come to braid her hair. She was the best and kindest of all of them.
Painted Wings
The Belle Auroras had been headliners only by Mayhew’s favour. To begin afresh, it was necessary to realize where they stood in the natural order of vaudeville. Not openers, they were too good for that. But they were a quiet act, a simple one, and it seemed to Aurora that simplicity was their strength: charming songs, charmingly sung, no tricksy gimmicks. Their dancing was good, but not of stellar quality; they were nothing at all out of the ordinary as far as looks went.
As they were debating how to begin again, a letter arrived from Gentry. When Aurora found the envelope in the mail slot she knew his thick-stroked writing. Even as she opened it, she felt a warm glow of returning life. He had learned of their predicament from Julius, and while regretting that he had no money to send them, he had taken the liberty of enclosing a new song he’d laid hands on—perhaps they could make something of it?
… Ray Hubbell, an associate of mine in olden days, sent it to me for comment—no harm testing it out before Hubbell finds a show to slide it into. Jack Golden stole the poignant story of an abandoned Japanese maiden direct from Puccini: perhaps its delicate fragrance might make up for the slight tinge of irony in its similarity to your own story.
And if I may take a further liberty, may I remind you, my dear Aurora, that you did very well with the song Danny Boy. Sometimes it is the song that makes the singer.
Yours aff’ly,
et cetera,
GENTRY FOX, ESQ. (RETIRED)
The song-sheet had been folded into eighths to cram into the envelope. While Aurora scanned the letter, Bella opened the sheet music, and laughed as she read the title: ‘Poor Butterfly!’
She flapped the music like wings, tap-tapping the sheets against the vilely expensive silk butterfly wings, which had been delivered days before and lay furled against the parlour wall, hooked on the ceiling moulding. Stiff painted silk stretched over bent balsa-wood frames. Mama and Clover exclaimed in pleasure: Mama for joy at not having wasted such a great deal of money, and Clover because the wings themselves were so fragile and lovely, and ought to be used.
‘Perhaps we could make of it something that would please,’ Aurora said.
It was the first good thing in what seemed like a long while.
They cleared the floor and began to work (missing the expanse of the Muse’s rehearsal hall), testing out ideas that Mama called to them. Sashays, grands battements, arabesques, cramped into the parlour-space: none of it made the scalp tingle or the breath catch, as the good idea will.
The painted design delighted them when the wings were open. But the Poor Butterfly tune did not work for dancing unless the tempo was jinked up, which bent the song out of true. After a while, Aurora stopped them. ‘If we had a good dance with the wings—maybe Spring Song?—I could do Butterfly afterwards, almost as a playlet. With Bella’s Bumble Bee, we could do a whole insect number. A kimono would be quick to run up in art silk, and I’m sure Clover could paint it to match the wings.’
Bella was discontent. ‘But why do I still have to be a bee?’
‘Because,’ Clover told her, ‘you get the biggest laughs and the biggest hand of all.’
Clover and Aurora bent and fluttered and bowed, and Bella sang the tweedly Spring Song for all she was worth, but the thing lacked zing. The afternoon darkened into evening, and they still had nothing usable.
‘Wear less,’ Mama said. ‘That’s the ticket.’ She snatched off their practice skirts and wrapped a tea towel round Clover’s middle, leaving most of her legs revealed.
‘Mama!’ Bella said, but she was laughing—Clover’s legs were spindly and insect-like, quite sweet. Aurora stood in her stockings, considering.
‘Longer stockings will be needed,’ Mama said. ‘But it is all God’s creation, no earthly reason not to display such limbs, in the service of transformative dance. You will need more accentuation at the eyes.’ Then, overcome, she went to lie down on Bella and Clover’s bed.
Thoughtfully, Aurora pulled Bella’s skirt up, up—till most of her darling legs stood revealed. ‘I think she’s right,’ she said. ‘And Bella’s right too. Bella should be the other butterfly, and I’ll turn up alone with the song, afterwards. Ditch the bee, for now. But let’s think of other music for the dance—On Wings of Song