Now that I knew what sweetness could be contained in kisses, I could not give my lips to another man. And it was as if my father breathed the fury from the air for he swore he would never again speak with me if I did not marry Paris. What strange remedies my father dreamed when choosing this time of grief to hand me to his friend.
Last night I did dream that I stood with my Romeo in Friar Laurence’s cell. My mother and father were there, and Lord and Lady Montague. They did not smile, nor did they object as I stood in the white gown my nurse had found for me. I shook under so many gazes and stumbled over my vows. I seemed unprepared for such ceremony and was wearing no shoes. But then the town crier shouted over me and I learned that my wedding was to be the execution of my beloved. I looked up to find his eyes but a second before he had bolted from that room pursued by my mother and father and the Montagues. And then suddenly it was just myself and Friar Laurence, standing together in his cell where he has heard so many of my confessions. He smiled and asked me to be seated. So we sat silently, and I wondered whether I had been married or no.
My Romeo came to me after dark for his farewell. We drank every drop of sweetness as though it would be our last. And I could not bear to think that the next night would be my wedding night with Lord Paris. I did not tell Romeo of these fears, and he said it was not safe for me to go with him. After he left in the dawn I went to Friar Laurence to see what could be done. I wailed and wrung my hands as though struck again by death. And then Friar Laurence contrived a plan. He gave me this vial which I now hold before me. He said that it would make me appear as though dead for long enough to have me laid in the tomb. Then I would awake and be taken to join Romeo in Mantua.
And so I hope that this vial is indeed something to slow and not stop my heart. But if this night be my last, then at least it can be said that I have known joy. And as I fall into deep sleep I will dream of my life in Mantua with my love. We will live together in a small cottage, and there we will bring up our children. And in a few years we will write my mother and father. They will be so pleased I am living that they will forgive me for what I have done. This is my prayer.
Part Two
LEARNING
Advice to the Actor
Entrances and Exits
Practise entering and taking up a position in your own room frequently. Although a lady’s dress conceals her legs, it is equally essential for her to attend to this rule, in order to preserve a natural and graceful attitude.
In making a rush on to the stage, commence the movement several feet from the point where you will come in sight, and take particular care that your steps are firm and decided, unless you have to represent indecision, fear, or any similar feeling. See that there is nothing to impede you, such as an awkwardly slung sword or badly arranged drapery. . . .
When leading on others, or pursued by an enemy, your face should be directed towards the entry, but your body should have its full front to the audience. Let the head be a little thrown back. Entrances of this kind are most effective when made from the Left, because the right hand, especially if grasping a sword or baton, can be used most effectively, and the whole figure can be displayed to the greatest advantage. . . .
When a person is carried off the stage in a faint, or dead, great care is necessary to keep up the natural representation. These exits should be carefully rehearsed, and not, as they usually are, left to chance at night. . . . If possible, the person selected to bear off the actor should be sufficiently strong to do so, without faltering, but if, as must frequently be the case, this actor should have to carry off a much heavier person than he can bear he should have one to help him, and by a little contrivance at rehearsal, he may appear to support the person who is in reality sustained by the other. Take care that the dress is clear of the wings. By proper rehearsal and arrangement, the folds of robes may be made to fall picturesquely, adding greatly to the effect of the exit.
Be particularly careful not to touch the head of the actor you are supporting or his wig may come off.
—NINETEENTH-CENTURY ACTING MANUAL, QUOTED IN
VICTORIAN THEATRE: THE THEATRE IN ITS TIME
My fate, whatever it may be, shall never separate me from my mother.
—ELIZABETH INCHBALD, LOVER’S VOWS, QUOTED IN OXBERRY’S “MEMOIR OF MISS H. C. SMITHSON OF THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY LANE”
Ennis: 1808
LORD CASTLE COOTE was one of the Protestant landowners of our parish. His wife occupied herself with charity works, which caused her to have a good deal to do with Father Barrett. After their meetings, the door would be flung open and Lady Castle Coote would enfold me in warm fabrics and the smell of roses. She would kiss my cheeks and stroke my hair. I do believe Lady Castle Coote had always longed for a daughter.
She never forgot that first performance of mine, dancing a pas de deux with Mrs. Helme just before the death of Father Barrett. My father had decided that Ennis should be the place of my performing debut, and somehow he convinced Father Barrett of this. I wonder whether Father Barrett, sensing the end was near, agreed to this opportunity for my performing under his own watchful eye. He immensely enjoyed the theater. His only wish was that I should be protected from the low company of fallen women and cavalier men, their breath sweet from drink. And so I imagine that he had a solemn interview with my father and Mrs. Helme. During this he would have instructed my father on the nature of my performance and that I was not to witness the rest of the theatricals that evening. Rehearsals with Mrs. Helme were to take place in the parlor and not in the theater itself. Mrs. Helme was to take utmost care while instructing me. During all these discussions, I am sure Lady Castle Coote was in the background somewhere, using her silent powers of persuasion to prevent the ruin of a child who had until then been so carefully guarded.
On the day of my first rehearsal, my father sat with me for some time. “Now, Harriet, you must be very respectful of the great Mrs. Helme. Pay careful attention to everything she says to you.”
And when the lady herself arrived, I soon came to understand the nature of her condition and that my father had a number of reasons for referring to her as “the great Mrs. Helme.” For she was swollen and enormous with a painfully upright carriage. Three weeks later she would give birth to twins.
It was from this breathless woman that I received my first instruction. She emphasized the importance of deportment, eyed me carefully, and then informed me of my most handsome side. “Always endeavor to have your left shoulder closest to the audience,” she said sternly. “This will show you to greatest advantage on account of putting the dimple upon your right cheek into shadow.”
At first she stood before me, beating her loosely closed fists to the rhythm of the music inside her. I wondered whether those two heartbeats, as I thought of them then, beat in time with each other. And then, when I thought she was going to join me in dancing, she sank her large body into one of Father Barrett’s armchairs and called directions. Left foot, right foot, point, turn, counting in between, praising often. At the end of the morning she pronounced me very gifted. That was my only rehearsal under the direction of the great Mrs. Helme.
Two days before the concert, my father brought me a copy of the Clare Journal and Ennis Advertiser to show me the evening’s program in print. He had often shown me his advertisements in the newspaper, but this was the first time my own name was featured. He gave me the copy to keep. I memorized those words as though they were Father Barrett’s Latin grammar. I remember them still.
ENNIS, 1 FEBRUARY 1808
LAST NIGHT OF MRS. HELME’S ENGAGEMENT AT THE ENNIS THEATER
Mrs. Helme most respectfully begs leave to acquaint the Ladies and Gentlemen of Ennis and its vicinity, that her BENEFIT is fixed for WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 3rd, being positively the last night she will have the honor of appearing before them; on which evening will be presented Shakespeare’s tragedy of
ROMEO AND JULIET
In the course of the evening Mrs. Helme will dance
the celebrated
BROAD SWORD HORNPIPE
A PAS DE DEUX
by Miss Smithson and Mrs. Helme
and a DOUBLE HORNPIPE
by Mr. Waring and Mrs. Helme
To this day I am disappointed to have missed viewing the great Mrs. Helme in the role of Juliet.
Father Barrett attended the evening’s entertainment in its entirety. I believe most of Ennis was there that night, including the Castle Cootes and the Freemasons of lodge number 60, of which my father was a peripatetic member. The brothers appeared in full regalia, and their heavy cloaks drew my attention. I was taken along for the dancing by a disgruntled Bridie, deprived of her night of rest. After I had been indulged in the rare privilege of a bath, Bridie dressed me in my new green gown that had been sewn by my mother for the occasion. She arranged my curls neatly about my face and helped tighten the laces on my boots, which would be exchanged for satin dancing shoes before the performance. It was a short walk to Cooke’s Lane in my dark cloak; occasional lamps pushed balls of light into the frosty air. Bridie crossed herself as we entered the lane and muttered under her breath. Like many other Ennis residents, she tried to avoid the street where the jail had so long stood.
Bridie knocked quietly at the stage door, which was opened by a large man with long, tangled hair. He nodded to her before taking my hand and leading me inside. It was dark, and the boards were dusty. Mrs. Helme herself, wearing a crimson gown that made her glow, led me to a small room where she instructed me to change my shoes. The walls seemed paper thin, and I fancied the audience could see us moving about as they shouted, laughed, and applauded. And then suddenly I was on the stage.
I stood still, frozen in dim stagelight. And then there was soft laughter coming from the audience before plaudits. As the applause grew louder, my sight returned and I could see Mrs. Helme smiling at me from the other side of the stage. Then the musicians began playing from somewhere in front of me and I began to move, trying to remember the steps I had been shown a few days earlier. For someone so large, Mrs. Helme moved deftly and with nimble feet. However, the dance itself was untidy and under-rehearsed. While I believe Mrs. Helme tried to follow my steps so that we danced together, after the first few seconds I danced alone. I had forgotten her presence. I sensed the audience’s delight with me, and the applause was as exciting as thunder. I felt as though I had moved the world.
Waterford, County Waterford: 1809–1814
MADAME TOURNIER’S WAS a school for Catholic girls, most of whose fathers had been educated in England or in France. They were the daughters of doctors and barristers, sent to Waterford to be taught what it was thought they needed to know. We were taught a little French, and we read passages from the Bible. Once I let slip that I had read Shakespeare and Madame Tournier glared. Young ladies did not need to know Shakespeare.
At Madame Tournier’s we learned to sew samplers. Some of the other girls became very interested in this pastime and would sit in bed late at night, trying to finish embroidering perfect crimson flowers by candlelight. I am sure many of them already had weak eyes by the time I left at fourteen. I would hide my head under the covers to block the light. In my dreams I returned to Chapel Lane.
We learned singing; my voice was not as strong as the voices of other girls. There was one girl, her name was Anastasia, who could sing very well and wanted everyone to know it. “I will be the next Mistress Siddons,” she announced one day, flicking her hair behind her head. The other girls stared at her in shock. I stared at my feet. I could not imagine why anyone would wish to live the life of a player.
Madame Tournier took little notice of me, and I did not speak much when called upon in class. She never failed to look surprised when I topped the class again in French, Latin, or British history. For when I closed my eyes I could see pages of books or slates of text before me, and I never had trouble recalling information. After school there were lessons to complete, usually French grammar or a few sums. Then there would be supper. When our stomachs were full and our bodies weary, we were sent to bed. Oftentimes I whispered Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare to the other girls in my room after the candles were snuffed. I knew some of the lines from Father Barrett and my father, so I would color the stories with these, imagining myself to be someone else, embellishing, deepening the sounds. It was my capacity to entertain which finally drew the other girls to me. Sometimes their laughter would bring Madame Tournier running from her quarters.
When the other girls asked me questions, I developed ways of answering. Yes, I had a brother and a sister, my father was a manager. I soaked up those school days like sunshine before a storm. Some weekends I traveled with them to see their families. Mothers would shake their heads at hearing how far away my family was, and that there were only rare opportunities for us to meet. Apart from these explanations, I rarely thought of my other life. I was always one of a crowd of children. And as we grew older, the other girls began speaking of young men and marriage.
DURING MY SCHOOL YEARS I spent many summers with the Castle Cootes. Their Irish country estate was the most grand I had seen. In Ennis, uncultivated land was overgrown and tangled. In Waterford, the lawn at their estate was trimmed and the gardens brimming with fresh flowers. I came to know the three Castle Coote boys as though they were my brothers. Charles was around sixteen at this time, and he had the most time to spend with me. George was in his final year of boarding school, and Edmund attended Oxford University. It was only in summer that the three boys would be reunited for this longer period, and I was pleased to be included in their games. In the evenings we learned plays, and whenever there were guests from England we performed for them. It was during this time that I experienced the thrill of performing for the second time. I found that after one or two readings I could remember the lines. I was still completely untrained and already acquiring bad habits, but I found it easy to slip in and out of character, which I was frequently required to do, being the only girl. One summer we performed a version of The Merchant of Venice.
We spent most of our time preparing the courtroom scene in which I, as Portia, disguised as a man of the law, defended my husband’s friend Antonio against Shylock, the Jew claiming Antonio owed him a pound of flesh. The afternoon of our performance, Charles found me alone in the library. He stood facing me and held a garment in his hands. “Your costume, my lady,” he said, bowing. He lifted the cloak over my shoulders and arranged it about my neck.
“Thank you, sir,” I said quickly, trying to hide my blushing.
I still remember the earnest Edmund, robed in a suit of his father’s, his face contorted and falling to his knees. He flinched and it was clear he had fallen harder than he had intended.
I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands,
organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
And as he spoke, Charles and George stood to the side, stifling their laughter at Edmund’s melodramatic posture, his cracking voice. From her seat in the front row of the Castle Coote theater, Lady Castle Coote raised an eyebrow, while her husband looked down as though attempting to comprehend the words.
I moved as close to my audience as I could. I looked Lady Castle Coote in the eye, with more boldness than I would usually have dared. Wearing the Castle Coote cloak, slowly and clearly I began:
The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes;
’tis mightiest in the mightiest. . . .
Lord Castle Coote watched silently, barely breathing while his wife held her fingers to her right cheek and sat motionless. At the end of the scene they paused for a few seconds, waiting for me to become myself again, before applauding and shouting “Bravo! Bravo!” in accents that could be mistaken for English. And while the boys bowed awkwardly, I curtsied as I sensed I should, eyes lowered.
Occasionally my parent
s visited. Although Lady Castle Coote was very polite to them, I saw the way she looked at their post chaise, the boxes overflowing with properties, and the costumes untidily cluttering up the lawn. And she most certainly would have refused my father’s request to have the mule housed in the Castle Coote stables, had she found a polite way to do so. Once, after they had gone, I heard her telling her husband that she had wanted to grasp my younger brother and sister and plunge them into a tub to give them a good soaking.
Lady Castle Coote had satin gowns sewn for me by her seamstress. The boys never had to ask for a new saddle or a book. Members of the family gave me many books of poetry and British history, and I was also permitted to use the library freely. But after summer I would have to leave my books behind, for fear Madame Tournier would disapprove. I also left my gowns, for there would be no use for them at school. And so after spending such a rich and happy season, I always returned to school in a small carriage with nothing but my battered trunk and a few pinafores.
In what was to become my final year at Madame Tournier’s, a play was planned. Madame Tournier had written it herself. It told the story of nuns opening a school for the poor in Derry. I believe it contained very little in the way of plot. Rehearsals began after lunch one day. Madame Tournier listed the characters and who was to play each one.
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