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Making It Up With the Bordoni 291
chin and big brown humid burning eyes, fairly trilled in the golden sunglare. Yet I felt it my duty to say, and I said, “Bordoni, why do they advertise you this season as a beauty?”
“My press agent, a very smart man, he say,” she answered lucidly, “that the public they don’t care a damn about a good play, but that they will come to see a beautiful woman.”
“Do you think you’re a beautiful woman?” “Oooooooh ! perhaps no. But maybe I have a personality. I don’t think I am beautiful — no — but — well, they say you can’t see yourself! Anyhow, I believe more in personality than in beauty. It is the same as in singing.”
“Do you think you’ve got a voice?”
“Do you think I’ve got a voice?”
“No. But I’d rather hear you sing ‘Do It Again’ than Galli-Curci sing a whole opera.”
“It is personality,” said Bordoni.
“Not to mention art,” said I.
“That is for you to say,” smiled Bordoni.
“I’ll tell the — what is that immortal line in your play?” I asked Bordoni, just to hear her say it.
“I’ll tell the cock-eyed world!” she laughed.
“Do you always wear your hair like that, in a Bordoni bang?”
“Always. And before me my mother. When I was so young I can hardly remember she cut it off in front — snip ! You must see our picture.” She fetched it out of an old book of Russia leather. “See my mother and me with the same bang. See me here in my communion dress, with all the hair hanging down my back.” She looked like a black-headed Sutherland. “I had a funny grandfather, too. When he take me walking he sit me down on a bench first and let down