The stage was where I yearned to be. Singing and speaking to ears that hung on every word. Standing in front of a multitude of eyes. Different shapes and colors, all hungry for the story my character would tell.  Oh! And that moment of silence at the resolution, absorbing and thoughtful, before each pair of hands would erupt in thunderous applause.

That sort of scene intimidated some, as time told, but I lived for it.

I played over seventy roles by the time I was just fifteen years of age. Of my favorite characters, Ophelia stood out. How those tragic Shakespearean souls haunted me!

“And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead;
Go to thy deathbed;
He never will come again.”

In the theater, Ophelia living and dying inside me. And not a dry eye to be found as she drowned. Poor Ophelia did nothing wrong, but so many wrongs were dealt to her.

Ophelia, and other well-known characters of tragedy, like Juliet and Desdemona, found early death in their love of a man. You would think I would have learned from them, would you not? 

But, sadly, no!  At least not enough to avoid becoming victim to one man’s careless desires and actions.

I captivated David Poe from the stage.

I remember the first time I met David like it were mere moments ago. It was after my performance as Ophelia, a role that always seemed to consume me entirely. The theater bustled with energy, but my mind was still wrapped in the tragedy of character.

“You were captivating,” a voice said behind me, pulling me out of my reverie. I turned to see a man with dark eyes and a charming grin.

“Thank you,” I replied, offering a polite smile of my own. I had, of course, seen many admirers come and go, but there was something unusual about him. An emptiness I mistook for depth.

“I couldn’t help but notice your performance,” he continued, stepping closer. “It was…mesmerizing.”

I felt a flush rise to my cheeks. “You flatter me, sir.”

“David Poe,” he said, extending a hand.

“Elizabeth Arnold,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Eliza is how I am known.”

Little did I know this encounter would change the course of my life forever.

Like the North Star, mesmerized by my luminosity, he joined my acting troupe. Better it would have been if he had continued with his law aspirations, although that too may have unveiled his intrinsic aversion to public speaking.  Stage fright, or what have you, led to bad reviews and ridicule. My star shone, while his died before ever sparking, perhaps cracking that fragile shell of manly pride.

With the birth of my dear sons, William and Edgar, money became tight and added more pressure to our lives, already simmering intense waters. While I rose to chief singing actress, David sunk to the bottom of a whiskey bottle of oblivion.  As much as I tried to hide the reviews that mocked and criticized, he managed to discover them. Often, his temper was taken out on me and the children. He, hardly the man I once imagined him to be, soon abandoned both his family and the stage. Although that was no great surprise, the arrival of our daughter Rosalie was. And the deteriorating illness that followed, as I labored on, was an absolute astonishment. 

That stage, my true home, became stained with the blood I could not stop coughing up.  I pressed on alone, caring for my children for as long as I could. But even with my perseverance and the kindness of strangers, I died in that boarding house room with my three infant children surrounding me.  Their faces, so sweet and sad, plague me still.  David got his due justice shortly thereafter. Then, the children, the dear children, were the ones who had to tolerate a life without parents.

Edgar, my orphaned Edgar, in particular, suffered greatly. He held on to that little watercolor of Boston Harbor that I inscribed to him. He held it close to his heart. 

“For my little son Edgar, who should ever love Boston, the place of his birth, and where his mother found her best and most sympathetic friends.”

I continue in the memories of those who witnessed my stage performances. And I live on in the echoing caverns of Edgar’s works. But his want of parental affection, the heaviest of his trials, is much of my legacy.

Edgar, such a talent, but without an actual recollection of his true mother.

Who really knew me, this stranger, at all?