for you.”
I was ready long before the carriage came, dressed in one of my most modest gowns, a pale blue silk that I wore with a lace fichu to cover the expanse below my collarbone, and sapphire earrings that were only droplets compared to the huge square dangling ones I’d worn at our first supper here. It had been some time since Nathan had the time or inclination to attend a play with me, and I dared to hope it meant something more, an indication that he cared, that he too wished not to be so estranged. I planned to be on my best behavior.
The Regal Theater was very small and not the least bit elegant; it looked as if it might crumple to the ground in the merest breeze. I went through the side door leading to the box seats and found Nathan waiting for me at the bottom of the dark and narrow stairs, impatiently taking his watch from his vest pocket to check the time.
Mr. and Mrs. Brown were waiting for us in the box, as well as six or seven strangers. There was the loud thumping from those in the gallery above, and a general commotion in the parquet below. A small orchestra tuned their instruments in the pit; a boy with a basket called, “Lozenges! Buy your lozenges afore the show starts!” The theater was dim and cold, the smell ofgas heavy from the footlights ringing the stage and those set in tin sconces about the walls, but the seats were padded, and the curtain was heavy blue velvet to match the blue and gold decor, a large gas chandelier hung imposingly above—trappings of elegance that only served to send the meanness of everything else into relief.
As we took our seats, Mr. Brown leaned forward to say, “I’m so glad you could come with us tonight.”
Nathan said, “Ginny has always enjoyed the theater. Do you know this play?”
Mr. Brown shook his head. His wife said, “Mr. Greene’s company can be counted on for the most diverting entertainment, if not always the most elevated.”
The gasolier above dimmed, the crowd went quieter but not quiet, not until the orchestra began to play, and even then the gallery above was never silent, whistling and catcalling even as the deep blue curtains slid open to reveal a desert mountain setting, and the play began.
Mrs. Brown was right; it was not edifying, but it was energizing and quick, full of action and brilliant stunts—the bandit swinging across the stage on a rope, he and his henchman dashing up a narrow pathway on horseback to toss a blond-haired damsel—clearly a crowd favorite, given the stomping of feet and shouting at her entrance—into a mountain ravine, a daring rescue by the equally blond hero over the same. I was enraptured from the first moment Black Jack told of his intentions in a rollicking song that had those in the gallery singing along, shouting the chorus: “She will be mine, mine, mine or die a thousand times!” And when Sweet Polly’s dark-haired sister entreated the hero not to forget his duty, her song took up residence in my head, and I was still humming it when the play ended in fireworks and startled cries.
I did not want to leave. The time had passed too quickly; how I had missed this! It was nothing compared to the theater I’d seen in Chicago. It was coarse and mean, but it accentuated my loss; I could barely smile my good-byes to the Browns when my husband led me to the carriage.
It was pouring again, spattering and spitting on the carriageroof. The window sweated against the cold and wet, impossible to see out as we made our way to Judge Burke’s, the haloed streetlamps only a suggestion of light. I could not see Nathan’s face.
“Did you enjoy it?” I asked him.
There was a pause; I had the sense he had only just heard me, that his mind was somewhere far away. “Enjoy it? Why, yes. Yes, I did. Did you?”
I could not contain myself. “I would love to see it again. How long does it run?”
“I’ve no idea,” he said. “Why, did you see an actor you fancied?”
I was stung. How little it took to
I was ready long before the carriage came, dressed in one of my most modest gowns, a pale blue silk that I wore with a lace fichu to cover the expanse below my collarbone, and sapphire earrings that were only droplets compared to the huge square dangling ones I’d worn at our first supper here. It had been some time since Nathan had the time or inclination to attend a play with me, and I dared to hope it meant something more, an indication that he cared, that he too wished not to be so estranged. I planned to be on my best behavior.
The Regal Theater was very small and not the least bit elegant; it looked as if it might crumple to the ground in the merest breeze. I went through the side door leading to the box seats and found Nathan waiting for me at the bottom of the dark and narrow stairs, impatiently taking his watch from his vest pocket to check the time.
Mr. and Mrs. Brown were waiting for us in the box, as well as six or seven strangers. There was the loud thumping from those in the gallery above, and a general commotion in the parquet below. A small orchestra tuned their instruments in the pit; a boy with a basket called, “Lozenges! Buy your lozenges afore the show starts!” The theater was dim and cold, the smell ofgas heavy from the footlights ringing the stage and those set in tin sconces about the walls, but the seats were padded, and the curtain was heavy blue velvet to match the blue and gold decor, a large gas chandelier hung imposingly above—trappings of elegance that only served to send the meanness of everything else into relief.
As we took our seats, Mr. Brown leaned forward to say, “I’m so glad you could come with us tonight.”
Nathan said, “Ginny has always enjoyed the theater. Do you know this play?”
Mr. Brown shook his head. His wife said, “Mr. Greene’s company can be counted on for the most diverting entertainment, if not always the most elevated.”
The gasolier above dimmed, the crowd went quieter but not quiet, not until the orchestra began to play, and even then the gallery above was never silent, whistling and catcalling even as the deep blue curtains slid open to reveal a desert mountain setting, and the play began.
Mrs. Brown was right; it was not edifying, but it was energizing and quick, full of action and brilliant stunts—the bandit swinging across the stage on a rope, he and his henchman dashing up a narrow pathway on horseback to toss a blond-haired damsel—clearly a crowd favorite, given the stomping of feet and shouting at her entrance—into a mountain ravine, a daring rescue by the equally blond hero over the same. I was enraptured from the first moment Black Jack told of his intentions in a rollicking song that had those in the gallery singing along, shouting the chorus: “She will be mine, mine, mine or die a thousand times!” And when Sweet Polly’s dark-haired sister entreated the hero not to forget his duty, her song took up residence in my head, and I was still humming it when the play ended in fireworks and startled cries.
I did not want to leave. The time had passed too quickly; how I had missed this! It was nothing compared to the theater I’d seen in Chicago. It was coarse and mean, but it accentuated my loss; I could barely smile my good-byes to the Browns when my husband led me to the carriage.
It was pouring again, spattering and spitting on the carriageroof. The window sweated against the cold and wet, impossible to see out as we made our way to Judge Burke’s, the haloed streetlamps only a suggestion of light. I could not see Nathan’s face.
“Did you enjoy it?” I asked him.
There was a pause; I had the sense he had only just heard me, that his mind was somewhere far away. “Enjoy it? Why, yes. Yes, I did. Did you?”
I could not contain myself. “I would love to see it again. How long does it run?”
“I’ve no idea,” he said. “Why, did you see an actor you fancied?”
I was stung. How little it took to
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