this as if she were lying to someone else. She knew how different she was from others. Her hope was that they might not know it. Then she could say “Other girls do it” and get away with it. She had to get away.
She walked swiftly to the front of the house. Down the slope she ran, hair flying behind her, the night breeze chilly on her bare shoulders and back, moist with perspiration. Her eyes opened wide as she ran and she gasped more and more as she neared the bottom of the hill. Her heart was pounding and her throat choked with some nameless emotion. Her lips were dry and burned a little at the corners. As she ran she remembered Lang kissing her and, turning her head, she looked back at the house, nearly stumbling as she did so, and saw that the draperies were closed all around the walls and some of her long hair was wrapped around her cheek by the wind and she remembered how, because she had light hair and skin and her parents were dark, she played games when she was a child, that she was an orphan adopted by them, or a gypsy’s child, or a foundling.
She reached the bottom of the hill and allowed herself to fall panting on the cool grass. The black sky had cleared and was now star-ridden. She threw her hand to her mouth in an excess of passionate feeling. The sky was endless over her and if she closed her eyes it would seem that it covered her like a warm blanket.
She jumped to her feet. Against the trunk of a tall tree she leaned her hot cheek. The bark was rough and scratchy and she rubbed her face on it recalling his hand closing and opening on her shoulder. Oh, she would get out of here, she knew she would get away. She raised her arms above her head, stretched as hard as she could and uttered an ecstatic, sharp little cry.
Looking up at the top of the hill, she saw that the draperies had been withdrawn from inspection and the lights had been turned on in every room. Against the jet sky the glass house burst into glittering prisms. First lactescence, then a crystalline translucence flared on the summit of the hill like an enormous match struck on the sky, illuminating as if for the first time a world as endless as her desire.
PART THREE
F LUTTERING, FLYING, FLOATING, HER delicate body now arched like a bow ready to be sprung, now stiff, stark, her shadowed eyes only melting a look of tenderness and pity on the imaginary prostrate form round which she moved, her steps round him forming a magic circle to ward off death, to pant life in through his lips; then suddenly, tight and unyielding, she freezes; she has seen herself in an attitude of supplication. Nothing, no one is worth this; then hating herself and pitying him she half falls, half extends herself over him, guarding him. She is now perhaps a tree, a vine, anything that is wet with life, unsatisfied.
The flute permits an arm to rise slowly; the oboe floats the torso backwards; the strings free her entirely and she leaps, once, twice, three times. The basses nudge the imaginary form beneath her into movement. He stirs, turns toward her. She stops, afraid of what she has done, but he is alive now; there is no going back. She moves away from him in heavy steps as he advances. She no longer recognizes him. The tympany mutters and growls rhythmically. She has made him. They no longer have any relationship to each other. They are separate; no longer perfect.
The music stopped, the needle scraping harshly on the record. Elly lowered herself from her toes with a sigh. She touched her bosom. The leotard was wringing wet. She was exhausted. Dancing took so much out of her, but it was, in the main, what made the difference between going to school at Crofts, near home, and the excitement and fantastic froth of living that her first year at Vernon had been. Courses in every possible subject could be had anywhere, but Vernon was oriented toward the modern dance as a means of expression, adjustment and physical activity as well. Rose had been a little disturbed at
She walked swiftly to the front of the house. Down the slope she ran, hair flying behind her, the night breeze chilly on her bare shoulders and back, moist with perspiration. Her eyes opened wide as she ran and she gasped more and more as she neared the bottom of the hill. Her heart was pounding and her throat choked with some nameless emotion. Her lips were dry and burned a little at the corners. As she ran she remembered Lang kissing her and, turning her head, she looked back at the house, nearly stumbling as she did so, and saw that the draperies were closed all around the walls and some of her long hair was wrapped around her cheek by the wind and she remembered how, because she had light hair and skin and her parents were dark, she played games when she was a child, that she was an orphan adopted by them, or a gypsy’s child, or a foundling.
She reached the bottom of the hill and allowed herself to fall panting on the cool grass. The black sky had cleared and was now star-ridden. She threw her hand to her mouth in an excess of passionate feeling. The sky was endless over her and if she closed her eyes it would seem that it covered her like a warm blanket.
She jumped to her feet. Against the trunk of a tall tree she leaned her hot cheek. The bark was rough and scratchy and she rubbed her face on it recalling his hand closing and opening on her shoulder. Oh, she would get out of here, she knew she would get away. She raised her arms above her head, stretched as hard as she could and uttered an ecstatic, sharp little cry.
Looking up at the top of the hill, she saw that the draperies had been withdrawn from inspection and the lights had been turned on in every room. Against the jet sky the glass house burst into glittering prisms. First lactescence, then a crystalline translucence flared on the summit of the hill like an enormous match struck on the sky, illuminating as if for the first time a world as endless as her desire.
PART THREE
F LUTTERING, FLYING, FLOATING, HER delicate body now arched like a bow ready to be sprung, now stiff, stark, her shadowed eyes only melting a look of tenderness and pity on the imaginary prostrate form round which she moved, her steps round him forming a magic circle to ward off death, to pant life in through his lips; then suddenly, tight and unyielding, she freezes; she has seen herself in an attitude of supplication. Nothing, no one is worth this; then hating herself and pitying him she half falls, half extends herself over him, guarding him. She is now perhaps a tree, a vine, anything that is wet with life, unsatisfied.
The flute permits an arm to rise slowly; the oboe floats the torso backwards; the strings free her entirely and she leaps, once, twice, three times. The basses nudge the imaginary form beneath her into movement. He stirs, turns toward her. She stops, afraid of what she has done, but he is alive now; there is no going back. She moves away from him in heavy steps as he advances. She no longer recognizes him. The tympany mutters and growls rhythmically. She has made him. They no longer have any relationship to each other. They are separate; no longer perfect.
The music stopped, the needle scraping harshly on the record. Elly lowered herself from her toes with a sigh. She touched her bosom. The leotard was wringing wet. She was exhausted. Dancing took so much out of her, but it was, in the main, what made the difference between going to school at Crofts, near home, and the excitement and fantastic froth of living that her first year at Vernon had been. Courses in every possible subject could be had anywhere, but Vernon was oriented toward the modern dance as a means of expression, adjustment and physical activity as well. Rose had been a little disturbed at
Similar Books
