Forgive me for addressing you in such a familiar manner. I feel certain that when you read my words, you will understand, and not consider it impertinence. Last night as I heard your clear voice from the stage, my eyes filled with bitter tears. I have always yearned for such a gift as you possess. From the time I was a child, I longed to be an actress.
Mademoiselle, I joined the waiting throng of admirers outside your dressing room after the lights dimmed. I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps I only wished to see you close at hand instead of from afar. Imagine my surprise and delight when you, surrounded by men throwing flowers at your feet, caught my eye and smiled. I was not able to draw any closer because of the great press of the crowd, but I heard your voice. This is what brought even greater joy to my heart and caused me to write this letter.
I learned your secret. You, the great stage actress, speak with a stammer, as do I. What joy filled my heart! Late as the hour was, I returned home and penned this letter to you. Thank you, my dear friend, for I will always consider you such! You have made me realize that my own foolish dreams are not as foolish as I may have thought. My speech difficulty does not mean that I may not obtain what I truly desire: to recite upon the stage.
I will never forget what you have done for me this night.
Fondest regards,
Adeline Bernier
My eyes sting when I read the words “stammer.” Marguerite stuttered. Before I finish the letter, my face crumples. Something way down inside me twists and tears. It fights its way out and I’m surprised by the sound that escapes my lips. It’s not a wail or a sob. It’s harsh and deep. A groan. No, a growl.
“Don’t be stupid,” I mumble to myself, gasping for air when I’m able to finally open my eyes. A tiny breeze rustles the papers I’ve spread out around me on the cracked tiles of my little rooftop garden. Marguerite’s letters rustle in the blowing air, making soft whispering noises. It’s like they’ve been silent too long and want to be heard. The nineteenth century fan mail is written in a few languages I recognize and many I don’t.
I pace. Dirt and dry leaves crunch under my feet. I sit on the little wall at the edge of the roof and stare out over the jumble of weathered buildings that surround me. I’ve never noticed how run-down this place is. It’s ugly. The people on the sidewalks below scurry by, unaware that I’m watching. They’re all normal. I hate them. As much as I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter that Marguerite wasn’t like me, I still feel that pathetic hope lying all crumpled and dead inside me and it hurts.
Rosemary? Are you there?
Ignoring my mom’s text, I start dropping handfuls of potting soil down onto the people who walk by. The dirt scatters and nobody notices. I try gravel. There! Bull’s-eye!
Rosemary? I need to talk to you.
Ducking down out of sight, I smile as I listen to the shouts from four stories below. I’ll wait a few minutes and find a new target. I toy with my phone but don’t answer. I don’t feel like it.
So Marguerite stuttered. I should have known. Someone who stutters can still be an actor, or a singer. Something in their brains lets them do it. When they say something on their own, they stutter. But when they pretend to be someone else, and when they sing, they’re fine. They have an escape. A time when they can be normal. They’re not like me. I can never speak perfectly. I don’t stutter sounds or words, I slaughter them.
Someone is coming. It’s time for me to leave.
When I begin to gather the letters back together, one of them catches my eye. It was written in English and is signed, “With sincere disgust.” Letting the other papers fall to the tiles, I read with wide eyes.
My Dear Mademoiselle,
How is it that you can consider yourself an actress? After seeing tonight’s performance, I am convinced of two things. First: it is obvious that you walk upon the stage thanks to your pretty face and form, not to your so-called ability to perform as an actress. Second: anyone who encourages you to think otherwise should be summarily examined by a licensed medical professional to determine if he is safe to remain in society, since he obviously suffers from some sort of delusion. Your diction was clumsy and confusing, rendering your performance unbearable. If you desire a life in the theatre, Mademoiselle, I suggest that you apply to your local theatre as a cleaning woman. Your talents are much more suited to sweeping up after those rare individuals who truly belong on the stage.
With sincere disgust,
Henry B. Billingsley
Why would Marguerite keep this letter? This man said that her “diction,” which I guess means her way of talking, was clumsy and confusing. Did she stutter on the stage?