William Kennedy - The Flaming Corsage

“Oh dear,” said Felicity. “Isn’t ‘actress’ just another name for, you know. .”

“Felicity,” Giles said, “you have no idea who this young woman is. She’s only eighteen and she’s going to be in Edward’s new play.”

“Oh I am sorry,” said Felicity.

“Don’t waste your sorrow on Melissa,” Edward said. “She’s a very talented young lady. I saw her in a Sardou play in New York, and I knew if she toned down the melodramatics, she could act my heroine. She’s at Proctor’s this week in a comic opera, and so I sent her a script, and yesterday my producer came up from New York and we auditioned her. She was perfect — articulate, with an open heart, and a beauty that’s hard to define. She commands one’s attention.”

“She certainly commands yours,” Felicity said.

“Why shouldn’t beauty be appreciated?” Katrina asked.

“It should, I suppose.”

“It should be cast in bronze, carved in marble like Persephone there,” said Giles, pointing to the marble bust. “Beauty is how we stay alive. It’s why I married you, my love,” and he patted Felicity’s wrist.

“That’s a ridiculous reason to marry, Giles,” said Katrina. “I don’t believe that’s what drew you to Felicity.”

“I swear it’s true,” said Giles.

“I doubt it. People want an unknown they can embrace. Something mysterious.”

“Do you really think we’re so anxious for the exotic?” Giles asked.

“But of course,” Katrina said. “What else is love but the desire for prostitution?”

“Oh my,” said Felicity. “You don’t mean that.”

“She means prostitution as a metaphor,” Giles said.

“Not at all,” said Katrina.

“I’ve been dying to ask what you’ve chosen for dinner,” Felicity said. “I always love your menus.”

“We start with prostitute soup,” Katrina said.

“You do say the most outlandish things, Katrina,” Felicity said. “You like to shock us.”

“Do I? Is that true, Edward?”

“Offending people has always been one of the pleasures of the upper class,” Edward said.

“I left the upper class when I married you,” Katrina said.

“Perhaps you did,” said Edward. “I remember Cornelia Wickham’s saying I made you déclassée. In spite of that, you certainly brought your elite social codes to the altar.”

“Cornelia was jealous that Katrina was the true princess of Albany’s social life,” Giles said. “I remember her coming-out cotillion, the most elaborate the city had seen in decades. Cornelia looked radiant, and her dress, made by a London couturier who had gone on to design for the Queen, was the talk of the city. Yet every eye was on Katrina. All the men had to dance with her, including myself. The women, polite as they were, were wretchedly jealous, and it got into the social columns. Cornelia still hasn’t forgiven her.”

“Cornelia was a vain and brainless ninny,” Katrina said. “I went to her cotillion determined to annoy her, and I flirted outrageously with everyone.”

“You became the belle of someone else’s ball,” Giles said, “a mythic figure in society. And Cornelia married bountifully and grew fat as a toad.”

“Is there something wrong in being fat?” Felicity asked.

“Nothing at all,” Giles said. “After I lose interest in you, my dear, you may get as fat as you like.”

“I will never be fat, Giles,” Felicity said. “And it may be I who lose interest.”

Footsteps on the porch announced that Maginn and Melissa had arrived.

At dinner, Maginn-by-candlelight looked less like Melissa’s escort than somebody’s ne’er-do-well uncle, with his waning, scraggly hair and mustache, expensive but wrinkled blue-silk tie, and his trademark coat with velvet collar: a coat for all seasons. His shirt collar was freshly starched, but only when Edward was sure he was wearing the complete shirt, and not just a dickey, did he give the word for the men to doff jackets. Edward and Giles, in their tailored shirts, ties in place, seemed aloof from the heat. Coatless, Maginn looked steamed.

Edward suggested the women could follow suit in whatever way feasible, and Melissa removed her diaphanous tunic, revealing shoulders bare except for where her light-brown hair fell onto them, and the string straps holding up her loose-fitting beige gown. It was clear she wore no corset, nor could Edward see any evidence of that new device, the brassiere. Her gown became the object of silent speculation: would it offer the table, before dinner’s end, an unobstructed chest-scape?

“The play by Edward is so exciting,” Melissa said. “I’m so flattered to be asked to even read for the role of Thisbe. There’s such pathos in her. It’s too good to be true, but it is true, isn’t it, Edward?”

“We can’t be sure about anything,” Edward said, “but you will have the part if we’re not all stricken by disaster.”

“There’s always the odd chance,” Maginn said, “that the play will be a disaster.”

“Oh no,” said Melissa. “It’s a wonderful play.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Maginn said.

“Here now,” said Giles, “let’s not have any sour grapes.”

“Maginn is right,” Edward said. “Even great plays, and I make no argument for my own, are often badly received. The Seagull was mocked in its St. Petersburg premiere, and this year a horde of benighted Irishmen rioted at the Abbey Theatre over Synge’s language in Playboy of the Western World. ”

“I won’t hear of any disasters,” Melissa said. “Have you read Edward’s play, Mrs. Daugherty?”

“Of course. It was enthralling.”

“I agree. It’s gotten even better as I commit it to memory.”

“You’ve memorized it already?” asked Katrina.

“Rather a lot of it,” Melissa said. “Actors must read a play countless times, although I know some who memorize only their own lines and cues.”

“Some do even less,” Katrina said. “They bumble through and think it enough just to stand there and shimmer in the footlights. Have you known actresses who only shimmer?”

“I’ve only been in theater a year,” Melissa said, and she turned to Felicity. “Does theater thrill you as it does me?”

“I rarely go,” Felicity said. “In New York I went once and found it extremely improper. Women in tights, that sort of thing.”

“Felicity is easily shocked,” Giles said.

“I saw Edward’s last play,” Felicity said, “but I didn’t entirely understand it.”

“What didn’t you understand?” Melissa asked.

“The words,” Maginn said.

“The play has a political theme,” said Giles,” and my wife doesn’t understand politics, do you, my love?”

“I’m not a simp, Giles.”

“Let Felicity speak for herself, Giles,” Katrina said. “Don’t be such a mother hen.”

“Those pearls you’re wearing are gorgeous,” Melissa said to Felicity. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Giles gave them to me for our anniversary.”

“And your hair,” said Melissa. “I wish I had such beautiful hair.”

“How nice of you to say that,” said Felicity. “Your own hair is very lovely. I’m sure you shimmer beautifully onstage, and I’ll bet you don’t forget your lines.”

Edward saw Felicity as not unattractive, a hint of the hoyden in her manner, and with a flouncy appeal, under-girded by that heralded anatomy. Her hair, a mass of thick black waves, loosely plaited and gathered in soft coils to just below her shoulders, was truly beautiful, but neither bronze nor marble could rescue her long nose and small eyes. Edward also decided Melissa was extremely shrewd, with the good sense to back off an argument about acting with Katrina, and with instant insight as to where Felicity was most susceptible to flattery.