In America (49 page)

After a few performances in Baltimore, Maryna opened
Nadjezda
in February 1884 at the Star Theatre in New York and performed it more than fifty times in the spring and summer national tour.

When Maryna did not continue with
Nadjezda
the following year, its duplicitous author sent it to Sarah Bernhardt, declaring how honored he would be if she would read his play; the two leading roles, he barely had the courage to avow, had been written with her in mind.

And Bernhardt must have liked his play a little since obviously she had passed it on to Victorien Sardou, her regular dramatist and her lover: two years later she opened in Paris in a Sardou vehicle all too reminiscent of
Nadjezda.
To be sure, Sardou had made a few expert changes. A story stretching over twenty years had been compressed into an action taking place between late morning of one day and the following dawn. The failed Polish Uprising of 1863 had been turned into a failed Republican uprising in Rome at the end of the eighteenth century, the noble Polish wife into an impetuous Italian opera singer, and the husband awaiting execution into an ardent lover and a painter. Instead of a mother and a daughter, and two suicides, there was one heroine, the singer, who, after securing her lover's freedom (she thinks) and killing the vicious police chief, mounts to the roof of a castle on the Tiber for the fake execution she had been promised, discovers she has witnessed a real execution, and leaps to her death.

Maryna was unmoved by Maurice's distress. True, she had dropped
Nadjezda.
But he shouldn't have sent it to Bernhardt. He was justly punished.

Though Sardou had apparently retained those absurd candles set on either side of the police chief's corpse, it sounded to Maryna as if he'd much improved Maurice's play. Indeed, now that its protagonists were no longer Polish patriots, Maryna began to covet it. Peabody wrote Sardou with proposed terms for Maryna to acquire the rights to his play in America. Before she could consider seriously being so beastly to Maurice, Sardou cabled a polite refusal. Might he have suspected that Maurice planned to bring a lawsuit against him for plagiarism? More likely, a veto had come from Bernhardt, who would never allow the most successful of all the roles written for her to pass into Marina Zalenska's hands.

Unaware of Maryna's own projected treachery, and with his lawsuit foiled, the luckless author of
Nadjezda
suggested replagiarizing his own play and turning Sardou's
Tosca
into a Civil War story. Lydia—no, Annabelle, the beautiful wife of a spy for the Union cause who has been sentenced to death by a military court in Georgia, pleads with a Confederate general to spare her husband's life. Once her beau, the lecherous General Donnard offers a despicable bargain, which, moreover, he has no intention of keeping. In the conservatory of Donnard's Greek Revival mansion, George, the genial butler, has lit the gleaming silver candelabra on the table set for a late-night supper of oysters and champagne, while George's owner awaits the arrival of the lovely petitioner, who naïvely imagines—

Out of the question, Maurice! Out of the question. It was Bogdan who vetoed that idea, and Maryna went back to her already secured triumphs.

*   *   *

“
LISTEN, BOGDAN.
‘The greatest actress on the American stage is a Pole. Indeed, Madame Zalenska has no living rival but Sarah Bernhardt, whom'—listen!—'whom to my mind she for the most part surpasses.'”

“Who wrote that? Not William Winter…?”

“Hardly.” She laughed, as she descended into Winter's raspy voice. “‘Americans must stand together in their stern determination to prevent an immoral use of the Theatre, made with the pretence of a serious purpose. I am speaking of the fashion of presenting nasty “problem plays.”' How he hated our little Ibsen venture, remember?”

“The ever worshipful Jeannette Gilder?”

“Not even! A critic in
Theatre
whom I've never met.”

“So it's done, Maryna. You've won.”

“What's left is for me to believe what I read.”

Next year she would be doing a national tour with Edwin Booth: Ophelia to his Hamlet, Desdemona to his Othello, Portia to his Shylock, and in
Richelieu,
a Bulwer-Lytton drama in which Booth had enjoyed a success second only to his
Hamlet,
she would be playing Julie de Mortemar, the Cardinal's defenseless ward. Another woman victim!

“Poor Maryna,” said Bogdan. “Such a strain life has placed on her credulity. Obsequious critics, who may not dare do other than praise her. Devious husband, who may not dare tell her the truth, but who has nevertheless tried to impart, if not tell … what seems too crude to tell.”

“If you want to leave,” Maryna said, “you should. I'm strong enough now.”

“Pack a bag, pull off my wedding band and thrust it at you, open the door, slam the door, walk into the snowy night?”

“This isn't the only life you could lead.”

“That could be said of many people,” said Bogdan.

“But, Bogdan, right now I'm saying it of you.”

“You think I'm a coward.”

“No, I think you love me. Husbandly love. Friendship. But, as we both know, there are other kinds of love.” She reached out one hand as she finished tying back her hair. He passed her the box of grease sticks. “I hope you believe that I always wish you would find what you need.”

“I won't.”

“Won't?”

“I'm too formed. Of a piece. Finished. My America is you. Still you. When I'm … there, I— You can't imagine how much I miss you.”

“And you can't imagine, dearest Bogdan, because I haven't understood it myself, how much I love you. Would you like me to try to give up the stage again?”

“Maryna!”

“I would do it for you.”

“Darling, Maryna, I forbid you even to consider making such a sacrifice for me.”

“I don't know that it would be such a sacrifice.” She was massaging a fine layer of cocoa butter into her forehead and cheeks. “As you say, I have—but I don't like this word—won. It only remains to go on, repeating myself, trying not to go coarse or stale. What kind of monster will I have become when I've made twenty national tours? Thirty? Forty?” She laughed girlishly. “When even I will be resigned to playing Juliet's Nurse? No, I could never resign myself to the Nurse! I'd rather play one of the witches in
Macbeth.
”

“Maryna!”

“I adore shocking you, Bogdan,” she said in her throatiest tones. “
Macbeth.
I'll say it again.
Macbeth.
Do you think we shall be struck by lightning?”

“You can always charm me, Maryna. You charm me quite out of my mind. I did go up in the aero with Juan María and José. I've continued to fly with them.”

“I thought so. How brave you are.” She stood, and reached out to hold his face.

“How kind you are,” he said. “I thought I would vanish into myself. Maybe I hoped it
would
hurtle and crash.”

“But it didn't, dearest Bogdan.” She tasted his mouth. He enfolded her in his arms. “And, you see, no bolt of lightning. Though it would have been lovely to die together just now. Crash. Fire. Ashes.”

“Maryna!”

“And now, since you've succeeded in making me cry, you must vacate my little kingdom. How can I put on my makeup while I'm standing in a drizzle of reconciliations? Go, my love. Go!” Her smile was radiant. “And be sure”—her mouth parted and her eyes went ceilingward as memory bit—“be sure to set the lock so I don't have any unwelcome intruders.”

Maryna sat down and looked into the mirror. Surely she was weeping because she was so happy—unless a happy life is impossible, and the highest a human being can attain is a heroic life. Happiness comes in many forms, to have lived for art is a privilege, a blessing, and women are talented at renouncing sexual felicity. She heard the closing creak of the dressing-room door. She listened for the click as it latched.

Nine

“
YOU SEE
, my dear Marina … I trust we may dispense with Madame Marina and Mr. Booth now that we're alone, and I am exhausted and sated with applause and quite as drunk as I need to be … I must tell you that I didn't approve when you came downstage and touched me tonight. Keep your eyes fixed on me throughout, ignoring the others in the courtroom, no objection to that. We both agree the speech is addressed to Shylock.
The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.
No, it doesn't, but that's not the point here, which is, my point, my point is … Portia is trying to convince Shylock, and thereby to move him. He's not easily moved. He has too many grievances. Portia may be moved herself by the wretched fellow. But Portia should never touch Shylock. Even if she only touches his shoulder. Touch his shoulder, touch any other part of him. No touching! Shylock is in pain. [
Stares into the glass he is holding.
] And being in pain is very … combustible. [
Looks up.
] I suppose you thought to show that Portia is very feminine under her red lawyer's robes, very feminine, and therefore knows, without needing to be told, that the ogre has senses, affections, passions, hurts. But that is a foolish sentimental gesture. [
Shakes his head.
] You are monstrously sentimental, woman, has anyone ever told you that? I myself prefer large, wrathful gestures. Which does not mean I shall not touch you before the evening is over, if I have a bit more to drink. Don't tell me that you're married, or that you're no longer young, or something of that kind. You are thirteen years younger than I am, unless you lie about your age, as does every attractive woman who can get away with it, but let's leave that, the touching and the rest, for later, as the whim strikes us. [
Stands by the fireplace.
] For now I shall only insist that you drink with me. No ladyish resistance? Excellent sign. Excellent. But nodding and smiling, your infallibly seductive smile, and touching the top of your lovely hair, aren't enough. I want to hear a robust ‘Yes, Edwin. Yes … Edwin.' Brava! Well done. [
Finishes his glass.
] And a ‘well done' to you, Ned! [
Sets the empty glass on the mantel.
] Ned is what I was called as a child. But you can't call me Ned. Not when you've just started to call me Edwin. Ned would be too intimate, don't you think? And we do best, you and I, on modest rations of intimacy. We're actors. [
Places his right foot on the fender.
] Do you ever wish you were a child again, Marina? Ah,
you
don't either. Something we have in common. Although I suspect we haven't
much
in common, you and I, besides being actors. Granted, that is a great deal. Is it not, Marina? Do I have your complete attention, Marina? I see your gaze wandering, in embarrassment, let's say, to the bust of Shakespeare on top of the bookcase. Stare away. You'll find a picture or a bust of Shakespeare in every room here. Shall I get it down for you? [
Walks to the bookcase.
] No? You see, you'd much rather stare at me. [
Pats Shakespeare on the head.
] Acting, Marina, is what you and I do. We played together before an audience this evening. Tolerably well, I might add. And,
sans
audience, we shall go on acting with each other, yes? But of course we shall be perfectly, perfectly sincere. [
Makes a stage bow.
] Whom shall I play? I think, let me see, I think I shall impersonate Edwin Booth. What an outstanding idea. He seems a much more interesting fellow than Shylock, and every bit as unhappy. Famously unhappy, brooding, wonderfully equipped to play tragic parts. However, don't think me too tyrannical, I'd prefer … tonight … that you not play Marina Zalenska. [
Fetches a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet.
] Could you consider it? Just to humor me. Surely you have a few other selves in your repertory. I do think it very entertaining that for the last ten years everyone has agreed that the greatest actress in the English-speaking world is a Pole. A Pole with an accent. Yes, Marina. No one mentions your accent anymore, it is part of your magic, but eet ees ver-ree, verr-rree noticeable. Ah, for God's sake, don't pout, woman. I shall not deny that, accent and all, you phrase better than most who own the language. Another glass? Good. I'm curious to see when it will have an effect on you. [
Circles her.
] You are enchanting, Marina Zalenska. Either I'm being quite sincere or I just want to flatter you. Which do you think? Or neither. Perhaps I am a parrot. [
Squawks like a parrot.
] Don't be alarmed. My father sometimes did that. In the wings. Simpering and screeching and squawking. Just before he went on, and became instantly noble, eloquent, melodious. What was I saying? Oh, yes,
they
were saying. ‘The most enchanting person I ever met.' Doesn't that ever trouble you, Marina? Do you never ask yourself, what in God's name must I have done to myself that people should find me so enchanting? [
Kisses her hand.
] You probably know that I had no success playing Romeo and soon dropped it from my repertory. As for Benedick … I was never a good Benedick! I could never be light enough. There is something earthbound in me. I shall never fly out of it. Ah, well. We must do what we do best. Don't you agree? I like playing villains best. Pity we're not doing
Richard III
on the tour. [
Twists his body, becomes misshapen.
] That was Father's first great role. And you've been Lady Anne—though not yet with me, alas—who cannot resist Dick Crookback when he plays the lover. [
Straightens up.
] Tell me,
are
you that much younger than I? Don't blush, woman! Do you think we're on a stage here? Well? Your secret shall be safe with me. I see you hesitating. I see you want to please me. I thought so. Well, you are still my junior by seven years. And quite good-looking. Capital for a woman. Am I being too sardonic? Are you in need of some balm? All actors need to be flattered. Who would know this better than Edwin Booth? Let's see, what can I say to please you that would also be true? Ah, yes. [
Points his finger at her.
] You walk well. I liked your walk tonight. You don't forget the play is set in Venice. Portia walks as if she is treading on marble. I shall remember that. That means, I shall steal it. From now on, Shylock too shall walk on marble. [
Walks across the room. Walk becomes mincing. Stops. Laughs.
] You see, I am still working on the role after all these years. My father would, when he had a run of Shylocks to do, go about muttering in Hebrew. Or something that sounded like Hebrew. Once while doing Shylock in Atlanta, he went into that city's finest restaurant and ordered ham and greens, and when the waiter brought it to his table, dashed the plate to the floor, shrieking ‘Unclean! Faugh! Unclean! Faugh!' and stormed out. I of course, who am the very soul of rationality, don't for a minute think as Shylock when I am not on stage in the Jew's dark-brown gaberdine and tawny-yellow slouch hat, holding the knotted walking staff in my beringed right hand. [
Stretches out his hand to her.
] Nor do I think as Othello, except when I have made myself sooty as the Moor. Or even as Richard III, much as I relish the role. Ditto for Richelieu. Hamlet … perhaps. You could say I have a weakness for Hamlet. Not because everyone thinks I am Hamlet-like. I, Hamlet-like? As my father would say, faugh! Still, Hamlet reminds me of something in myself. Maybe it's that Hamlet is an actor. Yes, Marina, that's all he is. He is acting. He seems to be one thing, and underneath that seeming, what is there? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The inky-black suit he wears at court in the second scene. That tenacious, showy mourning for his father. Everyone's father dies, as Gertrude reminds him, and right she is,
Why seems it so particular with thee?
And Hamlet howls, he is howling, you know,
Seems, madam? Nay, it is. I know not ‘seems.'
But he does know ‘seems.' He knows nothing else. That's his problem. Hamlet would give anything, anything, not to be an actor, but he is condemned to it. Condemned to being an actor! He is waiting to break through seeming and performing, and just
be,
but there is nothing on the other side of seeming, Marina. Except death. Except Death. [
Looks around the room.
] I am looking for my Yorick-skull. Could I have misplaced it? Yorick! I mean, Philo! Where are you? What did I do with that skull? [
Pulls open the rolltop desk. Tosses papers on the floor.
] A prop, a prop. My kingdom for a prop! My last line would have gone so much more resoundingly if I could have brandished a skull. Except death. Except Death. Did you hear the capital D on the second ‘death'? Of such wee details are great performances made. But I'm sure you did hear it, Marina. What better audience than you could a crushed tragedian have? [
Stretches out his hand to her.
] My little princess. My Polish queen. You have kindly consented to keep Ned company as he sinks into his cups. You know he is quite harmless, since he is so drunk, so your virtue is safe. Even if you are a respectable married woman, not so young, and so forth. But beware of old Ned. He's a sly one. [
Does a pirouette.
] He may only be pretending to be drunk. Perhaps he is really just deranged. And therefore just a leetle leetle dangerous. Like Hamlet, he's a sly one too. He pretends not to be acting. And he gives acting lessons to others.
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue.
Don't you think his instructions to the actors are rather obvious? Very.
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
Why, he's as banal as Polonius! Where's the fire? Where's the recklessness? Perhaps I should play Hamlet on tiptoe, the whole play from start to finish, as my father once did Lear in Buffalo. Or in a whisper, as he once did Iago in Philadelphia. Of course my father was mad. Or drunk. Or both. One couldn't easily tell which. Like me, is that what you're thinking, Marina? It isn't? Oh. I thought you were going to be sincere with your old friend Ned. [
Sits beside her on the divan.
] But is Hamlet mad? Much ink spilled over that. I should say that Hamlet
must
be considered mad because only a mad person would think of disguising himself as a mad person, when there are so many other disguises to choose from. But perhaps not. Perhaps there aren't many disguises to choose from. Suppose being mad is the
only
one available, what do you think, Marina, in which case Hamlet's choice makes perfect sense. A most excellent, rational, charming … Prince of Denmark, I always say. A tad unhappy, to be sure. Very unhappy, indeed. But if to be unhappy were to be mad, why then we would all be mad. [
Takes off his shoes and rubs his feet.
] Am I boring you? I hope not, because now I'm coming to your role. [
Jumps up.
] But Ophelia
goes
mad, so it's not interesting. Raving about flowers. Hamlet wasn't nice to her. Poor girl. Hamlet stuck his blade into her father's gut. Well, his mother
was
getting on his nerves.
And
he thought there was a rat behind the curtain. [
Picks up the poker from the fireplace, brandishes it like a sword.
] And off she went into the water. Do you understand about madness, Marina? I don't think so. I'd lay odds that you are very expert at fending off your griefs. Not altogether of course. Am I right? A leetle leetle bit of suffering. Ah, you Europeans. You invented tragedy so you think you have a monopoly on it. And we Americans, we're all callow optimists. Right. I can feel an access of callow optimism coming on right now. How refreshing! Ahhhhhh … Another whiskey, Marina? You know, the only time I've seen you make Ophelia really seem mad was last week in Providence when, unusually for you, distracted, could it have been by me, gnashing my teeth alongside you in the wings, you made your entrance in Act Four empty-handed and, entirely unflustered, proceeded to distribute your posy to Gertrude and Claudius and Laertes. Invisible flowers. Father would have appreciated that. [
Pours himself a drink.
] Did I say my father squawked like a parrot? I remember a
Hamlet
in Natchez, when, during Ophelia's mad scene, a voice off stage began to crow like a rooster, and sure enough, it was Father, perched on top of a high ladder in the wings. [
Crows.
] Like that. So, dear Ophelia, do look about you when going mad. It can be contagious. My mother worried so about Father when he was on the road, and at fourteen sent me out with him to be his dresser and companion. Not to learn acting, anything but that! Johnny was to be the actor, the heir. Father said I ought to be a cabinetmaker, so it was a great sign when he invited me to eat Shakespeare with him one night in Waterbury. Bitter, I thought. Delicious, he said. Some pages from
Lear.
While Hamlet, we were talking about Hamlet, was a prince, who expected, rightly expected, to be the heir. [
Returns to the fireplace.
] Don't you think Hamlet's father is the mad one? It seems to me quite mad to turn yourself into a ghost and come back to haunt your son. But at least Hamlet didn't have a brother who could come back and haunt him. You know, after Johnny fired the shot he leaped from the presidential box onto the stage and shouted his line.
Sic semper,
you know. And broke his leg. [
Limps over to the desk.
] I am about to have another drink, Marina. Yes? One sign of an approaching paroxysm of my father's appetite for liquor was his use of a peculiar gesture, like this [
saws the air with his right hand beside his head
], and if I would try to stop him from drinking, which was part of my job, he would make that ominous gesture and shout, ‘Go away, young man, go away! By God, sir, I'll put you aboard a man-o'-war, sir.' Sheer nonsense, as you see. Nothing could be done to stop him. Only undress him after and clean up his vomit. [