Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three
O Lord, forgive me my sins, which are legion, Gilda prayed, and lift my soul out of this vortex into which I’ve been thrown as, I understand, just punishment for my wickedness. I did not know You, in my previous life. I was blinded by praise, applause, and luxury. I never knew love, for I thought I could never find a man worthy of my eminence. And now, my arrogance has exiled me to this island of sin. Only now do I look back on my life and judge the worthlessness of my art. The music which meant so much to me—I see, now, what it really was: enchanting blinders so the horse will not see the true state of her stable.
My parents foisted this life on me. Musicians, whose own parents squandered their youths, they did the same to me. So that I’ve known nothing but exercises, exhaustion, diction, languages, rib-splintering girdles, strangulating shoes, hoarse throats, rehearsal swoons and bedsit tears. The men I met, as ethically stunted and wanting in love as I, chests puffed with glamour on the stage, appeared from the stalls to possess all the heroic qualities of their roles. But once the librettos were ripped from their hands, O Lord, these men reverted to beasts, and disgorged their vicious lusts upon me. Then by one, only You know whom, O Lord, I was befouled with a baby, whom I cast out, so I might not miss a single performance, and as reward for my evil, I was told I would never conceive again. But to what end would I wish to bring life into this dungeon of a world, O Lord? Freeing me from that guilt was truly, O Lord, the sweetest blessing You have given me.
So am I left with my art, and this prayer. My art. . .my art has been worthless to my soul. My soul. . .I put my trust in You, O Lord, that I do have a soul. And if my end must be tragic, operatic, then so be it. I trust you, Lord. I love You. I offer myself up for You to do with as You will.