Читать книгу The Lady of Fashion - Eric Wollencott Barnes - Страница 8

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Anna Cora had been away from America for fifteen months. When she left she was scarcely more than an adolescent, totally inexperienced in practical matters (even housekeeping) and accepting as completely natural the fact that she should be the center of a circle of admiring friends and relatives. When she sailed on the Roscius she had been very ill, hardly caring whether she lived or died. But the months abroad had wrought a great change. James’s Lily had finally grown up. She had apparently regained her health; and instead of being the pampered invalid, the object of solicitude to all around her, she had been forced to assume the responsibility for both her husband’s well-being and her own. During the agonizing months of James’s illness she had taken the initiative not only in finding proper medical attention for him, but in managing the details of their living and travels. In addition she had found time to satisfy her restless urge for creative activity, and to enjoy the gay life of Paris. The flower had opened.

Almost the first important event after the return to Melrose was the fête at which Gulzara was performed. The occasion, as for so many others in the family, was Samuel Ogden’s birthday, the 17th of October. The date had to be set back a few days until the full moon; because of the four-mile drive to Flatbush, it would have been difficult for the guests to find their way on a dark night.

Weeks before the great day the house was in a turmoil of preparation. Since the boys no longer took part in family theatricals, Gulzara had been designed for an all-female cast. Lily’s inventiveness was thoroughly equal to the problem. The action of the play takes place in the harem of Sultan Suliman (the Sultan being conveniently away from home at the time). Gulzara, the latest addition to the ménage, is the heroine of the piece, whose action centers around the jealousy of Ayesha, the Sultan’s former favorite, towards the newcomer. The only male part is that of Amurath, the Sultan’s ten-year-old son—which could be credibly performed by a girl and had been specifically written, of course, for the precocious Julia. Lily herself played the rôle of Gulzara.

There are six characters in the play. The cast for the first production, in addition to Lily and Julia, included May, Elizabeth Mowatt (James’s younger sister), Ida Yates (Lily’s niece), and an old school friend, Anna Battelle. In order to facilitate things the entire cast took up residence at Melrose for the weeks preceding the performance.

Rehearsals were conducted systematically, but not always with professional decorum. There were frequent interruptions due to uncontrollable fits of laughter over efforts to scream musically and faint gracefully. Sometimes in the more touching passages of the play the company would dissolve in tears—not simulated, as Anna Cora informs us, “but geniune outbursts of girlish feeling.”

The more violent scenes proved so alarming to the household staff of Melrose, mainly simple maids from the village of Flatbush, unused to such goings-on, that these episodes had to be rehearsed in the barn. Here the girls practiced all the modulations of screaming (a good deal of which is required in Gulzara) without attracting undue attention—or so they thought. The convenient mounds of hay enabled them to acquire more confidence and fewer bruises in their swooning. This exercise never failed to send them off into shrieks of laughter—which one day was echoed from the barn loft. Looking up, the girls beheld a circle of grinning faces surrounding the hay-chute. A group of laborers from the estate, who up to this moment had watched the rehearsal with silent respect, had been unable to restrain themselves when the fainting began.

At last the grand day arrived. The weather was perfect and the awaited moon rose in full splendor. At six o’clock, carriages began to roll up to the portico of the mansion; they bore the cream of New York society, which had been looking forward to the Mowatts’ homecoming-party as the event of the season. Twittering belles in corkscrew curls and fringed shawls were handed out of the carriages by gentlemen in yellow kid gloves and frock coats with velvet facings. Mr. Mowatt met them at the door (the continental fashion of having guests announced by a servant was just coming in, but it was considered effete by most people), and directed them up the broad staircase to leave their wraps. Everyone understood, of course, that if Anna Cora did not receive with her husband it was because she was up to something; and there was excited whispering and laughing as the guests passed each other on the stairs.

Finally everybody was assembled in the ballroom, at one end of which a stage with a regular proscenium and draw curtain had been erected. In the hall a full band, imported from the city, struck up an overture: perhaps the Turkish March from Beethoven’s Ruins of Athens, which was very popular at the moment and would have made a suitable introduction to a domestic drama involving the household of Sultan Suliman.

Then the main lights were extinguished and the footlights turned up. While there was, of course, no gas in the country, whale-oil lamps in front of specially-constructed reflectors provided ample illumination for the small stage. When the red brocaded curtains parted and the first of the Parisian settings was revealed, the audience gave a gasp of delighted astonishment. They had expected Anna Cora to do something clever—she always did; but they were not prepared for this elegant display. They not only recognized the beautiful set as professional; the hall of the Sultan’s palace looked to them, too, strikingly authentic. From the time when the ohs and ahs had died down and little Julia appeared wearing one of the handsome costumes also imported from Paris, the audience was convinced that it was being treated to something very special.

Anna Cora played Gulzara with great feeling and to continued rounds of applause; but the palm of the evening, so she herself insists, went to Julia whose performance of Amurath produced alternately floods of tears and gales of laughter. There were, of course, abundant laurels for all the others, and when the curtain at last closed—with audience and actors exhausted by their enthusiasm—everyone agreed that there had never been anything like it and that Anna Cora was undoubtedly a genius.

Gulzara was followed by a ball and then supper. When the final guest departed the moon had long since disappeared, but by that time the sun was rising and there was no danger of the horses getting off the road.

Gulzara was later published in The New World, whose associate editor, Epes Sargent, had heard of the success of the play and had solicited the manuscript. The work attracted much favorable attention from the critics—most of whom, as Anna Cora notes with disarming candor, were guests at the performance. Sargent, however, was not among these; and his introductory critique of the play gave Anna Cora particular pleasure since the writer was not personally acquainted with her:

The drama of Gulzara, or the Persian Slave, was written by a young lady lovely and accomplished. There is a unity and simplicity in its design and execution which cannot fail to give sincere pleasure. It is pervaded by rare and delicate thought; many passages are strikingly beautiful, and the impartial critic will think, with us, that the drama would do credit to a much more experienced writer.

The ball at Melrose and the production of Gulzara with its lavish scenery and costumes was the last large-scale entertainment at which the Mowatts were hosts to New York society. Within a few months of that October dawn when James and Lily had sped the last guest down the long avenue leading to the road, they too would drive down the same avenue—turning back at the gates for a final glimpse of Melrose.

Although James Mowatt had returned from Europe much improved in health, his eyes were still in such condition that he could not resume his law practice. He could read very large print for a few minutes a day, but it was out of the question to attempt to decipher handwritten legal documents. Doomed to professional inactivity, he became restless and rash.

The late 1830’s was a time in which many Americans, with less reason than James Mowatt, succumbed to the lure of easy money and plunged into speculation. This is what happened to Lily’s husband. He had begun investing heavily in New York real estate in the mid-thirties and had made large profits, at least on paper. However, the financial reforms of the last years of Jackson’s administration—which resulted in the banks’ suddenly calling in loans in order to meet their obligations to the states—had found him, like countless others, without defenses. The sudden necessity for producing hard cash, where there was only paper, was disastrous. By the fall of 1841 there was almost nothing left.

All this, of course, was completely unknown to Lily. All she understood of her husband’s finances was that money had never been lacking. Now, to be informed that there was almost no money at all left her in a state of bewilderment. But she was less bewildered than James himself. The change in his fortunes, combined with his physical affliction, plunged him into deepest melancholy. It was this fact, more than the disappearance of their wealth, that alarmed Lily. Secondly, she thought of Melrose which had meant so much to them both.

“Is there no possible means of saving this house?” she asked. James shook his head in dejection.

“None that I can imagine.”

“How long may we remain here?”

James was not certain how soon his creditors would act; but naturally, in view of the general state of things, they would not wait long. “A month perhaps—certainly not longer.”

“And where shall we go?”

“Heaven knows!” In all the six years of their married life—even in the depths of his misery in Europe—James had never spoken in such a tone of complete despair.

Lily did what she could to comfort him; and that afternoon while James was resting in his darkened room she walked up and down the long arbor behind the house. It was her favorite spot in the garden, for it had been built especially for her. Now, with the bright early autumn sunlight filtering through the heavy leaves beginning to turn yellow at the edges, and striking full on the great bunches of luscious fruit, it made her think of the Garden of Eden. Melrose had been a sort of Paradise—she realized that now as she looked out over the bright garden with the broad lawns and the woods beyond. And they must leave it, just as Adam and Eve had had to leave Eden; but certainly for different reasons! They had done nothing to deserve being thrust out into the cold world.

Lily might now have dissolved in tears at the thought of the injustice of it all, but her mind was far too busy for vain regrets. She had but to recall James’s terrible despondency when he broke the news of the disaster to realize that something must be done. She knew enough of the world to be aware that what was happening to them had happened to other people before, even before Mr. Jackson had become President; and that, dire though the circumstance might be, one could survive it.

Lily had not far to look for an example of this. Her sister Charlotte, through whom James had first found his way to the Ogden house, had passed through something similar—even worse. Her marriage to Mr. Yates had not turned out to be very happy; moreover, he had soon died leaving her penniless. She had then married M. Guillet and had gone to live in Paris. Now she was separated from her second husband and again without resources, and with five children to support! But Charlotte had managed. As a girl she had studied painting in France, and when she had gone back with M. Guillet she had continued to work, developing her gift to the point where she had taken prizes at the Paris Salon. At present she was literally supporting herself and her children with miniature-painting.

Lily took stock. What Charlotte had done, could she not also do? Were there no gracious gifts within her nature that might be used to save her husband and her home? She began systematically to review the possibilities. The two main resources for impoverished gentlewomen of the time were sewing and schoolteaching. Neither of these could Lily contemplate for long. Her sewing was like her singing: a trifle erratic, and aimed more at general effect than solid durability. And, despite James’s efforts, there were gaps in her preparation that would prove a handicap in teaching. Although she knew most of Shakespeare by heart and spoke four languages fluently, she could not parse a sentence or conjugate an irregular verb. She was at home in Greek mythology and knew something of philosophy; but the multiplication table still baffled her.

Then she thought of writing, and for a moment this opened up a real hope. Gulzara had appeared in The New World and had attracted favorable comment. Mr. Sargent, with whom she and James were now personally acquainted, had been most encouraging. But writing took so much time before it produced results; and there was an urgency in this situation which demanded that whatever she did must net quick returns. Besides, the pecuniary rewards of authorship were poor unless one had a great reputation. Most of the contributors to even such prosperous magazines as Godey’s Lady’s Book received nothing for their work except the honor of having it published. And though at any other time Lily would have been content with that, she did not see how honor would feed and shelter them just now.

Her thoughts moved naturally from Gulzara to her success in the title rôle of the play. Suddenly she stopped her pacing of the arbor walk. Here was a possibility! Discounting the fact that her audience had been largely composed of friends, there was no denying that they had been genuinely affected by her performance of the Persian Slave. Dozens of times before that, too, had she proven—always discreetly for friends, of course—her ability to act. There was her gift! But the moment she considered it seriously, this idea too had to be rejected. A career of acting, professional acting, would mean association with the theatre; and that was unthinkable. Lily had progressed beyond the stage of believing the theatre to be the abode of vice and wickedness that the Rev. Dr. Eastburn had once proclaimed it, and which most clergymen still proclaimed it. But it was not a life which a woman of gentle breeding could conceivably adopt.

The idea that the theatre itself might not welcome her with open arms to an exalted place in its midst did not cross Lily’s mind. Doubtless it would have, had she given the matter much thought, for she was already very objective about herself. At the moment she could only regret that the one means she possessed for survival was outlawed by a barrier of opinion which even a mind as ingenious as hers could not surmount.

Yet she could not wholly tear her thoughts from the idea. The longer she reflected, the more certain she felt that her greatest talent, however modest in itself, must be exploited. She had seen often enough that she had power over an audience. And there were other assets. She had a remarkable speaking voice. Her experience as a linguist and her sensitivity to the values of the spoken word had developed unusually fine enunciation. She had imagination: on more than one occasion she had completely identified herself with the character she was portraying. She also had physical charms. People said that she was beautiful, although she had her own ideas on that subject. Her figure lacked the curves prescribed by the highest fashion, and her features, which her friends thought so exquisitely aristocratic, she considered a trifle large. Her own ideal was someone like Julia: all soft roundness with rosebud mouth and a haze of golden hair. However there was no accounting for tastes, and if people enjoyed looking at her so much the better—if they were willing to pay for the pleasure.

But how could she perform as an actress without going into the theatre and hopelessly compromising her reputation? How could one act without company and scenery and—she got no further, for in a flash the solution came to her.

One of the events of that New York winter had been a series of appearances by the elder Vandenhoff, an actor famous in both England and America. Vandenhoff had filled the National Theatre night after night with his readings from Shakespeare and other poets. People had thrilled to the magnetism of his personality and the powers of his imagination as he populated an empty stage with character after character of his own creation.

Lily’s heart beat with excitement. What Vandenhoff had done she would do! It did not matter that she was young and unknown. She too had thrilled people with her readings, whole drawing-roomsful. She had seen tears wiped away when she recited “Woodman, Spare that Tree!” Even General Morris himself, who had written it, could scarcely contain his emotions when he heard her. As for her rendering of “Edward”—that left people wide-eyed with horror.

Lily jumped up from the bench where she had sunk in the midst of her meditations. Gathering up her skirts she ran with all speed to the house to tell James about her wonderful scheme. James was sitting at the tea-table, sunk in dejection, when she burst into the library. He looked up at her in alarm. She was breathless and her cheeks were flushed. He half-rose to come to her, his dim eyes staring with concern. But she pushed him back into his chair and seated herself beside him. From his solicitous inquiry it was evident that he thought something had happened to her, that their troubles had gone to her head.

Then she poured out her plan. By the time she had outlined it, the poor man was so overwhelmed that he had no strength to argue with her. He made no remark about the propriety or impropriety of what she proposed. He had, of course, no doubts as to her ability to rival Vandenhoff or anyone else who ever sought to charm the public. His only protest was the state of her health. She had always been so delicate. Could she possibly endure the strain involved in such an undertaking?

But Lily brushed this aside. In the last few moments, as the prospect of achieving something herself, of helping him, had grown in her mind, she felt an increase of power, of actual physical strength which she had never known before. Of course she could do it!

Her enthusiasm was contagious. To see his little Lily so bright, so excited, so positively happy, caused James himself to rally. He began to discuss with her the practical aspects of the matter. What sort of things would she read? Shakespeare?

Lily shook her head. She did not think Shakespeare would be wholly suitable. She was not really experienced enough for that—at least in public. Too many people would have just heard Mr. Vandenhoff, and there might be a tendency to make comparisons. She would do rather simple, appealing things. She might do selections from Scott: Marmion, or The Lady of the Lake. Scott was so terribly popular! And then she would do some short pieces (again, for one, “Woodman, Spare that Tree!”)—things with feeling. In fact there was so much talk now about American poetry, why wouldn’t it be rather a good idea to specialize in that? Most Americans were still smarting under that horrible remark of Sydney Smith’s ten years before: “Whoever reads an American book! Whoever sees an American play! ...” It would please people to have him refuted publicly—by Anna Cora Mowatt.

James approved of this. He thought it might be a good thing to consult their new friend Epes Sargent, who was himself a poet and had very refined literary tastes. James would drive into New York tomorrow and go over the whole question with Mr. Sargent. The discussion lasted until late that night, and when they at last took their candles from the mahogany table under Lily’s portrait—where they stood like footlights shining up into the face of a new star—and started up the long stairway, it was with lighter steps than in many a day.

Next morning James went to the city as planned, while Lily broke the news to May. The reaction was stronger than Lily had expected. May was horrified, and burst into a fit of weeping. She was a rather timid girl and the thought of her darling sister exposing herself on a platform before the gaze of hundreds—strangers at that—was more than she could bear.

“You cannot go through it. I am sure you cannot!” she sobbed.

“We none know what we can do until we are tried,” said Lily with a touch of severity—much more to bolster her own courage than to contradict poor May.

“What will our friends say of you if you make a public appearance?” This excruciating vision sent May off into more tears.

“What will our friends do for us in case I do not? Will they preserve to us this sweet home? Will they support us? Will they sympathize with us in our adversity?” Lily had not given this matter a thought, but as she spoke the words she realized their truth.

“But you will lose your position in society!” May knew her argument was weak, but she would clutch at any straw.

“If I fail,” said Lily matter-of-factly, “probably I shall; but I do not intend to fail. And what is that position in society worth when we are no longer able to feast and entertain? How many of those whom we feasted and entertained at our last ball will seek us out when we live in poverty and obscurity?”

Poor May could think of nothing to counter this.

“If you would only look at all the obstacles,” she said feebly.

This was all Lily needed to confirm her resolution. “No, I am looking above and beyond them, and I only see duty in their place.”

May knew that there was no help for it now. Lily had heard her voices, and though they led her to the stake—which to May would have been infinitely preferable to a hall full of staring people—she would follow them to the end.

THE ASTOR HOUSE, NEW YORK

from Meyer’s Universum, c. 1850

BROADWAY IN 1845

from Meyer’s Universum, c. 1850

“Young as my sister was,” Anna Cora recorded later, “she saw the force of my arguments, and sorrowed in silence.”

Anna Cora was neither sorrowful nor silent. During the next two weeks, for hours of the bright October days, she paced up and down the brick path under the arbor, exercising her voice on the numbers she had chosen for her program. If the housemaids and gardeners of Melrose had been amazed by the rehearsals for Gulzara, what must they have thought now as hour after hour their chatelaine promenaded under the grapevines, proclaiming in loud clear tones,

The way was long, the wind was cold,

The Minstrel was infirm and old....

What they or anyone else thought was just now of small importance to Anna Cora. She had committed herself to an unprecedented step, and if she failed it would not be for lack of effort. Meticulously she analyzed every line of every poem she would present, trying innumerable readings until she had the one she felt was right. At night in the library she would try out the results on James; and when in his judgment a stress had been misplaced, a tone was pitched too high or too low, she corrected the reading and next day under the arbor rehearsed the change.

Epes Sargent had been most helpful. He was enthusiastic about the plan. Although not present at the production of Gulzara, he had been a guest at Melrose many times since then and had witnessed often Anna Cora’s talents. He had no doubt she would enchant a wide public quite as much as the more intimate gatherings at home. He highly approved the idea of presenting largely the works of American poets, and promptly offered to assist the project with an original work of his own.

At the outset Lily had opposed the thought of making her début in New York. As she had pointed out to May, she had no illusions about the reaction of their friends. Few would come to hear her with any real interest in what she was trying to do. Some would deride her for making a shameless exhibition of herself, which was bad enough; and others would pity her because she was reduced to such an exhibition, which was even worse. Besides, even the best New York society was rather deficient culturally and could hardly be expected to appreciate a genuinely artistic performance even when they saw it, unless it was supported by a famous name and an established reputation. The place to start, Lily felt, was Boston: the Athens of America. In Boston taste was still pure, and people could recognize true merit without having it labeled in advance.

Epes Sargent concurred in this plan. He was himself a native of Boston, and he agreed that Boston people were superior to New Yorkers in their capacity for appreciating intellectual and artistic worth. Furthermore, he had a wide circle of connections there whose influence, while it might not guarantee success, would at least insure a fair hearing. Sargent was as good as his word. He not only wrote his friends, and particularly his newspaper friends, but he provided letters of introduction to a number of persons whose attention would be valuable.

On the 24th of October, 1841, the Mowatts bade farewell to Melrose. May and Lily took one last stroll through the gardens where a few late blooms brightened the fading landscape. Near the door of the greenhouse a heliotrope was still covered with blossoms. Lily gathered a sprig of the heavy-scented flowers and added it to a little bouquet of asters and chrysanthemums she had collected. It had been planted and tended by James from a spray which Lily had worn in her hair at the first ball they had given in their new home.

From the garden the girls passed on to the stables where they gave final pats to the ponies and the dogs. Then they came back to the house and walked once more through the silent rooms. May was weeping quietly, but Lily could not shed a tear. She had a feeling that she might never enter the door of Melrose again, but she accepted the idea calmly. Once again, as when she left her father’s house to run away with James, her life had taken a new turning.

There was a strange similarity in the pattern of events. As on that other October morning, her great concern was for her father’s good will. She had not told him of her plan to go out into the world and make her own way; she feared he might disapprove. And while that would not have made her change her mind, it would have weakened her confidence—and she needed that most desperately now. So once more she left the news of her decision to be given him by someone else, after she and James were gone. May, still sorrowful but resigned, was left to deal with Papa. And so the three of them, James, Lily and May, early in the morning set out in the carriage for New York. At Samuel Ogden’s house the horses paused an instant for May to step down. Then Lily and James drove quickly to the steamship landing where they took the boat for Boston.