Sometimes, while standing backstage waiting for her turn, Ilse Burnley thought wistfully of Blair Water, and of Emily, who wrote her letters to her at varying addresses, with relative regularity. Her years at Montreal had been interesting, and with some amusement Ilse had noticed that the girls who focused on being an elocutionists more often than not were mixed with second rate actresses, as a rule. The public always saw her appearance first, her golden hair, impish large golden brown eyes, her vivid, living charm, and madcap vividness of her Burnley temperament, which was rarely unleashed, because Ilse channeled her childhood emotional explosions, their ferocity, and their charge into her art. Her voice, nowadays, was a trained, controlled instrument, whose every syllable, pause and wave was carefully thought out.
The air smelled lightly of dried flowers, gas lanterns and greasepaint and seasonal perfumes, which were always changing. Ilse stretched and ran her lines in her mind once more, thinking about different emphases. The previous act ended and the breathless performers slipped past her, and nodded to her benevolently, and cheerfully, as whispers, "Break a leg sparkling Ilse" were the norm, to which she met with small smiles.
Ilse turned, and straightened her neck, feeling her nerves tighten and a soft, intoxicating thrill momentarily tighten her throat as she stepped onto the lit, worn stage amid the flurry of clapping in the glow of the electric lights.
Afterwards, face stiff from smiling and ankles sore from standing, in shoes whose french heels were dressy but high, and almost dizzy from the weight of the flowers, Ilse tiredly walked to her rented room.
And as always on opening nights there was a flower delivery - from Ted. The cream-colored card was simple, and upon opening it, Ilse's tired expression brightened a little. Ted's handwriting was straight and clear, and he had written.
Ilse, conquer them!
We've both come a long way of those far-gone innocent Blair Water days, have we not?
Ps. I'm completely caught up in my upcoming exhibition, it opens in about a week, otherwise I would have come to the back room with flowers - were your favorite flowers still tiger lilies?
F.K.
Ilse looked around the narrow rented room where her luggage was haphazardly piled up, and tiredly she wiped off her face paint. With a slight start, Ilse found that she no longer remembered what city she was in, whether she had been in Regina or Moncton earlier today, as it all bled into mush, occasions, tours, all events, where red-faced men flattered her, and tried to touch her, and skillfully Ilse evaded them when possible. Montreal and Quebec were bright, as was PEI, as it meant Blair Water and Emily.
Ilse opened the drawer of her dressing table, and took out a large box, its contents overflowing, reviews, packets of hairpins, and crushed flowers, a few earrings and an empty perfume bottle, and a bunch of letters from Emily.
Ilse carelessly threw her legs in their silk stockings over the back of the chair and began to read, all the while combing her hair carelessly open, it flowed like golden curly silk to her shoulders and back.
Dear Ilse.
Here, New Moon's garden is in a rather depressing condition, it is being drenched by late autumn rains, and there is hardly any light. But I have fortunately attained a few moments of success, in spite of the three o'clock feeling which has tormented me, and you too, so I understood from your last letter. Tour life seems colorful, no matter what people and personalities you meet every day.
I re-read Maria Baškirtseva's diaries, in french translations naturellement, and I even got hold of a few articles that caused a stir in her time, which she had written under the pseudonym - Pauline Orrel, for the feminist magazine La Citoyenne. When Aunt Elizabeth glanced at what I was reading, she looked at me almost with Murray's gaze, but it is no longer effective, as I can do it myself—and better, though it is slanderous to write so, but I have always been honest with you, my dearest Ilse.
Now for some sad news. We received word about a week ago that Great Aunt Nancy Murray Priest has passed away. The reading of her will will be exciting, I think. Aunt Laura was her usual tearful self, as the notice had come.
When you know where you're going next, send me your address. And good luck with your upcoming opening night. I think you will be brilliant, as you were that even in our Shrewsbury days.
E.B.S.
And as always, Emily's clear prose chased away the sudden feeling of restlessness, of ache, for which Ilse didn't have a proper name.
Sighing lightly, Ilse carelessly placed Emily's open letter on top of the others and glanced in the mirror. Ilse in the mirror looked pale and haggard, her usually mobile features stilled and wan, all liveliness leeched out of her eyes. Ilse pointed her tongue at her reflection, impishly.
From downstairs, there was drunken laughter and singing, and hearing it, Ilse decidedly put a chair in front of the door, just in case. With a light gesture, she grabbed the underlined manuscript and glanced at a few pages - and before she knew it, it was morning again.
Her shoulders were stiff, as she had slept curled in a ball in front of her vanity table.
The grayish light made the room even shabbier than it had been earlier in the dark half-darkness of the evening. And in despair, Ilse looked around, and her eyes fell on Ted's card again - it felt like salvation, of sorts.
A/N:
Maria Baškirtseva 1858 -1884 was a Russian diarist, painter and sculptor born in Ukraine.
Her diaries critically examines women's agency and the bourgeoisie of her time. L.M.M. refers to Baškirtseva's as one of the inspirations for Emily in Emily's Quest (1927)