first-floor boxes, and the bar and smoking rooms. We had been told to assemble in the anteroom opening onto the bar. Before this, I intended to lean over the red plush ledge of the first row in the dress circle and watch the proceedings on the stage. I found it frightening to sit downstairs, listening at close quarters to the yelled orders and the furious answers that continually passed from the stalls to the wings. I was halfway up the stairs when someone came skipping past me. As he passed, I saw it was a young man. He suddenly turned and barred my way, leaning against the balustrade.
"I have been wanting to speak to you," he said. "I saw you yesterday. I watched you for half an hour, by the piano, doing the May song."
"I didn’t see you," I said.
He was dressed in flannels and a dark-red pullover. Over the arm that rested on the top rail was draped a green fur-bordered cape, and in his other hand he carried a blue-plumed hat. Clutched to his side, within the crook of his elbow, was some kind of silvery weapon, probably a sabre. He looked to be in his twenties, but he was not boyish. There was no softness in his countenance, no hesitance, none of the wide-eyed look that goes with youth. He had dark wavy hair and deep-set eyes, which were too small for his lean, strong-chinned face. He looked at me intently, seriously, searchingly. I could not imagine him smiling.
"I didn’t see you," I repeated.
"I know you didn’t," he said. "I was standing behind the open door."
"They are very decent here about the singing," I said. "At school, in music lesson, they never let me sing with the others, because I can’t sing in tune. Here they don’t mind. I do mind, myself, though. I can hear myself doing it wrong, and I know when it’s flat, and yet I can’t get it out right."
He said, "This happens often in life. In all kinds of circumstances."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I study medicine," he said. "I’m in my last year."
"I didn’t mean it that way," I said. "I meant what do you do in the play?"
"I’m in the tavern scene," he said. "I am one of the roistering fellows who chuck the wenches through the air and catch them as they come down. We’ve been picked for our strong arms and steady hands. It’s nerve-racking, and on top of it we’ve got to look abandoned with joy. We rub our palms with chalk before we go on. It’s slippery work, making the girls go from hand to hand. They are Corps de Ballet, though, thank God. They are used to sorrow."
"I’ve never watched it," I said. "I can’t ever stay as long as I’d like, because Emma always comes to fetch me."
"How old are you?" he asked. "Twelve?"
"Yes," I said.
"Hold this for me," he said. "And this here," and he handed me the hat and the weapon, and flung the cape over one shoulder. I watched him lighting a cigarette. We both remained silent. His conversation seemed to have run out, and I reflected that he would not be "an ornament in anyone’s drawing room," as my mother always said. He had spoken the last words in the tone of a matter-of-fact order, and had not even said, "will you, please?" Now he lounged against the balustrade with one foot on a lower step than the other, and in this half-crouching position he still barred my way.
"You are enchanting," he said at last. "You are utterly lovely and enchanting. I could not stop myself looking at you yesterday, all that time."
I looked at him, aghast. There was nothing lovely about me, either in face or in figure. Moreover, if he had been watching my group in search of enchantment and loveliness, he would have surely remarked two of my classmates, both conspicuously good-looking and seeming older than their years, who never failed to be praised by a chorus of mothers and governesses when we were fetched from school. Then it occurred to me that there was one part of me that my mother and Emma always said was fine and graceful, and this was what they called the
"décolleté”
—that composition of throat,
"I have been wanting to speak to you," he said. "I saw you yesterday. I watched you for half an hour, by the piano, doing the May song."
"I didn’t see you," I said.
He was dressed in flannels and a dark-red pullover. Over the arm that rested on the top rail was draped a green fur-bordered cape, and in his other hand he carried a blue-plumed hat. Clutched to his side, within the crook of his elbow, was some kind of silvery weapon, probably a sabre. He looked to be in his twenties, but he was not boyish. There was no softness in his countenance, no hesitance, none of the wide-eyed look that goes with youth. He had dark wavy hair and deep-set eyes, which were too small for his lean, strong-chinned face. He looked at me intently, seriously, searchingly. I could not imagine him smiling.
"I didn’t see you," I repeated.
"I know you didn’t," he said. "I was standing behind the open door."
"They are very decent here about the singing," I said. "At school, in music lesson, they never let me sing with the others, because I can’t sing in tune. Here they don’t mind. I do mind, myself, though. I can hear myself doing it wrong, and I know when it’s flat, and yet I can’t get it out right."
He said, "This happens often in life. In all kinds of circumstances."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I study medicine," he said. "I’m in my last year."
"I didn’t mean it that way," I said. "I meant what do you do in the play?"
"I’m in the tavern scene," he said. "I am one of the roistering fellows who chuck the wenches through the air and catch them as they come down. We’ve been picked for our strong arms and steady hands. It’s nerve-racking, and on top of it we’ve got to look abandoned with joy. We rub our palms with chalk before we go on. It’s slippery work, making the girls go from hand to hand. They are Corps de Ballet, though, thank God. They are used to sorrow."
"I’ve never watched it," I said. "I can’t ever stay as long as I’d like, because Emma always comes to fetch me."
"How old are you?" he asked. "Twelve?"
"Yes," I said.
"Hold this for me," he said. "And this here," and he handed me the hat and the weapon, and flung the cape over one shoulder. I watched him lighting a cigarette. We both remained silent. His conversation seemed to have run out, and I reflected that he would not be "an ornament in anyone’s drawing room," as my mother always said. He had spoken the last words in the tone of a matter-of-fact order, and had not even said, "will you, please?" Now he lounged against the balustrade with one foot on a lower step than the other, and in this half-crouching position he still barred my way.
"You are enchanting," he said at last. "You are utterly lovely and enchanting. I could not stop myself looking at you yesterday, all that time."
I looked at him, aghast. There was nothing lovely about me, either in face or in figure. Moreover, if he had been watching my group in search of enchantment and loveliness, he would have surely remarked two of my classmates, both conspicuously good-looking and seeming older than their years, who never failed to be praised by a chorus of mothers and governesses when we were fetched from school. Then it occurred to me that there was one part of me that my mother and Emma always said was fine and graceful, and this was what they called the
"décolleté”
—that composition of throat,
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