Part 26 (2/2)

Though he'd sent a card and flowers to Darian at the school, delivered the previous day and signed by both Your loving Father and Your loving sister Millie.

Darian tells himself I didn't expect them to come of course.

Darian chides himself How could you imagine, you fool!

Finding himself dazed with fatigue and exhilaration trundled into a motorcar outside the chapel, driven across town to the home of the Joseph Fricks, it's Mrs. Frick who is their hostess, for Mr. Frick is away-”How Joseph would have admired your playing, Darian Licht! His favorite composer is Beethoven.” Darian doesn't hear most of what is said to him; most of what is said to him is repeated, and repeated; how brilliant his ”rendition”; how ”handsome a figure” at the piano; is his family here?-”How proud they must be.”

An elegant, enormous dining room. A buffet table so long its end can't be seen. Servants in livery, impa.s.sive and deft. Gla.s.ses of sparkling champagne, cut-gla.s.s goblets and silver trays. The mezzo-soprano advances upon Darian to tell him he's brilliant, and a handsome figure at the piano. Women friends of Mrs. Frick cl.u.s.ter near for they've been told (is it true? they don't dare inquire) that the brilliant young pianist is an orphan, a charity pupil at the Academy. But won't he eat? He must eat. He's far too thin. Won't he have a gla.s.s of champagne? Just one! Darian isn't hungry, Darian's nerves are tight as a piano's strings, he can't stop s.h.i.+vering, swallowing down a gla.s.sful of the surprisingly tart liquid that stings his nostrils, he recalls his sister Millie advocating Champagne! Champagne! for all the ills of the world, from the pocket to the heart to the brain. In a pa.s.sionate voice that will tolerate no disagreement the mezzo-soprano praises young Darian Licht as a brilliant pianist in the style of the great Franz Liszt; there's applause; Darian finds himself seated at his hostess's piano, a gorgeous Bechstein that seems to float upon the rich wine-colors of the Indian carpet underfoot, his fingers aren't stiff after the ordeal of the Beethoven sonata but come to life leaping along the keyboard in a merry rendition of ”Chirping Crickets” complete with interventions from Bach and certain delicate pa.s.sages of the ”Pathetique” several ladies find so achingly beautiful they begin to feel faint; trailing off into allegro agitato, a whirlwind of notes improvised by Darian on the spot, the giddy confluence of a sixteen-year-old's first taste of champagne and his first Bechstein and his first public applause that quite goes to his head. Smile and any fool will smile with you! Father cynically advised and it's true, for Darian Licht has a sweet, shy smile, the ladies are taken with his smile, the way his fair brown flamelike hair glides forward across his brow, part-obscuring one of his eyes, the way he moves his slender, sinuous arms along the keyboard. Bravo! Brav-vo!

Suddenly, Darian has had enough. He ceases playing. Rises from the beautiful piano. He isn't rude, but he hasn't time to be courteous. Must escape. These strangers with their glittering jewels and eyes pressing near. Can't breathe, must escape. They draw back as he plunges past them not seeing them. Smile and any fool . . . Play piano to please the ear of any fool . . . ”But no. No. I don't want to play for fools. I will not.”

Darian makes his way blindly through the crowded, festive rooms. Finds himself in a corridor, walking swiftly. A maze of a house. How can one escape? And how many miles is he from the Academy? Can he find his way back alone, in the harsh damp December wind, in the night? His eyes adjust to the dim light of the corridor and he finds himself studying what must be Frick family portraits; he's staring at a portrait of . . . his mother? The name on the gilt plaque is SOPHIA ELIZABETH FRICK, the dates are 18621892. This young woman died eight years before Darian was born.

”It's her.”

His lost mother not quite as he remembers her, of course. Though this is certainly the woman in the Muirkirk portrait locked away in Father's room. Darian would know those large, lovely eyes anywhere that fix him with an expression of mock sobriety. Her dark hair is arranged in a fussier, more feminine style than in the Muirkirk portrait; here, instead of a smart riding habit, she's wearing a white silk gown with a feather-fringed cape gracefully draped over her shoulders. Strands of pearls, white gloves to the elbow. Ivory-pale skin. Eyes given an eerie glisten by the artist-two tiny dots of white on the irises. Are you my son? Am I your mother? Who has told you so? What do such things mean-”son,” ”mother”? Sophia Elizabeth Frick who died in 1892 regards Darian Licht born in 1900 with love, pity, recognition.

It must have been, Darian thinks, that they'd disowned her. Their daughter. She'd eloped with Abraham Licht, she'd repudiated their world, they disowned and declared her dead.

”My daughter.”

So mesmerized is Darian by the portrait on the wall, by this woman who is his mother yet unknown to him, he hasn't noticed Mrs. Frick beside him until the elderly woman speaks. ”Isn't she lovely? My daughter Sophie. Lost to me.” Mrs. Frick tells Darian that her daughter died of typhus traveling in the Greek Isles with her married sister and her family, what a tragedy! what waste!-”Sophie was an extraordinary girl, so sweet, warm, quick-witted, intelligent; a devout Christian; a lover of horses since girlhood; gifted at the piano-though nothing, of course, like you. She'd been courted by a dozen outstanding young men yet she was determined, she said, to remain independent. And then . . . ”

Darian is expected to speak, he supposes; yet can't speak.

Darian hears the woman's voice through a roaring in his ears.

Darian is being led . . . to another portrait of Sophia Frick, a smaller, more intimate painting of a girl of perhaps sixteen in a blue velvet riding jacket, a plumed hat on her head, and a riding crop held in her gloved right hand. Darian. My love. If I'd but known you when I was thus, and you as you are. Darian tries to listen to his hostess's voice but the roaring and rus.h.i.+ng in his ears overwhelms him. His legs are weak, his senses go out like a candle flame, he falls heavily to the floor at the feet of the astonished Mrs. Frick, who stares down at him, the brilliant young pianist she'd been so eager to invite to her home, too shocked at first to cry for help.

MUSIC IS SPEECH for those for whom speech is inadequate.

The silence surrounding music is the secret soul of music.

”THE La.s.s OF AVIEMORE”

Lovely Millicent prepares for yet another dinner dance, beautiful Matilde fusses over her gleaming silk-blond bobbed hair, and there is Mina, cunning Mina, who adjusts the bodice (snug!) of the pretty flounced dress; and Marguerite (Mr. Anson's beloved daughter, sweet, simpering, who nonetheless learned to smoke cigarettes on the sly) sees to the charming arch of the eyebrow and the near-imperceptible blush of the ceramic cheek; and Moira (born in New Orleans, honey-soft and feline but a shameless liar) . . . Moira sings ”It Is Better to Be Laughing Than Crying” (as indeed it is) while regarding herself in profile in the mirror . . . in the mirrors reflecting mirrors . . . and declares the vision, or visions, complete.

And G.o.d saw that it was good.

And all these are the beginning of sorrows.

”Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland” is being played in the gla.s.s-enclosed poinsettia-bedecked ballroom, Matilde St. Goar may be observed consenting to dance with a handsome young gentleman in white tie and tails, the graceful circling, the near-weightless sweep, of a long flounced skirt, chiffon in filmy floating layers (white upon black upon white upon black), near-transparent sleeves falling loose to the elbow, the poreless doll's face, the small measured flawless smile not quite covering the white, white teeth: just as Millicent, lazy sullen Millicent, stretches and yawns and rings for the maid to draw her bath (the purple bubble-soap this afternoon, smelling of plums, please), and lights up the first cigarette of the day, holding her sleep-stale breath for the pleasant little jolt, that agreeable sensual little zing, when the powerful smoke hits her pink-tender lungs. (Has Father breakfasted already?-but what time is it?-and has he, yes of course he has, the perfect brute, hidden away the newspapers?-so of course Millicent must send out for more on the sly, the New York City papers in particular, being greedy, quite shamelessly greedy-sweet Millie, yawning in the midst of a childish smile-greedy for news of history.) In narrow panels amid the gla.s.s there are gold-flecked mirrors in which the dancers may observe themselves swaying, and turning, and dipping, if they so wish, one might count as many as ninety-eight dancers if one so wishes, an equal number of attractive ladies and an equal number of attractive gentlemen, now the orchestra is playing a medley from Babes in Toyland, a smas.h.i.+ng success of a bygone season, and now there are gleaming silver trays brandished aloft by liveried Negro servants (all male: but Matilde never looks), there are Venetian gla.s.ses glittering with French champagne, one may as well accept what one is offered.

Naughty Mina, who would tease by downing her gla.s.s in one great mouthful: a.s.suredly forbidden here.

And Moira taps a high-heeled white-kidskin foot, the prettiest little foot imaginable, and allows her escort a glimpse, a fleeting glance, a mere soupon, of silky ankle to flash: also forbidden.

And Marguerite the tease puckers her lovely lips as if . . . to kiss? . . . to whistle? . . . no, merely to whisper in the gentleman's ear something vague and melodic about being tired, being weary, of the foxtrot, which, it very often seems, she has been dancing since the onset of Time.

Poor sensitive creature! for it has become well known in Philadelphia society among the younger set in particular, that the mysterious daughter Matilde of the mysterious gentleman Albert St. Goar is so high-strung, a single ill-considered word or gesture tears against her nerves like a nail against raw silk.

Millie, not minding that her new j.a.panese kimono has slipped open, screams at the maid because the bathwater is too hot, too d.a.m.ned hot, too hot too hot too hot!-and another five minutes will be required for it to be adjusted.

Millie, silky pale hair falling in her face, cigarette slanted in the corner of her lips, paces about, barefoot, while the frightened girl allows water to run out of the enormous tub in approximately the same proportion as water (cold) rushes in.

And where are the newspapers?-the New York City papers in particular?

BUT IS THE orchestra still playing Victor Herbert tunes?-Matilde has heard them all innumerable times, Matilde has danced to them all innumerable times, she must be excused if she drifts off to the ladies' reception room . . . to do something delicious but very very forbidden in mixed company.

Mina who is daughterly and jealous can't resist observing by way of a mirror-panel how that much-discussed couple Albert St. Goer and Eva Clement-Stoddard dance in the midst of the other dancers, as light on their feet, as graceful, yet far more stately than most. The gentleman is handsome if rather too flushed (is his tie too tight? his starched collar? does he wear a corset?-there is something painfully tight-to-bursting about the man's figure); his silvery hair neatly brushed; a white rosebud in his b.u.t.tonhole; his smile serene. The lady too is smiling, even rather coquettish for a woman of her age, tilting her head, sparkling, glittering, scintillating, enchanted as any young girl in love, not minding, evidently, if the world now sees: for the engagement is no longer a secret and what matters the gaping world? Eva is a handsome woman, even sharp-eyed Matilde can't deny it.

What is love except the intoxication of being wholly deceived?

Millicent orders the maid out of her sight and with trembling fingers arranges the newspapers on a table beside the tub. Lights up another cigarette-she hates it when they burn down to stubs. Throws off the kimono.

No man has looked upon her, no man has touched her. Since.

Her happiest time: sinking into a warm bath, sweet fragrant soap bubbling and winking and popping around her like champagne.

MATILDE'S MOTHER LONG ago taught her her catechism. That madonna of stern blond beauty. Kneel beside me, Millie. Pray with me. Deliver us of this bondage of love. Deliver us of this earthly delusion. Pray to Our Lord constantly and you will be saved.

”THE GAME IS our only happiness,” Matilde observed the other evening to her manicured nails, ”-but The Game isn't happy, is it?”

OF COURSE THE engagement has been informally announced to the couple's many friends; but on the evening of 21 December 1916, the winter solstice, it's to be formally announced by Eva's great-uncle Admiral Cyrus P. Clement at a party at his estate, Langhorne Hall.

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