by Megan Chance
Johnny motioned to one of the tables. “All right then, Miss Wilcox. Have a seat, and Miss Olson here will show you around when we’re done. Now, who’s next?”
The next one went on the stage, a thin and mousy woman with a tremulous voice, though at least she could hold a tune, and she had a pining look I knew that some men liked. After her was the next, and then the next. They tended to blend together in my head—few voices stood out, and fewer still stayed long enough for me to know their names, and over the years I’d made connections in my head to remember them: the one singing “Then You’ll Remember Me” was Emma, “Long Time Ago” for Betsey, “The Harp of Love” and Jane.
By the time the last one took to the stage, the distraction of the auditions had worn off, and I was restless. The last girl was tall, with large breasts and narrow hips, brown hair and large brown cow eyes. She was older than the rest of them, about my age, I guessed. She looked as if she would have a lower voice, and I thought of “The Bridge of Sighs” for its midrange tessitura. It was a sad song, but she had the look for it. I leafed through the music, searching for it.
But then she went onstage. She had none of the nervousness of the others, but instead a quiet settledness that caught my interest. Without preamble, she began to sing in a clean, light soprano, not the contralto I’d pegged her.
The song was “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.” It seemed strange that I had not heard anyone sing this song in all the time I’d been here. It had been so popular, after all. But until today, no one had, and hearing it now startled me. I knew this song; I knew every nuance available in it; I knew how it felt in the muscles of the throat, the push of it from the lungs, the quiet strength of it balanced on a column of air.
I looked away and made myself go through the music, searching for another song in her range, forcing myself to think on that alone. I fumbled through the sheets, my frustration growing as she climbed through the song. I wished it would stop. I tried hard to block it out. It was a relief when she finished, when the last note was nothing but a hush on the air.
“What’s your name?” Johnny asked.
“Charlotte Rainey,” she said.
“You got any questions?”
She said, “Do I got to sing? Can’t I just fuck them?”
I looked up, startled.
Johnny laughed. “God help me, if I wanted to run a brothel I wouldn’t have built the stage. Christ, yes, you got to sing. It helps sell the drinks. The whoring’s up to you. You do it, we get a cut. You don’t, then you better sell a lot of whiskey.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “You got anything to add, honey?”
I shook my head, taking up the music I’d chosen. “I’ll get them started.”
“Then I’ll leave it to you,” he said. “I’ll be in my office.”
The girls were quiet, watching me warily as I rose and passed them the music. “I’ve chosen songs for all of you. You’ll have a day to learn them before we put you onstage. You’ll need to watch out for Billy. He’s the piano player, and he’s got a roving hand. If he bothers you too much, you let Duncan know.” I gestured to where Duncan stood at the bar. “My name’s Marguerite. Marguerite Olson. I’m the one you come to if you have any other problems. I’ll take care of everything. Not Johnny. He’ll just send you to me and be angry in the bargain.”
They stood staring at me, looking blankly at the music I’d handed them—illiterate, as they almost always were, and I sighed and said, as I always did, “Come in first thing tomorrow and I’ll go through the music with you. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll get you dressed.”
I led them upstairs to Johnny’s room and unlocked the trunk near the window that held all the secondhand gowns we’d collected in the last years. Johnny’s room was spartan, with only a table and two chairs and a cast-iron stove in the corner. The shelves above held a coffee can and a kettle and a few books which I knew were all that remained of his father. The bed was unmade—the sight of that reminded me of Sally, and of how Johnny had refused me last night, and when I threw Sarah Wilcox a gown and she said, “But I don’t like pink,” it was all I could do not to tell her to get out. Instead, I remembered Johnny’s warning and forced a smile, looking back into the trunk, taking out another gown, appeasing her. “Here’s a blue. Try it on and see if it fits.” Then I drew out the others: a green for Charlotte Rainey, and a purple and a striped and a red for the other three. The gowns had all been altered, cut short, just below the knee, and pantaloons had been made of the extra fabric. They’d been adorned with all manner of fringe and dangling trim because it accented the movement of the girls’ bodies on the stage and made them seem sensuous even if they had no more grace than a turtle. That had been my idea, and one that had made Johnny laugh with admiration when I told him cynically how to shape a woman’s innocence or experience. One could dress a whore in cascades of lace and make of her an innocent, and low-cut silk and beads that shivered with every breath could turn a virgin into a whore.
“Where have you been, honey, that you know such things?”
“Why don’t you let me show you what else I know….”
I looked out the window while I waited for them to dress, glancing past the railing of the balcony that abutted Johnny’s room to the street below. The misty rain hadn’t stopped, and even the horses were bowing their heads as if they couldn’t abide it. It made me shiver to think of going out in it again. Once the girls were taken care of, I had a few hours until the Palace opened and I had to be back, and that was the time of day I disliked the most. If Johnny sometimes filled the nights and the mornings, the early afternoon was always empty. Perhaps I would stay around, send Duncan for a bowl of chowder from across the street, help Johnny with the accounts—
“I’m afraid it’s a bit too small.”
I turned at the voice, into the liquid cow eyes of Charlotte Rainey. She looked apologetic as she tried to pull the sleeves of the dark green dress down past her elbows.
“It’s supposed to be like that,” I said, reaching out to push the sleeves back up, and it was then I saw the scar on her forearm. It was large, starting at her wrist and running to her elbow. It was ugly and strange; I’d never seen anything like it, as if her skin had somehow melted and fused to the muscles beneath, an unsightly deformity.
She pulled her arm gently from my grasp. “It’s better if I keep it covered.”
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“I fell,” she said, meeting my gaze straight on, though I recognized the evasiveness in her words; I understood it. “How’d you get yours?”
“The same way,” I told her.
She smiled; it was small and subtle, an acknowledgment that she understood my evasiveness too, and I was surprised at my own urge to smile back. She said, “If you don’t want me here now, it’s all right. But most men don’t even see it.”
“Just keep it covered until they’re too hot to care,” I told her. I turned back to the trunk and drew out something else, a gown in deep red this time, with long, close-fitting sleeves. “Try this one instead.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
After that, the other girls came up to me to fix this or adjust that, and I tended to them, but I was thinking of Charlotte Rainey. The scar intrigued me, but more than that, there was something in her manner, a straightforwardness even in her evasion, a feeling that was somehow familiar, though I’d never seen her before.
When they were done being fitted, and we left Johnny’s room, and they all trailed out of the bar one by one, into the foggy rain, I could not quite keep her out of my head, and I had no idea why.
From the Journal of Sabine Conrad
JUNE 9, 1871—Gideon has become my good-luck charm. Since our first performance, I cannot go onstage without his kiss on my forehead and the rub of his thumb to erase the rouge he leaves behind. I have become as superstitious as the rest—Mrs. Follett must wear a certain pair of shoes, and Paolo must shake the hand of the man who runs the curtain rope, a
nd Mr. Arriete must kiss his wife’s ear.
The reviews continue so good that I have been given two songs apart from our regular program—Marguerite’s “Jewel Song” from Faust and “All Things Love Thee, So Do I,” which Mr. Wilson thinks will be my signature song, the same way that “Home Sweet Home” belongs to Adelina Patti. Gideon has been working every day with me to perfect them, and Follett is not happy on two counts: one, that I have been given my own part of the show, and two, that I must spend so much time now with Gideon. She has been giving me das Auge des Teufels—ah! no more German!!!—the devil’s eye, as if she hopes to make me disappear.
Gideon has also set me to reading poetry and philosophy and literature. He says if I am to sing opera I must understand the emotions behind the stories, and as I am not likely to murder someone or have an obsessive love affair or run about in disguise, books are the best way to understand them. “You must know enough to bring those feelings onstage with you, Bina,” he says. So I am studying very hard in the little spare time I have.
I also confess that I have grown used to the idea of Gideon with Follett and I think Barret and I are right to simply ignore it. This is a strange life. We in the company do not live as other people; I am quite accustomed to keeping night hours, and the day is what now seems strange. Renate Arriete joked the other day that we all had the pallor of ghosts, and strange-looking ones at that, because the kohl and rouge never completely leaves our skin, no matter how we wash.
Renate is not nearly as quiet as I supposed, and in fact has a jolly sense of humor, but Gideon tells me I should keep my distance. He says she is a performer’s wife and will be jealous of the attention paid to me over her husband. I do not believe it. Our company is like a family—we are as intimate as if we are the only persons left on earth. A week does not go by without some melodrama or another, but the love we bear one another cannot be broken so easily!
Barret seems much happier too away from the Völksstadt. Yesterday after practice we snuck away to a confectioner and he bought me lemonade and a cake (though it is true he did not buy the cake, but flirted so with the counter girl that she gave him one for free). I felt very guilty, as I was supposed to be preparing for the show, but it is impossible to refuse Barret when he is in such a mood. I think he is relieved to be away from Papa’s criticism. He was very lively and teased me until I laughed loud enough that people looked at us, though they look at us anyway—we are so alike that I think it must be quite startling to see us together.
I am so very happy! The only thing I cannot like is the way Paolo has become too nice—I feel his eyes on me all the time now, and he makes excuses to brush up against me while we wait in the wings. I have become very mean to him as a result, so that even Barret chided me for it. It is all very frustrating!
* * *
N.B. I have had a letter from Papa, who says that the Brooklyn tower of the new bridge is now complete and that they all went to see it and found it astonishing except that it made Willa cry to see all the couples in the crowd; she misses Gideon and it is hard for her when he is far away. Papa asks that I write of Gideon the next time I send a letter, as he must be too busy to write himself. And there is a postscript from Willa who reminds me to remember my promise.
CHICAGO, JULY 15, 1871—My Birthday!!!! I am seventeen today.
Mr. Cone and Mr. Wilson brought me an immense bouquet of pink roses and they are filling my hotel room with scent and are very lovely. But the best news of all is that Mr. Cone says we have been asked to extend the tour through November. At least five of the cities we have visited want us back, and the ones we have not yet arrived at have requested that we extend our engagements. My reviews have preceded us! He showed me an item in the Chicago Tribune, which said, “Arriving today, the renowned Manchetti Company of New York City, of which we have heard such great praise that we find ourselves anticipating their performances with unusual impatience. There is every expectation of a full house each night as Chicago swarms to welcome the lauded soprano, Miss Sabine Conrad. We have great hopes that they will consent to extend their stay in order that everyone might have the opportunity to see her.”
I have written straightaway to Papa to ask his permission, as has Barret, who says that Mr. Cone and Mr. Wilson are increasing my payment to $100/month! I think Papa cannot help but agree I should continue on. Even Gideon has written to Willa—his first letter to her in months, I think. I have done as Papa asked and reminded Gideon to write to her before now, but he only says he is too busy with rehearsals to write more often, which I think is not quite true, as I have seen his weekly letters to his mother go into the post. I only really care that he wrote her this time to tell her that he hopes she will convince Papa to do what is best.
It makes me remember how she said she has sacrificed everything for me.
I don’t like to think of it. And it is my birthday, so I won’t, and now I must go to rehearsal.
* * *
N.B. I am back from my birthday celebration. Oh, what shall I do now? Oh … I am too drunk to write. I will tell more tomorrow.
JULY 16, 1871—I think I may be falling in love with Gideon!
Even just to write it makes my pen shake. What a terrible sister I am! I think I must cross it out and never admit it, but I cannot help myself, and I write in the hope that putting it all down on paper might somehow make my feelings for him less. How miserable I am!
To start from the beginning: last night was our first performance in Chicago, and it was as the papers said: the house was full and Mr. Cone was in high spirits because we had sold out. But the crowd was restless, and I could feel their anticipation as my turn to go onto the stage neared. First is my duet with Gideon from Ernani, and as always, I gave myself over to the music and the audience went so quiet it was almost as if they had gone away. After I sang, there was such a chorus of Bravas! Gideon and I were forced to encore it three times before they would sit again. The rest of the performance was no different. The show went nearly an hour past its usual time with all the encores they demanded of me. I was quite exhausted at the end of it, and Follett was glaring so fiercely I could swear I felt the burn of it upon my cheek. She declared she had the headache and would not go with us when Mr. Cone and Mr. Wilson whisked us all away to celebrate my birthday. I suppose if she had gone, none of the rest would have happened, but even now I find I cannot be unhappy that she was not there.
Mr. Cone and Mr. Wilson took us to a beer hall and it was so nice of them and so much like being at home. We drank a great deal of lager and ate fried fish, and I must have danced the polka a hundred times! Barret flirted with all the waitresses and danced with me and we laughed at how glad we were to be here as customers and not as waiters. When the polka orchestra was done, he jumped upon the stage and to my surprise announced that “the famous Miss Sabine Conrad, of New York City” was here, and they pushed me onto the stage and I sang the old folk songs I was accustomed to sing in the Völksstadt until some of the hausfraus were crying and holding their children in their laps and I sang “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair,” which is Willa’s favorite song, and afterward Gideon came up to me, his face flushed and his eyes bright with drink, and he said, “I don’t ever want to go back, Sabine. Tell me you don’t either.” And of course I agreed with him, because it’s true: I wish I could stay on this tour forever.
I laughed and took Gideon’s hand, pulling him close to dance with me. Then … I lost my balance, I think, and he caught me, and instead of letting me go once I’d regained myself, he held me tight. I leaned into him and twined my arms around his neck, and … did he try to pull away? I confess I don’t remember. Suddenly he was kissing me and I did not feel it was wrong at all. I felt instead that I could stay there in his arms, kissing him, forever.
But then Barret wrenched me away. I do not think I have ever seen my brother so angry. I don’t remember exactly what he said to me. Only that I must think of Willa, and that he would take me home if he caught me again with Gideon that
way and did I mean to ruin everything?
He is right, of course. I promised Barret to be good, and I mean to be! I do! But then I think of Willa and how she waits for him and my promise to her, and I am so jealous and guilty I can’t bear it.
* * *
I have seen Gideon now, and I am more miserable than ever. I went to practice, where he was, and no one else—not even Follett or Barret—and I was so happy to see him and I meant to fly into his arms. Except that he hardly looked at me! He said nothing of last night at all, and in fact, treated me no differently than he ever has. It was as if he did not even remember, yet how could that be? I was very drunk, and I remember. Surely he was not worse than me?
I think Barret has spoken to him, and that is why he is holding himself distant. He must know as well as I that we cannot be together.
Oh, I don’t know! I watched his long fingers upon the piano keys and remembered how my own had tangled in his hair, and all he could say was, “Pianissimo there, Sabine. Come, come, do it again.” And quite impatiently too, as if I were a child.
And then, worst of all … when the practice was nearly done, Follett came to the room—which she has never, ever done before—and asked him to “promenade” with her as if it were quite the usual thing, and when he agreed, she kissed him quite insistently in front of me, which she has also never done before, and I knew she must have heard what happened and was showing that he still belonged to her. I thought my heart would break when he kissed her back and laughed, and the two of them went off with hardly a good-bye.
This is how it must be, I know. I cannot be in love with him. There is Willa to consider, and my career. Still I cannot quite make myself wish he had not kissed me.
Oh, what am I to do now?
JULY 23, 1871—I am in torment. Today Renate told me that Gideon and I were both drunk and it was nothing more than that and I am imperiling all of us with my foolishness. Follett is complaining about me, and if she leaves it will be the end for everyone.
