by Megan Chance
Quickly I washed and dressed. I wanted out of this room and into the air, where the wind could blow me about, but as I went to the door Charlotte said, “Where are you going?”
“Out,” I said sharply.
“D’you want some company?”
I turned back to look at her. There was only one thing I knew that softened those edges, and even then it was only as temporary as Johnny had said it was. When I was in a mood like this it was better for everyone to keep distant.
“No,” I said bluntly, opening the door, stepping into the hallway. “I’ll see you at the Palace.”
I closed the door firmly behind me, and the moment I did, I found myself regretting that I’d told her to stay. I forced myself to go down the stairs and out through the front door. She would discover soon enough the woman that the girls at the Palace had warned her of, and that was better. That was how it should be.
The air was cold and brisk; there was the sense of movement in it that suited my restlessness, the low clouds scudding across the sky, the creak of the ropes holding swaying signs, the smoke from the foundry and the mill blowing away in wisps instead of gathering to glower over everything. The Mountain’s peak disappeared and appeared again; the branches of the firs and the cedars waved about like feathered arms; the already bent tops of the hemlocks bowed deeper. My skirt and my cloak tangled about my legs as I walked down the ramp and into the street, making my way toward the waterfront, where I hoped the distraction of the busy harbor might soothe me for a time. I wanted to see the water capping in the wind and the fattened sails of the schooners and the clippers, the plungers skirting the water like tiny seabirds before the steamer wheels.
It was not far to Commercial Street, with its businesses more respectable than those farther down on the sawdust: the Gem Saloon and Schwabacher Brothers dry goods and two butch ers, the Miner’s Supply and the three-storied, elegantly embellished Squire’s Opera House with its overhanging balustrade. Today I could not bear even to look at it. I started down the street toward the wharf, where the mill spewed its black smoke into the air.
I was halfway there when I heard someone calling my name. I looked over my shoulder to see her: Charlotte, running toward me, her hair still in its braid trailing out behind her.
I stopped. She raced up to me, skidding to a stop, her boots sliding through the mud. Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing hard.
“What is it?” I asked. “What happened?”
She bent over, pressing her hand to her stays to catch her breath, and motioned for me to wait a moment. Then she gasped, “I’m coming with you.”
I didn’t know whether to feel warm or irritated; I felt a little of both. “Just leave me the hell alone.”
“Look, I thought … you been a friend to me and I—”
“I don’t make friends with whores.” The words were out of my mouth before I could call them back, that cruelty in me gaining hold, tainting everything, a meanness that matched the sharp edges inside of me.
She stopped short.
I kept walking. She would leave me alone now, as I’d warned her she should do. The next time—if there ever was a next time—she would listen to me.
I reached the mill. On the wharf, men hurried about like ants, shouting to one another beyond the growing pile of sawdust that eventually would be spread on the tideflats. The whir of the saw was loud in my ears. I dodged off the boardwalk, turning onto the wharf. The tide was out. I jumped the three feet to the rocky beach below, sliding a little on rolling pebbles.
The wind was cold and whipping, the water slapping upon the rocks, gray with the reflection of the sky. The trestles leading to the colliers crossed the shallow tideflats like black stitches; beyond, Elliott Bay was dotted with steamers whose smoke tangled and spread in the wind, schooners and the little private plungers speeding, dipping, and dodging across wakes, and everywhere canoes maneuvering across the choppy water with sinuous grace. I watched them, wondering where they were all going, and for a moment I let my own soul fly with them—I didn’t care what the destination; only that it was away from here.
It was a moment before she came up beside me, before I realized she had not gone after all.
I stared at her with bewilderment and suspicion. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you just fine.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“What was your nightmare about?” she asked.
I looked out at the harbor. “Nothing. I don’t remember.”
She was quiet, which was a blessing, but after a moment I relented, I said, “It’s best if you keep your distance, Charlotte. I … I can’t always control it.”
“Control what?”
“Just … sometimes everything …” I trailed off, shrugging in frustration, unable to explain how it felt, how the moods came, how when they did I honestly didn’t care that I was hurting people, how my anger was all that mattered. I felt oddly exposed and shamed at it. I felt the heat move into my face, and I dipped my head, unable to look at her.
She stood there beside me, close enough that her loosened hair whipped against my cheek in the wind. She didn’t say anything more, and neither did I, but I felt some hardness within me soften and give way; I felt her solace like a whisper.
From the Journal of Sabine Conrad
SEPTEMBER 20, 1871—I am not with child. This morning I had my monthly visitor. Thank God!!!
But I have had a letter from Papa telling me I must leave the tour and come home, as he says I have shamed him and he is angry at both Barret and Gideon—they cannot watch me as well as his own eyes and I am obviously not the daughter he thought he had raised. He has sent train tickets for me and Barret, and says Gideon can of course make up his own mind what to do but that he must do a great deal of explaining if Papa is to allow him to see Willa again.
There is a postscript from Willa berating me for being the cause of Papa’s bad humor with Gideon, and telling me that I must convince him to come back with me and Barret because she is beginning to wonder if he loves her even a little bit. And she tells me again to remember my promise to her.
Barret says we must go home, that he is worried for me and he thinks this life is not good for either of us. He says, “On tour it’s too easy to forget what’s right and wrong,” and that I am forgetting who I am. I screamed at him that I knew perfectly well who I was, that I was no longer some immigrant’s daughter, but Sabine Conrad, and that I didn’t want to live without performing, and he said, “There’s still the Völksstadt,” as if it should be good enough for me when even he disdains it, and I wanted to hit him, I was so angry.
Then he told me it was my own fault and now I must take the punishment and I said it had been his idea that I go after Paolo so he was equally to blame. He looked so guilty and tormented then that I felt horrible. He is my brother and I love him best and I don’t like to fight with him. So I forgave him and went into his arms and told him now that Mrs. Follett is gone, we have a responsibility to stay because I am the tour’s prima donna. Mr. Cone decided two weeks ago to cut the duets in favor of arias because the audiences so love me, and so I sing alone, without a tenor to partner me. It is clear the audiences come to see me, and if I were to leave, the whole company must disband, so there is much more than just me to think of.
Barret is afraid to go against Papa so plainly, but I told him he was of his majority now and Papa cannot order him about like a child, and anyway we would be forgiven when Papa saw how much money the rest of the tour brings in. He could not disagree with that! He saw the sense in my argument finally, and so he has agreed to join Gideon and me in standing up to Papa.
Gideon has said not to worry; that if I stood firm, Mr. Cone and Mr. Wilson would fight to keep me, though they don’t know what they can do legally, because we are past the dates of the original contract, and Papa’s agreement to extend the tour is only in a letter. But he tells me to have hope, and not to bend, and so it shall be.
SEPTEMBER 22, 1871—Today terrible news! Gideon received word that his mother has died. In spite of my own worries, I was very sad for him, but he told me she had been ill and under a doctor’s care for some months. This was very surprising to me, as he had said not a word about it, although I suppose there is no reason he should speak to me of it. I have never met his mother, though I know she was a seamstress at Stewart’s and Willa had told me his mother had such high hopes for Gideon’s music career, and that she was all he had because his father abandoned them when Gideon was born, so he did not know him at all.
He is leaving us for a few days to attend to her funeral, and I am very jealous (though I have no right to be) that it will be Willa at his side, comforting him.
That, along with everything else, has put me in a very bad temper.
SEPTEMBER 27, 1871—It is settled—I am not going home!
In the end it was not Mr. Cone or Mr. Wilson, nor Barret, who changed Papa’s mind. It was Gideon. While he was home for his mother’s funeral, he visited Papa too and arranged everything.
He was gone three days, and I thought of him every moment, and of Willa with him. I was at rehearsal with Mr. Cone and Mr. Wilson when he showed up at the theater, dusty still from the train and so grim that it squeezed my heart to look at him. He told them he’d spoken to Papa and that the tour could continue, and then he gave me the letter from Papa, which I burned, because I could not bear to read again the things Papa had written. How unfair he is in accusing me of being selfish and thoughtless and Barrett of being weak. And as for Willa—Gideon has broken things off with her. He told me so when I said that it was a pity his mother had not lived to see him and Willa wed, and he said that his mother had not been anticipating a wedding, and there was something about the way he said it that made me think she had not known anything of Willa at all, and then he told me everything was ended.
Now, of course, Willa is very angry with me. She says I vowed to bring him home—did she want me to drag him there by the ear? How could I promise he would love her forever? He is twenty-four, after all, a grown man who knows his own mind.
But I do feel guilty too, because later, when I asked Gideon what his reason was for ending it with Willa, he said, “Why, because of you,” very quietly, as if he didn’t like to admit it, and I confess I could hardly breathe for joy. It isn’t over between us! Oh, perhaps I am selfish, and I do not like to hurt Willa, but is it so very bad of me to love him as I do?
NEW YORK CITY, DECEMBER 10, 1871—It has only been six weeks since the tour ended, but my yearning for it is a torment. We have put up at a small hotel just off Broadway, better than we can afford, but not quite good enough for society, so Gideon says we should try not to stay long. He & Barret share a room and I have my own, which is very small but comfortable enough. I find myself sleeping far too late in the morning and staying up far too late at night, still used to the hours of the tour, though there is nothing now to keep me busy. I miss singing every night—practicing is not the same. To see the tears, to hear the applause … I would even take the Völksstadt just now, though Gideon will not hear of it.
When we returned, Renate and Mr. Arriete offered us rooms at their home, but Gideon told me that she only means to use me, now that I have grown more famous. And she did ask if I might keep her husband in mind for future tours so we could be together again. I thought it was out of love for me, but Gideon says I am too naive for my own good. So I refused her. I felt terrible about it, because she seemed so hurt, but Gideon said it was all an act and I trust that he knows better than I do.
Also, Mr. Cone & Mr. Wilson offered to manage me, but I told them Barret was my manager and I could not abandon him. Even if Barret hasn’t the experience to know what to do with me, he is good at listening to Gideon, who does, and Barret is trying to learn all he can. Gideon is full of plans for all of us. In spite of how late the two of them stay out at night, it doesn’t seem to affect Gideon in the daytime, when he writes letters for Barret to sign on my behalf and chases down Mr. Maretzek, who has leased the Academy of Music for next season’s opera, to try to secure an interview. Gideon never leaves without a book of my favorable notices in his hand. Barret tags along, though I think he doesn’t feel very useful. I asked Gideon if he could at least try to give Barret more to do, but he reminded me of the mess Barret had made of the affair with Paolo and said it had taken all his skill to salvage things, and that he was not quite ready to trust Barret again with something so important as my career, but he would if I wished it.
I had not thought of it that way, and of course Gideon is right. But I did feel a little guilty—Barret has dedicated himself to managing me, and even if he has been well rewarded for it, I cannot just dismiss him. So I asked if perhaps Gideon could think of one small thing for Barret to do, and he smiled and said he would.
Gideon was worried, when we arrived home, that news of my affair with Paolo would have got out, which would have been very bad for my chances of securing an audition with Mr. Maretzek, as society would not approve, and would shun my performances, but it seems Paolo didn’t return to New York City and so my reputation is unblemished! But Gideon has not been able to get work with any company because of the things Follett said about him, and so we must depend on me. He has been frustrated and cross, which is one of the reasons, I suppose, that he and Barret go out every night.
But I also know it is because of me. It’s very hard to be so close to each other, and never speak of it or act upon it! Sometimes when he looks at me I feel as if my heart must burst from my chest. I tell myself that soon we will be together, and I can be his equal in patience for now. If he must go out with Barret every night rather than give in to temptation, then I mustn’t complain.
He means to cheer Barret too, I know, as he’s been low since we came home. Sometimes I see my brother looking at me as if I am a puzzle he cannot figure out, and he is always staring out the window toward Tompkins Square. He asked me the other day if I missed it. I told him no, and he asked me if I was going to be angry at Papa and Willa forever. I answered him that it was they who were angry at me. Papa wouldn’t speak to me when I went to the Völksstadt after we returned, in spite of the fact that I’d sent him all but a very little of the money I’d earned and I saw the new settee it had bought upstairs. He told Barret that he wondered how he had the hodes to look him in the face after failing so badly. Mama said it was best if we stayed away for a time, and Willa … I can still feel the sting of her hand against my cheek.
No, I don’t want to go back there. I don’t know if I will ever want to go back, though I suspect that Papa will soften after a time, even if Willa never does. But now, with Christmastime approaching and the city growing festive—yesterday it snowed—I do miss them, even if I am mostly relieved that I am away. But now I hear Barret and Gideon at the door and I must go—
* * *
N.B. I am to audition for Mr. Maretzek!!!!! Gideon has secured it, and he and Barret brought me home a Christmas stollen to celebrate, and we ate every bite of it and drank wine and Gideon kissed me in congratulations (or so he told Barret, but the kiss did not feel like only a congratulatory kiss) and I am now a little drunk and very happy. The audition is next week. Gideon tells me I must sing Pamina and Rosina and that I must practice every day before the audition because I have become a bit breathy and my shoulders raise too high and so I am not as beautiful singing as I could be.
DECEMBER 16, 1871—This morning I had the audition with Max Maretzek. I had not been inside the Academy before, and only the stage was lit, but the gold trim of the boxes and the curtains glimmered in the light, and it was so big! So much bigger than I’d thought, with the shadows disappearing into the boxes above and into space below that seemed to extend so far out I could not imagine where it would end, like a huge cave, with every voice echoing up into the rafters and suspended there. Mr Jarrett, the business manager, was there as well, and Barret and Gideon, who played for me. I was very nervous, though I had been practicin
g, and I knew the arias flawlessly. Still, Pamina especially is very difficult to sing, as it is mostly in the middle voice and pianissimo and a lament too, so that one must act so solemn and bereaved. Before I went onstage Gideon kissed my forehead and then rubbed his thumb, though there was no rouge to rub away, and whispered “In boca al lupo“for luck.
Once Gideon began to play, I forgot to be nervous. I was to sing “Ich bin fuhls” first, and then Rosina, and Gideon added my favorite Zerlina too because I do it very well, and he believes the ingenue parts are the ones I am best for just now. Barret smiled up at me, and I sang for him, and my voice sounded so magnificent there that the passion came over me as if it were newfound. I forgot all else until the last notes died away. I was a little stunned when it was over, so I failed to see the expressions on Mr. Maretzek’s and Mr. Jarrett’s faces.
They said nothing except “Thank you, Miss Conrad,” and I was certain I had failed, but Gideon told me it was how they always were, and to be patient. So I am trying to be, but I’m not very good at it. Gideon says that if they want me, we will know it by the end of the week, which seems far too long to wait.
DECEMBER 18, 1871—I’ve heard nothing yet, and I’m in despair! The audition only made my longing for the stage worse! I told Gideon this morning he must arrange another tour for me or we will all starve, and he snapped at me that he was looking for a company every day and what else should he do?
His tone surprised me, so I broke into tears. Though both of us knew he should not, he took me in his arms and whispered he was sorry, but that the wait affects us all and the two of us must support each other and not let anything come between us. And I said, “Not anything?” and he looked at me and such a communion passed between us!!! I knew he wanted to kiss me, and oh how I wanted it too, but I meant to be noble and turn away—it has only been a few months since he broke with Willa after all. But in the end I could not. There was no one there to see or stop us, and his lips were so soft and yet so forceful too. I could not have pulled away for the world, and he was the one who had to stop it. I was so breathless and confused and longing…. I begged him to forgive me, and said it was so hard to live with uncertainty and Barret esp. does not bear it well. He has come home every night quite drunk.