characterization).
“Wonderful party,” I said, enjoying myself for thefirst time, publicly at least, since my wild ballet season began. “Best stuff I’ve ever tasted. And the air-conditioning! Wonderful job … like an autumn day.”
“You misunderstood,” said Jane firmly, with the bright monomaniacal stare of a dancer discussing the Dance. “I meant my performance.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch it. I was at the office most of the night, before I came here.”
She rallied bravely. “You …
didn’t
see me tonight?”
“No, I had to get some pictures off to the papers … the new ones of you, by the way,” I added.
“I got eight curtain calls.”
“That’s my girl.”
“And three bouquets … from strangers.”
“Never take candy from strange men, little girl,” I chanted as we moved toward a tall French window which looked out on an eighteenth-century garden, all of five years old.
“I wish you’d seen it. Tonight was the first night I really
danced
, that I forgot all about the variations and the audience and that damned cable … that I really let go. Oh, it was wonderful!”
“You think you’re pretty good, huh?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” She was anxious: nowadays in the theater good form (or actors’ notion of good form) is everything. Everyone dresses carefully and quietly, no practical jokes, no loud voices and, above all, no reference to self … just smile and blush if you are congratulated for having won a Donaldson Award, look blank when someone mentions the spread on you in
Life
, murmuring something about not having seen it yet. In a way, I preferthe grand old egotists like Eglanova: she hardly admits that there is another ballerina in all the world … and even Louis has been known to ask reviewers: “Who is this Youskevitch you talk to me about?” But anyway Jane had a storm of modesty which quickly passed and then, the Dance taken care of for the rest of the evening, we cruised the party.
About one o’clock we separated with an agreement to meet back at her apartment at two-thirty on the dot. Neither of us is very jealous … at least not in theory, and I wandered about the drawing room, saying hello to the few people I knew. I was pretty much lost in this crowd. It’s not the gang I went to school with, the sons of those dull rich families who seldom entertain and who traipse off to Newport, Southampton, Bar Harbor and similar giddy places this time of year; nor is it the professional newspaper and theater world wherein I sing for my supper … rather, it is the world of unfixed money: obscure Europeans, refugees from various unnamed countries, the new-rich, the wilder old-rich, the celebrated figures in the arts who have time for parties and finally the climbers, mysterious and charming and busy, of all ages, sexes, nationalities, shapes and sizes. It takes a long time to straighten everybody out. I haven’t even begun to see my way clear yet but I probably will in a few more years. Some people of course never do add things up right. Lady Edderdale is still among the more confused, after thirty years of high life.
Beneath a portrait of the lady of the house (the work of Dali) stood Elmer Bush with whom I have a nodding acquaintance … through no fault of mine I am not hisbosom buddy: his column, “America’s New York,” is syndicated in seventy-two newspapers as well as being the
New York Globe’s
biggest draw on the subway circuit. He was of course too important ever to visit the office, so the only time I met him was at first nights when he would always come up to Milton Haddock and say: “It looks like a bomb from where I sit. What do
you
think, boy?” and Milton would grumble a little and sometimes I would be introduced and sometimes not.
“Hello there, Mr. Bush,” I said with more authority than usual since I was, after all, sitting in the middle of the best piece of news in town.
“Why if it isn’t old Pete
“Wonderful party,” I said, enjoying myself for thefirst time, publicly at least, since my wild ballet season began. “Best stuff I’ve ever tasted. And the air-conditioning! Wonderful job … like an autumn day.”
“You misunderstood,” said Jane firmly, with the bright monomaniacal stare of a dancer discussing the Dance. “I meant my performance.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t catch it. I was at the office most of the night, before I came here.”
She rallied bravely. “You …
didn’t
see me tonight?”
“No, I had to get some pictures off to the papers … the new ones of you, by the way,” I added.
“I got eight curtain calls.”
“That’s my girl.”
“And three bouquets … from strangers.”
“Never take candy from strange men, little girl,” I chanted as we moved toward a tall French window which looked out on an eighteenth-century garden, all of five years old.
“I wish you’d seen it. Tonight was the first night I really
danced
, that I forgot all about the variations and the audience and that damned cable … that I really let go. Oh, it was wonderful!”
“You think you’re pretty good, huh?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” She was anxious: nowadays in the theater good form (or actors’ notion of good form) is everything. Everyone dresses carefully and quietly, no practical jokes, no loud voices and, above all, no reference to self … just smile and blush if you are congratulated for having won a Donaldson Award, look blank when someone mentions the spread on you in
Life
, murmuring something about not having seen it yet. In a way, I preferthe grand old egotists like Eglanova: she hardly admits that there is another ballerina in all the world … and even Louis has been known to ask reviewers: “Who is this Youskevitch you talk to me about?” But anyway Jane had a storm of modesty which quickly passed and then, the Dance taken care of for the rest of the evening, we cruised the party.
About one o’clock we separated with an agreement to meet back at her apartment at two-thirty on the dot. Neither of us is very jealous … at least not in theory, and I wandered about the drawing room, saying hello to the few people I knew. I was pretty much lost in this crowd. It’s not the gang I went to school with, the sons of those dull rich families who seldom entertain and who traipse off to Newport, Southampton, Bar Harbor and similar giddy places this time of year; nor is it the professional newspaper and theater world wherein I sing for my supper … rather, it is the world of unfixed money: obscure Europeans, refugees from various unnamed countries, the new-rich, the wilder old-rich, the celebrated figures in the arts who have time for parties and finally the climbers, mysterious and charming and busy, of all ages, sexes, nationalities, shapes and sizes. It takes a long time to straighten everybody out. I haven’t even begun to see my way clear yet but I probably will in a few more years. Some people of course never do add things up right. Lady Edderdale is still among the more confused, after thirty years of high life.
Beneath a portrait of the lady of the house (the work of Dali) stood Elmer Bush with whom I have a nodding acquaintance … through no fault of mine I am not hisbosom buddy: his column, “America’s New York,” is syndicated in seventy-two newspapers as well as being the
New York Globe’s
biggest draw on the subway circuit. He was of course too important ever to visit the office, so the only time I met him was at first nights when he would always come up to Milton Haddock and say: “It looks like a bomb from where I sit. What do
you
think, boy?” and Milton would grumble a little and sometimes I would be introduced and sometimes not.
“Hello there, Mr. Bush,” I said with more authority than usual since I was, after all, sitting in the middle of the best piece of news in town.
“Why if it isn’t old Pete
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