In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower Read Online Free Page B

rejoicing in the opportunity
to devote herself to that art of the kitchen,—of which she was indeed
a past–master, stimulated, moreover, by the prospect of having a new
guest to feed, the consciousness that she would have to compose, by
methods known to her alone, a dish of beef in jelly,—had been living
in the effervescence of creation; since she attached the utmost
importance to the intrinsic quality of the materials which were to
enter into the fabric of her work, she had gone herself to the Halles
to procure the best cuts of rump–steak, shin of beef, calves'–feet, as
Michelangelo passed eight months in the mountains of Carrara choosing
the most perfect blocks of marble for the monument of Julius
II—Françoise expended on these comings and goings so much ardour that
Mamma, at the sight of her flaming cheeks, was alarmed lest our old
servant should make herself ill with overwork, like the sculptor of
the Tombs of the Medici in the quarries of Pietrasanta. And overnight
Françoise had sent to be cooked in the baker's oven, shielded with
breadcrumbs, like a block of pink marble packed in sawdust, what she
called a "Nev'–York ham." Believing the language to be less rich than
it actually was in words, and her own ears less trustworthy, the first
time that she heard anyone mention York ham she had thought, no
doubt,—feeling it to be hardly conceivable that the dictionary could
be so prodigal as to include at once a "York" and a "New York"—that
she had misheard what was said, and that the ham was really called by
the name already familiar to her. And so, ever since, the word York
was preceded in her ears, or before her eyes when she read it in an
advertisement, by the affix "New" which she pronounced "Nev'". And it
was with the most perfect faith that she would say to her
kitchen–maid: "Go and fetch me a ham from Olida's. Madame told me
especially to get a Nev'–York." On that particular day, if Françoise
was consumed by the burning certainty of creative genius, my lot was
the cruel anxiety of the seeker after truth. No doubt, so long as I
had not yet heard Berma speak, I still felt some pleasure. I felt it
in the little square that lay in front of the theatre, in which, in
two hours' time, the bare boughs of the chestnut trees would gleam
with a metallic lustre as the lighted gas–lamps shewed up every detail
of their structure; before the attendants in the box–office, the
selection of whom, their promotion, all their destiny depended upon
the great artist—for she alone held power in the theatre, where
ephemeral managers followed one after the other in an obscure
succession—who took our tickets without even glancing at us, so
preoccupied were they with their anxiety lest any of Mme. Berma's
instructions had not been duly transmitted to the new members of the
staff, lest it was not clearly, everywhere, understood that the hired
applause must never sound for her, that the windows must all be kept
open so long as she was not on the stage, and every door closed tight,
the moment that she appeared; that a bowl of hot water must be
concealed somewhere close to her, to make the dust settle: and, for
that matter, at any moment now her carriage, drawn by a pair of horses
with flowing manes, would be stopping outside the theatre, she would
alight from it muffled in furs, and, crossly acknowledging everyone's
salute, would send one of her attendants to find out whether a stage
box had been kept for her friends, what the temperature was 'in
front,' who were in the other boxes, if the programme sellers were
looking smart; theatre and public being to her no more than a second,
an outermost cloak which she would put on, and the medium, the more or
less 'good' conductor through which her talent would have to pass. I
was happy, too, in the theatre itself; since I had made the discovery
that—in contradiction of the picture so long entertained by my
childish imagination—there was but one stage for everybody, I