Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  Your father always claimed Hiller was very charitable under the circumstances. That he shook Hector’s hand, wished him well, warned him of Camille’s fickleness, and left the country. But I know the situation caused your father some grief. That he had to find new employment and burn the letters Hiller sent in the following few weeks. Male friendship was not yet more important to your father than the love of a beautiful woman. The School for Girls stopped employing passionate and talented young musicians and instead hired elderly ladies who could barely keep time but whose minds and hands did not wander.

  Hector wooed Camille with great fervor, and I believe she dragged him behind her like a kitten pouncing upon string. Whichever way she turned he would follow, and Camille soon grew tired of her own games. That was when she began to tell stories. She told such tales about me which made your father turn pale and feel faint. He could live with my supposed rejection of his affections, but he could not bear the thought that I was not what I had seemed. I begged him for years to tell me what Camille said, but years later, even when he was most furious with me, this is the only part of his story that he never revealed. Hector was shocked that the woman he had loved and admired with such passion could have a reputation so black, that her supposed image of purity could be so false. He disappeared from Paris, and during this time Camille sent people searching for him all over the city. One of the manservants was seen enquiring at the morgue. I believe Camille paid dearly for her sins.

  Although Hector never wished to live farther from Paris than Montmartre, it was always to the countryside that he disappeared during times of greatest grief. He would wander out his front door carrying nothing at all and walk until he was too exhausted to continue. He would find a barn or a field and lie sleeplessly in the hay while all manner of horrible images flickered through his mind. On this occasion, the bells of grazing animals began the melody that became my symphony. Your father came to his senses one morning in a gutter in Sceaux, poked by the staff of a curious shepherd. He decided it was time to return to Paris.

  The combined excitement of the previous months, of Shakespeare, Ophelia, Juliet, and then Camille, as well as the shock of my apparent downfall, sowed the seed of your father’s most famous work. Your father has always referred to this symphony as mine, and I was quite happy to claim its success as partly my own. (Though I must confess its title had nothing to do with me, and “Fantastique” as the name of a symphony has always seemed to me to be lacking in imagination.) But when you hear that symphony, Louis, listen carefully to the first three movements. In them you will hear the music of realized passion. For almost ten years I have called this symphony my own. But in my heart I know all the sweetness of it belongs to Camille. For this alone I cannot forgive her.

  Harriet

  London: 1818

  AT THE BEGINNING of the new season I must see Mr. Elliston to be given my play list. I know he is fond of me and puts particular thought into the roles I am given. He calls me his “Irish lass.” Yet I prefer to be invisible when he speaks, to slip into the backstage shadows. For to be noticed by Elliston is to hear your name shouted out loud. I am wary of meetings with Elliston for there have been times when his breath smelled deeply sweet and his words slurred and his eyes were unable to focus upon my face. Whenever he has not been happy with my performances he did not hesitate to tell me so. My knees quiver as I stand before his desk.

  “Miss Smithson,” he declaims as though he wants everyone in the building to hear. “This shall be an important season for you.” Today his voice is clear and his eyes sharp. And when he sees that I am writing hastily, he begins to list names and dates. There are so many of them that I can scarce keep up.

  “Adelaide, The Prisoner at Large, January 9; Lady Ellen in Children of the Wood, commencing January 22.” And then there are no more dates, just roles. “Adeline in The Victim of Seduction, Lavinia in The Fair Penitent, Signora Francesca in Sleeping Draught, Margaret in A New Way to Pay Old Debts.” I relax in my chair thinking of the monotony of it all. Is there to be no Shakespeare? Then suddenly I hear “Anne Boleyn.” I look up.

  “You will enjoy Anne Boleyn, Miss Smithson. And you will learn a great deal in preparing for a role in Shakespeare’s Henry VIII.” He pauses on the name Shakespeare.

  The bedroom I share with Anne and my mother has white curtains so infused with dust that they have turned brown. The two single beds take up almost all the floor space. During the nights I have to retreat far inside myself to forget Anne’s bony limbs against my body in the bed we share. That afternoon I find rags to tie the curtains. I rub the window with some old underclothes. I stand back in the doorway; there is more light in this room than I have seen before. I lie on the bed. In this position I hope to read all my plays. I will learn my lines practicing with my mother after lunchtime. There are old plays to revise and new plays to learn. But I know before I have finished reading them that I will be playing almost the same character in each. I will require the same collection of delicate hand gestures for the countless maidens I will play before the season is over. I relish the thought of Anne Boleyn. She is to be my reward. I shall savor her and spend hours on each of her lines. I shall endeavor to become Anne Boleyn herself.

  London is gray and dusty beneath me.

  “It is too light. I cannot possibly sleep with those curtains ajar.”

  I pull off the rags tying the curtains and drop them to the floor. The room is instantly in shadows once more. My fingers are rough from all the dust. I feel my way between the beds and walk out into the living room where my mother sits sewing. She is crouched over white satin, and I realize she must be sewing me a new costume since my old satin gowns are becoming dull and worn.

  “She has not been well these past weeks,” my mother says without looking up.

  “She is never well, Mother.”

  “Anne suffers terribly.”

  “She has too little with which to occupy herself.”

  My mother glares and says nothing.

  “Are we to have no peace?” I mutter.

  “It is my punishment,” my mother whispers.

  “What punishment?”

  “For leaving you.”

  “Nonsense. I was perfectly happy.” I stand and pull on my cloak. “I am going to learn my lines in my dressing room.”

  Almost all my roles are in comedy. In order to amuse the audience I must exaggerate, appearing more stupid and more naïve than I am. Most importantly, I must never laugh on stage for my ignorance of the comedy is part of the joke. The nights are very long: we begin at six with drama for the upper classes; later, tickets are available at half price. Any seats that were previously empty are now filled with raucous crowds, and we must try to keep them appeased. There are songs, pantomimes, dances, singing dogs, prancing horses, and tightrope walkers. These performers occupy the second-rate greenroom, and I am thus spared their company.

  I stand in my dressing room and wave my arms about. There is very little space here, yet it is my own for the purposes of work. Here I am an actress. The room is little more than a closet with a mirror, dressing table, and chair. Candles are to be used sparingly, but I light one all the same. The dressing table is sprinkled with rose petals like confetti, fallen from a bunch that was thrown to me from the audience some months ago. I never saw who threw them, but I imagine sometimes that it was a prince who will appear backstage one evening and propose marriage, whisking me away from this life forever. I have a piece of tinted silk given to me by one of my admirers in Dublin. It hangs over the mirror, and I fancy that it brings more light into the room.

  I sit down in my chair and breathe deeply. In the mirror I see a smooth and pale face with sharp gray eyes. My nose is triangular, my lips small, and my forehead high. During the day I always wear my hair in a bun on top of my head. It is impossible to prevent those dark brown wisps hanging down, curling around my cheekbones. The girl in the mirror looks Irish without even having to open her mouth. Some days I long for the smallnes
s of Dublin and the laughter one hears when walking the streets. I yearn for the lilting music of Irish voices while knowing that my own voice is becoming harsher in this cold city. But I am pleased with the success of London. Mine is not a huge success, to be sure, but it is something to be able to say one plays at Drury Lane and has done so for quite some months. An apprenticeship at Drury Lane is the best training in the world. My father would be proud.

  I begin copying out my lines again, trying to concentrate on their meaning for I will remember them better this way. The ink is of poor quality, and I know it will soon fade. As the words steady to a rhythm, I hear a knocking on the door. It is one of the call boys, Will. He curtsies and says, “A letter for you, miss.” I thank him and he leaves. The letter is in an unfamiliar hand; the writing is uneven and appears to quiver on the page. Thinking it from a member of the public, I put it to one side until I have finished reading through The Victim of Seduction.

  Eventually my head aches and I close my eyes, resting my face on the page. My fingers find the envelope and I open it carefully.

  Dear Miss Smithson,

  You may not remember me for it is long since I wrote. My name was Molly Baird and has been Molly O’Brien these three years since I married David, you may remember him from Father Barrett’s church. You will be forgiven if you do not reply to this, for I have not been a good friend to you. Please believe that I have thought of you often and that I remember those years of our childhood when you lived with Father Barrett and we played in the fields together. I have heard that you are in the London theater now. What is it like to live in such a grand city? I cannot see myself ever finding my way there now what with four mouths to feed and blighted crops. It is with shame that I write to tell you such misfortunes as ours. Even those in Ennis with money have no food to buy. Even Father Barrett, God rest his soul, would need more than God’s help to fix our troubles now. And so, I do not wish to beg, but would like you to know that if you have even a little to spare, it would help us greatly and that my little ones would remember you in their prayers.

  Yours,

  Molly

  It is not done for ladies to be too well acquainted with the goings on in the world. The newspapers are intended to be read by gentlemen in their libraries and coffeehouses, not by ladies in their parlors. The newspaper should certainly not be read by people of the theater; I have heard it said that some managers demand their actors sign that they will not read the newspaper while they are engaged at the theaters, for fear an unfavorable review will affect their willingness to perform. Having lost touch with all those I knew in Ireland, the letter I receive from Molly O’Brien is a shock.

  In my mind I begin calculating sums. There must be something I can spare. But then I remember that I give all my money to my mother, and by the time I am paid each month we are eating stale bread once more and drinking weak tea from reused tea leaves. She saves for months to buy fabrics to clothe us. I think of Molly and of all the time we spent together playing in the sunshine as children.

  I still have two hours before I need to be in the greenroom. I can no longer concentrate on my lines. Tonight’s play is Venice Preserved, and I know it well. I walk with heavy steps out to Brydges Street. Outside there is rare sunlight. I stretch my legs and take large steps. I walk so far that I feel as though I can walk away.

  Three days later it is with a great sense of foreboding that I learn Mr. Elliston wishes to see me again. I have not missed a single line, the prompter could find no fault with my performance. But I know I have not played well the previous few evenings. And although I trust Mr. Elliston, I often wonder what it would take for him to dismiss one of his players.

  “Miss Smithson, please sit down. You seem fatigued. Are you ill?”

  “No, sir.” I stare at my hands.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You see, Miss Smithson, Belvedira has been rather gloomy this last week.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “I think you should tell me what is wrong.”

  Before I know what is happening I am sobbing. I tell him all about my childhood in Ireland and about Father Barrett’s death being mourned by all of Ennis and my crippled sister and my father’s passing and all my mother’s troubles. Finally I tell him about the letter I received from Molly O’Brien.

  “I see,” he says, handing me an enormous handkerchief. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose as gently as I can manage, ashamed at making such a spectacle of myself in front of Mr. Elliston himself.

  In my dressing room I work on the shapes of my curved fingers and keep my feet in fifth position, remembering the importance of opposition between hands and feet. Gestures with the right hand should be accompanied by the weight on the left foot. My body remembers the actions, and I feel consoled by their familiarity. I clear my mind of everything but work. I remember to begin with low gestures and work up toward a climax. I will be natural and graceful.

  I reexamine the text of Henry VIII and copy out my lines. I close my eyes and envisage the stage and where everyone will be situated. I first enter in scene 4, the ball scene in the presence chamber in York Place. I push bottles and petals aside and take the envelope from Molly’s letter. With my pen I draw the stage. I draw a small table for Cardinal Wolsey and a longer table for the guests. Cardinal Wolsey will enter stage left and proceed to his table on the same side. The guests will do the same on the other side and will be seated around the back of the table so they may all be seen by the audience. I must be next to Lord Sands and seen to greatest advantage since my speech is most important. I draw chairs around the table and write my name. The table is at a slight angle. I seat Sands at the head stage right and myself on the other side of the corner. But then I keep reading and see that this is wrong. Sands must be between two ladies, and I must leave room at the front of the stage for the king’s procession.

  Finally my drawing is correct. I sit at the end of the length of the table, Sands to my right with another lady on his other side. We will all rise and the tables will be removed in time for the masquers, habited like shepherds and including the king, to enter from the same side as the cardinal previously. They will walk across the front of the stage, to be seen by all, and then around to where we are standing. Each man will select a lady for the dance. The oboe player and other musicians will stand just behind the dancers, where they can occasionally be seen and the sound heard throughout the theater. This is my plan, and it may not be the plan that is devised by Elliston. But it gives me a place to begin.

  I hold the diagram upside down in my hand and imagine I am entering stage right. I walk almost straight ahead, slightly to the right, and sit in my chair. I try this again, imagining other ladies, dressed elegantly, following, chattering behind me. The third time I know where to go and where all the other characters should be. I work on the gestures. Both hands are lowered and prone, at slightly different angles; the fingers are curved slightly, elegantly. There is something missing, and I know I want to hold something in my right hand. A kerchief, a fan. I will see what Elliston decides for the ladies at rehearsal.

  I learn Sands’s few lines preceding mine. “By my faith, And thank your lordship.” [Seats himself between Anne Boleyn and another lady.] “If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.”

  I raise my left hand just slightly as I speak, holding the position from the word mad: “Was he mad, sir?”

  “Oh! Very mad, exceedingly mad, in love too: But he would bite none; just as I do now, He would kiss you twenty with a breath.” [Kisses her.]

  At this, I lift my already raised hand to my right cheek and lower my eyes. The second time, I imagine the kiss itself and I do not have to feign the blush that strokes my cheek.

  And as Anne Boleyn I grow playful with this man after his jokes of red wine rising to our cheeks and making us merry. I point elegantly, not with a tight fist but with loose fingers, at the word you when I say, “You are a merry gamest
er, My Lord Sands.”

  “Yes, if I make my play. Here’s to our ladyship; and pledge it, madam, For ’tis to such a thing—”

  I do not let him finish. “You cannot show me.”

  “I told your grace they would talk.” This time he is interrupted by drums and trumpets heralding the arrival of the parade. At first we do not know who these new arrivals are; the servant describes them as “a noble troop of strangers . . . great ambassadors from foreign princes.” And as the visitors arrive, we rise and the tables are removed. We must be sure to watch the new arrivals lest the audience be distracted by the removal of furniture. And then each of us ladies is taken to dance by one of the gentlemen. I imagine the king taking my left hand with his right. His thumb is over my fingers, his fingers support mine from underneath. But as Anne Boleyn I do not know he is the king, just that he is a masked man.

  “The fairest hand I ever touch’d! O beauty, Till now I never knew thee!”

  I hold my skirts with my right hand, and we each bow.

  At this point I pause, trying to imagine the dance steps. I have been taught a great many dances: some are old, some are more modern, and I cannot begin to guess what would be Mr. Elliston’s preference. I decide to wait until rehearsal, for I can learn new dances in almost no time at all.

  I commence work on scene 3 of act 2 and am pleased I have already learned the lines, for there are many. In it I discuss the fate of the poor queen whose king wishes to divorce her. I speak with an old lady who wishes to discover whether I would ever be queen. And I insist that I would not. The discussion is lengthy; I unlace and remove my boots, drawing my stockinged feet underneath my limbs. I begin underlining the important word in each phrase and creating gestures. Above each underlined word I write tiny letters, notating gestures in Austin’s code to assist my memory.

  WHAT A STRANGE life this is! My mornings in the madness of rehearsal, led from one stage door to another while Elliston grumbles at those who are late and those who have failed to appear, threatening fines but delivering few. And then whispering with other actors at the dark back of the theater when not required, hearing enough tales to fill volumes. Not one actor is above suspicion of some sort of scandal, and I can only wonder what they say about me at the rehearsals when I am not present. One day I am told about Edmund Kean’s weakness for the drink and how, during his summer tour, he had to be dragged to the town square and cold water poured on his head before he was put on stage. At this, many eyes light up and someone else says that Mr. Kean was once not conscious enough to perform and the entire play of Hamlet was played without the leading role. Apparently Sir Walter Scott pronounced this version an improvement.