“He is quite probably the sort of dancer you think he is,” said Lewis, smiling, excluding Holton from his words. “The only difference is that he is a great artist, interpretive artist, I mean. I know you’ll appreciate him.”
A group of people who knew Lewis came over to their table. They acted most respectfully and he hoped that Carla and Holton were noticing what an important person he was. He spoke nicely to them, shook hands with them, and let them know that he was busy. They left him then, smiling. Smiling himself, he turned to Carla and Holton and he was disappointed to find them talking together again. Holton had taken Carla’s hand in his and Lewis felt a strange anguish, felt an inward betrayal. He did not know what had been betrayed, however.
“I’m sorry, my dear, that I didn’t introduce you to those people. It was rude of me because they all admire your husband’s work.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” said Carla. “I know so little about his work. I’m only a layman, you know.”
“I can hardly believe that. You must’ve been an artist yourself at one time.”
She shook her head. “No, I was never an artist at anything. Except at living, perhaps.” Trumpets sounded loudly from the band, giving her statement an absurd grandeur. She sensed this and laughed. “I wish to say that I try to make my life a complete thing.”
“But what a marvelous thing to want to do! All of us try that but when we fail at it (and alas we most of us fail) then we must find ourselves a medium to guard our egos, to protect our fears.”
“That’s for the talented, Mr Lewis, but for the rest of us, the majority, only our lives count. We must make them natural.”
“And that,” said Robert Holton suddenly, “is for the rich to do. The rest of us can’t even do that.”
“How delightful!” exclaimed Lewis. “We have here the three representatives of humanity: the rich and ... free? the poor and trapped, and the artist who is finding both freedom and an opiate. But how wonderfully symbolic! We’re practically an allegory. I suppose we can reach some understanding.”