She writes:

There is no solidity in love, no truth in friendship, no steadiness in marital faith . . . Those who have passed through such an ordeal—if there are any such—

. . . they never relearn to trust in human nature, they never resume their old place in the world, and they forget only in death.

vii

Edwin’s determination to leave the stage wanes. First he vows never to return. Then his retirement must last at least a year. Then, nine months later, in January of 1866, he appears at the Winter Garden as Hamlet again.

He has too many people to support and too little to do to relieve his mind. No one can promise him safety. The letters still come. They will come for years.

I am carrying a bullet for you.

Your life is forfeit.

We hate the very name Booth.

Your next performance will be a tragedy.

At least one local paper is outraged. “The blood of our martyred President is not yet dry . . . still a Booth is advertised to appear!”

Once again crowds are gathered in the street before the theater opens. Some are supporters of Edwin, but many are not. The police anticipate violence and are on hand in numbers to prevent it. Some without tickets manage to force their way as far as the lobby before they’re ejected.

The play begins. From his dressing room, Edwin Booth knows when the ghost has made his entrance. Marcellus: Peace, break thee off! Look where it comes again. And then Bernardo: In the same figure like the King that’s dead. Edwin can’t actually hear the words. He knows the lines from their stress and inflections. He knows the moment of them. He knows exactly how much time remains until he takes his place for the second scene.

Edwin leans into the mirror to stare past his own painted face into the space behind him. On the wall to the right of the small dressing-table mirror is a coat rack, so overwhelmed with hats and capes that it looms over the room, casting the shadow of a very large man. Swords of all sorts lie on the tabletops, boots on the floor, doublets and waistbands on the chairs.

A knock at the door. His old friend, dear Old Spudge, has come to beg Edwin to reconsider. What is out there, he says, what is waiting for you is not an audience so much as a mob. Yet Edwin can’t hear them at all. It seems they sit in a complete, uncanny silence.

No one in his family dared to come. His daughter, Edwina, arriving home under police escort, is now safe in her bed, unaware that this Hamlet is different from any other. He’s called for the second scene, but finds he can’t make his legs move.

Now he can hear the audience, stamping their feet, impatient at the delay. William Stuart knocks a second, a third time. “Ned? We’re waiting.”