The Virgin Cure (32 page)

I
n preparation for a first visit to the theatre with a gentleman, each of Miss Everett’s girls was to attend an evening’s performance at Dink’s Palace of Illusions with the madam herself. An invitation from Mr. Greely was all but certain for Alice in the near future, so she was fitted for an evening gown and taught how to enter and exit a carriage with dignity and grace.

Much to my surprise, I was given the same treatment alongside her. “Invitations are many and seamstresses few this time of year,” Miss Everett said. “I’d rather have you ready and waiting, than be caught unprepared.”

Draped in a delicate gown of canary yellow, Alice floated around our room like she’d been born wearing silk and jewels. I, on the other hand, found my dress to be almost more than I could manage. Made from the palest pink lace, it was a beautiful creation with ribbons and roses sewn all about, but it also had a troublesome train. Ruffles dusted the ground behind me this way and that—the thing seemed to have a mind of its own.

Rose, on a rare evening apart from Mr. Chief of Detectives, had agreed to assist Alice and me in dressing for our outing with Miss Everett. “You must think of your train as a loyal pet,” she instructed while showing me how to sweep it to the side for sitting. “If you look on it with affection rather than annoyance, it will never trip you up.”

Smoothing the lace between my fingers I hoped that she was right.

Evening Toilette—skirt of pink-coral grosgrain, trimmed with three pinked flounces of the same material, which extend up the front. Overskirt of point lace, draped behind
en panier
by means of two grosgrain ribbons of the same shade as the dress, tied in a bow. Basque corsage of pink coral grosgrain, with vandyked bertha, opening in front over a white lace underwaist, and confined by a cluster of pink roses. Wreath of pink roses and leaves in the hair. Necklace of pearl beads, with pink coral medallion. Pink coral and pearl bracelets.

—Harper’s Bazar
, 1870

Although the theatre was only a short walk from the house, Miss Everett insisted we travel there by carriage. Cadet, dressed in a clean suit, oil combed through his hair, accompanied us on the ride. The skirts of my gown threatened to drown him as he sat next to me in the cab, and I apologized more than once for taking up more than my share of the seat.

“Stop your simpering,” Miss Everett scolded, after the third time I’d told Cadet I was sorry. “Beauty never apologizes.”

Alice, sitting across from me, put her hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh. Cadet just stared out his side of the carriage. And so I stared out mine.

The Bowery was a marvellous sight to see at night, and Miss Everett must’ve thought so too, because she instructed the driver to go out of his way to take us up and down a good portion of the avenue before we stopped at the theatre. The horsecars had lamps dangling from front and rear, and the street was lined with glowing lights. Most of the shops, especially those places that boasted evening entertainments, had coloured glass lanterns hanging over their doors beckoning to passersby with their shards of rainbow light.

The Palace of Illusions was an enormous building with steam rising up from the sidewalks surrounding it, making it look like it was going to blow up any minute. Two buildings—the Palace and the dime museum next door—took up a great portion of the block, even turning the corner onto Houston Street.

The museum was said to hold strange exhibits and curiosities from around the world, but the theatre was no less enticing. It was there people came to see Mr. Dink’s own troupe of players, a collection of the oddest beings he could find. Alice said it made her uncomfortable to think of a legless man walking on his hands and reciting poetry or a fat lady singing Stephen Foster songs, but I told her that I’d known two fine men with stumps for legs and that they were just as gentlemanly as any fellow with all his limbs intact.

As Cadet helped me out of the carriage, I spotted a man, only half Cadet’s size, standing near the theatre’s entrance on a stack of boxes. A sign on the box under his feet read, T
HE
A
MAZING
M
R
. D
INK!
He had a stovepipe hat that was almost as tall as he was, and a long, dark walking stick that he waved around, passing it from one hand to the other, pointing it this way and that.

“Step right up!” he shouted, his voice croaking loud over the sounds of the street.

He beat his stick on the side of the box like it was a drum. “Be amazed by the magic of Magnifico!” he called out. “Be shocked by Lady Mephistopheles’ dance of fire! Be thrilled by the beautiful Miss Suzie Lowe! All real, all live, all under one roof! Get your ticket now, there’s only one show TONIGHT!”

When a young man stepped close to get a better look, Mr. Dink used his cane to prod him towards the door. “That’s right, young lad, step up to the booth there and see our lady of the house, the strange and glorious Miss Eva Ivan. It’s only a quarter to take in the show
and
the museum. Curiosities and monstrosities! Two thousand models of the human body—in health and disease—collected together at a cost of over twenty thousand dollars!”

Turning back to the street, he shouted, “Just one show tonight, my friends! Dink’s is the only place in the Metropolis you’ll find the exquisite Ladies of the Tableaux Vivants!”

Alice had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to stare open-mouthed at the little fellow.

“Come along,” Miss Everett told her, pulling at her arm and leading us through the massive front doors of the place.

The theatre was dressed all in red, from flocked paper on the walls to the heavy, tasselled curtains pulled shut across the stage. Gilt-covered creatures peered out from every nook and cranny—snakes, birds and goblins lurking about the ceiling, hiding behind columns and doors.

There were all sorts of people in the crowd, from the working class in their Sunday best, to cocksure dandies in striped trousers and bright vests. A young girl on her mother’s arm looked at my dress with envy as I walked past.

You don’t know me
, I thought when our eyes met.
I’m just a girl, like you
.

Cadet guided us up three tiers and settled us in comfortable chairs at the front of the private box Miss Everett had arranged—first the madam, then Alice, then me.

I took up a pair of opera glasses Rose had loaned me for the night and began to peer around the theatre. “Take a good look while you can,” Rose had teased. “The time will soon come when you’ll be too busy to enjoy the scenery.”

I spotted Missouri and Mae in a box directly across from us with two gentlemen. For Mae, it was to be her last visit with a man before she went to bed with him. She didn’t seem nervous in the least. Waving at the crowd below as if she knew everyone in it, she leaned so far over the railing I thought for sure she would fall.

“Look there,” Miss Everett said, pointing to the box below Mae’s. “It’s the Baroness.”

“The Baroness?” Alice repeated, squinting through a pair of glasses of her own.

“The Baroness de Battue,” Miss Everett said. “Isn’t she magnificent?”

It was the first time I’d ever seen Miss Everett so clearly filled with awe.

I almost laughed out loud when she gushed over the Baroness’s lavish scarlet gown and again when she tried to count the rubies and diamonds that sparkled in the diadem around the young woman’s head. I recognized the Baroness, after all, since she’d started out as Miss Francine Grossman, just another girl from Chrystie Street.

Before long, Mr. Dink appeared at the front of the curtained stage. He tapped his cane on the boards three times and the band in the pit started playing a hearty version of “Tenting Tonight.” Calling out above the music, he announced, “A song for all soldiers, dead and living!” Then he motioned for the audience to sing along. Raising his cane high in the air, he waved it like a conductor, keeping our proud, rowdy voices in time with the band.

How many times had I sung that song to Mrs. Wentworth as she was falling asleep? Whoever had written the words had taken great care to be wonderfully cruel, setting some of the saddest words I’d ever known to a jaunty, happy tune.

The lone wife kneels and prays with a sigh

That God his watch will keep

O’er the dear one away and the little dears nigh
,

In the trundle bed fast asleep
.

Tenting tonight, tenting tonight, tenting on the old campground
,

Many are the hearts that are weary tonight

Wishing that the war would cease
.

Many are the souls that will die without light

Before the dawn of peace
.

As the song ended, there came a great round of applause from the crowd. Mr. Dink stood alone on the stage for the longest time, his chest puffed up, his eyes bright.

Then he began to usher in his acts, one after another in quick succession—a thin man who balanced spinning plates on long sticks, a fat lady who’d trained a dozen dogs to jump through hoops, three young girls from the Orient who could tuck their legs behind their heads and walk on their hands, scuttling around like crabs. With one flourish of his cane, he’d set the place booming, casting a spell over the audience and players alike.

After a performance by Magnifico, in which the long-legged illusionist went about making rabbits, doves and a pretty albino woman disappear, Mr. Dink returned once more to centre stage. Clearing his throat he said, “Tonight I am pleased to welcome a performer who is as accomplished and, might I add, far prettier than our esteemed magician. Coming directly to the Palace of Illusions after engagements in both London and Paris, our guest is undoubtedly the greatest performer—
in the exotic style—New
York has ever seen!”

Cheers broke out in such a roar that Mr. Dink had to hold up his hand until quiet returned. Then he announced, his voice lowered, “Ladies and gentlemen, I must warn you … do not to be alarmed by this fine lady’s state of dress. Please let me assure you, the dangers of her talent demand it.”

The young men in the front row hollered so loud, Mr. Dink had to rap his cane on the stage and start the band playing again just to quiet them down. As the music swelled, he exclaimed, “Good patrons of the Palace, I give to you the lovely and talented … Lady Mephistopheles!”

The curtain opened, and a woman appeared balancing a bowl of fire on top of her head. Dark and beautiful, she wore a long braid down her back and chain upon chain of tiny bells draped around her neck, wrists and hips. There wasn’t much more to her costume than that, except where she’d wrapped the scandalous bits of herself in gauzy cloth.