December 8, 1866
New York, New York
My footsteps on the grand staircase of the St. Nicholas were small and delicate by necessity. In a gown so glittering and grand, I felt conspicuous, instead of invisible as I was accustomed. Instinctively, I tried to make myself small, an impossibility in a gown designed to draw attention.
Every eye fell upon me, or so I believed. Did they see the Irish farm girl behind the elegant New York lady traipsing down the stairs? Did they recognize me for a fraud? Part of me wanted to turn and run back to my servant’s bedroom, where I was only living one lie. I had debated long and hard about accepting his invitation, what it meant about my understanding of who each of us was separately and what we were together. In the end, I understood precisely where I stood, for myself and for my family, and I accepted with that in mind.
From the base of the staircase, Andrew stared as well, making me wonder whether the gown fit properly. I could not check in a mirror, as I only had one small hand mirror on my dresser. Lacing up the dress’s elaborate corset, cinching its exceedingly narrow waist, and buttoning the minuscule buttons lining the back presented significant challenges by myself, although the process eradicated any lingering doubts I had about the necessity for lady’s maids. I hoped that I’d done justice to the exquisite gown he’d sent me.
When I reached the final step, he did not take me by the elbow as protocol required but continued gaping.
“Is something the matter?” I was prompted to ask.
“Nothing in the world.” His cheeks turned pink. “It is simply that—that you look different.”
“Unnatural, I suppose?” I asked.
“The exact opposite, Clara. You look more fully yourself. As if the servant’s uniform was the costume, and this gown was your natural garb.”
It was my turn to blush. “Thank you for the gown, Andrew. I am not certain that it was appropriate to accept such a lavish gift, but as you can see, I decided to put propriety aside. For tonight, at least.”
“I am glad you accepted the gown in the spirit I gifted it to you. Forgiveness.”
He extended his gloved hand to take my elbow. Together, we walked across the gilt lobby of the St. Nicholas. I tried to glide as other ladies seemed to do, but the evening gown was far tighter and stiffer than the servant’s dress to which I was accustomed, and I feared that I appeared rigid rather than elegant. Still, as we crossed the lobby’s marble floor, porters bowed, concierges nodded, and doormen swung open doors, acts they never engaged in for the invisible Clara Kelley. It was as if I were crossing the lobby for the first time. I understood why the climb to the highest society realms intoxicated Andrew, although I did not agree with his inclination to attempt the ascent.
We were quiet in the carriage ride from Broadway to Union Square. The landscape between us had changed—the disagreement in the park hovered there, as did my beliefs about what he wanted and what that meant for me—and neither of us knew precisely where to grab a foothold. By the time we pulled up to the Academy of Music, I decided to inhabit this new role, even if just for tonight. Like I’d inhabited the other Clara Kelley. Then I would accept my destiny.
Smiling at Andrew as we stepped out of the carriage, I entered the candlelit lobby of the academy as if I belonged. An usher guided us to our seats on the auditorium floor. As I settled into the plush, tufted velvet chair, I gazed at the thousands of seats around us. The interior of the academy, lined with red damask, gold-painted molding, a bucolic mural, and a crystal chandelier the size of a carriage, was far more resplendent than I’d imagined from outside on my servants’ bench.
Glancing upward, I saw that the academy’s five levels soared to an eighty-foot-high dome. It had to be the largest opera venue in the world. Dotted on the different levels were private boxes, each with a gilded balcony of its own and eight seats. “Those are the boxes the lady’s maids mentioned,” I whispered to myself.
“I am sorry, Clara. I could not hear you.”
I whispered a bit louder. “The private boxes reminded me of a conversation I overheard between two lady’s maids. The ‘upper tens’—”
“Pardon, but what are the ‘upper tens’?”
“The ‘upper tens’ are the most elite of the Knickerbocker families. They raised the initial funds for the Academy of Music, and they reserved the boxes for themselves and their friends. Well-to-do outsiders like the Vanderbilts have been trying to gain access to a private box for years without success. Apparently, rumors have been flying around for years that if the wealthy tradespeople cannot get private boxes, they will build themselves an even grander forum for opera in this city, putting the Academy of Music out of business in the process.”
“Interesting,” he said, a mischievous grin appearing within his beard. “But, of course, I no longer care about the machinations of New York society except as it pertains to business.”
I smiled at him, delighted at his change in opinion. My smile faded when I wondered whether he had really made such a drastic conversion or whether he made his comment to appease me.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra’s strings played a rich chord signaling the beginning of La Traviata. Even though I had listened to two other operas and one symphony outside the auditorium doors, nothing prepared me for the visual spectacle that accompanied the music. The crimson curtain drew back, revealing a luxurious Parisian salon where a party was in progress and grandiose characters sung a glorious and tragic tale.
Captivated by the dramatic story of love between Alfredo and Violetta, I lost myself in the connection between the two characters and in Alfredo’s desire to woo Violetta away from the baron. Even though I longed for Violetta to recognize Alfredo as her destiny, I related to the conflict between her burgeoning feelings for Alfredo—È strano… Ah, fors’è lui—and her desire for freedom—sempre libera. My own heart broke when, after Violetta finally embraced Alfredo as her love, she agreed to leave him at the urging of Alfredo’s father, who could not bear the impact that the couple’s relationship had on his family’s reputation.
This aspect of the story confused me. I whispered to Andrew, “Why does the relationship between Alberto and Violetta shame his family?”
“Violetta is a courtesan,” he whispered back.
My eyes widened at the word. I knew what a courtesan was. I was glad of the auditorium’s darkness, as I felt my face flame red.
Nearly weeping at Violetta’s bittersweet song at the end of act 2—di questo core non puoi comprendere tutto l’amore—I calmed myself before Andrew and I left the auditorium for a refreshing drink in the lobby. Promenading through the society folk I had watched from the servants’ bench only weeks before, the evening did not feel real. This sensation increased when the train of my skirt brushed against the bench upon which sat the monochromatically dressed row of lady’s maids.
Once a waiter passed us crystal glasses of claret, I said, “I cannot thank you enough for this evening, Andrew. I never knew the opera would be so moving.”
“It is a marvel, isn’t it? I confess that the operas I saw during my European trip do not rival those I’ve seen here at the academy.”
“Do you have a favorite?” I asked.
“Before this evening, I might have selected the Giuseppe Verdi operas I had the good fortune to see in Europe. But I admit that tonight, here with you, La Traviata speaks to me above all other operas. Perhaps it is the affinity between the characters’ dilemma and our own. On my end at least.”
A horrified expression must have crossed my face, because Andrew stammered, “E-except for the courtesan bit, of course. Unless I caused you dismay by drawing comparisons to Alfredo and Violetta’s situation and our own.”
Nervous at Andrew’s reference to shared feelings, a matter that simmered beneath the surface but which we had not discussed for many months, I chuckled a bit and said, “It is absolutely the comparison to a courtesan that led to my unease.”
We laughed, out of relief or out of apprehension about a conversation to come, I didn’t know. Thankfully, the bell rang to signal the return to the auditorium.
I returned to La Traviata to see what its final act would bring. I lost myself to the world within a world on the stage where everyone was pretending and no one was what they seemed. Not unlike the Carnegies. And not unlike me.
