The Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn II.15
A Gothic Horror Novel
Book II, Chapter 15: The Opera Singer
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The common room of the Eltzbacher Coach Inn was filled to capacity on the last night of Heidi Katherina Dautzenberg’s stay. The opera singer stood midway up the staircase, one hand on the bannister and the other held out before as she sang her final aria.
The audience consisted primarily of the families of the notables of the Rhineland village of Am Haus Löringhof. Outside, the remaining villagers clustered around a window that was open wide enough for them to hear but not so wide as to counteract the effects of the fire within.
Hermann and Benedikt were stationed on either side of the hearth, having been tasked with tending to the fire. Walter, too exhausted to stand but unable to sit down, leaned his head against the chimney piece with an air of casual resignation.
Fräulein Dautzenberg was singing Einsam in trüben Tagen (“Elsa’s Dream”) from Wagner’s Lohengrin. Beneath her (and against the staircase) sat her accompanists: a willowy opera enthusiast from the village who was a prodigal and self-taught oboist; and a stout Hungarian who played the English horn and doubled as the singer’s coachman.
The lack of instruments led to awkward pauses, during which the singer smiled and marked time with her hand—now when a harp should have intruded, now when the orchestra should have swelled. But the rural auditors sat in rapt attention through these silences, which lent the occasion a behind-the-scenes immediacy they could never have experienced in the theater.
“She keeps looking at you,” Benedikt remarked, holding the fire poker as if it were a cane.
“She’s not looking at me.”
Walter glanced at Benedikt. “Is this a Christmas song?”
“No,” the ostler replied. “It’s from an opera.”
“I have to feed the cat,” the orphan said, as he nudged his way through the throng to the kitchen where the back door was located.
When she concluded, she bowed and was met by a thunderous ovation (both from within and without the inn). She raised the skirts of her gown and swept down the steps to mingle with her admirers.
Monika gasped and leaned over to Frau Eltzbacher. “Should we apologize to the aldermen tomorrow?”
“For what?” Elischewa asked.
“When she lifted her skirt, you could clearly see her legs.”
“My dear, she’s a performer. It’s her job to be scandalous.”
Herr Eltzbacher turned to his wife. “Marvelous, wasn’t it?”
Elischewa grimaced. “Abner, don’t smile like that. It makes you look lecherous.”
Two days prior, on the second day of winter (22 December 1870), a coach and six appeared before the inn just before noon. The sun could not be seen, muffled up as it was in a veil of clouds.
There were three postillions mounted on the horses, one for each team. They were dressed in swallowtail coats, tricorn hats, and gray capes (as the Bavarian herald had been the previous night). Now the herald was riding behind the carriage on his own mount. All seven horses were white; and they were all stallions. Their manes jangled with tinkling bells, which seemed appropriate for the season.
“There aren’t enough stalls in the stable for those horses,” Benedikt grumbled to Hermann.
The first postillion, obviously the leader, dismounted and approached. The three men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
The leader spoke in a thick Bavarian accent, which was answered by a Servus from Hermann. Within seconds Benedikt too was yattering away in his usually suppressed Austrian burr. Soon the conversation had devolved into a fog of rounded vowels, clipped definite articles, and those dochs, tjas, and na-jas so common to the German-speaking south.
“Those are big horses,” Benedikt noted. “We can probably put three of them in the stalls—but no more. We have hitching posts outside the stable. Brother Moritz and I can switch the horses in and out of the shelter through the night.”
The leader shook his head, as the other two postillions joined him. “I’m afraid that would be impossible. Just one of those horses is worth more than all our lives combined.” All five men found this joke at their expense hilarious. “What that means,” the leader stressed, “is that the three of us—as the grooms and postillions—will have to remain with horses at all times. Will you permit us to bivouak in your stable?”
“Of course,” Benedikt replied. “And my wife will ensure you gentlemen do not go hungry.”
The Hungarian coachman climbed down from the box with difficulty and blew his bugle before going to the coach door and opening it. A bearskin blanket was cast aside. And a beautiful woman emerged and stepped down into the snow.
She wore a fur-trimmed cloak with a hood. Golden ringlets clung to her cheeks. She studied Hermann from afar—as if there were something about him she wished to find out. Benedikt noticed this and poked his elbow into Hermann’s ribs.
Extending her hand to the coachman, Fräulein Dautzenberg was conducted to Frau Eltzbacher, who stood before the steps. The old woman lowered her eyes lowered but refused to bow. “May His Majesty King Ludwig’s servant find our abode congenial and to her liking.”
“You’re such a dear,” Fräulein Dautzenberg said, placing her gloved hand on the old woman’s cheek. Elischewa, unaccustomed to such familiarity, inclined her head to the side as if waiting for a stage prompt to feed her a line she had forgotten. Then she abruptly asked the guest to follow her inside, turned and climbed up the wooden stoop, not neglecting to kiss her fingertips and touch the mezuzah on the door frame before entering.
Once the postillions had toured the stable and the horses had been either stalled inside or tethered to the outside hitching posts, Hermann and Benedikt returned to the carriage house in order to get some sleep. They had been up since well before dawn preparing the visit.
Monika greeted them in the upstairs living room. She had been dozing before beginning what she knew would be a very long workday. The ostler’s wife had prepared a cold repast for them, and the plates were on the table.
Hermann had little difficulty falling asleep, although before slipping into unconsciousness his mind mulled over that harrowing story Benedikt had told him of his descent with the mad Franciscan into the nighted bowels of that mountain overlooking Mariahilf am Inn, whose foothills Hermann had explored when he was a little boy.
Someone kicked his bed, and he sat bolt upright, bumping his head on the bunk slat above him.
“What?!” he asked irritably.
Benedikt leaned down and whispered. “Put your clothes on. Frau Eltzbacher is here.”
“Here? In the carriage house?” Hermann asked.
The ostler nodded. It was still dark outside.
“What time is it?” Hermann asked.
“About 2 o’clock.”
“It’s so dark.”
“It’s been like this all day.”
Hermann changed from his nightshirt to his work clothes and drew on his boots.
Frau Eltzbacher stood in the living room with her back to the corridor, examining Benedikt’s collection of German novels lining the bookshelves. Walter was on the sofa hugging his pet cat, Mürrisch. The potbellied herald was also in the room next to the potbelly stove.
Hermann cleared his throat. “You wished to see me, Frau Eltzbacher?”
The proprietress faced him but kept her eyes lowered. “Our guest would like to visit the Christmas market in the village this evening. She would also like to tour the ruins of Haus Löringhof. She has asked you to be her guide and escort.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” she replied, crisply.
The herald smiled and removed his tricorn. “You don’t have to do it, of course. But Fräulein Dautzenberg made it clear that if you weren’t her guide, she had no interest in going.”
Hermann could tell that Frau Eltzbacher was not comfortable with this idea, torn as she was between the protocols of hospitality and the iron laws of custom and propriety.
“I suppose I don’t mind,” Hermann said. “But only if Frau Eltzbacher approves.”
“Approves,” the old woman repeated, disapprovingly.
“Very good,” the herald said. “In order to ensure that no one perceives you as anything but her guide and subordinate, we will need to find you a uniform—something like the one I have.”
Walter laughed. “You’ll have to wear one of those stupid hats.”
“It’s a tricorn,” the Bavarian smiled. “You’ll need to wear one too, young man.”
“What?” Walter said, as the cat squirmed and batted its arms in reaction to the orphan’s suddenly tightening his embrace.
The herald’s smile expanded. “You’ll need to go with them . . . as the link-boy.”
“What’s that?” Walter asked.
“The lamp-bearer,” Elischewa blandly replied. “Your presence will serve a dual purpose, Florian. You will be lighting the way and ensuring that Moritz and Fräulein Dautzenberg are never seen together alone.”
“Why does it matter if they’re seen alone together?” Walter asked. When no one replied, he rose from the sofa and carried Mürrisch back to his room.
It did not take long to find the required uniforms. Elischewa dashed off a note to Bürgermeister Schuster in which she explained the situation, adding that the singer had graciously offered to give a private performance for the aldermen and their families on the following night—her last night before departing for Cologne.
Egon Schuster and his wife immediately set to work. Herr Schuster had two liveried footmen, one of whom shared Hermann’s measurements and agreed to lend him his uniform.
Meanwhile, Frau Schuster all but ran to the choirmaster, who in turn ran to the slender young oboist, who was flattered by a proposal (that he himself made) to serve as accompanist for the singer’s performance. The oboist also had a solution for Walter’s uniform.
Every year the villagers of Am Haus Löringhof gathered in the town square, with the mural wall of the brewery as a backdrop, in order to commemorate the founding of the village. During that time, two boys in period costumes (complete with tricorns and jabots) acted the roles of the great-great-grandfathers of Herr Schuster and Herr Mattner—a performance that concluded with the boys stating univocally: “We have lost our way while searching for our father’s pigs. But we have found the place that our fathers shall call home.”
It was dark. Hermann and Walter were now kitted up in their respective costumes. They waited by the well by the coach inn’s root cellar.
Walter pulled at the jabot around his neck, claiming it was too tight.
Hermann helped him adjust it.
“My wool scarf is warmer than this neck thing,” the boy commented.
“Stop complaining. We have to wear them. I don’t like this anymore than you do, but we’ll be helping Frau Eltzbacher. Maybe she’ll pay us extra for doing this.”
The postillions were milling about outside the stable, smoking cheroots and getting drunk. They laughed to see Hermann and Walter dressed like themselves.
Sometime around 7 o’clock, Heidi Katherina Dautzenberg exited the coach inn via the front door and was escorted by the Bavarian herald to the back. Elischewa Eltzbacher walked in front of them. The herald gripped in his free hand the wrought-iron lantern that Walter would be carrying in order to light the way.
The singer wore a fawn coat and Muscovy fur hat with a sprig of mistletoe pinned to the front of it. Surprisingly, she wore sensible knee-length boots with short heels. The boots were dull and unpolished.
“Fräulein Dautzenberg,“ Elischewa said, “allow me to introduce to you Herr Moritz, your guide. The boy is his son, Florian.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” she said.
Hermann clicked his heels together and bowed. Walter did the same. Elischewa winced at their vulgarity.
Hermann extended his calloused ungloved hand to Fräulein Dautzenberg’s gloved one, and drew her arm under his. And the jovial herald yielded his lamp to Walter.
Within minutes the three were walking on the path that led into the village. Through the bare low-hanging branches they could see the crowds and glittering candles.
News of the opera singer’s visit had spread like wildfire through the district, causing a general excitement and renewed interest in the festal market—an interest that had begun to flag as the twin holidays of Christmas and Hanukkah drew nigh. Now the citizens of Am Haus Löringhof were treating Fräulein Dautzenberg’s advent as if this night were the market’s first.
Herr Schuster stood beneath the lamp where the cobbled lanes began. He raised his hat and bowed low, to which Fräulein Dautzenberg replied with a regal nod.
The villagers had been warned to keep a broom’s length away from the visitor, unless she herself asked them to approach. But this injunction did not prevent singer’s progress from being obstructed by a mass of slow-parting admirers who had never before seen a person whose name had appeared in newsprint.
Walter arrogantly strode in front, lantern hoisted high. “Get out of the goddamned way!”
“Walter!” Hermann shouted. “You will not use the Lord’s name in vain!”
“Fine!” Walter replied. “Get out of the damned way!”
“I thought your son’s name was Florian,” the singer remarked, without looking at Hermann.
“It is.” Hermann replied. “Walter is his middle name.”
“What’s his surname?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
“A middle name without a last?” Fräulein Dautzenberg side-eyed him with a smirk. “How curious!”
The decorated tannenbaum loomed in the town square. And a group of carolers (all children) singing before it. The choirmaster led them in a moving rendition of “Stille Nacht”.
Fräulein Dautzenberg stepped away from Hermann and joined them, singing the second verse on her own, as the children hummed along in harmony. She sang the remaining four verses, as the villagers surrounded the square. When she had finished, everyone cheered.
With her permission—and at her insistence—each of the child carolers approached one by one and hugged her. This done, she extended her gloved hand to the choirmaster, who kissed it chivalrously before stepping backwards with his head bowed. The onlookers were told to make a way on the southeast side of the square, which led to the unmarked path into the forest and to the ruins of Haus Löringhof.
Fräulein Dautzenberg walked back to Hermann and allowed him again to place her arm under his. Walter, who had been loitering at the edge of the square with the heavy lantern on the ground by his foot, picked it up again when he saw them approach. Because it was getting heavy, the boy no longer held it aloft but swung at his side like a piece of luggage.
The moon on this night was strangely absent—just as the sun had been throughout the day. But the icy air was suffused with a luminescence that seemed borne out of the cloudy obscurity into which the moon’s reflected beams had withdrawn.
The glow of the lantern discovered fallen branches, ruts, and snow banks on the path—as well as the frozen carcass of a squirrel. When they were out of view of the town, Hermann broke the silence. “I’m surprised the moon is not out tonight. I can almost see the stars.”
“There was a solar eclipse today,” Fräulein Dautzenberg said.
“What? And I slept through it?”
“You wouldn’t have been able to see it even had you been awake. The moon is absent because she is in a new phase—and close to her consort, the sun.”
“Are you a witch?”
“Good Lord,” she laughed, ”where are your manners? You don’t ask women if they’re witches.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“It’s quite alright. But I’m not a witch. I picked that information up from my Hungarian coachman. Not only is he an accomplished musician, he’s an astronomer. He swears there’s a connection between the two arts. But I don’t see it. And he really does loves to prattle—”
“Like you?”
”Yes,” she emitted an elvish laugh. “Like me. He’s quite an interesting fellow. Positively brimming with useless and inconsequential facts.”
Her cleverness was starting to wear thin so Hermann changed the subject. “It’s good that you wore those boots. This walk would not have been practicable without them.”
“Goodness. You’ve a formidable vocabulary for a stable hand. Practicable?”
“I’m not a stable hand.”
“Then what are you?”
He rolled his eyes and glanced up to where the moon should have been. He thought of the last few days, and of his conversations with Benedikt concerning the Werewolf of Mariahilf am Inn and the creature’s dark connection to his own fate.
“I’m just a man,” he said, ruminatively.
“A rather handsome one, if you don’t mind my saying.”
He had always been uncomfortable being complimented, especially by women, so he stupidly bobbed his head by way of response. “We have to go up this hill.”
Walter was attempting to scale the slope but having a hard go at it because the ground was frozen and the footholds were slick. The lantern swung crazily in his hand.
Hermann excused himself from the singer and went to him. “Do you want me to carry the lantern?”
“You’re gonna have to. I can only get up this hill if I crawl.”
Fräulein Dautzenberg sensed an opportunity. “I’d rather see the ruins without the lantern’s light.”
Walter and Hermann looked perplexedly at each other.
“I have to watch this lantern,” the orphan said. “It’s expensive and if I lose it, I’ll get in trouble. You two go and I’ll wait here. I’ve seen the castle. It’s just a bunch of rocks. But don’t dither around. It’s cold out.”
Fräulein Dautzenberg grabbed a sturdy branch lying on the ground and started scale the slope. She fell to her knees and laughed, struggling to stand again. But once she had righted herself, she seemed to get the knack of it and pressed on.
Hermann shook his head at Walter. “We won’t be long.”
He followed her up and was troubled by a sudden sensation that overwhelmed him which he quickly suppressed. Seeing her comely figure in the dark, he felt an unholy urge to attack her—a bloodlust—as a wild beast might feel toward its prey.
“Please God,” he whispered. But, when he said this, the crisp air amplified his words.
“What did you say?” she asked from the brow of the hill. Then she looked over her shoulder at the ruins. ”It’s quite beautiful up here.”
Hermann joined her and peered at the crumbling walls through the fog of his own expelled breath. A strange light shone from within. He bit his lower lip. “That light looks unnatural. We should return.”
His reticence amused her. “Nothing that appears in nature is unnatural.—Or so my coachman says.”
She rested the stick against a fir tree, so that she could use it again on her descent. Then she adjusted her coat and hat and walked toward the crumbling edifice.
Hermann quickened his pace to ensure that it was he who stepped inside of it first. The light vanished as he crossed the threshold. There was a pleasant smell of woodsmoke. Behind him he heard Fräulein Dautzenberg’s footfalls cracking the thin layers of ice that had formed over the gaps between the flags.
On the ground before them were spread the remains of a bonfire. There were diminutive footprints surrounding it and leading off in the direction of a fissure in the wall on the far side of the castle.
“Probably one of the farmers’ children,” Hermann proposed, though he knew this was ridiculous.
“Those are not children’s footprints,” Fräulein Dautzenberg commented. “Too small. Wolf cubs?”
“Animals don’t build fires. And there are no wolves this far north.”
He looked up and caught her grinning at him in the dark. “We must have surprised a band of waldschrate (wood sprites),” she said. “Or kobolds.”
He could tell she was toying him so he didn’t reply. He had to keep his distance, remain aloof. So he allowed her to wander alone through the unroofed complex. She ran her gloved hands over the worn friezes, including a crude representation of the crucified Christ.
Now that their eyes had grown fully accustomed to the dark, she looked at him again—with an even more flirtatious expression. He replied with a countenance of Olympian impassivity, arms folded across his chest. I’ll show her who’s boss. When she had completed her circuit, she told him she was ready to return.
He exited first and leaned his back against the outside wall, waiting for her. Slowly she stepped outside. Then she took up a position directly in front of him, removed the sprig of mistletoe from her hat and dangled it over his head. Suddenly, she kissed him full on the lips.
He drew in his breath and looked away. “I’m sorry. I cannot.”
“No man has ever spurned my advances in such a way, except. . .” She frowned. “Oh, dear. You’re not a . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“It’s quite alright.” She cast the mistletoe into the snow. “There are so many of them in the theater.”
“I’m a fraud.”
“Oh. That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“Nevermind.”
Hermann sulked. She placed one finger under his chin, speaking again only after his eyes had met hers. “You seem so sad. What’s wrong?”
“You are a very beautiful woman. But my wife passed away less than two months ago.”
“Oh, dear God. I’m so sorry. Now I feel like a fool.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m the one who’s been the fool. You’ve been very kind. Please forgive me. I’m honored that you asked me to accompany you tonight.”
“The boy,” she said. “He’s not yours, is he?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t really look like you.”
Hermann shook his head. “We were forced to flee a dreadful situation. I’ve been watching over him. . . And in a way, he’s been watching over me. But it’s been hard. He’s a good boy.” Hermann’s eyes brightened. He licked his lips. “Maybe you could take him with you. You could give him a good life.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m afraid that’s impossible.” There was a trace of regret in her voice.
He lowered his eyes. “It was rude of me to ask. It’s just that. . .”
“What?”
He wanted to confide in her; and she wanted him to feel that he had her confidence.
“People who’ve never been poor,” he said, “will never understand the humiliating extent one will go to in order to rescue a loved one from abject poverty. I suppose that’s why I asked if you’d take him.”
She regarded him archly. “My mother was a washwoman. And my father was . . . Well, one of her admirers. She’s not sure which. When I was a child, I sang on the streets of Bayreuth for money. Herr Wagner discovered me. And now here I am. So, you see? I do know what it’s like to be poor.”
“Now I feel ashamed.”
“Don’t feel ashamed. I am a fraud—just like you. My name is not Heidi. I was christened Henrietta.”
“That was my wife’s name!”
“It’s a lovely name. However, there was already a famous singer who went by it—Henriette Sontag. So they renamed me Heidi Katherina Dautzenberg. . . By the way, what’s your real name?”
“Hermann.”
“Your wife was a lucky woman, Hermann. And your solicitude toward that orphan boy whom you have taken under your wing will redound upon you in Heaven.” She patted his chest and turned away, sadly. “We should return.”
They trod through the snow to the tree where she had left her walking stick. Walter could be seen at the bottom of the hill, lantern resting on a stump close by.
Before beginning his descent, Hermann cast a parting glance at the ruins of Haus Löringhof. He turned away, but looked again—because in that brief glimpse he had could have sworn that he had seen Henrietta standing at the entrance to the castle, where he and the opera singer had just been.
But that vision had faded; and the ghostly light in the castle had returned.
The morning after the private concert, Hermann stood with Elischewa at the foot of the steps in the common room of the Eltzbacher Coach Inn. Outside, the horses were being re-hitched to the carriage and the last of the luggage stowed. Everyone in the village had collected out front to see the opera singer off.
She appeared at the top of the steps in the fur cloak she had arrived in. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, as she made her descent.
“It has been our privilege and honor,” Elischewa replied, respectfully bowing her head in gratitude for the joy this guest had brought to her establishment.
Hermann was now clad in his work breeches and coat. At Fräulein Dautzenberg’s request (and with the consent of Frau Eltzbacher), it was agreed that he would be the one to escort her to the coach that was to take her away. The singer smiled wistfully as she permitted the Austrian man to take her arm into his and conduct her to the front door.
Outside, the choirmaster turned to the children and, setting the tempo with his hands, led them in an a cappella rendition of “Treulich geführt” (the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin). The villagers who knew the lyrics sang along, the prodigal oboist foremost among them.
Moved by this spontaneous act of homage, a tear rolled down Heidi Katherina Dautzenberg’s cheek. As she passed between the ranks of her admirers, she nodded and quietly thanked them.
Perched on his box, the Hungarian coachman held the reins in hand. When they reached the carriage’s brass steps, it was left to Hermann to open the door and help her up. But before she did that, she stood a-tiptoe and firmly planted a kiss on Hermann’s cheek, which left a rosy mark of lip paint.
The singing stopped. A few spectators gasped, but there were far more congenial snickers when they saw the shock on the Austrian man’s face.
Then the singer waved goodbye and cried out, “Happy Christmas to you all!”
Hermann glanced sheepishly in the direction of Frau Eltzbacher. But the old woman, whose mouth was twisted into a sly grin, leaned over and whispered something into Monika’s ear that made the ostler’s wife fold over laughing. Benedikt, who had overheard the remark, laughed too.
Relieved, Hermann shut the carriage door and smacked it twice out of habit. He peered through the smudged glass at the performer, who was snuggled again under the bearskin blanket. With a boyish grin, he mouthed the words “Auf Wiedersehen.” She gazed at him with a look as if there had been something about him that she had wanted to find out. And now she had.
At the crack of the coachman’s whip, the backs of the three postillions went rigid. The white stallions took off, and the bells on their manes jingled again. The carriage reached the end of the drive and turned onto the road leading south to Kohlendorf.
But the herald lingered behind. Herr and Frau Eltzbacher stood with Monika and Benedikt on the stoop.
“On the night before her arrival,” the herald said in his booming voice, “Fräulein Dautzenberg urged me to present you with this purse of Bavarian gulden—most of which was returned to her. She insists that the coins remaining in this purse be given to the Elzbacher Coach Inn as a token of her gratitude for the hospitality she received during her stay.”
He threw the purse down to Hermann who caught it. Hermann handed the purse to Walter, who sprinted to Herr Eltzbacher and gave it to him, since he was the lord of the estate.
To the amazement of all, Herr Eltzbacher, who generally yielded such affairs to his wife, spoke on behalf of them both. “We thank you. Please tell our esteemed guest that with this money, every family in Am Haus Löringhof shall have meat on their board on the feasts of Hanukkah and Christmas.”
Elischewa arched her brow.
The crowd erupted into cheers. The men cast their hats high into the air. The herald raised his tricorn in solidarity. Then he rode off at a brisk trot.
“You realize, Abner,” Elischewa said, “that the contents of that purse will not be sufficient to guarantee the promise you have just made.”
“I know,” he said, excitedly. “But her visit has put me in charitable mood.”
Elischewa patted his back. “You are incorrigible, my dear. But that is what I love most about you.”
The choirmaster huddled with the carolers and asked if they were ready to try that special song they had been practicing for weeks. The children bobbed their heads in unison. Soon they were lustily singing (in a thick German accent) the traditional French chanson, “L’amour de moy.”
Benedikt and Monika went into the midst of the crowd and began to dance, as the villagers paired off and joined in.
Walter went to Hermann. The orphan and former pickpocket had never in his life experienced the communal warmth of the holiday season. The cunning edge to his eyes had not only dulled but softened.
“I liked her,” he said. “It would’ve been nice to have a mother like her. But I’m grateful for the father I have.”
Hermann took up the boy’s hand and kissed it.
And yet another serial I'm going to have to start following. The setting is excellent, and the characters are very well fleshed out (even though I've not read the earlier parts).
A delightful episode Daniel... All of us are actors on some stage or another, being something or someone other than what we may have begun as...and I feel like possibly there is a thread here that remains not pulled for the time being.