima donna must be alone and already at her late breakfast, but he was stopped by the smiling servant who came out of the dining-room, arrayed as usual in a frock coat and a white satin tie.

  ‘I will inform Madame,’ he said.

  ‘Is there any one there?’ asked Lushington, evidently not pleased.

  The servant shrugged his shoulders in a deprecatory way, and his smile became rather compassionate.

  ‘One young person to breakfast,’ he said, ‘a musician’.

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Lushington’s brow cleared.

  The servant left him and went in again. A screen was so placed as to mask the interior of the dining-room when the door was open. Within, Madame Bonanni and Margaret were seated at table. Encouraged by circumstances the prima donna had on this occasion tied her napkin round her neck as soon as she had sat down; the inevitable plovers’ eggs had already been demolished, and she was at work on a creamy purée soup of the most exquisite pale green colour. It was clear that she had not lost a moment in getting to her meal after the men had left. Margaret was eating too, but though there was fresh colour in her cheeks her eyes had a startled look each time she looked up, as if something very unusual had happened.

  The servant whispered something in Madame Bonanni’s ear. She seemed to hesitate a moment, and glanced at Margaret before making up her mind. Then she nodded to the man without saying a word, and went on eating her soup.

  A few seconds later Lushington entered. Margaret faced the door and their eyes met. Madame Bonanni dropped her spoon into her plate with a clang and uttered a scream of delight, as if she had not known perfectly well that Lushington was coming.

  ‘What luck!’ she cried. ‘Little Miss Donne, this is my son!’

  Margaret’s jaw dropped in sheer amazement.

  ‘Your son? Mr. Lushington is your son?’

  ‘Yes. Ah, my child!’ she cried, springing up and kissing Lushington on both cheeks with resounding affection. ‘What a joy it is to see you!’

  Lushington was rather pale as he laid his hand quietly on Madame Bonanni’s.

  ‘I have the pleasure of knowing Miss Donne already, mother,’ he said steadily, ‘but she did not know that I was your son. She is a little surprised.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Margaret, faintly, ‘a little.’

  ‘Ah, you know each other?’ Madame Bonanni seemed delighted. ‘So much the better! Miss Donne will keep our little secret, I am sure. Besides she has another name, too. She is Señorita Margarita da Cordova from to-day. Sit down, my darling child! You are starving! I know you are starving! Angelo!’ she screamed at the smiling servant, ‘why do you stand there staring like a stuffed codfish? Bring more plovers’ eggs!’

  Angelo smiled as sweetly as ever and disappeared for an instant. Madame Bonanni took Lushington by the shoulders, as if he had been a little boy, made him sit down in the vacant place beside her, unfolded the napkin herself, spread it upon his knees, patted both his cheeks and kissed the top of his head, precisely as she had done when he was six years old. Margaret looked on in dumb surprise, and poor Lushington turned red to the roots of his hair.


  ‘You have no idea what a dear child he is,’ she said to Margaret, as she sat herself down in her own chair again. ‘He has been my passion ever since he was born! My dear, you never saw such a beautiful baby as he was! He was all pink and white, like a little sugar angel, and he had dimples everywhere — everywhere, my dear!’ she repeated with suggestive emphasis.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Margaret, biting her lips and looking at her plate.

  By this time the plovers’ eggs had come for Lushington and he was glad of anything to do with his hands.

  ‘My mother can never believe that I am grown up,’ he said, with much more self-possession than Margaret had expected; and suddenly he raised his eyes and looked steadily and quietly at her across the table.

  It must have cost him something of an effort, for his colour came and went quickly. Margaret knew what he was suffering and her respect for him increased a hundredfold in those few minutes, because he did not betray the least irritation in his tone or manner. His mother evidently worshipped him, but her way of showing it was such as must be horribly uncomfortable to a man of his retiring character and sensitive taste. He might easily have been forgiven if he had shown that it hurt him, as well it might. Whatever reason he and Madame Bonanni might have had for changing his name, he was brave enough not to be falsely ashamed of her, in the presence of the woman he loved.

  ‘You see,’ Margaret said, looking at him, but speaking to the prima donna, ‘Mr. Lushington has been stopping with us at Versailles for a good while, but I did not tell him that I had been to see you, and he never even said that he knew you, though he often spoke of your singing.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Madame Bonanni with intense anxiety. ‘What did he say? Did he say that I was growing old and ought to give up the stage?’

  ‘Mother!’ exclaimed Lushington reproachfully.

  ‘He never said anything of the kind!’ cried Margaret, taking his part with energy.

  ‘Because he always says just what he thinks,’ explained Madame Bonanni, who seemed relieved. ‘And the worst part of it is that he knows,’ she added, thoughtfully. ‘I do not pretend to understand what he writes, but I would take his opinion about music rather than anyone’s. You wretched little boy!’ she cried, turning on Lushington suddenly. ‘How you frightened me!’

  ‘I frightened you? How?’

  ‘I was sure that you had told everybody that I was growing old! How could you? My darling child, how could you be so unkind? Oh, you have no heart!’

  ‘But he never said so!’ cried Margaret vehemently and feeling as if she were in a madhouse. ‘He has told me again and again that you are still the greatest lyric soprano living — —’

  ‘Angelo,’ said Madame Bonanni, with perfect calm, ‘change my plate.’

  Margaret glanced at Lushington, who seemed to think it all quite natural. He was eating little bits of thin toast thoughtfully, and from time to time he looked at his mother with a gentle expression. But he did not meet Margaret’s glance.

  ‘You never sang better in your life than you did last night, mother,’ he observed.

  The prima donna’s face glowed with pleasure, and as she turned her big eyes to his Margaret saw in them a look of such loving tenderness as she had rarely seen in her life.

  ‘I saw you, my dear,’ said Madame Bonanni to her son. ‘You were in the second row of the stalls. I sang for you last night, for I thought you looked sad and lonely.’

  Lushington laid his hand on hers for a moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

  There was a short silence, which was unusual when the prima donna was present. Margaret had recovered from her first surprise, and had understood that Madame Bonanni adored her son and that he felt real affection for her, though he suffered a good deal from the manner in which hers showed itself. If Lushington had fancied that he might fall in Margaret’s estimation through her discovery of his birth, he was much mistaken. His patience and perfect simplicity did more to make her love him than anything he had done before. She had learned his secret, or a great part of it, and she understood him now, and the reason why he had changed his name, and she felt that he had behaved very well to her in going away, though she wished that he had boldly taken her into his confidence before leaving Mrs. Rushmore’s. But she did not know all, though she was neither too young nor too innocent to guess a part of the truth. Few young women of twenty-two years are. Madame Bonanni’s career as an artist had been a long series of triumphs, but her past as a woman had been variegated, of the sort for which the French have invented a number of picturesquely descriptive expressions, such as ‘leading the life of Punch,’ ‘throwing one’s cap over the windmills,’ and other much less elegant phrases. Margaret saw that Lushington was not ashamed of his mother, as his mother; but she knew instinctively that his mother’s past was a shame which he felt always and to the quick.

  Madame Bonanni ate a good deal before she spoke again, feeling, perhaps, that she had lost time.

  ‘Schreiermeyer says she sings divinely,’ she said at last, looking at Lushington and then nodding at Margaret. ‘You know what that means.’

  ‘London?’ inquired Lushington, who knew the manager.

  ‘London next year, and an appearance this season if any one breaks down. Meanwhile he signs for her début in Belgium and a three months’ tour. Twenty-four performances in three operas, fifty thousand francs.’

  ‘I congratulate you,’ said Lushington, looking at Margaret and trying to seem pleased.

  ‘You seem to think it is too little,’ observed Madame Bonanni.

  ‘Little?’ cried Margaret. ‘It’s a fortune!’

  ‘You may talk of a fortune when you get three hundred pounds a night,’ said Lushington. ‘But it is a good beginning. I wonder that Schreiermeyer agreed to it so easily.’

  ‘Easily!’ Madame Bonanni laughed. ‘I wish you had been there, my dear boy! He kicked and screamed, and we called him bad names. The King told him he was a dirty little Jew, which he is not, poor man, but it had a very good effect.’

  ‘Oh!’ Lushington did not seem surprised at the royal personage’s reported language. ‘Then it was the King who passed me in that smart brougham? I thought so.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Madame Bonanni rather brusquely, and she became very busy with some little birds.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Margaret said to Lushington. ‘One always imagines a king with a crown and a sort of ermine dressing-gown, and a sceptre like the Lord Mayor’s mace! Of course it’s perfectly ridiculous, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe His Majesty possesses those things,’ answered Lushington, as if he did not like the subject.

  ‘He looked and talked much more like an old friend than anything else,’ Margaret went on, remembering that Madame Bonanni had used the same expression before Schreiermeyer.

  To her surprise and sudden discomfiture neither of the two paid the least attention to her remark.

  ‘What train shall you take, mother?’ asked Lushington so abruptly upon Margaret’s speech that she understood her mistake.

  Though she had guessed something, it had somehow not occurred to her to connect the royal personage with Madame Bonanni’s past; but now she scarcely dared to glance at Lushington. When she did, he seemed to be avoiding her eyes again, and she saw the old look of pain in his face, though he was talking about the timetables and the turbine channel-boat.

  ‘You must come over to London and see me before your début, my dear,’ Madame Bonanni said, breaking off the discussion of trains and turning to Margaret. ‘That is, if Schreiermeyer will let you,’ she added. ‘You will have to do exactly what he tells you, now, and he is always right. He will be a father to you, now that he is going to make money out of you.’

  ‘Will he call me his “darling”?’ inquired Margaret, with a shade of anxiety.

  ‘Of course he will! And when you sing well he will kiss you on both cheeks.’

  ‘Indeed he won’t!’ cried Margaret, turning
red.

  Madame Bonanni laughed heartily, but Lushington looked annoyed.

  ‘My dear, why not?’ asked the prima donna. ‘Everybody kisses us artists, when we have a triumph, and we kiss everybody! The author, the manager, the dressmaker and the stage carpenter, besides all our old friends! What difference can it make? It means nothing.’

  ‘But it’s such an unpleasant idea!’ Margaret objected.

  ‘Of course,’ returned Madame Bonanni, licking her fingers between the words, ‘there are artists who ride the high horse and insist on being treated like duchesses. The other artists hate them, and real society laughs at them. It is far better to be simple, and kiss everybody. It costs so little and it gives them so much pleasure, as Rachel said of her lovers!’

  ‘It was Sophie Arnould,’ said Lushington, correcting her mistake.

  ‘Was it? I don’t care. I say it, and that is enough. Besides I hate children who are always setting their parents right! It’s my own fault, because I was so anxious to have you well educated. If I had brought you up as I was brought up, you would never have left me! As it is’ — she turned to Margaret with suddenly flashing eyes— ‘do you know, my dear? that atrocious little wretch will never take a penny from me, from me, his own mother! Ah, it is villainous! He is perfectly heartless! He denies me the only pleasure I wish for. Even when he was at school, at Eton, my dear, at the great English school, you know, he worked like a poor boy and won scholarships — money! Is it not disgusting? And at Oxford he lived on that money and won more! And then he worked, and worked at those terrible books, and wrote for the abominable press, and never would let me give him anything. Ah, you ungrateful little boy!

  She seemed perfectly furious with him and shook her fist in his face; but the next moment she laughed and patted his cheek with her fat hand.

  ‘And to say that I am proud of him!’ she said, beaming with motherly smiles. ‘Proud of him, my dear, you don’t know! He is beating them all, as he always did! At the school, at the university, he was always the best! He used to get what they call firsts and double firsts every week!’