1. Sally SALLY S ally Campbell''s shoes are fashionable but extremely flimsy. She ordered them from Curtis Fairchild''s specifically for Richmond''s winter season, but now she feels like a fool for thinking she could get away with wearing them on the half-mile walk from her brother-in-law''s house to the theater. The shoes, which are made of silk and lined with linen, are as pretty as they come, but they are no match for the terrain. It''s been so cold that the earth is frozen solid, which means that every bulge and divot beneath Sally''s feet feels like a knife blade through the shoes'' thin leather soles. "It''s possible I would have been no worse off barefoot," she says to her sister-in-law Margaret when they reach the corner of H and Seventh Streets. A fierce wind whips at the women''s faces, and they lean into each other, drawing the collars of their coats tight around their necks while they wait for Archie to catch up. "We need you, dear," Margaret calls to her husband as he lumbers toward them.
Archie, amiable as ever, seems pleased to be needed. "Be a gentleman and walk in front of us," says Margaret. Then she winks at Sally and says in a voice loud enough for Archie to hear, "We''ll let him block the wind." Archie gives them an exaggerated bow and touches the brim of his hat, but when he rounds the corner, he has to hold on to it with both hands. The wind comes from the east and spills down Richmond''s main thoroughfare, taking the last of the leaves on the trees with it. Margaret and Sally fall into formation behind Archie, tucking their chins to their chests. As they pass the capitol, Sally can hear the church bells from a few blocks away chime seven o''clock. The capitol is an imposing Palladian structure, and its plaster of Paris facade shines under a canopy of stars.
In the pastures that surround the building, Sally tries to make out the shapes of grazing cows. She can hear their irate grunts, carried in the wind, and knows that, in weather such as this, they are huddled close together, too. "Just another block or two," says Margaret, who married into the Campbell family just a few years after Sally did and has, over the past half dozen or so years, become not just a sister to Sally but a dear friend. Margaret is such a dear friend, that she has not uttered a single complaint about venturing out in this weather. Sally knows she''d have preferred to remain at home, in front of a warm fire, but since Sally gave her hosts the tickets to tonight''s performance as a gift, Margaret is doing an admirable job pretending there is nowhere else she''d rather be. The truth, of course, is that the tickets were as much a gift to Sally as anyone else. She loves the theater--the extravagant props, the audacious costumes, the monologues that move her to tears. Back when Robert used to bring her to Richmond, they''d gone to the theater every chance they got, but in the three years since his death, she''s had little reason to come to the capital at all, much less to see a play.
The theater sits at the intersection of H and Fourteenth Streets, catty-corner to the capitol and on the crest of Shockoe Hill. It is an impressive building, with a commanding view of the wharf. Beyond the wharf is the James River, which curls around Church Hill, winding its way past Rockett''s Landing and all the way to Jamestown. The old theater, which was barely more than an oversized barn, burned to the ground the year before Robert and Sally were married, and for several years the Charleston-based Placide & Green and other touring acting troupes had to perform in the old market building, local taverns, or not at all. Sally and Robert saw André at The Swan and The Taming of the Shrew at City Tavern, and while it was nearly impossible to hear the actors'' lines over the din of the crowd, Sally thought the taverns-turned-theaters weren''t all bad. She liked the buzzy feeling she got when she drank down a pint of cider too fast and began reciting Shakespeare in Robert''s ear; on the nights she took his earlobe between her teeth and he called her his wee drunkard in his thick Scottish accent, they rarely made it through three acts. The new theater has some nice upgrades: a real stage--with wings large enough to store even the most extravagant props and set pieces, an oversized pit, and a proper ticket booth. There is a separate gallery for slaves and free Blacks and plenty of box seats on the second and third floors for those who can afford them.
The building is sided with brick, but it''s clear the theater''s managers cut corners on the finishings. They planked the lobby but left the rest of the dirt floors exposed; the boxes are sparsely furnished with a smattering of uncomfortable chairs and benches; the windows are so drafty they have to be boarded up during the winter months; and some nights, in this new space, the pitch of the crowd gets so loud Sally would almost swear the acoustics were better at The Swan. When Sally, Margaret, and Archie near the theater, they find a large crowd gathered outside the building''s double doors, waiting to get to the ticket booth inside. The exterior of the building is plastered with playbills announcing the evening''s performance: Last week of Performance this Season. Mr. Placide''s Benefit. Will certainly take place on Thursday next, When will be presented, an entire New PLAY, translated from the French of Didurot, by a Gentleman of this City, Called THE FATHER; or FAMILY FEUDS. "Isn''t Diderot spelled with an e ?" Sally asks, but Margaret isn''t paying attention.
"Pardon us, excuse me. We''ve already got tickets, we''re just trying to get inside." Margaret removes the tickets from her reticule and waves them in the air, as if they alone can part the sea of people that stand between the Campbells and the building''s warm interior. Inside the lobby, a Negro man wearing a short-skirted waistcoat inspects their tickets and directs the three of them down a narrow passage to an even skinnier staircase, which is crowded with people, everyone making their way to their seats on the second and third floors. As they file up the stairs, Sally pays attention to the other women''s footwear. Most of them have worn shoes every bit as silly as hers. "So, who''s this mysterious ''gentleman of the city'' who''s translating Diderot?" Sally asks Margaret when they reach the first landing. "I assume it''s Louis Hue Girardin.
He runs the Hallerian Academy. On D Street." Sally doesn''t know much of anything about Richmond''s private academies, having spent her formative years in the country. "Is that the funny building that''s shaped like an octagon?" "That''s the one," says Margaret before looking over her shoulder for her husband. "Archie, what was the story with Girardin? In France?" "He was a viscount. A real royalist." Archie is already winded, and Sally strains to hear him. "Was about to be guillotined, by the sound of things.
" "So, he fled to America?" she asks. "Twenty years ago now," says Margaret. "Very dramatic escape." "No wonder he likes Diderot," says Sally. When they reach the second floor, Margaret looks at their tickets, but Sally stops her and points up at the ceiling. "Our box is on the third floor." Sally glances backward at her brother-in-law, who is bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath. "Sorry, Archie," she says.
On the following flight of stairs, the crowd thins some, although the echo of people''s footsteps, combined with the buzz of so many conversations happening at once, still makes it hard for Sally to hear what Margaret is saying. "Girardin used to teach at William and Mary, but he''s been here for at least a decade. Married one of the Charlottesville Coles. Polly. She''s the middle daughter, I think. Anyway, I doubt Williamsburg agreed with her. How could it?" Margaret lowers her voice and Sally leans in. "Eliza Carrington was telling me she thinks the school Girardin''s running barely keeps a roof over their heads, which is too bad because, from all accounts, he is quite brilliant.
" "I would guess so," says Sally. "Diderot isn''t easy." Sally''s own education was devoid of Diderot or Rousseau or any of their contemporaries. Her father, for all his intellect, had not been a particularly learned man. He was an excellent orator and statesman, but his arguments didn''t come from what he read in books so much as what he read on people''s faces. He''d practiced law without much of a legal education, then served in the House of Burgesses before the Revolution. There had been two terms as governor and a stint in the Virginia House of Delegates, and while his political life had given him plenty of wisdom to impart to his children, he was much more likely to be found rolling around on the floor with them than teaching them anything useful. Sally''s brothers'' education had been outsourced.
Private tutors instructed the boys in Latin and Greek, history and geography, until they were ready to attend Hampden-Sydney College, where none of them had proved to be especially fine students. Sally and her sisters were instructed by their mother, Dorothea, who read little besides The Art of Cookery , but had managed that singular and spectacular feat of catching a husband equal to her in wealth and rank, which--in her opinion--made her eminently qualified to educate her daughters. Dorothea taught her girls to read and write, produce neat stitchwork, and paint periwinkles and pansies that didn''t drip down the paper-thin edges of porcelain teacups. She hired a n.