Lutz saw me too, but his expression remained unchanged and the idea of our having never met was implicit in his avoidance of me, and so I pretended. And though I might have prevailed upon Ms Keane, instead I enjoyed a rare, footloose moment. Nestled under an archway, as a small orchestra played a waltz the entire room glowed with the colors of seasonal draperies and candles, whirred with the rustlings of pinafores and coattails.
Among the flurried pageant of capers, curvets and caracoles, the occasional jig or even minuet, I straightaway noticed a beautiful young woman. Auburn hair, emerald eyes, a carnelian-and-pearl dress accenting her complexion, and a smile that glinted as she danced. She was herself the picture of the season. If I had not immediately known better she might have appeared the kind to be biding her time until her inheritance. Hardly more than a girl she noticed me as well, seemed somewhat surprised with every turn that I was watching her, and very forwardly took advantage of the first opportunity to escape her dancing partner.
Retrieving an hors d’oeuvre from the banquet table she was soon alone in a corner of the gallery, continually nodding apologetic pardons to disappointed dance suitors. There she stood, somewhere between a fidgeting girl and swaying enchantress, lost among lacy billows of ruffled silk over hoopskirts delicately hung with rosebud garlands, when an unexpected yawn brought me instinctively to her side.
Here was a romance. No crash of symbols, rolling flats, flickering lights, hoisted or descending backdrops. No exotic locale, time-pressed moment, glorious protestations, and oaths. Simple, careless, conversational romance. We stood hardly aware of our surroundings, lulled by each other’s breathless harmony. She so much so that, indeed, she spilled her favored canapé onto the parquet floor.
***
Thursday, December 31, 1863. Washington City.
New Year’s Eve. A flurry of motion, a pageant of costumes and color. THE ACTOR moves to address a YOUNG WOMAN with patronizing interest.
THE ACTOR (whispering rebuke with a smile): Cover your mouth when you yawn!
YOUNG WOMAN (with certain exception): I beg your pardon?
THE ACTOR (facetiously): Having a good time? (still humorous) When I was a boy, I often wondered what kind of life the people in these houses lived. I convinced myself it was really not so very different from my own. Now I see I was wrong. There is, for example, such excitement it takes one’s very breath away.
***
I was not aware until much later of her distress. While I spoke to her with affectionate humor yet, I had discovered something she had always hoped to conceal. A measured if definite boredom of her very life. This discovery she at once despised and adored. And of my having drawn attention to it said she could never remember a gentleman treating her in such a manner. Still, her ability for recovery was remarkable.
***
THE ACTOR (approaching confidently): Would you like to dance?
YOUNG WOMAN (sincerely): With you?
The Actor looks confused, then smiles and leads the Young Woman by the hand. They make their way across the dance floor for the dance, and at the end of the selection, find their ways back to the edge of the room. Retrieving two champagne cocktails from a passing MANSERVANT, The Actor offers one to the Young Woman.
THE ACTOR (with well-rehearsed brashness): Is it my imagination or have you been hoping for something more than our introduction?
YOUNG WOMAN (parrying expertly): A kiss, perhaps?
THE ACTOR: Perhaps. (laughing slightly) But we are strangers.
YOUNG WOMAN: Have you never wished to kiss a stranger? Just once? No preview, no past, no pretense of future – no expectations or regrets?
The Actor tries to remain composed yet is surely caught off guard by her matched forwardness. A moment’s silence is relieved by THE SENATOR, a somewhat corpulent man in his fifties. Dressed in a gray tuxedo, he forages his way toward them through deep bows and nods from across the room.
THE SENATOR: I see you have met my daughter, Mr. Booth. (with a grinding smile) Please excuse her boldness. Saw your Hamlet in New York one night last autumn when you drew a substantially larger house than Mr. Frederick Forrest.
THE ACTOR (correcting): Macbeth?
YOUNG WOMAN (nodding): A splendidly sinister Macbeth. (pointedly) Not weak as the others. Drunken, perhaps. And crazy! (continuing ardently) Sinister. Strong—not feeble as he is so commonly and horribly played. I am afraid that, for all the beauty of the Bowery and the Park, New York will ever after have only one theater for me—Mary Provost’s.
THE SENATOR: Insisted on meeting you, despite my refusal to introduce her to a man I did not know myself. Still at the age where she assumes everyone in Washington knows her famous father—even strangers.
THE ACTOR (to the Young Woman): Strangers? (to the Senator) Are you famous?
The Actor smiles, takes his eyes from those of the beautiful daughter for the first time.
THE SENATOR (with unfamiliar modesty): Oh, no! Not in the sense that you and your family are. Your late father was known all over the world. (motioning to where The Actor’s brother Edwin stands surrounded by admirers) And your brother is surely destined for the same. Not famous like that! Though I imagine in political circles my name carries a certain—shall I say—familiarity?
THE ACTOR: And what of me? Will I ever share my family’s—and my brother’s—greatness?
THE SENATOR: What? You? (laughing) Oh, of course! What do I know of such things? You will become what you will. I only know what people say, and today they say the name of Edwin Booth will one day match his father’s glorious memory. (walking on to meet an ASSOCIATE) Tomorrow they might change their minds, if he were not considered loyal to the North. I have seen him play a dozen times, and I declare I can not tell the difference.
THE ACTOR (wondering): Between—?
***
Despite his having confused for a moment my playing with that of my brother, I found the senator an amiably countenanced man with the showily exuberant nature of the purest politico. At some point or another, in recognition of this perhaps, someone bestowed upon him a signet ring, not unlike my own. It held no initials but had a representation of the sun encased in a kind of sextant.
Never long for serious conversations, the senator’s response to any subject, even upon extended inquiry, was always as brief and inoffensive as possible, despite the risk of merit, meaning and credulity. Yet could he continue for as long as one would listen, changing trifling topic for trifling topic and always with a concluding smile as if he had just said something worth noting. And in all he seemed to chew his thoughts so carefully that by the time they arrived you knew not really what they were supposed to be.
Often his diversions seemed less device than I am sure they certainly were. Asked about his politics he would speak of his career. Asked about the state of political affairs he would go on about the fraternity of man. Still would he flash his ruminating smile as finale and nod certifyingly as if he understood your contentment and resolve to be as sure as his.
***
THE SENATOR: You consider yourself an artist, do you not? You acting people consider yourselves artists. I was once an artist. (teeth chattering silently) A real artist. An architect. There are men, and there are monuments, Mr. Booth. Things of stature. Things that last. If my family hadn’t been involved in government, I fancied myself the next Christopher Wren. You know that name, do you?
THE ACTOR: Excuse me, I don’t believe—
YOUNG WOMAN: Oh, Poppie is always preachin’ to the choir.
THE SENATOR (magnanimously): I beg your pardon. ’Bout time I introduced myself. I’m Senator Nash, Pop. Everyone calls me that. You might as well. (turning to his daughter with a smile, his lower jaw sidling back into place) My daughter Camilla, Ella.
THE ACTOR: Senator, Miss Nash.
Kisses the Young Woman’s hand, but it is The Senator’s eyes into which The Actor looks.
THE SENATOR: We are simple people, Mr. Booth. Ella was reared here in the capital, but she was born,
as I, in dairy farm country. Dare I say, like Mr. Lincoln? Her roots are simple, though her ways, I admit, are often far too mysterious for a simple boy like me to understand. Just as I never fully understood her late mother. She favors her, though Ella was truly christened by the baker, I fear. Has freckles. There’s no question she has her mother’s citied manner. Still, deep inside her, there’s the pure majestic beauty of open country. And that will never change. Not for anyone, not even her. No, my Ella once dreamed of being a diva—an opera singer, you know. But it did not take her long to realize that was an unfit life for a senator’s daughter. There is a certain duty, would you agree, that is attendant to every man—or woman—according to his or her station? Things within or without their realm of ability or pursuit. Limits, man. There must be limits. And where the physical stops, it is the duty of the moral to begin.
THE ACTOR: I still do not believe—
THE SENATOR: Now me, I’m no member of the breast fleet. My chest would be sorely bruised with the penitent confession of all my sins, and any priest would shortly be hard-pressed to hear them. Though, I’ve always thought that this country needed a great cathedral. If we could only build and support it outside of any traces of popery. But, even the Anglicans are not devoid of such seductions. (looking to Ella) I should be careful. My late and beautiful wife was a devout Catholic and, true to form, Ella often scolds that I am not more reverent in my observances.
YOUNG WOMAN (seemingly unaware of her father’s latest digressions): Do you play at whist, Mr. Booth? Whitechapel fashion, with the aces and kings first? Oh, but you would know that. It is rather a tradition in our house that close friends should stay on after the rest of the party leaves and play rubbers until dawn. Or are you afraid to be lurched?
THE ACTOR: I am afraid, Miss Nash, I do not play at all.
YOUNG WOMAN: Good! Then it is arranged. Neither do I! (beaming with a conspiratorial smile) I find gaming at cards so very tedious. Really pointless. (pauses) Except Scopa; it is Italian. I do so wish to learn it. (turns to him) Of course, then you will go with us to mass in the morning and stay on for dinner. Do you prefer eggs or rolls—in the European style—for your breakfast?
THE ACTOR: I beg your pardon?
THE SENATOR: I’m sure Mr. Booth will enjoy whatever you set out for him, my dear. (he grins with one arm about his daughter) Isn’t that right Mr. Booth?
THE ACTOR (forcing with a not unsteadied purpose): I— I believe it is.
***
Not Elizabeth, not Etta, nor Effie, nor Emma. It was Ella. Ella and only Ella. It wasn’t immediate. Not for me. Although she may tell you differently. Then there were those things that began to quickly add up, amounting to—I know no better name for it—love. Slowly, the graceful shape of her hands and fingers, her tiny waist, the piercingly holy smile and eyes, candid posture, honest gait, delicate ears, mysterious lips and, Oh, the haunting diminution of her princess feet, became indispensable.
There are those actors who are said to step into a part, whose personality and disposition are perfectly suited to the role. This was how Ella seemed for me. What I had longed for, desired unknowingly and strangely lacked, while ever so certain I had all.
Oh! anything, of nothing, first create!
Oh! heavy lightness, serious vanity,
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
From the time it had been decided I made myself sure. Sure that she and I belonged. Sure of the way our arms wrapped so easily about each other, sure of the reckless precision of a sleep-breaking kiss. Sure that I would always be sure.
It was as if I might abandon her at any moment for any unreasoned whim, yet know that she would ever wait or find our way once more. Or, if I could fall again—and I cannot imagine how—still, I would rather not, but prefer to live my life alone in the memory of the love I once held for her.
I miss her strange, graceful almost flawless body. Her thin ribs and naked shoulders silently beckoning to me from beneath her gowns, that our legs should be entangled with unbearable heat, even in our sleep. The breasts and woman’s hips that forever breathed a yielding promise, if only I might fulfill my part of the dream before they were returned to rough stone by the curse of some midnight sorcery.
And now it is her mouth that I am missing. The soft, full shape of it. The curve of its questions, the steady smile of its understanding. Her perfect teeth, the constant blush of chin and cheek.
If she will remember my hands or ears, the profile my carte-de-visite whispers only, I must say it is her neck, her throat, her voice, which haunt my silent darkness. The suppliant cries of the children we had dreamed to life, lost to wander stygian depths.
And what of all will I last forget? Of every virtue, grace, refinement? The Florentine mole behind her right ear.
The greatest joy, I cannot express to you properly, having once awakened next to her to find her wrapped within my arms, smiling absently in her sleep. To rouse her with a kiss to which she just as automatically responded with parted mouth and increased caress, then to fall asleep again. And only sleep, I must stress here, only sleep. Yet what could ever have been more satisfying, I cannot imagine.
And I have heard it said, though miscreant I might have been, I should never pluck the flower from any maiden. I may tell you now, or you could find it difficult to imagine, that I had never faced that choice.
What brand of woman would you think might seek an actor’s parlor after curtain’s wringing, the muse’s portal at the instant of the wagon’s loading or unloading. Only one who had yet attended the Bacchic rites, was already fallen lame. No, I had never met a single maiden at my dressing room door save one, and that time my heart gave to me no choice, but love. And I will cherish her a thousand years, although her love was false.
Thou art woman! That’s another name for falsehood, treason, perjury, and hell!
Yet I have plunged into the bowels, either to resurrect my own integrity, or to have the villain slayer of it suffer with me.
An honest tale speeds best being plainly told…. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every of those tales condemns me for a villain.
Lest I am the relenting fool, while she the shallow, changing woman. Still,
I have set my life upon a cast, and I will stand the hazard of the die.
There were little things I might have noticed at any time, and did not. Indications of her waning, failing love. Messages she delivered whither knowingly or of an instinct, which spoke one half of her mind against the other, warned her good sense to resist her impulse, even if that impulse was purest love.
Where was I when these notices were posted? If you had asked me, simple months before the eventual realizations, of my strongest asset, I would not have named my eyes, my hands, nor any other likely part. My answer would have been only my intuition. It was this that celebrated my performances, this that reckoned my unschooled talents so formidable. This, too, that abandoned me, or was abandoned, when most needed.
Strophe
I had surely slept as she had questioned our belonging. Dreamed fantasies of comfort and assurance while she spun tales of caution. One night she would risk all to sleep in my arms, the next she craved some solitude for fear or fever. One day she loved the things of me for which the next found fault, the difference having been previously termed unique.
SHE: I love the man that cannot be sequestered, pinched or pulled along with the rest, only because the rest would not be lonely or alone. I love you.
Then, later,
SHE (cont’d): Oh! you are a fool! A weak dispassionate fool! The depth of her eyes seemed veiled by some shallow, yet unyielding curtain.
SHE (cont’d): How could I have ever given my love to one such as you? Is there nothing outside of a role to which you are willing to commit your courage?
HE (feebly and full-knowing it): I am committed to you.
SHE: Not really. Not with your soul, not nearly. Maybe not even with the hear
t you claim is mine. Oh, your declarations are pretty enough, but where is the fire, the purity? Where is the man with whom I fell in love?
Where indeed? He was not here, listening to her fool’s tongue rebuking me for situations and circumstances over which I had no power. Certainly there were many areas wherein I had failed, shown no resolve, no courage. Of this I was aware, and told as much to her, my mirror, my confessor—as they happened, always as they happened. And did she use those same inadequacies to question my merits and the merits of my love? If she had not before enjoyed my soul, then she would dine upon it as it was offered up in some Phineal feast.
But who will mourn me at my death, if not she?
Who will sing the praises of my work, recollect my name or kisses like no other in the middle of a dreaming night, if not she?
Who else will understand my claims to passions unrehearsed, tantrums unrestrained and feelings scarcely understood? If not she, no one.
She was with me there when first I cried as a man and last wept as a boy. Her tears I shared as her lover while my dreams she became, as my love.
There will be no other—no first, nor last, nor any more, to hear or feel or speak softly again to me, and fear not my occasional symptoms and sympathies—if not she.
It is difficult to think I did not deserve her, more still that I could not confide as much to her when she fully gave me warrant to do so. I loved, yet feared. Could not abandon old troubles to new joys, which surely otherwise would have surpassed all.
I am a soul tormented, and those eyes of hers yet pierce the fiery armor doubly wrought, once by fate’s own fiendish claws and then by my own poor hands that chose rather to submit to omen’s disaster than freely struggle with defiant strength. And when she begged to make me strong and perfect, I laughed at the one, scorned the other as illusion.
Yet it was no dream.
It was her gift that I took so for granted. I forsook the courtesy to thank my god and praised instead the weary mirrors of the stars. For I would forsake on the moment and exchange my god for hers. Reconcile the irreconcilable acts, reversing only my outlook, not a single expression of my new or old religion.
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