by Tanith Lee
Everyone in Paradys who might be said to be anybody was to attend at some point. Wishing to go, Madame Koster had assured monsieur the play was a classic, and should be part of Hilde’s education.
Hilde, as a girl, had been tutored at home, and these classical plays were sometimes gone through by a pie-faced governess with a high squeaky voice. Something of their power was therefore lost on Hilde, who accordingly did not look forward to the jaunt, save that it was the theater. For this, since her earliest pantomimes, she had cherished a beglamored enthusiasm. She was too, so far, a patient girl. She had been trained to be. It had also occurred to her that while the play went on, if it was very boring, there would be the audience to scan (surreptitiously in the gloom) and thoughts of other things to be gone over – her doll’s new wardrobe, a patch of garden behind the house that was hers, and so on.
The Goddess of Tragedy towered white and tiered above the streets. Many mothers and daughters, and some young sons, were assembled. “Why,” said Madame Benoit to Madame Koster, “have you not heard of the actor who is playing the Roman?”
“No not at all.”
“Well, he is quite astonishing. He has brought the part to life. They say it’s frightful, his moment of death.”
Soon Hilde was installed in the plush Koster box. Her mother had not agreed to bonbons or chocolates. It was not that sort of play.
Hilde sat quietly, and having viewed the fashionable afternoon gowns, she saw the gas lamps lowered, and the heavy curtain rose.
For twenty minutes it was very dull. So dull that even obedient Hilde felt a faint jab of rebellion.
But then. Then, he came out. Out of the wings onto the plateau of the stage.
Stage light is always miraculous. It is a magical spell that breathes on things and changes them, remakes them. Besides, the creatures who people this universe have, very often, a psychic, extraordinary power. How else can they do what they do?
The man who characterized the Roman wore a costume of black and silver, the notion of the time as to what the garments of a Roman commander might have been. But he was tall and slender, with wide shoulders. He had a priest’s face, and the arrogance of a priest, officiating at his altar. His hair was black as ravens. His eyes, blacker.
From the instant he emerged from nowhere onto the stage, Hilde understood, just as a bird grasps abruptly how to fly, that here was the reason for her instinct and her life. She did not have to question herself, or any other. She did not have the temerity to say to God: Why? Let alone, No, no.
Her body felt light as cobweb. Her heart was engorged and beat like a gong.
She floated somewhere just above the ledge of the box, and oddly, her mother could not see this. And Hilde knew quite well that the man below, so near, so far, the Roman, she knew that he must also be intensely aware of her. For she blazed like a lamp, and he, being what he was, must see all things exactly. He would sense her, and look up. And so he did. Up to the box, his eyes flaming like stars, over and over. And then Hilde burned, and she must look away. But only, each time, for a moment.
The play, forgotten parts of which the squeaky governess may even have read to her, this time fixed itself into Hilde’s mind. She was conscious of every iota of it, every histrionic, profound, and adult emotion. As if a door had been flung open before her, revealing a new world.
When it came time for the Roman to die, Hilde’s gonging heart stopped. She felt herself die, too. And thereafter, what could she be save reborn?
She saw him again briefly, the actor-priest, taking his bows at the end of the play. He did this coldly and magnificently, as if to show them he had elevated the Host already, what more could they want? Only one further time did he raise his face toward Hilde’s balcony. One ray (like a lighthouse). Then gone.
Hilde went home in the Koster carriage and in a dream, a trance. She had been ensorcelled.
“Hilde, eat your food.”
“I’m sorry, Mama, I’m not hungry.”
“What is the matter with the child. Are you unwell?”
“No, Mama.”
They had not noticed how silent Little Hilde had become because she was generally a quiet, abstemious daughter, what they preferred.
“It’s the weather,” pronounced Monsieur Koster, “Eh, Hilde? Too hot. Take her for a drive, Lysette.”
“We had a drive this morning, Solomon.”
“Then probably the carriage was too stuffy.”
“The carriage was perfect.”
They lost interest in the carriage and Little Hilde, and Hilde was able to leave her unwanted luncheon for the maid to clear away.
As Hilde sat presently, her hands resting on an oval of unseen embroidery, she heard her mother speaking to a servant in the hall.
“We must have flowers there and there. And I shall want to see Cook. Some special light dishes that they can peck at like birds.”
Hilde’s mother was arranging an evening of guests, as she sometimes did. Madame Koster flowed back and forth and so into the sitting room, where she came to inspect Hilde’s work. Hilde stitched at a rose.
“How listless you are,” said Madame Koster. “Is it your time?” She was referring to Hilde’s cycle of menstruation.
“No, Mama.”
“I thought not. Well, you must liven up. You’re becoming depressing. Tomorrow afternoon you must have a fitting for your new dress.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“What do you think?” said Madame Koster, a touch flustered all of a sudden. “Some of the theater people are coming to my little evening.”
Hilde’s hand stayed mute upon the rose.
“Well, you might show some interest, you tiresome girl. All lost in a world of your own. I don’t think you need to meet my guests, but your father insists. You look so young and charming – why, you might only be eleven, except for your hair.… Perhaps we will have it dressed down for the night. It’s so pretty that way.”
Hilde’s mother always saw Hilde as very young, and Hilde did not ever question this, nor why it was an extra delight to her mother if Hilde should remain very young. At this minute, in any case, she was not thinking of that.
“Who – will be coming to your party, Mama?”
“Oh, the two leading men of the company, Monsieur Roche and Monsieur Martin. And a couple of the ladies, I believe. But of course you’ve forgotten all about that important play. What a disappointment you were. Everyone else bubbling over and not a word out of you. I half think you slept right through it.”
“Oh no, Mama.”
“Well, then, who are Monseur Roche and Monsieur Johanos Martin?” demanded Mama, bridling. She was flushed, but exclaimed, “And well you should blush, Hilde, You’ve quite forgotten.”
Hilde lowered her burning face.
“Monsieur Johanos Martin played the Roman.”
“One out of two then,” snapped Madame Koster.
She was a tallish woman, curvaceous, with fashionable apparent mounds of hair built up over padding on her skull. Her maid knew many of her secrets. The coiffeur, the rouge, the manner in which madame sometimes lost her temper as the corset refused to reduce her waist below twenty-four inches. Hilde’s waist, uncorseted, was eighteen inches, and in its cage of bones became a flower stalk. Her hair grew in lush masses, her skin was fresh as if the dew were on it.
Sometimes the maid privately wondered if madame allowed Hilde so many sweets in hopes of extra girth, or blotches. Hilde had not wanted sweets this week.
“Your new frock is very lovely and young,” said madame. “You’ll grow up too fast. And you’re such a baby.”
In the dark …
Hilde woke. She had been dreaming.
In the dream, the party had begun, and through the crowd of guests Hilde had found herself moving, not dressed as she should be, but in her long white nightgown, and her hair loose on her shoulders. No one had appeared to notice, and after her first terrifying shame, she began to think that perhaps she was dressed quite proper
ly.
Then, by the open door that led onto the little terrace, he was standing. He wore black clothes, she could not make them out, not his costume from the play, certainly, yet neither anything everyday. A sort of soutane, perhaps, a priestly robe, belted close at the thin hard waist.
He had looked straight at her, Johanos Martin, the actor. And, impossibly, she had met his gaze, although her ears roared and her heart choked her.
Everyone else was gone. It did not matter how or where.
He held out his hand, which was ringless, beautiful, and Hilde went to him at once. He drew her out of the door onto the terrace.
Night had fallen, very black, yet with a sort of silver glow along the tops of the trees, and far away a light was shining that might have been the moon reflected on a window – such detail, in this dream.
“You are mine,” Johanos Martin said to Hilde. “I promise I will be with you.”
And in that exquisite second, she woke. She woke.
She lay stunned, not knowing, or caring, where she was, out of situation and time. And her body was alive, glowing and spangled by feeling within and without.
She had not, since she had seen him, somehow – she had not dared to touch. But now her hands stole to her body. She laid them on her breasts. And in the dark, eyes shut, she thought of his hands lying on her in this way, firm and cruel, capturing her breasts like birds. And then she thought that she would be afraid, half fainting, and he would hold her up, easily, and crush her mouth with his, as in a book she had once seen, a book of her mother’s that perhaps she had not been meant to find, the drawing of a man kissing a woman fiercely in this way, holding her swooning and bent back as if he preyed on her.
Hilde trembled violently. Her stomach churned and sank and melted. Her fingers ran lightly down and touched her there, at last, in the secret place.
“I am yours,” she whispered to Johanos Martin, as he bent her back, supporting her, his mouth on hers. And shivers of fire ran upward through her body, familiar and yet unique. Her loins seemed to rock at the impact of deep, rare blows. And the door that had opened in her brain flew open in her womb, showering her with suns and comets, shaking her end to end. She cried out before she could prevent it.
Two minutes later her maid came in with a lamp.
“What is it, Mademoiselle Hilde? You do look hot.”
“A dream,” muttered Hilde. The first time she had had to practice true deception.
“There, there. Well I must get on if you’re better.”
“Quite better, thank you.”
The maid removed herself. Hilde wept. She did not know why. But she was racked again by tears silenced in the pillow that once, misunderstanding, she had kissed.
The magic art of the night sprang from him, then. He had sent it ahead of him. He too had always known. He and she.
Her innocence was gone, not her naïveté.
She scarcely slept again that night. The doll lay on the floor.
Madame Koster stood in her upstairs sitting room, turning about to regard her dress of ivory satin. From beyond her windows and their cumbersome drapes, the ripe westering light of the late summer evening flattered her with its glow.
A knock, and Little Hilde’s maid entered.
“What is the matter with her?”
“She’s been sick again, madame.”
“Really. Such a stupid child. Well, I can’t attend a sickroom now. She must be put to bed.”
“Monsieur gave orders that Mademoiselle Hilde be given a glass of white wine.”
“Did he indeed? How will that help? It will make her stomache worse.”
“No, madame. He said it was very cooling, for the stomache, and that her vomiting was all nerves, so the wine will do her good.”
“Nerves! What nerves? I am the one with nerves. She’s just a child.”
Along the passage in her room, Hilde sat pale as death on a sofa, staring at the glass of wine on the tray as if it were poison.
“Take a sip. It can’t hurt.”
The maid too was irritated. Madame took it out on her when the daughter did not turn out right.
“But I feel –” Hilde broke off, swallowing rapidly, like a cat before it pukes.
“Well, madame wants me downstairs, so I must go.”
Hilde was only relieved to be left alone.
This was the hour of her most awful trial. She had longed for and dreaded this festivity of her mother’s, not realizing her emotion would build to such a pitch that she would be made sick by it.
Suddenly she got up, and seizing the wineglass, she put it to her mouth. Like a despairing damsel in a play, she dashed the potion through her lips and swallowed all of it. Then she stood amazed.
Almost instantly her sickness swelled to an orchestral tumult – and perished. It was gone, leaving her light and slightly afloat. A pulse beat in her temples. Hilde laughed. This too was part of the magic. Her dear wise papa had helped her to safety. She had been lifted above the demons and made whole. For him, the one who would soon be with her.
In her turn, freed now, Hilde moved about to regard herself, her clothes and her hair.
Her mother had aimed for a veneer of complete childishness, but the dressmaker had maliciously somehow done something to the frock, so that it was merely very simple, very fresh. And the effect of the loose, slightly coiling amber hair gave, rather than the impression of a little girl, the look of one of the mysterious beauties of current paintings, maidens from legend, standing in bowers, as knights rode by.
Hilde was happy at herself, guessing this, not understanding. Happy to be lovely, not realizing that she was.
He would recognize her. As she had recognized him.
Half an hour later, she descended to the salon.
The event had already begun, and Madame Koster was at its hub. She looked at Hilde askance a moment, as if not knowing who she was. Perhaps sensible: Does one ever know another, or who they are, let alone a “child?”
But monsieur had not yet come in. He was, in fact, rather at odds with the party. It meant he must dress up very stiffly and parade his grandeur to impress them all, and this was onerous on such a hot evening.
There were many people in the salon. They drank from glasses of champagne. And since the servant came also to Hilde – again, was it some sort of conspiracy? – and offered her the drink, Hilde took it wonderingly, and sipped.
Then the crowd parted, and she saw the window that led out to the garden. No one was there. He was not.
Hilde sighed, and a fearful intimation of darkness crossed her, like the shadow of a huge, transparent crow.
Would he not come? Why should he come? Never before had actors been invited to these show gatherings. Why had her mother done it?
Oh, but it was all part of the starry plan, of destiny. It must be.
Three women approached Hilde. They were ladies she had met before, acquaintances of her mother’s. Her heart slid down as if to hide itself.
“Why look, who’s this? Is it Little Hilde? A young lady at last.”
“What a becoming dress. How clever of your mother. And the hair’s an exact copy of Ygraine Waiting for Uther.”
“Do you have it brushed every night? One hundred strokes are essential.”
A wing lifted off the room. Everything shifted slightly, an earth tremor.
Hilde’s mother skated across the chamber. She met in the door the two tall actors from the Goddess of Tragedy. They were unmistakable. And all at once the crowd broke into applause.
Hilde thought: For him.
Fanfares of trumpets and showers of petals.
She drank all the champagne in her glass, the magic potion that, rather than make her invisible, would allow her to be seen.
She watched Monsieur Martin enter the salon.
Her mother deferred to him even more than to Monsieur Roche, who, walking behind, looked down the slope of his long face. No, it was Monsieur Martin that Madame Koster drew into the very core of
her house, and kept there, so the wine could be rushed to him and the guests flutter up like greedy moths.
How cold he looked. Cruel, but one would not call it cruel, not if one wished for his kindness. Cold and cruel and closed and set.
Seen in life away from the stage, his face was pale, and the eyes were not black but a glacial gray. Nor was he handsome, yet there was that in his face which magnetized, some affirmation.
He did glance about him, but saw no one. Then he spoke graciously, and even smiled a little at the ones who clustered around him. He drank the champagne, several glasses of it.
Hilde remained at the edge of the congregation, like the shell in a story, left behind by the ghost of a primordial sea at the foot of the Temple-Church.
He would see her now, or now. And she waited for this finding gaze, this instant of pure acknowledgment, stretched taut as the string of a lyre. But it did not come.
And gradually something gave way a little at the center of her physical and etheric frame. Only a tiny derangement. It should have warned her. But how should she know it?
Presently they went into the supper room. Madame Koster sat at one end of the dainty table, and the actors sat either side of her, Monsieur Martin to her right. Monsieur Koster, who had blustered in after all, too late to be properly noticed, thumped down at the table’s opposite end, and in the upheaval, no place had been allotted Hilde. So she sat among some of the men and women who knew her, in the bars of the trap of their patronage.
She could not eat a thing, but she sipped the wine. Some of the ladies noticed and disapproved. “That girl is taking too much. What is her mother thinking of?” “Of Johanos Martin,” whispered another lady behind her fan.
Hilde did not hear this. She watched the lord who had given his promise to her in a dream, but carefully. It was not subtlety or care that made her careful. Rather she sensed the fire of herself, so bright, so piercing. She dared not be obvious.