Skinner-Street, February 27th, 1817

Sir:

I witnessed your performances of Richard and Iago, and you may, perhaps, not be displeased with receiving a few hints and remarks from a person of old experience in matters of literature and taste.

With your Richard, I was not altogether satisfied. You got through it with much bustle, activity, and energy, and were rewarded with almost unexampled applause; but it appeared to me a representation rather of promise, than of that full conception and meditation, I long for in a performer. Your Iago struck me very differently: I mean in the third act of the play for the rest was not excellent. I have seen Garrick, and most of the eminent performers of the last age. But I confessed that that evening I saw something new . . . your tones of insinuation, in particular, when it was your part to infuse the poison of jealousy into Othello, were so true that, by my faith . . . I immediately became impressed with the persuasion, This Booth will make a real actor. I set down these things because, as you are a very young man, they may be of use to you . . .

I am Sir, your obedient Servant,

William Godwin

—

As well as helping with the manuscript, John has begun to prepare for his own life on the stage. He’s set himself the task of memorizing Shakespeare’s plays and Cibber’s adaptations. A slow study, he repeats the speeches so often that, passing by on their own business, one or another of the little Hall children will stop to supply the word he missed, the line he needs. The whole farm speaks in iambic pentameter.

Asia doesn’t say so, but she worries that he lacks some essential understanding of the text, something that came quite naturally to Edwin, even as a young boy. John has a beautiful voice, but whether his emphases and inflections are right or wrong, neither he nor Asia can tell. He needs a teacher such as he imagines Father was to Edwin.

Even his physical gifts cause him concern. He worries that he’s too solid and square for the quicksilver Romeo, too jerky and stiff for the graceful Hamlet. One day, he comes to Asia’s bedroom. The sun is coming through the window, but pale and wan. Asia’s at the little desk, writing letters, her fingers stiff with cold. John amuses himself by putting on her petticoat, her shawl. He stands in front of the mirror. He says, “ ‘The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now?’ ”

Asia turns around in her seat. He holds out his hands to her imploringly. “ ‘What, will these hands ne’er be clean? Here’s the smell of the blood still . . .’ ”

He pauses and Asia supplies the prompt. “ ‘All the perfumes of Arabia . . .’ ”

“ ‘All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,’ ” he says. “Don’t I make a lovely Lady Macbeth?”