“Lizzie Harris on a program—never!” Then suddenly serious, “I like Bonaventura—‘Did you hear Bonaventura last night in Tannhäuser’—strong accent on the hear. ‘How superb Bonaventura was in Carmen.’ It has a good ring. And then I’ve got a little dribble of Spanish blood in me.”
“You look Spanish.”
She nodded:
“My grandmother. She was a Spanish Californian—Estradilla. They owned the Santa Caterina Rancho near San Luis Obispo. My grandfather was a sailor on a Yankee ship that used to touch there and get hides and tallow. He deserted and married her and got with her a strip of the rancho as big as Long Island. And their illustrious descendant lives in two rooms and a kitchenette.”
She laughed and jumped up.
“I’m going to sing for you and you’ll see if Bonaventura doesn’t go well with my style.”
She swept the hat off the piano stool and seated herself. The walls of the room are covered with an umber brown burlap which made an admirable background for her long body clothed in the rich sinuous crêpe and her pale profile uplifted on an outstretched white neck.
“I’ll sing you something that I do rather well—Elizabeth’s going to be one of my great rôles,” she said, and struck a chord.
It was Dich Theure Halle and she sang it badly. I don’t mean that she flatted or breathed in the wrong place, but she sang without feeling, or even intelligence. Also her voice was not especially remarkable. It was full, but coarse and hard, and rolled round in the small room with the effect of some large unwieldly thing, trying to find its way out. What struck me as most curious was that the rich and noble quality one felt in her was completely lacking in her performance. It was commonplace, undistinguished. No matter how objectionable Mr. Masters might be I could not but feel he was right.
When she had finished she wheeled suddenly round on the stool and said quickly: