Father begins the arduous task of standing up. “The hour grows late,” he says although late is long over and early has come round again.
One of the younger men fetches Father his coat. “Edmund Kean’s son Charles is also a fine actor,” he says. “Which of your sons will take up your mantle, Mr. Booth?”
A long moment passes. Father says nothing, but after he puts his arm through the sleeve of his coat, his hand lands on Edwin’s shoulder. If Edmund Kean has a son who acts, then by God, Junius Brutus Booth will have the same.
* * *
—
Edwin and his father walk back to their hotel together. The night has turned chilly. The streets are mostly deserted, the lamps dark, the moon down, the birds silent in the trees, the crickets silent in the grass. Edwin is so tired that walking is an effort, but so giddy with Father’s sudden approval, he thinks he’ll never be able to sleep. He shivers, which might be the cold and might be excitement. Father’s hand rests again on his shoulder, but this is just to stay upright. Edwin notices for the first time that he’s grown taller than his father.
Father seems to be regretting his earlier criticism of Kean. He tells Edwin now that no human being could equal Kean for the expression of jealousy or despair. Then he says that Edwin is to take the role of Tressel when Father next plays Richard III. Not the bit-part/no-lines Tressel that Shakespeare wrote—no, they are performing Colley Cibber’s adaptation, which everyone in America so prefers, being considerably shorter and bloodier. In Cibber’s version, the princes are murdered right there on the stage.
In Cibber’s version, Tressel comes from the battle at Tewkesbury to tell King Henry, in several long, impassioned speeches, how his son has been killed at the hands of crooked Richard, Clarence, and the rest. Edwin only prays that his father will remember this offer come morning.
Later, in a letter home, Edwin will say that the actor meant to play the part was also the prompter and, finding his dual roles too demanding, he asked Edwin at the last minute to take his place. In this telling, his father knows nothing about it until Edwin visits his dressing room, already in costume and paint. This is a story that will collect details over the years the way a room collects dust.
The truth is that Father is not bringing in the audiences he once did. Despite Edwin’s efforts, his father often performs drunk, which sometimes angers the audience so much they get up and leave—a shame, as Father usually sobers and improves as the play proceeds.
So casting Edwin is a novelty act—the son debuting on the same stage as his famous father. It’s hoped this gambit will increase ticket sales.
But one can only debut once. “How did you do?” his father asks when Edwin returns to the dressing room.
“Well, I think,” Edwin says.
Few in the audience agree. His performance was said to be lacking in emotion and understanding. Also nearly inaudible.
* * *
—
Over the next year, Edwin appears onstage only seven more times but the roles he’s given grow in length and importance. He begins to play the handsome young men—Cassio in Othello, Wilford in The Iron Chest, Laertes in Hamlet. Women in the street no longer tell him to go home to his mother. Now they tell him to come inside.
Sometime during this period, in pursuit of dreamless sleep, Edwin begins to drink.
Lincoln: Fathers and Sons
Eat, Mary, for we must live.
—Abraham Lincoln, February 1850
In February of 1850, little Edward Baker Lincoln, the second son of Abraham and Mary Lincoln, dies of pulmonary tuberculosis just short of his fourth birthday. He has been gravely ill for months. “We miss him very much,” Lincoln writes in agonized understatement.
A third son, William Wallace, is born in December of the same year. Less than a month later, in January of 1851, Lincoln’s father dies. Since leaving the family home at the age of twenty-one, Lincoln has mostly heard from his father only when money is needed. His primary interaction has been to grudgingly provide it. Now he receives three letters in rapid succession informing him that death is imminent. He only responds to the third when chastised for his silence. He writes to his stepbrother: “Say to him that if we could meet now, it is doubtful whether it would not be more painful than pleasant.” He encourages his father to think of the joyful reunion he will soon have with those who’ve gone before.
He does not attend the funeral.
* * *
xiv
1851 is a busy year for the Booth family.
In January, in Boston, Father makes the papers again for one of his mad freaks and Edwin is helpless to prevent it. Father has awakened in an agitated state and by the time the evening show begins, Edwin is already exhausted. The play is, once again, Richard III, and Father performs with competence, but sometime during the final act he completely loses his wits. Exiting the stage, he finds his way blocked by a young woman named Hannah Crouse. Crouse is an extremely large girl, circus large, and makes a living exhibiting herself. She’s come to the theater to see the genius of Junius Booth.
Encountering her in the stairwell, Father believes she’s an apparition. He jabs her with Richard’s sword to confirm this. When she screams, he attacks, calling her a demon, shouting for her to defend herself. It takes two stagehands to restrain him, which happens, fortunately, before real damage can be done to the terrified girl. Edwin is sent the next day with an apology and an invitation to another show. Crouse accepts neither.
The papers love everything about this story. It’s reported locally and picked up nationally, Crouse’s Christian name inadvertently becoming Anna in the telling. Edwin thinks that Mother will be mortified, but Mother has her own problems. In Baltimore, the local papers have finally taken notice of Adelaide Booth.
* * *
—
In February, Adelaide files for divorce, accusing Junius of a twenty-nine-year habit of adulterous intercourse. To the disgraceful act of desertion, she writes, he added the insult of a large number of illegitimate children whom he persists in supporting.
Father is shocked when he learns she’s gone through with this. He’d thought the princely sum already paid her had settled things. He’s been largely able to ignore Adelaide. Few bring up his bigamy to his face. Edwin, too, has been traveling inside that courteous bubble, unaware that those at home have been less lucky.
In Baltimore, Adelaide’s harassment had continued unabated. The illegitimacy of the Booth children is now a published fact along with “the dissoluteness of the father and the shame of the mother.” Mother takes the abuse stoically, moving quietly on whenever and wherever Adelaide appears.
But on the streets, in the neighborhoods, at his school, Johnny defends them all with his fists. He could use Edwin’s help, but Edwin is off larking about with Father and wouldn’t be any good in a fight even if he were home.
This also happens in February: June’s wife, Clementina DeBar, the dancer and comedienne, has June and a seventeen-year-old actress named Harriet Mace arrested as they leave the theater. They are accused of the crime of “being entirely too familiar.” June is charged with adultery, Harriet with fornication. June’s bail is four hundred dollars. Harriet’s is fifty. No one in the family speaks of it. They remain on good terms with Clementina, who comes to call whenever she’s in the area.