He thinks they’ll spend many winters here. He thinks this is a house that they’ll return to over the years. A good place for Edwina and her brothers and her sisters to grow. Better than New York City.
To Mary it’s just a place to be lonely. Edwin’s engagements often take him away.
In order to diagnose Mary, Dr. Miller must perform the very examination she’d hoped to avoid. He takes a good, long, painful look inside. Then he goes to find Edwin, standing by the parlor fire, smoking his pipe. Dr. Miller is encouraging. He tells Edwin that Mary’s condition is serious, but not dangerous. Edwin’s been telling himself that Mary will, of course, recover, but how wonderful to hear it confirmed. He’s surprised by the physicality of his relief. His legs give way and he must sit down, but maybe he doesn’t even need legs. He’s so light with joy that he’s floating.
“I’ll return her to you in the glow of health in six months’ time,” Dr. Miller promises. “If she does exactly what she’s told.”
Edwin is about to leave for another run in New York. Mary will rest here and recover, well cared for by Dr. Miller. And Edwin can drink unimpeded. It works for everyone.
Dr. Miller’s prescription is for absolute rest. No outings, no visitors. Even Mary’s time with Edwina is strictly limited. The boredom cure. A good time to learn Sanskrit, one of her friends says jokingly.
There are other aspects to Dr. Miller’s treatment that leave Mary in tears after every visit and make her dread the next one. She never tells Edwin what’s being done to her and he never asks.
* * *
—
Whenever he visits, he can see how very dull her life is. It’s not like Mary to complain, but rather than improve, she seems to him to be wilting. When John comes to town, Edwin takes her to the theater against her doctor’s orders. What Dr. Miller doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
John is playing the villainous Duke Pescara in The Apostate.
O Fortune,
Thy smile still follows me, and each event
Swells the deep rush of Fate, in whose swift tide
I’ll plunge the man I loathe.
It all seems quite normal, to be sitting with Mary in the dark, the sound of the audience shifting about them, a cough or two from the boxes, or the silence of the audience spellbound. As he watches, he takes her hand, wonders what her sharp mind will see in John’s performance.
Edwin himself is impressed. A few rough edges, he thinks, but he’ll make his mark. He’s worth a dozen polished, bloodless players. John is full of the true grit.
Mary doesn’t disagree, but she adds that John still has much to learn and more to unlearn. This is just the outcome Edwin would have chosen, for John to be good, but not as good as Edwin.
John’s career is flourishing. He’s using his full name now, and his playbills say, “I Have no Brother. I am no Brother. I am Myself Alone.”
His audience is rougher than Edwin’s, his reviews more mixed, though mostly good. Where he really excels is swordplay. He can fight right-and left-handed. He can make it so real he frightens his fellow players. There are some who buy tickets just to see him do that. Others come for his handsome face. Managers have taken to appearing onstage before his appearances to plead with the ladies in attendance to act like ladies. On leaving the theater, John’s had gloves ripped from his hands, buttons from his coat, hair from his head. Notes with unladylike offers arrive daily in his dressing rooms.
He’s making great sums of money. It’s not clear where it’s all going.
* * *
—
Whenever he’s alone in New York, Edwin drinks. His friends are increasingly concerned. In February, at their insistence, he moves in with the Stoddards. Richard puts together a team to watch over him, a schedule so that he’s never left alone. Within a day, Edwin sees what they’re up to. They don’t know with whom they’re dealing!
Edwin’s been trained to give people the slip, trained at his father’s knee.
Richard reasons, remonstrates, pleads, and threatens. He takes hold of Edwin, but just say the word poet and the picture that comes into your mind will be Richard Stoddard. He’s a fragile, ethereal man. Edwin’s no head-knocker, but he can best Richard Stoddard.
He shakes loose and goes on a bender. By the time Richard finds him again, several hours later, he can hardly stand and it takes two men to lift him into the carriage. He’s dimly aware of a crowd of people watching. He tries to throw Richard off, but liquor has leveled the playing field. It makes Edwin furious, because who asked? Who asked for Richard to involve himself?
Attempts are made to sober him up for his performance—coffee inside, cold water out. He stumbles through Hamlet. One critic says: “It is to be regretted that in his present weak and nervous state he should attempt to act at all.” The disappointing performance is politely blamed on ill health.
* * *
—
February 19th: A telegram arrives from Orlando Thompkins, a family friend and manager of the Boston Museum theater. It says that Mary is improving steadily.
Another telegram, later that night: Mary continues comfortable. Dr. M says there is no need for you to come.
Edwin has passed out in his bed at the Stoddards’。 He wakes in the dark with a strange fancy. Someone has just blown a puff of air on his right cheek and then another on his left. Ghost kisses, he thinks. He rises onto one elbow, but he’s still not sober. The room revolves around him, the furniture moving past, tipping and whirling like a carousel. He hears a woman’s voice, soft but distinct and full of desperation. “Come to me, darling,” she says, “I am almost frozen.”
By morning, he remembers this only dimly. A strange dream, he thinks. He can’t quite call it to mind. It hovers at the edge of memory, but will come back to him fully later.
February 20th: Mary no worse. Dr. M says you should come tomorrow, arriving in the afternoon. Stay on through Sunday.
Edwin prepares to cancel his Saturday performance. But then doesn’t, because a second telegram arrives. Mary doing better. No need to worry.
He’s already on his fourth bottle of porter in anticipation of a dry weekend. That seems to have been unnecessary, but what’s done is done. He’ll see Mary soon, and he’ll stop drinking then. He hasn’t forgotten his promises. This is just one final indulgence.
More telegrams arrive while Edwin is onstage playing a boozy Richard III.
Half of them express an urgency. Mr. Booth must come at once.
The other half reassure Edwin that Mary is improving and there is no need for alarm.
These aren’t given to Edwin until the play has ended. By then, he’s missed the last train of the evening. He and Richard leave at eight the next morning. The train moves slowly, makes many stops. Whenever Edwin looks out he sees an apparition of Mary in her shroud, floating over the snowy towns and fields. Eight in the morning is almost exactly the time that Mary dies.
In Mary’s last letter to Edwin, she writes of going to watch John and finding him more melodramatic than before. His great drawback, she says, is that he cannot transform. Her final words to Edwin are these:
The snow is falling beautifully to day: & the sleigh-ride you will miss. Babe talks of Papa—kisses his picture—& cries in her pretty half complaining style . . .