Part 2: A Hundred Spoons

Dittarsdorf: Glad to have you here, old friend.
Dittarsdorf gets to his feet and extends a welcoming hand. This is the beginning of an amicable conversation.
His friend strides up to him and shakes his hand.
Dittarsdorf: Truth be told, I've considered many people for this job—many! But none suits the position better than you.
Dittarsdorf: You're being modest, my friend. I had thought about getting her a governess ...
Dittarsdorf: ... Governesses may well raise ordinary ladies, but my little girl is anything but. I'll settle for nothing but the very best for her.
???: "She must be virtuous, pure of thought, elegant, and compliant."
???: "She must be clever but guileless, talented yet modest, and dignified without pretension. Then, she will be a true noble lady."
???: ... Heh heh.
???: Parents always have grand expectations for their children, don't they?
The child places a finger horizontally below her nose, mimicking a mustache as she speaks.
???: I'm a decent gentleman with impeccable manners. I never attend an event to which I am not invited.
???: I have a warm smile, a kind heart, and I never push others away. I have strong morals, respect social etiquette, and always present the best side of myself to others—when it's necessary.
???: Dittarsdorf regards me as a "true noble gentleman." He believes I possess every quality an honorable man should have.
The man maintains an upright posture, clasping his hands behind his back, his shoulders perfectly squared.
???: That's why, despite my eagerness to attend and the fact that I'm a family friend, I've never asked for, nor even hinted at wanting, an invitation to that banquet.
???: I know that asking is pointless. I must be patient.
???: When the time comes, the gate will be open to me.
???: The Dittarsdorf house is guarded by an enormous gate. It's beautiful and stately, made of metal, and artistically decorated with the family's motifs.
???: It's quite a feat, really—finding the balance between beauty and security.
???: And my friend Dittarsdorf has found that balance. His only lacking feature, of which he is fully aware, is the patience to educate a child.
???: He worries, you see—about a future in which his son is incompetent and chaotic and his daughter is crude and reckless. So, he's pinned his hopes on me.
???: ...
The countenance of a middle-aged man faintly emerges on the girl's face. She licks her teeth—an unconscious display of greed.
Two figures in dresses emerge from the darkness and approach the gate. With a heavy rumble, it slides open.
???: Oh my. We've been talking all this time, yet we haven't so much as mentioned Isolde ...
She reaches out a hand and seizes your wrist. A gentle yet irresistible force leads you forward.
???: She should've been at the center of this conversation. So sweet and gentle—a truly thoughtful and beautiful girl.
She doesn't look back.
???: I treated her as my own. I taught her everything I knew, and she became that perfect young lady Dittarsdorf desired.
???: She was flawless. She met every expectation—from her mother, her father, her brother, the servants, and, of course, me.
Middle-Aged Male: Mind your posture, child.
Isolde: Yes, Mr. Karl.
Little Isolde's body tenses. She straightens her back further.
Karl: Very well. Now lift your chin a little. No, not too high. We must avoid any indication of overconfidence.
Isolde: ...
Karl: ... That's right. Just like that. Very well done, my child.
He lays his hands on the back of the chair in front of him and nods to his student on the other side of the hallway.
Karl: Alright, now maintain that posture and walk to me.
Isolde: Yes, Mr. Karl.
It is rather premature for a girl of only twelve to learn to walk in 3-inch heels. But practicing now will avoid any future embarrassment.
Isolde: Head up, shoulders square. Alright, now smooth strides. Don't sway, and don't bounce up and down.
Breathe in. Step forward, waist balanced. And again.
Isolde: Don't lean forward. Straighten your back. Knees steady.
No mistakes. Don't make any mistakes.
Isolde: exhales in relief
She stops before the chair, awaiting her teacher's feedback.
6 years have passed. She's shot up since her first seance.
Her days of reaching up for door handles are long gone. She stands there, a living example of perfection—all thanks to her education.
Karl: Excellent, Isolde. Your walk is almost perfect now.
The gentleman smiles and pulls out the chair.
Karl: Have a seat. Let's move on to our next subject.
Karl: Time is against us, young lady. We spent an extra fifteen minutes working on your posture.
Karl: I've been told that you'll have a vocal lesson later. Don't worry, I shall see you again for our literature class after its completion.
Karl: Tonight we'll be reading about a dinner. There will be mention of the dining etiquette we've practiced before, so this is a good chance for you to review it.
Isolde: ... Certainly, Mr. Karl.
The girl gracefully sits down. A maid hurries over and helps her adjust the chair. A bowl of vegetable soup is sitting before her.
Isolde: May I ask a question, sir?
Isolde: ... If I remember correctly, you told me that we had completed the rules of dining etiquette last week. Did I misunderstand?
Karl: You did not, my child.
The gentleman picks up a silver spoon and places it in her open palm. One by one, he adjusts her fingers until they close around the spoon handle.
Karl: But last night, during dinner with your parents, I couldn't help but notice that your hands were shaking.
Karl: The movements were subtle—almost imperceptible most of the time. You even hid them well while you cut the meat.
Karl: When it came to the soup, however, the shaking was as clear as daylight. People will certainly notice your wetted cuffs.
With a smile on his face, Karl loosens his grip. Little Isolde needs no further instruction.
Her countenance is composed, yet her hand is trembling. Her fingertips turn pale as she tightens her grip on the spoon.
Karl: Of course, such a mistake wouldn't be considered rude, but it would reflect badly on your education.
Karl: We've put in great effort and come so far. It would be a great shame to fall short on so small a detail.
Isolde: Yes, Mr. Karl ... I'll work hard on it.
Karl: A hundred times.
The gentleman paces around the lounge, feeling utterly complacent about his work.
Karl: I asked her to practice it a hundred times.
Karl: She's the daughter of Evangeline, the greatest opera singer to ever grace the stages of Vienna. She has her eyes, her nose, her cheeks ... How could she possibly have such a shaky hand while using a spoon?
Karl: What a disgrace.
He shakes his head, his dark hair on the back of his head shining with vitality.
Karl: I could tell she was getting tired towards the end of the session. She'd hidden it well thus far, just as she'd been instructed to do.
Karl: She's only twelve, after all, and she went straight from a three-hour poise and posture class to repeatedly raising and lowering the spoon for an hour more.
Karl: But she carried on. Just as I expected her to.
Karl: She had a smile on her face. Her voice remained soft. Her eyes were gentle as a spring breeze. She's a darling little lamb.
Karl: All our efforts paid off ...
He stops by the window. His gaze fixed upon the garden lawn.
Evangeline sits in the sunshine, a white rabbit in her arms. She's stroking it, gently grooming its hair.
Karl: Her wrists were still tight and shaky the first twenty times we practiced. It wasn't until the 65th attempt that things started to improve.
Karl: Perhaps she was too tired to shake; perhaps her joints were numb. Or perhaps she finally mastered the skill and calmed herself.
Karl: By the 100th practice, the soup in her spoon was as still as a mirror. I could see the reflection of my face within it.
Karl's eyes flicker back to the table.
The soup is now cold and thick. The chair is pulled out, and Isolde is nowhere to be found.
Karl: I still have no idea why she was trembling so much. Maybe there's an issue with the muscles in her hand, or maybe it's an unfortunate side effect of her inherited ability.
Karl: But I'm certain that she'll be rid of this unsightly habit within a week.
Karl: She will become Evangeline, only better.
Karl: This, you see, is the benefit of a proper education. If only I could travel back in time and give poor Evangeline the same opportunities ...
Karl: ...
Karl: You seem surprised. Why?
Karl: I adore Evangeline. I'll forever be her loyal audience member and supportive friend. But that doesn't mean that I'm blind to her flaws.
Karl: She's mad. Unstable. She spends half the day unconscious and the other half, God bless, in hysteria—even incontinence. She's a pitiful woman, indeed, worthy of little admiration.
Karl: Yes, she's the center of the crowd; yes, important figures attend her seances and listen to her piously; and yes, throngs of people cheer and throw flowers at her on stage, some even fainting from the excitement.
Karl: But none of this speaks to who she truly is, my dear friend.
He shrugs.
The cold soup morphs into a slice of chocolate cake as he sits down at the table.
Karl: You must be familiar with Sachertorte: two pieces of chocolate cake with a layer of apricot jam in the middle. It's the sweet embodiment of perfection.
With a silver fork in one hand, he flips the piece of cake on its side, revealing a moldy corner.
Karl: Evangeline is just like this cake. Most of her is sweet—her voice, her divination—but there's a rot growing that will one day devour her.
Karl: It's still a little early to throw the cake away. That would be a shame—at least most of it still looks fine.
He cuts through the cake with his fork, precisely avoiding the molding edge.
Karl: We can still enjoy the good part of the cake, as long as we're careful about where the dessert fork lands—Dittarsdorf did marry her, after all.
Karl: But it's a somewhat troublesome process.
Karl: The people's appetite for Sachertortes will never wane. And as one cake sours, they will look for another. Poor Evangeline simply cannot satisfy their desires any longer. They need something fresh, delicious, sweet ...
He savors the cake, a smile growing on his face.
Karl: Isolde is that new confectionary. Freshly out of the oven and waiting to be served.