In America (50 page)

Lifts his glass.
] To you, old mole. He was a great actor. You must take my word for it, Marina. Truly great. He had astounded London as Richard III when he was twenty-one, and was hailed as the rival and successor to Kean. And he made his New York debut a few years later in the same role. My father as the hunchbacked villain was part of my life from early childhood on. He would enter the stage from the left amidst a tempest of boisterous hand-clapping. The first thing one saw was his lifted foot passing the wing, then the rest of him followed, head bent. He slowly walked down the stage to the footlights, musingly kicking his sword which he held by its sash away from his body. Forty years have passed and I can hear the clank of the sword and feel the eerie hush of three thousand people waiting for him to open his mouth.
Now is the winter of our discontent
— I suppose Father's style of acting was inflated and stagey. Certainly it would be considered so by today's standards. Nobody called
him
introspective and intellectual, as they do me. [
Laughs.
] He obeyed his terrors. He recognized the devil in himself. Father had sworn never to eat meat, ‘dead flesh' he called it, and once when he broke his rule, did penance by filling his shoes with dried peas, then fitting them with lead soles and trudging all the way from Baltimore to Washington. He thought he was bad. He knew, some of the time he knew, he was mad. ‘I can't read! I'm a charity boy! I can't read! Take me to the lunatic asylum!' he once shouted in the middle of a
Lear
at the Wieting in Syracuse. He was hustled off stage, to the sound of more than a few catcalls. But such outbursts on stage were rare. Oh. What do I see? I am still in my stocking feet! [
Puts his shoes back on.
] I gabble on about my father because it hurts so to talk about my brother. When I talk about Johnny I weep. [
Raises his hand imperiously.
] Not yet. Wait. ‘To kill a king, that's a great deed,' Johnny would declaim. ‘You'll see, soon the name of Booth will be known everywhere.' I thought it was Johnny posturing. How can an actor be taken seriously? It's all hocum, vanity, boasting. An actor is always trying to make himself interesting. First he has to make himself interesting to himself. Then to other people. Do you find yourself interesting, Marina? [
Looks about for his glass.
] Threats, augurs—and we hear only what we want to hear. Did Lincoln's wife heed him when the Great Emancipator told her the dream he'd had, in which he was drifting alone down a dark river? No, they went to the theatre. [
Laughs.
] Johnny was already much admired. Who knows if he would not have been more successful than I, even than Father, if he had not—if he had lived. He was wonderful in romantic roles. Romeo, the lot. Not for him the villains, Richard III and Iago and the Scottish lord, or the great self-deceivers, like Hamlet and Othello. He received hundreds of letters a week from lovesick women and girls, not to mention the missives from the women lucky enough to be granted his favors. [
Begins to cry.
] Johnny wanted to be loved. [
Takes out an embroidered handkerchief.
] If I weep now, will you think these are actor's tears? They are, you know. Hath not an actor eyes? If you prick him, doth he not bleed? I was playing at the Boston Theatre when it happened. It was thought, at first, to be a family conspiracy, and Junius, my older brother, was arrested, though soon let go. I wasn't arrested but my movements were watched by the police. All the Booths received death threats. [
Gazes at his hands.
] On politics Johnny and I quarreled like demons, since I was for the Union, and abolition. I had voted twice for Lincoln. Johnny thought he had killed a tyrant. He expected to be acclaimed as a hero. His death was excruciating. And the Booths will always be
his
family. What is an actor compared with a regicide—no, the assassin of a saint? Why wasn't I lynched? I was ready. When, many years later, someone actually did attempt to murder me—and then it wasn't a hater of the theatre but a theatre lover, a stagestruck lunatic he was called in the papers—I was no longer ready. Histriomania, I think this kind of insanity is called. You know the story. No? [
Sits again.
] It happened in Chicago, at McVicker's, during a
King Richard II.
One Mark Gray and his pistol were in the second balcony. I was on stage, in a dungeon in Pomfret Castle, well launched into the sad young king's last soliloquy.

I have been studying how I may compare

This prison where I live unto the world;

And, for because the world is populous,

And here is not a creature but myself,

I cannot do it.

He fired at me twice. I survived only because I changed my usual business. On
I cannot do it
I always buried my head in my hands for a moment. That one time, on an impulse, I stood up. [
Stands.
] And then what happened after the poor fellow missed me? Oh, that was a fine performance. The great tragedian—that's myself, Marina, your humble servant—calmly advanced to the footlights and, pointing at the madman, asked that he be seized but not harmed, briefly left the stage to reassure his wife who, standing as usual in the wings, had gone quite hysterical, returned, and composedly finished his performance. [
Laughs.
] I was much admired for my
sang-froid.
Who could know that my heart was leaping around in my chest like a lion? And went on booming and banging about until another day and night had passed? I had been, well, I had
seemed,
so brave. But even that backfired. For it was said in several newspapers that I had arranged this attempt on my life to have more publicity for my week's run. An advertising stunt. Good God! But a society in which everything is for sale and every worthy occasion is
Barnumized
has to end by making cynics out of everybody. I suppose the only way the public would be convinced I hadn't hired a lunatic to fire on me would be to have been seriously wounded. Preferably slain. Then one could talk happily about the tragic curse of the Booth family, and all the rest. [
Pours himself another drink.
] Later I had one of the bullets, which had passed next to my head, pried out of the scenery where it had lodged and mounted on a gold cartridge cap inscribed ‘To Edwin Booth, from Mark Gray,' which I wear as a charm on my watch chain. Would you like to see the sinister relic? [
Takes out the watch.
] Hell, it's late. Not that I'm tired. Your presence, Marina, has quite … revived me. You first saw me, when did you say, at the California, twelve, thirteen years ago? I was much better then. Much better. You like to admire, don't you? So do I. Let's drink to Henry Irving. No, you're wrong. He's a
very
good actor. His Hamlet may be even finer than mine. [
Lifts his glass.
] You won't drink to Irving? God, you are loyal, woman. I'm almost touched. I shall not say my Hamlet is without merit. Indeed, I have to my credit one pretty bit of stage business for the distraught Dane. When I was getting ready to do my Hamlet at the Winter Garden I bought a sword with a jeweled hilt and took it home and hung it at the foot of my bed. All night I kept getting up and lighting matches to see it, shifting its position, until it flashed on me that—
Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
—the sword was really a cross, and could be used, hilt raised high, to protect Hamlet against his father's ghost. Of course, too much originality and we will destroy Shakespeare. But a leetle leetle originality, as you might say, dear Marina … I have been an original and really mad Prince of Denmark. The story is told that Mrs. David Garrick came to Kean and said, ‘Davy used to do a wonderful thing in the closet scene in
Hamlet,
and you don't do it. He overturned a chair when he saw the ghost.' Kean tried it; when he saw the ghost he rose, put his heel under the leg of the chair, and knocked it over. But he could never get it right. He was thinking, Is this right? Fatal! [
Overturns a chair.
] You see, you can't repeat anything. I can overturn a chair until doomsday, and I'll never do it the way Garrick did. [
Kicks over another chair.
] Would you like to try? Maybe a woman could do the gesture now. Why shouldn't Ophelia, brokenhearted, overturn a chair? Hurry up, Marina, if you want to steal this idea from me. Everything is going faster now. That's modern life. I shall never get used to it. But then I don't have to. Neither do you. I remember a theatre manager in California, when I was very young, whose idea of conducting a rehearsal was to keep calling out to the company: ‘Hurry up! This don't run smooth. More ginger! More ginger! Don't wait for cues!' I should like to see him rehearsing
Hamlet.
With
Hamlet
you have to go slowly.
O … what … a rogue … and peasant slave … am … I.
It was weakness that brought me back on the stage. After the … calamity, and given the justifiable hatred of anyone bearing the name of Booth, I had determined to abandon the stage forever. My retirement lasted less than six months. I had to make a living. Friends said I owed it to the Theatre to return. There was the imputation that I was a coward. And I did want to give people something else to think of when they heard the name Booth. I returned here, at the Winter Garden, as Hamlet. I kept everything of Johnny's until five years later. By then I'd opened my folly, my temple of theatrical art. Of course, we shall never have a national theatre, as in France, but we could have a theatre directed by a serious actor, in which artistic values would take precedence over the business point of view. Hah. You know how long Booth's Theatre lasted. Either I was an idiot at business or such an enterprise can't work in America, or both. Yes, both. [
Gathers some logs from the scuttle.
] And very late one night, with a stage carpenter I brought down to help me, I cast all Johnny's clothes, his books, his mementos, every last garment in his stage wardrobe (some of which were costumes inherited from Father) into a blazing furnace in the basement of Booth's. There were Johnny's diaries and packets and packets of letters, each in a different feminine hand, and nicely bound up in string. [
Pitches the logs into the fireplace.
] Women loved Johnny. The manner in which his head and throat rose from his shoulders was truly beautiful, and the ivory pallor of his skin, the blackness of his thick hair, the heavy lids of his glowing eyes, the fullness of his mouth … [
Stirs the fire with a poker.
] There is something Oriental about the Booths. Father boasted that we are part Jewish, his grandfather, John Booth, being a Jewish silversmith whose forebears, named Beth, had been driven out of Portugal. I should like that. It might even be true. [
Turns to face Maryna.
] Father was too short, as I am. He had bandy legs. That's his portrait over there. No, don't get up to look at it. [
Takes it off the wall, brings it to where Maryna is sitting.
] Father's lips formed a straight line, not the curve shown here. His beautiful aquiline nose was said to be his best feature, but when I was ten, still at home on the farm near Baltimore with my mother and brothers and sisters, there was a brawl with the manager of a stable in Charleston, where Father was performing. [
Rehangs the picture. Returns to the fireplace. Leans against the mantel.
] As you saw, Father's nose was broken at the bridge. William Winter places the deformity below it, toward the tip. But you know how accurate critics are. Crickets, my Edwina used to call them when she was little. ‘Don't worry about the crickets, Papa.' They're no better than the audience. Flatter the audience, despise the audience. No. You must
hate
the audience. I suppose I should be grateful for the way I was welcomed back after … 1865. I'm not. They can lick your face. They blubber and dribble … I'll wager that
East Lynne
has caused more tears than the Civil War … and then they'll take your head off. [
Spits into the fireplace.
] Do they feel what they seem to be feeling? Then they really
are
idiots. All the more reason for the actor not to worry about being sincere. I hope to be inspired from time to time. But certainly not to ‘feel' my part. What an idea! Anyway, one cannot endlessly repeat one's own heights of inspiration without being drawn to destructive gestures. Once, I managed to piss while standing in Ophelia's grave without anyone seeing except my thunderstruck Laertes. Once, when I lay dying in Horatio's arms, as he with his
Good night, sweet prince
pressed his cheek mournfully against mine, I whispered obscenities in his ear and watched him blanch. But that is what I do with men. With women I am very chivalrous and protective. [
Sits opposite Maryna and takes a cigar from the humidor on the small table beside his chair.
] Would you like to try one? Are you sure? How many have you smoked in your life? [
Lights the cigar.
] Not more than one, yes? But that's not the basis for an opinion. Everything takes getting used to, pleasures as much as griefs. [
Drops the cigar on the rug.
] No, no, don't worry. [
Jumps to his feet.
] I don't intend to set the house on fire. [
Throws the cigar into the fireplace.
] I'm feeling a little dizzy. Yes, I'll sit. [
Sits beside her.
] You're not afraid of old Ned? He's harmless, as you see. Dear old drunken Ned. [
Takes her hand.
] No danger that our late evening
tête-à-tête
might turn into a
corps-à-corps.
Ah, I've made you smile. Is it my foolish French? I am trying to impress you. You Europeans are born speaking French, isn't that so? But of course we have Shakespeare. Shakespeare makes us virtuous. His King Henry VIII says
'Tis a kind of good deed to say well.
Shakespeare could almost make me virtuous. How low I would be without him. I can always promote myself to some better plane with his words. But then I think, This seeing myself in Shakespeare has ruined Shakespeare. Shakespeare has been poisoned by me. I have killed Shakespeare. And then I think, No, you maniac, what are you saying? [
Slaps his forehead.
] It's not you, it's Shakespeare. Shakespeare is too good for us. What can the paradise of words mean to us now, to America? What use has a democracy for the beautiful and the noble in art? Nothing, nothing at all. What matters is that I have been ponderously successful. I have made lots of money, and paid it out as fast as I could in various foolish ventures, like my theatre. I have been eye-deep in the quicksand of popular favor and I have dreamt my life away. There, Marina, you have a panorama of my mind. [
Stands.
] I'm better. No, I can stand. Marina, I have a grown daughter. You have a son at university. I trust he does not want to become an actor. Don't let the talent tree flourish. Cut it down, woman. Cut it down. [
Begins to sway.
] No, I'm all right. You don't think of returning to Poland, do you? One must never go back. Never. No, no … I just need to lean against something. [
Goes to the mantel.
] Here's a topic for us! Can a woman be a great actor? And Ned opines: Not as long as she wants to be a paragon of womanliness. There is something bland, appeasing, in you, Marina. Perhaps there is in all great actresses, with the possible exception of Bernhardt, don't wince, woman, except that her efforts not to be bland seem trivially theatrical. Pet lions, for God's sake! Sleeping in a satin-lined coffin. Not that I believe she does it. But she
says
she does it. No, a great actor is turbulent, rarely affable, profoundly … angry. Where is your vein of rage, Marina? [
Picks up the poker, holds it threateningly.
] There's nothing dangerous about you, Marina. You have not accepted your catastrophe. You have toyed with it, you have bargained with it. You have sold your soul so as to be able to think, from time to time, that you are happy. Yes, sold your soul, Marina. How perceptive you are, Edwin. [
Waves the poker.
] Of course that's not what you're thinking. You feel I am attacking you. And I am. That is the right of someone who has accepted
his
catastrophe. [
Replaces the poker.
] Ah, Marina, I should teach you how to curse. It might add character to those serene features. [
Begins to pace.
] Don't be so afraid of failing, Marina. It does the soul good. Lord, what a corrupting profession we exercise. We think we are upholding the beautiful and true, and we are merely propagating vanity and lies. Oh, you think I sound verr-rree American now. Well, I
am
an American. And so are you now, O abdicated Polish queen, and if you're not careful, the old New England verities will get you, too. You won't even notice your wits have gone astray, and you've become gloomy and censorious. However, you like California, a good sign in a European. So perhaps you're exempt. I doubt if I shall ever accept your invitation to visit you at your ranch. I have not the temperament for California anymore. I need to be cooped up, contained,
citied.
Tell me about that husband of yours out there. When he turned up during our week in Missouri, you were charming with each other. [
Picks up a small photograph from the top of the desk.
] Here's another picture. Edwina's mother. Mary. My first wife was an angel. You know what an angel is: a woman who thinks only of her husband. My second wife went insane. In the last years of her miserable life she was certain I had another wife hidden somewhere, with whom I was really happy. Would that I had! My father had two wives. The one he deserted in England and our mother. [
Sets the photograph down.
] Do you like happy endings, Marina? I crusade against 'em. Yes, I do. You probably like the way
King Lear
was mangled for a hundred years in England and America, with the Fool banished, a romance between Edgar and Cordelia, and Cordelia and Lear allowed to live. One of the few things I'm proud of is that I put a stop to that. I don't like happy endings. Not at all. But only because they don't exist. [
Sits. Takes Maryna's hand.
] The last act has to be an anticlimax, don't you think? As in life. Getting old is an anticlimax. Dying is, if one is lucky, an anticlimax. Who would fault a play for not ending on its highest note?
Hamlet
cannot end with Hamlet's dying words, can it, Marina? Fortinbras must come on and detach the audience from Hamlet's pitiable fate. We may then mourn for him, if we like. Or not. [