My First Stage begins in the serene yet suf­fo­cat­ing vil­lage of Mud­dle­ton, where rep­u­ta­tions are shaped not by actions but by the whis­pers passed over cups of tea. It is in Mrs. O’Reil­ly’s sun­lit draw­ing room, dec­o­rat­ed with del­i­cate porce­lain and care­ful social airs, that a rumor first flick­ers to life. Dur­ing a seem­ing­ly inno­cent after­noon vis­it, she shares a provoca­tive remark with Miss Lena Houghton—that Mr. Sigis­mund Zalus­ki, a vis­it­ing for­eign­er, may be aligned with rad­i­cal ide­olo­gies. This isn’t mere­ly idle chat­ter; it’s a cal­cu­lat­ed com­ment dressed as con­cern. Mrs. O’Reil­ly implies that Zalus­ki may be a polit­i­cal extrem­ist, a dan­ger to polite soci­ety and pos­si­bly even to Gertrude Mor­ley, a young woman admired by many in town.

Lena, star­tled by the insin­u­a­tion, does not refute it. Instead, her curios­i­ty is piqued, and the idea begins to take shape in her mind. She lis­tens, absorb­ing the details about Zaluski’s sup­posed dis­dain for monar­chies and his intense dis­po­si­tion, while also not­ing his grow­ing close­ness with Gertrude. The con­ver­sa­tion takes on a rhythm, one where gos­sip and spec­u­la­tion feed off each oth­er, each phrase adding weight to the grow­ing nar­ra­tive. At the heart of it lies a thin­ly veiled fear—not just of for­eign ideas, but of los­ing social con­trol.

When Zalus­ki unex­pect­ed­ly enters the room, the dynam­ic shifts. Polite­ness veils the ten­sion as he greets the women with warmth and grace, unaware of the storm qui­et­ly form­ing in his wake. His man­ner, refined yet dis­tinct, nei­ther flam­boy­ant nor ful­ly assim­i­lat­ed, only sharp­ens their sus­pi­cions. His attempt to blend in is inter­pret­ed not as humil­i­ty but as pre­tense, his pas­sion seen not as depth but as dan­ger. And yet, his charm works its momen­tary mag­ic. When he sits down to play the piano, the music speaks with sincerity—melancholy and beau­ty inter­twin­ing in a way that tem­porar­i­ly dis­arms the under­cur­rent of mis­trust.

The shift in tone does not erase the ear­li­er remarks, how­ev­er. Instead, it cements them fur­ther by con­trast. Mrs. O’Reil­ly offers com­pli­ments and refresh­ments with one hand while men­tal­ly rein­forc­ing her judg­ments with the oth­er. Lena, smil­ing polite­ly, replays the con­ver­sa­tion in her head, weigh­ing what she now believes she knows. Even as they praise his per­for­mance, both women have begun to view him through a warped lens—a lens shaped not by truth, but by sug­ges­tion.

From these seeds, the slan­der is born. Young and form­less at first, it sens­es its own poten­tial. It is nur­tured by the very con­tra­dic­tion of the scene—the music, the laugh­ter, the civility—acting as a dis­guise for its incep­tion. It nes­tles itself in the unspo­ken thoughts and exchanged glances, know­ing that from here, it can trav­el far. With each retelling, its sto­ry will stretch. With each embell­ish­ment, it will mature.

This chap­ter does not sim­ply describe the begin­ning of a lie; it reveals how that lie becomes an unin­vit­ed guest in every future con­ver­sa­tion. Mrs. O’Reilly doesn’t shout her accu­sa­tions. She plants them, allow­ing oth­ers to nur­ture and repeat them. Lena doesn’t defend or chal­lenge the claim; instead, she becomes its ves­sel, let­ting it root itself in her mem­o­ry. Zalus­ki, mean­while, remains bliss­ful­ly unaware, a man marked not by his actions but by some­one else’s assump­tions.

In just a sin­gle after­noon, a sim­ple remark has set a course that nei­ther Mrs. O’Reilly nor Lena Houghton will con­trol. The slan­der, now self-aware, floats freely through Mud­dle­ton, eager to evolve. It rec­og­nizes that truth is slow and unglamorous—but scan­dal, whis­pered soft­ly by respectable lips, trav­els fast. And so, with a sense of mis­chie­vous antic­i­pa­tion, it pre­pares for the next chap­ter of its jour­ney, con­fi­dent in its abil­i­ty to reshape lives with noth­ing more than care­ful­ly cho­sen words.