Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  I tell my mother about Lord Becher on a gloomy Sunday afternoon. I grieve for the impending loss of my closest friend. But my mother tells me I must maintain my friendship with Eliza even if she leaves the stage. “For Eliza has a thing or two to teach you, Harriet,” she winks.

  All through Lord Becher’s courting, Eliza O’Neill maintains the utmost propriety. If she sees him outside the theater, she keeps this to herself. Mr. O’Neill, John, or Marcus continue to accompany her to and from the theater. She still attends church every Sunday with her family, and not a black word about her appears in the newspapers.

  After some weeks, she sends a note inviting me to supper after a Saturday night performance. We shall each play at our respective playhouses that evening and should meet at the O’Neill family lodgings afterward. The invitation includes my mother.

  “I wonder if Lord Becher will be present?” she asks more than once. “I long to meet him.”

  On the evening of our visit, John and Marcus are absent. After supper, Eliza and I retire to the drawing room. While I have been expecting Eliza to be longing for an opportunity to discuss Lord Becher, she begins, instead, to speak of Ireland.

  “Harriet, I have been away four years and how I ache to return there!” she says. And although she has perfected her English accent, the Irish lilt I first heard in Dublin begins to return. Her words bring pangs of homesickness.

  “But—you are loved here, you are successful here.”

  “Yes, yes. But there are only so many times one wants to be—Belvedira, Lady Macbeth, or Jane Shore. I have just refused the part of Imogen, for I will not be seen by the public in breeches. And I am getting older. What shall I do when I am too old to play such roles? Where is the King Lear for a woman?”

  “There is always Queen Gertrude and—and—”

  “Queen Gertrude is not enough, Harriet.”

  I clasp my hands together in my lap. What else is there for me who may never have her success? What shall I do if it comes time to retire and there is no one for me to marry?

  “Eliza?” I begin shyly.

  “Harriet?”

  “Are you fond of Lord Becher?”

  For some moments she does not answer, and I fear I have offended her.

  “He is a very kind man, and he holds great admiration for our profession. I think I should like to spend more time with him. But Harriet—I will not come under his protection. It is sometimes expected of us, you know. You must never do such a thing either. For if a man wishes to keep you, then he must do so in a respectable manner. You must not take on debts you can never repay.”

  I NEXT VISIT ELIZA in June 1819. I notice her mother watching her at all times, correcting her enunciation, commenting on her deportment and on her manner of eating. It is as though Eliza is undergoing a second apprenticeship. She quivers slightly while sitting at the dining table.

  “Harriet,” she says later. “This may be the last time you visit me here. Lord Becher,” she swallows and holds her right hand to her mouth. “Lord Becher has asked me to marry him and—his family wishes to make sure that I am suitable. It seems I am to go to their estate and live there with my father for three months, and then, if all goes well, we will be married.”

  “That is wonderful news.”

  “Harriet, it has been so hard. My mother is quite offended at the thought that perhaps I may not be suitable to marry into the Becher family. So you see she has fallen to correcting me all the time. And my father looks for faults in Lord Becher. He has been waiting for me to make a good marriage these ten years, and now that it might possibly take place he cannot bear the thought of my career ending. It has quite occupied him since I was fifteen years old, and he must wonder what else there is to do. And Marcus teases me about Lord Becher’s fondness for ladies in breeches parts. And then there is the question of what is to be done and said. For it would be too hasty for me to retire from the stage now, when my marriage is uncertain. But the Becher family will not accept me if I am still working as an actress. There is little hope of my slipping away quietly from London. You know what the newspapers can be. And yet if Mrs. Haller in July is to be my last role, I feel it would be most hard on the London public were I to deny them a farewell performance.”

  “But Eliza, do you wish to marry Lord Becher?”

  “Oh, yes! I am becoming very—attached to him. He is attentive and wishes only the best for me. And after we are married we shall return to Ireland. I shall no longer have to perform when I am tired or unwell, or travel to the provinces in the summer. And after all, I have had as much success as I would wish. I do not want to travel in order to perform elsewhere. If I travel it shall be to see the world, not to be a strolling player. I am tired of performing. There is no joy for me any longer in being someone other than myself. Before long this monotony will show in my playing and the public will no longer flock to see me. But if I marry Lord Becher I will be able to perform whenever I wish, we shall have parties, and I shall play for our guests. You will come to visit, won’t you Harriet?”

  THE THOUGHT OF ELIZA leaving the stage fills me with dread for my own situation. She grew up in Ireland as I did. She drank the stage with her mother’s milk, and her education was on the boards and not in the church or schoolroom. She has had ten years more performing than I and has grasped the public’s affection. I may follow Eliza O’Neill into some of her roles. I can speak to her about gesture and feeling. But how can I expect to follow her by making a similarly prudent marriage?

  It is not through me that the rumors begin circulating. Indeed my friendship with Eliza is little known even in acting circles. But a week before her performance as Mrs. Haller in The Stranger, people are saying it will be her last. For one thing, it is described on the playbills as her “last appearance at this theater before Christmas,” and it is only July. We know she will not be joining us at Drury Lane in the new season, and no actress in her right mind would leave the two main London theaters for any other theater in England. There is some talk of work on the Continent, but since no one has the particulars this idea is soon dismissed. Then there is a rumor that she has fallen ill. But it is the idea of marriage which most fascinates the actors at Drury Lane. Who is the man in question, they wonder. And why is Eliza not taking a farewell from the stage when it would clearly be in her financial interest? It is not like the O’Neill family to miss such an opportunity. The anonymous speculative article in the Times is somewhat damaging. The public waits for a reply, but none comes. And on the night of Eliza O’Neill’s last performance at Covent Garden, our theater at Drury Lane is empty.

  Eliza writes me afterward that the Becher family prevented her taking a formal farewell from the stage. They believed the entire business in bad taste and best forgotten. The public hears no more about her, and attendances at Drury Lane soon return to normal.

  TWO OF THE MOST popular actresses of the day are my colleagues at Drury Lane. The best known of these is Madame Vestris, who speaks fluent Italian and French and sings like a bird. Although she made her name in opera, she takes roles in theater when it pleases her. I believe her acting is somewhat overdone and her method more suited to opera. Madame Vestris is frequently the subject of scandalous gossip in the greenroom. She married at only fifteen, and her bankrupt, and by all accounts ugly, husband fled to Paris, leaving her free to behave as she chooses. She has appeared before the public in breeches on a number of occasions. Fanny Kelly, by contrast, is extremely careful to behave with propriety, and her mother is frequently seen in the greenroom. Fanny plays with sensitivity. Her mother is unable to prevent the friendship between the two women, and they are frequently to be seen gossiping in a corner of the greenroom.

  One day I overhear Madame Vestris discussing Eliza’s departure and what a loss this will be to Covent Garden.

  “Not that she was a particularly fine actress,” Madame Vestris says, “but the public was very fond of her.”

  “I was fond of her Juliet,” Fanny says. “Do you think th
e management is seeking to replace her?”

  “That depends,” Madame Vestris says, “on the precise circumstances of her departure.” She glares at me as though daring me to inform her of all I know.

  I read about Eliza’s marriage to Lord Becher in the Times. Joseph points out the article to me, and I cannot speak for a full ten minutes.

  “Harriet, what is it?” my mother asks finally.

  “It’s Eliza. It says here she’s married.”

  “Show me!” She takes the paper from my hands. “And you were not invited. Well. Well.”

  I cover my eyes with my hands.

  “It seems we’re not good enough for them now. That is the end of your friendship with Eliza O’Neill. I expect you’ll not write to her again.”

  A few days later I write to her at her parents’ home. Within a month she replies, begging my forgiveness. The wedding was small from her side; only a few relatives attended. Lord Becher’s mother refused to allow any stage persons to attend unless they were immediate family. They are living at Lord Becher’s London residence but hope soon to move to his estate in the south of Ireland.

  It is some time before I recover from the loss of Eliza’s presence. As I went about my daily business in London I always had at the back of my mind the fact that Eliza was nearby. Whenever I received rehearsal schedules I would look to see if there was an opportunity to visit backstage at Covent Garden when Eliza would be there. It was often the thought of Eliza’s friendship that propelled me through the weeks. Now there is no one who understands my homesickness for Ireland or lives as close to their family as I do. No one with whom I can feel so much at ease. For months I feel lost, and it is my mother shaking me at half seven that forces me out of bed each morning.

  Liverpool: 1819

  IN ALL THOSE YEARS of traveling to and fro in the off-season, Liverpool was my favorite town. Though my mother turned up her nose when I first said we would go there.

  “Liverpool!” she exclaimed. “That town that spews so much smoke into the clouds! Who is there in Liverpool to watch you play?”

  But as it happened, there was quite a crowd. For it was not just the workers who lived there, but the people who owned the manufactories and the merchants who breathed the money into the town. These people lived a little farther out on their country estates which employed many servants. There was a good deal of society to be had in Liverpool. And soon my mother had no desire to leave.

  In that town I played Letitia Hardy, Lydia Languish, Lavinia, Mariette, and Adeline. So many foolish maidens, one after the other. It awakened my yearning to love.

  My mother was always quick to learn who was worth knowing in a town, and thus she was very pleased on the evening a steward appeared from the Heywood estate with an invitation to dinner.

  “Mr. Heywood!” she whispered to me after he had gone. “His father was in the Africa trade and earned his fortune. That was how he established Heywood’s Bank! They are the first family in Liverpool.” Her voice grew louder. “I hear he has never married.”

  On my way to and from the theater I could not help but notice the stone building of Heywood’s Bank with its archways and barred windows as my carriage bumped over the cobblestones.

  It was with some trepidation that we traveled to Larkhill Estate. Only a tradesman’s entrance had been built, and thus we passed by the outbuildings and stables before reaching the front of the house. Yet how quaint it was! I had been expecting a mansion, imposing and proud, but there was something gently welcoming about this house. It had but two floors, and the main building was separated by a corridor from the servants’ quarters. Wrought ironwork framed the entrance to the mansion, and although it was summer, a chimney puffed gray into the sky.

  I had anticipated the occasion to be a gathering with guests and was surprised to see that Sir Arthur awaited us alone. He was a kindly silver-haired gentleman, and after we had taken tea with him he stood.

  “Miss Smithson, would you like to see my fishpond?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I smiled, trying to hide my surprise.

  My mother said she would take a turn around the rose garden while we walked to the pond. Sir Arthur took my left arm in his right and used his left arm for his cane. Occasionally he paused and leaned upon it thoughtfully. Mostly he used his cane to point out aspects of his garden. A good number of the garden beds formed a formal arrangement with trimmed and shaped hedges. But as we neared the pond, we passed a garden like a painting, with a perfect blend of flowers and shades. Sir Arthur paused, noting my interest. And he lifted his cane to point to the flowers.

  “Foxgloves,” he said. “Forget-me-nots, daisies . . . ,” he coughed. “Miss Smithson, each season I design one garden bed, and then Mr. Warley executes the design.” He frowned. “Next season I shall try a little more silver foliage in this bed.” As we continued along the path, we reached a wooded area and I could not help but think what adventures could be had by children in such a place.

  Sir Arthur had three fishponds; each contained a different type of fish. There were large white ones with black spots like some sort of malformed dog. The others were orange or yellow, with gaping mouths. And long after I had tired of them, he stood bent over a pond, watching keenly his underwater theater—the gaping mouths, the garish colors—until I feared he would fall in.

  We took supper in the dining hall which did not feel vast although it could have seated forty people. Sir Arthur discussed Shakespeare and Lord Byron and other things he had read. And then he turned to me sternly.

  “Miss Smithson, it is my wish that you should read to me this evening. If you would be so kind.”

  The gentleman smiled in spite of his drooping eyelids, and my mother’s snoring did not stir him. And the words lost their meaning to me as I thought that I should be very happy to spend more evenings in this manner. When I could no longer read sentences forward, Sir Arthur stood and took my hand.

  “Miss Smithson, I must allow you to leave. Forgive me for putting you to such work.”

  “Not at all,” I said, nudging my mother’s foot with my shoe to wake her.

  “I hope you will come and read to me again.”

  As I slept that evening I saw the Castle Cootes’ estate. Sir Arthur was an old man, and though I could never love him as I could love someone younger, I knew I was already developing a deep fondness for him. And this could sustain me the rest of my days.

  Twice a week I read to him, and on our last evening together he said he had a gift for me. My mother left the room discreetly, and I stood. It was as though the following moment would change my life. He asked me to close my eyes and hold out my hands like a child. I cupped my hands, anticipating a small box or the coldness of metal. But instead, he handed me a finely leatherbound volume of poetry by Keats.

  “This shall keep you company as you continue your journey, Miss Smithson. And do let me know when you next visit Liverpool.”

  London: 1820

  ONE HAD TO WONDER, of course, whether one was deliberately excluded from performing during the king’s visit due to one’s “provincial” manner. By 1820 I was very much involved with Drury Lane, and my salary had been slightly augmented. Thus it was with great disappointment I learned I would not be seen by King George IV. By this time I had been performing on a regular basis in Shakespeare’s histories: I had been Lady Percy in Henry IV and was soon to play Lady Anne in Richard III. I was coming to see myself as a member of the nobility.

  There was great excitement in the greenroom the week leading up to the play. Fanny Kelly and Madame Vestris put much attention into slight alterations of hair and costume. The men shaved even before rehearsals, and I do believe one of them was wearing a new scent. Although Elliston did not require my presence, I decided to attend nonetheless. I knew what people said about the Royal Family. I knew that it was the taxpayers with barely enough to eat who kept them in the manner to which they were accustomed. Yet meeting King George and his attendants could only be of benefit in
my observation of the upper classes. And there was always the chance, slight though it may be, that I would meet someone who would prove an advantageous acquaintance.

  On the night before the king’s visit my mother washed my hair carefully. She guided my head backward so my hair soaked in the basin. The ends were heavy. She lifted my hair out of the water in a towel. I closed my eyes while she rubbed gently at my scalp with her fingertips.

  “You will be beautiful, Harriet,” she said. “We will tie your hair in rags so you have perfect curls.” Her hands left my hair, and I could hear her rubbing soap between palm and fingers.

  “You will be noticed by dukes and officers,” she said.

  In fact, it was a great pleasure to attend the theater without having to perform. I had the liberty of going simply as myself. I wore my newest gown, and my curls did indeed fall neatly around my face. Since I had not been required at rehearsal that morning, I was well rested. I had so much energy in my limbs that my mother had trouble keeping up with me on our way to the theater. Eventually we linked arms. We were like two girls on their way to their first ball.

  I was pleased to arrive early at the theater for the crowds that evening were immense. The chatter was almost deafening, and I hoped it would die down in time for the performance. I knew how hard it was to shout lines over so many voices. As I led my mother in through one of the doors, people smiled as though they had seen me before. I thought I spotted Charles Lamb through the crowd.

  My mother and I had a box for the evening, and I fancy we looked just like ladies as we sat there politely conversing. We all stood for the king’s entrance and “God Save the King.” By the time the chorus was halfway through “Rule Britannia,” many audience members, including my mother, had joined in and were clapping their hands. I noticed she had tears in her eyes. This performance was encored, and by the second time there was barely a self-composed person in the house. After Measure for Measure the doors were opened to those with half-price tickets. They stumbled in, many of them staring distractedly upward, tripping over their own feet, gasping and pointing at the king. And the king himself sat there serenely smiling as though oblivious to the commotion he had caused.