Peter and The Belle of Amherst

I like a look of agony,
Because I know it’s true;
Men do not sham convulsion
Nor simulate a throe. — Emily Dickinson

It’s not often that Peter comes face to face with the splendor of 19th century American genius. But this July I dragged him to a local production of The Belle of Amherst, staged at Centennial Hall on Harpswell Neck. I’ll start by saying that Marion Jeffery gave a remarkable and moving performance as the annoying Emily Dickinson. Emily must have been a finalist in the crazy maiden aunt category—twitchy, nervous and jerky, self conscious of her talent, yet without the imagination or nerve of the Brontë sisters who managed to get themselves published. (Of course, the demand for bodice ripper novels outstripped the call for obscure poetry—even then. The Bronte’s were producing the 19th century equivalents of The Delta of Venus. Who knew what to make of Emily’s precious squibs?) Anyway, one-woman shows always require the star to hold prolonged one-sided conversations with invisible people and to go through exaggerated pantomimes of waving out imaginary windows, drying imaginary dishes and worse. The Belle of Amherst is no exception.

The last time Peter came face to face with a formidable American Master was in 1979 when I dragged him to a showing of The Europeans at the Paris theatre on West 58th Street. This was a gorgeous Merchant-Ivory production of the Henry James novel, replete with lavish period costumes and luscious photography of New England filmed through a golden autumn haze. Lee Remick was exquisitely turned out: richly ruched, ribboned and corseted in ivory silk and lace. If it weren’t for the absence of indoor plumbing, modern dentistry and antibiotics, her wardrobe would have been enough to make me wish I were living in the period. But gorgeous dresses aside, one must have a taste for Henry James—which amounts to savoring the sound and quality of one’s own saliva being rolled around in one’s very own mouth. There are lots of long, meaningful gazes, laden with heavy meaningful emotions. The world is filled with slight gestures of the wrist and twitches at the corners of one’s mouth that conjure up entire lives of meaningful consciousness. Indescribably beautiful shafts of sunlight and the very dust motes floating in them are moments meant for eternity… I couldn’t live with that much endless subtlety. But it is a lovely place to pause and appreciate the endlessly examined life—if only for a short time. A very short time. After that, I want to stop rolling the saliva around in my mouth, swallow it and get on with the rest of my life. Peter’s tolerance for this kind of preciousness is considerably lower than mine. He spent the first half of the movie alternately smoking, squirming and sleeping. I woke him, thinking he wouldn’t want to miss another minute of Lee Remick’s costume changes. To my utter shock, he expressed deep annoyance and stomped out of the theater. I think he walked around the corner to the Oak Room to drown out the horror of what he had just endured. Too much, too slow, too subtle for his robust appreciation of life, art and adventure novels. If there is anything Henry James lacks, it is explosions and violence.

Since The Europeans, I’ve kept Peter away from 19th century American geniuses until The Belle of Amherst beckoned. I’ll hazard that the temperature was still in the mid-80’s in time for the 7:30 PM curtain, and Centennial Hall’s AC is functional, but fragile. To the credit of its AC, the Hall was actually comfortable throughout the performance. Emily had to e-nun-ci-ate until her cheeks ached to be heard over the whoosh of the AC, but she did an admirable job of it.

This was my first exposure to the production, as well as Peter’s, so I didn’t know what to expect. I was hoping for more biography and less poetry, but it is what it is. And Peter, to his credit, was polite and attentive. He had no choice but to be so. If he so much as cocked his eyebrow in impatience in this tiny, one-room theater, Emily could have seen him, come down from the stage and slapped him for being rude. He had ample time to count the number of people in the audience (40) and to note that there were all of three men in attendance. The rest were women in varying stages of menopausal decay and worse. (This reminded me of my last high school reunion, when I demanded to know who are these old people? Oh that’s right, they are us.)

At intermission, Emily went backstage to rest her aching cheeks, and we stepped outside into the mosquito-filled evening air, where the gnats proceeded to swarm Peter. Usually they go for me, and so I’ve foresworn Nine Ricci and Chanel when in the country. But on this evening, Peter was their preferred meal. He stood there, swatting at the gnats and mosquitoes and sweating in the heat. Couple that with the discomfort of tiny, folding chairs set up for the occasion of The Belle’s performance, and he was just about done in. I took pity on his many complaints and returned to watch the second act alone. The air conditioning was still feebly chugging away and Emily was still heroically enunciating over its drone.

Peter went home to walk the dog and then returned to pick me up at the show’s conclusion. When he asked what he had missed, I gave him the same answer I did when his aching knees kept him from sitting through the second act of Copenhagen: If you’ve seen the first act, you’ve seen the second.