saw one nun walking away from them, accompanied by a man. They stopped and faced each other. She raised the rosary swinging from her belt and swished it, laughing, against his sleeve. He kissed her hand, and she, still laughing, came toward me, turning her head and calling after him, "Be quiet now. I shan’t listen to another word."
As she approached, I recognized my mother. I gazed at her with disgust and admiration—disgust because of her behaving in this worldly manner, so outrageously ill-fitting to her costume, and admiration because it suited her so well.
"You look wonderful, Mama," I said. "I’m staggered. I never thought you’d look so well in this getup."
"That’s what I always tell you whenever there is a new fashion and you complain it will be unbecoming," she said. "It doesn’t matter. An ugly woman remains ugly and a pretty woman remains pretty. Never be afraid of a change in fashions, Edith. Let it be a lesson to you for life."
"Yes, Mama," I said, "but why have you got your outfit on already and we haven’t been promised ours till just before the dress rehearsal? It isn’t fair."
"Naturally," said my mother. "Your smocks are easy to make, and they don’t have to fit, either, because they’re loose. That’s not a problem. We’ve got priority because they can’t direct us if we don’t walk and move properly, and in modern clothes we are hopeless. I’ve got to be back now. I think they’ll want us to walk onstage any minute. You haven’t performed yet, have you?"
"We did the May song in a little room, round the piano," I said, "and they are very decent and don’t mind us singing out of tune. Because we are supposed to be natural. Like real children. They are waiting for the maître de ballet now—the real one, not just a dogsbody assistant—to go over the dance round the Maypole with us."
"It’s a ridiculous waste to get the maître de ballet to make you hop round the Maypole," said my mother. "If at least he’d teach you something of enduring value while he’s at it, like the steps of the tango."
"We are supposed to be real children," I said.
"Well, so long, now," said my mother. "Go on being a real child. And when you have been, don’t wait for me. I told Emma to be here at five to fetch you."
"Yes, Mama," I said, and I watched her going back to her group of nuns. Like her, they were society ladies of Prague who had agreed to take part in the gigantic crowd scenes of
The Miracle,
a fake medieval play under the direction of Max Reinhardt, which had been a sensational spectacle in Vienna, and which now, in this year of 1929, Reinhardt was taking for single-night performances to every capital city in Europe.
The Miracle
was eminently suited for international showing, because it enacted a legend with a scandalous content and a pious message, and because it was done in mime. The only spoken words were in the May song of my own group, and in the Latin prayers and litany during the church and convent scenes.
Reinhardt brought only his staff of assistants and his star actors with him to Prague, and enlisted, for unpaid crowd work, children from schools, undergraduates from universities, and members of the idle rich. For most of us, it was a unique adventure, but this was not the real reason my mother and her friends had consented to take part. What had drawn them was the brilliance that radiated from one of the two female stars, who were supposed to, and really did, look so alike onstage that one could not tell which was which. One was the American actress Rosamond Pinchot; the other was the young Lady Diana Manners, the daughter of the Eighth Duke of Rutland. If Lady Diana was willing to display herself before the world, the fashionable women of Prague were delighted to give support.
After leaving my mother, I walked to the end of the passage, past the last few entrance doors to the boxes, rounded a curve, and began to ascend one of the twin stairs that led to the dress circle, the
As she approached, I recognized my mother. I gazed at her with disgust and admiration—disgust because of her behaving in this worldly manner, so outrageously ill-fitting to her costume, and admiration because it suited her so well.
"You look wonderful, Mama," I said. "I’m staggered. I never thought you’d look so well in this getup."
"That’s what I always tell you whenever there is a new fashion and you complain it will be unbecoming," she said. "It doesn’t matter. An ugly woman remains ugly and a pretty woman remains pretty. Never be afraid of a change in fashions, Edith. Let it be a lesson to you for life."
"Yes, Mama," I said, "but why have you got your outfit on already and we haven’t been promised ours till just before the dress rehearsal? It isn’t fair."
"Naturally," said my mother. "Your smocks are easy to make, and they don’t have to fit, either, because they’re loose. That’s not a problem. We’ve got priority because they can’t direct us if we don’t walk and move properly, and in modern clothes we are hopeless. I’ve got to be back now. I think they’ll want us to walk onstage any minute. You haven’t performed yet, have you?"
"We did the May song in a little room, round the piano," I said, "and they are very decent and don’t mind us singing out of tune. Because we are supposed to be natural. Like real children. They are waiting for the maître de ballet now—the real one, not just a dogsbody assistant—to go over the dance round the Maypole with us."
"It’s a ridiculous waste to get the maître de ballet to make you hop round the Maypole," said my mother. "If at least he’d teach you something of enduring value while he’s at it, like the steps of the tango."
"We are supposed to be real children," I said.
"Well, so long, now," said my mother. "Go on being a real child. And when you have been, don’t wait for me. I told Emma to be here at five to fetch you."
"Yes, Mama," I said, and I watched her going back to her group of nuns. Like her, they were society ladies of Prague who had agreed to take part in the gigantic crowd scenes of
The Miracle,
a fake medieval play under the direction of Max Reinhardt, which had been a sensational spectacle in Vienna, and which now, in this year of 1929, Reinhardt was taking for single-night performances to every capital city in Europe.
The Miracle
was eminently suited for international showing, because it enacted a legend with a scandalous content and a pious message, and because it was done in mime. The only spoken words were in the May song of my own group, and in the Latin prayers and litany during the church and convent scenes.
Reinhardt brought only his staff of assistants and his star actors with him to Prague, and enlisted, for unpaid crowd work, children from schools, undergraduates from universities, and members of the idle rich. For most of us, it was a unique adventure, but this was not the real reason my mother and her friends had consented to take part. What had drawn them was the brilliance that radiated from one of the two female stars, who were supposed to, and really did, look so alike onstage that one could not tell which was which. One was the American actress Rosamond Pinchot; the other was the young Lady Diana Manners, the daughter of the Eighth Duke of Rutland. If Lady Diana was willing to display herself before the world, the fashionable women of Prague were delighted to give support.
After leaving my mother, I walked to the end of the passage, past the last few entrance doors to the boxes, rounded a curve, and began to ascend one of the twin stairs that led to the dress circle, the
Similar Books
