Splendors and Glooms (5 page)

But the play was not yet over. A maiden with golden curls nursed the hero back to health. In the end, the stranger with the plumed hat was tricked into buying back the bottle, and the hero married his golden-haired sweetheart. The children clapped lustily. Before their hands had stopped smarting, the curtain rose again, and Lizzie Rose’s fiddle played a lilting air.

A tiny ballerina tiptoed onto the stage. She was so light on her pointes, so perfectly balanced, that she might have been a fairy. Clara leaned forward, enraptured. She wished she could dance like that. Sometimes when she was supposed to be in bed, she danced in the dark nursery, twirling on half pointe and holding out the skirts of her nightdress. She wished that she could be a ballet dancer. She saw herself in pink gauze, with rosebuds in her hair, gliding like a swallow, leaping, fluttering, soaring. . . . Then her conscience rebuked her. Dancing wasn’t proper, and it was her duty to stay home and be a comfort to her parents. Clara’s breath left her in a sigh.

The dancer was replaced by a juggler, who tossed three balls into the air: green, lavender, and silver. After the juggler came a tightrope walker — and by now even the grown-ups had forgotten that they were watching
fantoccini
and worried lest the manikin should fall and break his neck.

The final act was the strangest of all. The curtains parted to reveal a churchyard and a skeleton puppet. As Lizzie Rose played the kit, the skeleton jogged along happily, raising its knobby knees and grinning. Then, with a trill from the fiddle, the legs parted company with the spine and sprinted to the opposite side of the stage.

The children gasped. Several tittered. Clara knelt upright, forgetting the children behind her. Both halves of the skeleton were dancing — and now the skeleton shattered a second time. The skull rose in the air, floating high over the arms and rib cage. It landed center stage, the upper jaw jerking in rhythm with the tambourine. Clara pressed her fingers against her lips. She was shocked — and entranced — and tickled.

The children giggled. The music grew softer. With another trill from the kit, the skeleton’s arms collapsed, making a pyramid of white bones. The legs buckled. Now it was only the skull that moved, clacking open and shut in a fiendish laugh. The white teeth gleamed. The spectacle was grotesque. It was —

Clara heard a strange sound: a cry of laughter that was almost a shriek. It took her a split second to realize that the sound came from her own throat. Her fingers tightened; she covered her mouth with all ten fingers, but it was no use. If she didn’t laugh, she would choke to death. She opened her mouth for air. Another whoop escaped her. The children around her had stopped giggling. They were no longer watching the skeleton. They were watching Clara.

There was a rustle from the back of the room. Clara turned. Her mother was on her feet, making her way to the door. Dr. Wintermute hastened after her. Horror stricken, Clara clamped her hands over her mouth. But the laughter within her was explosive, and knowing that she should stop —
must
stop — only made matters worse. Peal after peal escaped her. Tears blinded her, first warm and then cold upon her cheeks.

The children shifted restlessly. The skeleton onstage was reassembling itself: rib cage on top of pelvis, head on top of spine. Clara whimpered, bent double. Her sides ached.

The kit trilled its final note. In the silence that followed, the skeleton took a bow. The curtain fell. A few of the children clapped halfheartedly. Even the smallest child knew that Clara Wintermute had disgraced herself.

Miss Cameron stood up. She went to stand in front of the miniature stage, facing the audience. Her face was stern. “I hope,” she said, “that you have enjoyed the entertainment.”

There was a timid ripple of applause.

“Clara,” said Miss Cameron, “you must thank your little friends for coming to the party.”

Clara took a deep breath and got to her feet. Her cheeks were wet and scarlet. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. She could think of nothing else to say.

Several of the children said thank you in return. Miss Cameron nodded toward the door and began to herd the guests downstairs to the dining room. A few soft thuds and rustles came from backstage. Parsefall and Lizzie Rose must be packing up the puppets. Clara followed her governess downstairs.

The servants rallied around Miss Cameron. Coats were fetched. Gloves were sorted out, slices of cake wrapped up, paper cones filled with sweets for the children to take home. In the midst of the leave-taking, two footmen helped Grisini bring the caravan down the stairs. Lizzie Rose and Parsefall trailed after it. Clara would have liked to wave to them, but she forced herself to speak only to her guests. She stayed close to Miss Cameron, uttering stock phrases of hospitality. She knew that the other children would talk about her as soon as they were out the door.

It was more than half an hour before the last guest left the house. Then Miss Cameron turned on Clara. “What on earth possessed you? How could you laugh in such an unladylike manner?”

“I don’t know,” said Clara.

Miss Cameron’s frown deepened. “Skeletons and cemeteries —! And in a house of mourning! Nothing could be in worse taste! You know how tender your mother’s feelings are, Clara! Did you know that — that vulgar skeleton — was going to be part of the program?”

Clara lifted her chin, glad that there was one point on which she might defend herself. “No, I didn’t! Truly! That day in the park, I saw the show from behind. I didn’t know —”

“Even so,” Miss Cameron interrupted, “you laughed. And the way in which you laughed was improper. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Yes,” said Clara. Her cheeks burned.

“You had better go to bed. There will be no more festivities today. I will tell Cook you will not require dinner.”

Clara nodded. She had not been sent supperless to bed for many years. To have such a babyish punishment on her birthday was a double disgrace, but she supposed she deserved it. “Yes, Miss Cameron. Only, please — before I go up to bed — oughtn’t I to see Mamma?”

The governess hesitated. When she answered, the sharpness had gone from her voice. “She may not wish to see you.”

Clara waited. After a moment, Miss Cameron inclined her head.

“You are right to want to apologize. Very well. You may go to your mother’s room. After you have spoken to her, you must go to the nursery and get ready for bed.”

“Yes, Miss Cameron,” said Clara. She turned from her governess and began to mount the stairs.

S
omething glistened on the stair landing. Clara caught sight of it as she climbed the last three steps: something that shone against the dull carpet like a miniature sun. She bent down and picked it up.

It was a gold watch. Clara had never seen a watch quite like it. The dial was no larger than her thumbnail; it seemed to represent the full moon. Around it was a night sky made of black enamel, with two figures set against it: a golden wolf and a silver swan. The swan was suspended in midair, its wings outstretched. The wolf’s jaws gaped, its teeth as thin as needles.

“Madamina!”

Clara’s head jerked up. The puppet master Grisini stood in the doorway of the drawing room. She had seen him leave a quarter of an hour ago.

“You come
apropos.
” He swept off his hat and bowed. “I want your eyes, Miss Wintermute — your keen, bright eyes. Come and help me!”

Clara hung back. She wasn’t sure whether it was proper to speak to him. They had not been introduced, and she didn’t know what
apropos
meant. She had a vague idea that
madama
was the proper title for an Italian lady;
madamina
might mean a little lady. She wasn’t sure whether Grisini was mocking her or being very polite.

The puppet master stretched out his hands. “I have lost my automaton watch. Your so-kind butler, Bartletti, told me I might come up the back stairs and search for it — but the light is dim, and my eyes are no longer young. Will you come into the drawing room and help me, little
madama
? It is very rare —
preziosissimo!
— my automaton watch.”

Clara hesitated. She had no wish to follow Grisini into a dim and empty room, but she could think of no polite way to refuse. Close at hand, she could see how disreputable he looked. His tattered frock coat glistened with fog, and there was a patch of sticking plaster under his chin. His words seemed to hang in the air:
madamina, apropos, preziosissimo, automaton watch . . .
! But
automaton watch
was English and must refer to the object in her hands. Clara smiled with relief. “I’ve just found it,” she said, and held out the timepiece.

In a flash he was at her side. He nipped the watch out of her fingers so swiftly that she never saw his hands move. “Ah! There it is!
Attenti
— I will show you; six o’clock is about to strike. It is time for the wolf to frighten the swan —
guardate
!”

As if in response to his words, the figures on the watch began to move. The wolf’s golden jaws gaped and snapped. The swan’s wings flapped, allowing the bird to jerk upward a quarter of an inch. There was a faint sound from inside the watch: a minute hammer striking a tiny gong.

“Bau! Bau!”
Grisini mimicked it. “That is how dogs bark in Venice, Miss Wintermute. Do you like it — my automaton watch?”

Clara wavered. She liked the colors of the watch, the richness of the gold and silver against the black enamel, but she pitied the poor swan, who could not fly away. Soberly she said, “It’s beautiful.”

Grisini nodded.
“Sì, molto bello.”
He cocked his head to one side, his eyes alight. Would you like it as a birthday present? Shall I give it to you, Miss Wintermute?”

Clara cried, “Oh, no!” and clasped her hands behind her back. “I mean, no, thank you. It’s very kind of you — but I couldn’t take it.”

“Perchè no?”
Grisini shut his fingers over the watch and opened them again. His palm was empty. He laughed at her surprise, stepped forward, and flicked one of Clara’s ringlets. The watch reappeared between his fingers. “If I choose to give it to you, why not?”

“I don’t —” Clara began, but the watch had vanished again. He snapped his empty fingers, and it gleamed in the palm of his other hand. He lost the watch a third time and discovered it behind Clara’s sash; he produced it from under her chin; he bent almost double and brought it out from the hem of her skirt. He circled her, his hands fluttering, the watch winking in and out of thin air. Clara felt as if she were being tickled. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream.

“Perhaps you are afraid your mother will find out,” Grisini said softly. “How shocked she was, a little while ago! Oh, yes, I saw! The boy works the skeleton puppet — so I watch — and I hear you laugh!” His grin widened. His teeth were black and yellow, like the keys of an old piano. “But of course, she is shocked because you are laughing at death. Is that not so?
È vero!
But I say, Miss Wintermute, it is good to laugh at death —”

“I — I wasn’t,” Clara stammered, “I didn’t —”

“You did,” he contradicted her. He set his forefinger in the narrow groove above her lips, commanding her silence. “You have a brave heart,
madamina.
” His finger descended, grazing the lace on the bodice of her dress. Clara thought he was about to lay his hand against her heart, but instead he scooped up her gold locket and held it in the hollow of his hand.

“
Cosa c’è?
It is new, yes? A birthday present? Only I think you do not like it.” His mouth twisted in an upside-down smile, as if he were talking baby talk.

“I do like it,” Clara said desperately.

Grisini smiled at her dishonesty, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “A very good sapphire,” he said in a pleased tone of voice. “Siamese?”

“I don’t know,” Clara answered. Her mouth was dry.

“The filigree work is well done,” Grisini observed. “Not quite so well as a Venetian jeweler might do it, but very fine.” He turned the locket to catch the light. “It’s the inside you don’t like, yes?” He leaned closer. “Open it up and let me see. I have shown you my treasure; now you must show me yours.”

Clara felt sick. Grisini, the puppet master; Grisini, the foreigner, had touched the lace on her dress and was asking to see inside her locket. Such things did not happen. She gazed at his wriggling, agile fingers and felt a throb of terror lest he touch her again. She yanked the gold chain over her head and held it out to him.

He accepted it gracefully and opened it to see the picture within. Against an ivory background was a weeping willow tree, less than an inch high. Each branch and frond was fashioned from snippets of human hair. “Ah, so this is for mourning! The hair is from your dead brothers and sisters, I suppose.”

“How did you —?”

“Servants talk, I am afraid, and such a sad story begs to be told.
Povera
Clara!” He held out the locket so that she could take it back. “But you were not made for weeping, little
madama.
You should laugh — as you did today — and you should dance. You
shall
dance.” He smiled. “Shall I tell you how?”