SEEING AT LAST THE THREE OF THEM—girl, photographer, flatulent man—caught forever thus, and thus forsaken, she thinks, What terrible things we do, in our efforts to be admired.
And it is with unthinkable strain that she resists the weight of her paddle, the pull of the earth, the stunned gaze of the audience and, most heavy, her wounded pride; it is with every inch of her being that she keeps her hand from falling upon the backside of M. Jouy.
But the flatulent man, and Adrien—what can she do to stop them? What can she possibly do? To lift the knife from his skin, to lift his finger from the bell...
Indeed, there is very little she can do. She can neither button nor unbutton. She cannot open a tin of cigarettes, count to ten, wear a ring. Divertissements on the piano, or intricate needlework, or the pretty handwriting that one sees on invitations—all are impossible for her. As is keeping a clean house, slicing vegetables, mending holes in socks and fences, safeguarding neatness and order. Confusion will accompany her, always. And she will never build a single thing again, most especially a stage. Even with these uncanny hands, she has failed them, her audience.
Stealing a look at their worried faces—Sophie, Emma, the chemist, the mayor, her brothers and sisters, grown so tall, and then, most worn, most loving, the face most known and feared, her Mother!—she drops down upon the stage, stretches out along the floorboards, and closes her eyes.