Mary Anderson
Farrar, J. M.
English
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Mary Anderson
by J. M. Farrar, M.A.
1885.
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Long Branch, one of America’s most famous watering-places,in midsummer, its softly-wooded hills dotted here and there withpicturesque “frame” villas of dazzling white, and belowthe purple Atlantic sweeping in restlessly on to the New Jerseyshore. The sultry day has been one of summer storm, and the wavesare tipped still with crests of snowy foam, though now the sun issinking peacefully to rest amid banks of cloud, aflame with roseand violet and gold.
About a mile back from the shore stands a rambling country houseembosomed in a small park a few acres in extent, and immediatelysurrounding it masses of the magnificent shrub known as Rose ofSharon, in full bloom, in which the walls of snowy white, withtheir windows gleaming in the sunlight, seem set as in a bed ofcolor. The air is full of perfume. The scent of flower and treerises gratefully from the rain-laden earth. The birds make the airmusical with song; and here and there in the neighboring wood, thepretty brown squirrels spring from branch to branch, and dash downwith their gambols the rain drops in a diamond spray. A broadveranda covered with luxuriant honeysuckle and clematis stretchesalong the eastern front of the house, and the wide bay window,thrown open just now to the summer wind, seems framed in flowers.As we approach nearer, the deep, rich notes of an organ strike uponthe ear. Some one, with seeming unconsciousness, is producing asweet passionate music, which changes momentarily with theplayer’s passing mood. We pause an instant and look into theroom. Here is a picture which might be called “a dream offair women.” Seated at the organ in the subdued light is ayoung woman of a strange, almost startling beauty. Her gracefulfigure clad in a simple black robe, unrelieved by a singleornament, is slight, and almost girlish, though there is a roundedfullness in its line which betrays that womanhood has been reached.A small classic head carried with easy grace; finely chiseledfeatures; full, deep, gray eyes; and crowning all a wealth ofauburn hair, from which peeps, as she turns, a pink, shell-likeear; these complete a picture which seems to belong to anotherclime and another age, and lives hardly but on the canvas ofTitian. We are almost sorry to enter the room and break the spell.Mary Anderson’s manner as she starts up from the organ with alight elastic spring to greet her visitors is singularly graciousand winning. There is a frank fearlessness in the beautifulspeaking eyes so full of poetry and soul, a mingled tenderness anddecision in the mouth, with an utter absence of thatself-consciousness and coquetry which often mar the charm of eventhe most beautiful face. This is the artist’s study to whichshe flies back gladly, now and then, for a few weeks’ restand relaxation from the exacting life of a strolling player, whosedays are spent wandering in pursuit of her profession over the vastcontinent which stretches from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Hereshe may be found often busy with her part when the faint rosebegins to steal over the tree tops at early dawn; or sometimes whenthe world is asleep, and the only sounds are the wind, as it sighsmournfully through the neighboring wood, or the far-off murmur ofthe Atlantic waves as they dash sullenly upon the beach. On a stillsummer’s night she will wander sometimes, a fair Rosalind,such as Shakespeare would have loved, in the neighboring grove, andwake its silent echoes as she recites the Great Master’slines; or she will stand upon the flower-clad veranda, under themoonlight, her hair stirred softly by the summer wind, and itbecomes to her the balcony from which Juliet murmurs the story ofher love to a ghostly Romeo beneath.
A large English deerhound, who was dozing at her feet when weentered the room, starts up with his mistress, and after a lazystretch seems to ask to join in the welcome. Mary Anderson explainsthat he is an old favorite, dear from his resemblance to a houndwhich figures in some of the portraits of Mary Queen of Scots. He
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