Yes; on the stage she was
adorable! And raising his hands high, Fiorsen clapped and called out:
"Brava!" He marked the sudden roundness of her eyes, a tiny start--no
more. She had seen him. 'Ah! Some don't forget me!' he thought.
And now she came on for her second dance, assisted this time only by
her own image reflected in a little weedy pool about the middle of the
stage. From the programme Fiorsen read, "Ophelia's last dance," and
again he grinned. In a clinging sea-green gown, cut here and there
to show her inevitable legs, with marguerites and corn-flowers in her
unbound hair, she circled her own reflection, languid, pale, desolate;
then slowly gaining the abandon needful to a full display, danced with
frenzy till, in a gleam of limelight, she sank into the apparent water
and floated among paper water-lilies on her back. Lovely she looked
there, with her eyes still open, her lips parted, her hair trailing
behind. And again Fiorsen raised his hands high to clap, and again
called out: 'Brava!' But the curtain fell, and Ophelia did not reappear.
Was it the sight of him, or was she preserving the illusion that she was
drowned? That "arty" touch would be just like her.
Averting his eyes from two comedians in calico, beating each other
about the body, he rose with an audible "Pish!" and made his way out. He
stopped in the street to scribble on his card, "Will you see me?--G.
Pages:
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320