Read Online In Sunlight and in Shadow by Mark Helprin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Helprin
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Sedley loved the sound of the name, because it took her family out of the picture, and because from a scandalously young age she had understood the travails of being a mistress.
She was, in her way, although not everyone thought so, very beautiful. It was not a soft beauty but, rather, sharp and delicate, with a backing of unseen strength that was not quite fully developed as she came into womanhood. In isolation, the pure, heartbreaking beauty of her face, though hardly perfect, could almost be an object of worship. Her body was strong and vibrant, and when she moved, or laughed, or settled back into a chair, she became sexually radiant. It is possible to have eyes that are carelessly unobservant, that in failing their task betray a listless soul. In contrast, the hazel eyes of Catherine Thomas Hale (or, if you wish, Catherine Sedley), though neither large nor opalescent, which would have made them commonly beautiful, were clear, alert, and ever active. They seized at a great rate upon the details of images that most eyes overlook even in things that appear in plain sight.
Though glasses were off limits onstage and there she was slightly myopic, other than when she was in the sea or in the shower she often wore a pair of round lenses held in delicate black metal frames that her father had brought from Paris before the war, and that seemed as thin as the locks floating at her temples, where these had escaped from a mass of reddish-blond hair, the color depending upon the light and sometimes as dark as auburn or as bright as gold, kept exquisitely up and partly braided at the back in a magical combination that was both classically arranged and randomly loose, almost windblown, as if she had come in from a deck or a beach.
The lenses, plumb-set and perpendicular to the plane of the floor, were a foil to the sharp assertiveness of her nose, which was small, perfectly formed, gracefully projecting. Her upper lip was larger than the lower, which suggested imminent speech protected nonetheless by careful reticence. Her teeth, unnaturally white in the glare of the spotlights, were even, straight, and large, in alluring palisades that cried out to be kissed.
As a rule, her bearing was uncompromising, and she held her head as if her name had just been called. Her breasts, not large, had as a result of her long, firm back and superb posture a perpetually attractive thrust. When she sat at table she had the habit of lightly grasping the edge with both hands, thumbs beneath the tabletop. This aligned her in a way that was ravishing. Even had her hands not been so beautiful, had her hair not been so glorious, had her face not been of breathtaking construction, had her youth not enveloped her like a rose, had her eyes not been so lovely, even had all this been different, the way she held herself, and her readiness to see, her fairness of judgment, and her goodness of heart would have made her beautiful beyond description. She was, like many, though not everyone by any means could see it, beautiful, just beautiful, beyond description.
Passing through the mitered beams of spotlights that convened upon the stage, she was now ready to take up her task. “So fast?” the director asked as the musicians walked sideways to their places amid a forest of metal chairs. The happiness of her expression betrayed her answer and her certainty.
“Okay,” he said, “from the top, and when you’re ready. Remember, what you see is the streets, the traffic, the mass of buildings—not a nineteenth-century drawing room.” He had described the set that would be there months later, after they had opened in Boston and if they were fortunate enough to get back to New York. They had the theater in the daytime on days without matinees, and the play that was running in the space they hoped eventually to occupy at night was a drama about what one critic had called “the discovery of physics.” The set in which Catherine was to represent the miracle of a
She was, in her way, although not everyone thought so, very beautiful. It was not a soft beauty but, rather, sharp and delicate, with a backing of unseen strength that was not quite fully developed as she came into womanhood. In isolation, the pure, heartbreaking beauty of her face, though hardly perfect, could almost be an object of worship. Her body was strong and vibrant, and when she moved, or laughed, or settled back into a chair, she became sexually radiant. It is possible to have eyes that are carelessly unobservant, that in failing their task betray a listless soul. In contrast, the hazel eyes of Catherine Thomas Hale (or, if you wish, Catherine Sedley), though neither large nor opalescent, which would have made them commonly beautiful, were clear, alert, and ever active. They seized at a great rate upon the details of images that most eyes overlook even in things that appear in plain sight.
Though glasses were off limits onstage and there she was slightly myopic, other than when she was in the sea or in the shower she often wore a pair of round lenses held in delicate black metal frames that her father had brought from Paris before the war, and that seemed as thin as the locks floating at her temples, where these had escaped from a mass of reddish-blond hair, the color depending upon the light and sometimes as dark as auburn or as bright as gold, kept exquisitely up and partly braided at the back in a magical combination that was both classically arranged and randomly loose, almost windblown, as if she had come in from a deck or a beach.
The lenses, plumb-set and perpendicular to the plane of the floor, were a foil to the sharp assertiveness of her nose, which was small, perfectly formed, gracefully projecting. Her upper lip was larger than the lower, which suggested imminent speech protected nonetheless by careful reticence. Her teeth, unnaturally white in the glare of the spotlights, were even, straight, and large, in alluring palisades that cried out to be kissed.
As a rule, her bearing was uncompromising, and she held her head as if her name had just been called. Her breasts, not large, had as a result of her long, firm back and superb posture a perpetually attractive thrust. When she sat at table she had the habit of lightly grasping the edge with both hands, thumbs beneath the tabletop. This aligned her in a way that was ravishing. Even had her hands not been so beautiful, had her hair not been so glorious, had her face not been of breathtaking construction, had her youth not enveloped her like a rose, had her eyes not been so lovely, even had all this been different, the way she held herself, and her readiness to see, her fairness of judgment, and her goodness of heart would have made her beautiful beyond description. She was, like many, though not everyone by any means could see it, beautiful, just beautiful, beyond description.
Passing through the mitered beams of spotlights that convened upon the stage, she was now ready to take up her task. “So fast?” the director asked as the musicians walked sideways to their places amid a forest of metal chairs. The happiness of her expression betrayed her answer and her certainty.
“Okay,” he said, “from the top, and when you’re ready. Remember, what you see is the streets, the traffic, the mass of buildings—not a nineteenth-century drawing room.” He had described the set that would be there months later, after they had opened in Boston and if they were fortunate enough to get back to New York. They had the theater in the daytime on days without matinees, and the play that was running in the space they hoped eventually to occupy at night was a drama about what one critic had called “the discovery of physics.” The set in which Catherine was to represent the miracle of a
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