The Hired Girl(97)

When Violetta sang, I began to see why she was twittering like a wren when you get too near its nest. She was afraid of love, as if it were a wave that could drown her. But she desired it, too: the love that palpitates through the whole universe. How could she resist it? Alfredo’s love was true, pure love, unlike anything she’d ever known. So of course his love conquered her, and he took her to the side of the stage with the trellises and the fountain. That was the country.

Once the lovers were in the country, it seemed like things were going to work out. Violetta’s consumption got better. Her love was as pure and true as Alfredo’s. She would never have forsaken him, and he would never have betrayed her. But then Alfredo’s father came to visit and he was as cruel as mine, maybe even worse, because Father’s no hypocrite. Alfredo’s father was the kind who acts pious. He told Violetta she must make a sacrificio and give up Alfredo, because the way they were living together, without being married, was a scandal. (I don’t know why Alfredo didn’t marry Violetta. But he didn’t.)

Now, if Alfredo’s father had come to me, I’d have sent him away with a flea in his ear. But Violetta had a tender conscience, because of having been depraved so long. Once Alfredo’s father convinced her it would be best for Alfredo if she left him, she couldn’t stand it: she had to make the sacrificio. She left the country and went back to her life of giddy pleasures in the ballroom.

That’s when I started crying. I knew it wasn’t going to go well after that. It seemed so tragic that this poor sick girl had found true love, only to lose it again. I knew it would kill her, and it did.

After the intermission, Violetta came back onstage in the most glorious black dress. It had jet beads on it and black rosebuds and lace around the shoulders. I wish I had a dress like that. Alfredo came to the ballroom and reviled Violetta in front of all the guests, because he thought she was untrue to him. She swooned and fainted dead away on the sofa. By that time, I’d soaked my handkerchief, and David had to give me his.

There was worse to come. In the last act, Violetta was on her deathbed, which was the rose-colored sofa. She wore her hair loose, like a girl’s, and a lacy white nightgown. She looked oh, so pale and pathetic! All I could think of was that Alfredo must come back before she died. She was gasping and coughing as she sang: “All of life must end, all of life must end!” I felt terrible sitting there, strong as an ox, enjoying myself while she was dying. Because I was enjoying myself, no doubt about that. Even though I was crying my eyes out, it was so satisfying: grandeur and tragedy and her doomed, true love.

Just when hope had fled, Alfredo came! And Violetta rallied, and she and Alfredo sang together about how they would go away and be happy together, and she would get well. I believed it. Even though I’d read the libretto, I thought there was still hope. There was one moment, infinitely happy and pathetic, when she rose from her couch and held out her trembling arms and her face was alight! But then she collapsed, and Alfredo flung himself down on her dead body. And the curtain came down.

When I came to myself I realized I was clutching my throat with one hand and squeezing David’s handkerchief with the other. My face was soaked with tears. The curtains rose and there were the singers, smiling and bowing, and oh, how I clapped! Some people shouted “Bravo!” which is what you shout when a man is a good singer. David taught me that if the singer is a lady, it’s more proper to shout “Brava!” Of course ladies do not shout at all, but I wanted to. I wanted to shout and stamp my feet and whistle. Girls aren’t supposed to know how to whistle, but I know how.

David asked me if I enjoyed the opera. I could scarcely speak. He showed me a drawing he’d done of me during the opera — I never saw him drawing me, but I certainly did look rapt. He gave me his arm so he could guide me through the crowd. I ought to have been afraid someone might see us, but all I could think about was Violetta and Alfredo.

Oh, why can’t real life be as glorious as the opera? Of course, in real life people fall in love and get consumption and die, but it isn’t the same. In the opera, the music makes everything deeper and truer and grander. I don’t know how to express it. All I know is that it was a good thing that I had David’s arm to hold on to, because I stumbled on the grand staircase, and would have fallen if he hadn’t steadied me. The people around me were only shadows. Reality was what I had known when I was watching the opera — rapture and torment and the love that palpitates throughout the universe.

When we reached the doors, we saw it was pouring great sheets of rain, so that you could scarcely see. I came back to earth and cried, “Oh! My new hat!” and David said, “My sketches!” because he hadn’t brought his wooden portfolio, just his sketchpad. He thrust the sketchpad into my arms and said, “Stay inside and keep dry. Don’t stir a step!” And he dashed out into the rain.