Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  “How is your mother, sir?” Mother asked, serving the vegetables.

  “Well. They are well, thank you.”

  “Harriet says you are at Oxford.”

  “Yes. I am studying the law.”

  “Your father must be proud.”

  “I think so.”

  “Do you plan to return to Ireland?”

  “Perhaps eventually. I shall see where my work takes me. And I should like to travel abroad.” At this point, Charles paused and looked at me. I looked away and saw them all staring at me, my mother and siblings all waiting for me to speak. I took a deep breath.

  “And where shall you go, Charles?” I asked.

  I WAS SURPRISED at my own feelings upon seeing Charles once more. Age had only improved him, and he seemed a more spirited person than the boy I had known. I saw much of him during that week. He arrived always unexpectedly. One afternoon I was about to walk home after rehearsal when he appeared at my door. He handed me a bouquet, and I reached to kiss his cheek. That afternoon we walked arm in arm. I told him of my life in London with my family. I had not felt so free since childhood days and was pleased when he asked me to sit with him on a park bench. He toyed with some curls around my face with his right hand. I held his left.

  “Harriet,” he said, “I think I ought to tell you that I am engaged to be married.” I dropped his hand and clapped my left hand to my face. I scanned the park to see if anyone had noticed me there with him.

  “It is a good match. My father is very pleased.” He reached for my curls again, and I swerved backward to avoid him.

  “You and I could still—see each other. I do so miss you, Harriet.”

  Trembling, I put my hands to my face. He peeled my hands from my eyes and wiped the tears with his handkerchief. Gently he kissed my cheeks. After some moments, I summoned the energy to stand.

  “You came all the way to London to tell me this? I’m sorry. I could not bear to see you again. You have said enough.”

  London: 1820–1827

  IT IS IMPORTANT to remember that the business of the theater is precisely that, a business; and that Mr. Elliston has as much need to eat (and to feed his nine children) as the rest of us. In all my years at Drury Lane, Mr. Elliston made a number of grand attempts to appeal to a great audience and save that theater from extinction. I had frequent cause to wonder whether I had a future there. At times I hoped not. I recall my fury on the debut of Miss Mary Ann Wilson in January 1820. Miss Wilson’s premier performance, only two years after my own, was announced on top of the playbills in red ink; the Times and the public lauded her simply because she could sing. For that was all she could do. The young woman was incapable of acting. Her beauty and tolerable voice drew large crowds, and within a few days Drury Lane had become an opera house three nights of the week. At this time I began to enquire after other theaters, knowing there would be no work for me if Drury Lane were to stage only opera. Aside from my inability to participate, I have always disliked opera for its falseness. It demands too much of an audience. Spectators are expected to suspend belief to such an extent that characters singing as a means of communication seem quite ordinary. It was therefore with some satisfaction that I noted the public seemed to tire of so much opera, and before long Drury Lane was primarily a theater for other entertainment once more. Miss Mary Ann Wilson disappeared after a very short season, and I never heard of her again.

  In the summer I was not the only one who groaned on learning we were to stage an imitation of the coronation of King George IV. Elliston had drawings made of all the costumes, accoutrements, and paraphernalia. I cannot recall my own role in the spectacle, only that I wore a grand costume paid out of Elliston’s own purse. It was an extremely tiresome performance, requiring no lines but merely gesture, color, and noise. I believe Mr. Elliston enjoyed it because he had the role of King George and carried it off with such aplomb that the king himself came to see him and applauded the performance with great enthusiasm. Real horses were brought in to draw his carriage, and I believe they would have tried cannon fire had it not been sure to burn the house down. The coronation ran for ninety-one nights.

  In 1822 Mr. Elliston made alterations to the theater. I had been somewhat alarmed on learning he would be increasing the number of private boxes, for I recalled hearing of the Old Price Riots of 1809 when a similar undertaking had occurred at Covent Garden under John Kemble. The alterations would include increased room backstage, which was a great relief to us, although Mr. Elliston’s primary motivation was not the comfort of his actors but increased room for staging spectacles. The renovations were a great success and led to the Times describing our theater as “the most furnished theatre in Europe.”

  Once he had the theater of his dreams, Mr. Elliston set about obtaining the most popular actors in London. There was much discontent at Covent Garden on account of Charles Kemble refusing to augment his actors’ salaries. I believe Charles Kemble behaved honorably and thought that the name of Covent Garden would be enough to draw the best-known performers. He was already trying to create historically accurate costumes and properties for Shakespeare’s plays. His work seemed new and interesting. Had he invited me to perform at that time, I would have left Drury Lane at an instant for barely any salary at all. However, his actors were soon wooed by Mr. Elliston promising them large sums. Mr. Elliston did not always think of the consequences of his actions and could be underhanded in his dealings. A fairer man would have increased the salaries of his current troupe before enticing others. But Mr. Elliston wanted the drawing power of the very best actors in the country. And so that season I had the pleasure of working once more with the precise tragedian Mr. Young and the soprano Kitty Stephens, and of becoming reacquainted with the comedian Mr. Liston. Although I did not much perform with these people, I learned a great deal from watching them rehearse. I took to attending rehearsal even when I was not required, just to observe the comic gesture of Liston or hear the sweetness of Kitty’s voice. But the arrival of these stars at my theater made me worry for my own future opportunities.

  Mr. Elliston was quick to take advantage of the refurbished theater in his staging of The Chinese Sorcerer; Or, The Emperor and His Three Sons. The scene painters worked long days and nights for an enormous series of scene paintings featuring the “Illuminated Marine Pavilion of the Princess and her Ladies by Moonlight,” the “Rude and Terrific Passage to the Enchanted Valley of Lo-lo with a Peep at the Tremendous Necromantic Tower of Hi-hi,” and finally, the “Magnificent Hall of Tien, Superbly Decorated for the Feast of Lanterns.” I was far from delighted to learn that I would be playing the role of O-Me, niece of the emperor and princess of China. I do believe Fanny Kelly smirked upon hearing my name. For her presence was reserved for tragedy number one that evening. And so I was draped in a costume made from dyed silk sheets donated by an anonymous benefactor, my face painted white and my eyes outlined in black. In this ghoulish costume I appeared before the public for three months.

  At the end of this time I had earned my benefit concert, and so, with a sigh of relief, I decided on a fine tragedy, Adelgitha. By this time I had come to know many of the London players of note, and although my own success was modest, I was respected and liked by my colleagues. I was honored with the presence of Mr. Kean and Mr. Young, those actors with such contrasting styles whose names attracted a large following. Mr. Kean was often seized by the moment in life and on the stage; his characters were never the same twice, while Mr. Young’s characters plodded with great predictability. I was pleased that Madame Vestris and Fanny Kelly would not be playing that evening. Among my other friends was Miss Kitty Stephens singing “If a Body Meet a Body Comin’ through the Rye” in fine voice. Kitty had been trained as a soprano since girlhood and considered herself a singer; she only ever took singing parts and did not try her hand at acting. Even though it was summer and London was quiet, the house was three-quarters full and I earned one hundred pounds, half of which I gave to my mother.

  D
uring the summer I learned that Charles Kemble was refurbishing Covent Garden. Kemble and Elliston were like two schoolboys competing in a soccer match, each trying always to better the other. Theater has always been a very bad business, and during those years it was not a question of profit but rather of somewhat reducing the size of the debt. Elliston in particular chose entertainments he hoped would draw crowds. In most cases he was right, though there were moments, such as the staging of Lord Byron’s first play, which lasted only one night and caused him sincere regret. Charles Kemble usually kept his eye on a higher prize; he prided himself on his classical style of acting, for he was a well-read and intelligent man. All the Kemble family moved in respectable circles and upheld high moral standards. As my opportunities at Drury Lane continued to diminish, I allowed myself to take an interest in the rival theater. I attended plays there whenever possible. After some time I became known to the management and the troupe. By the time Charles Kemble made me an unusual offer in 1827, I was ready to follow him to Paris.

  Mme Harriet Berlioz

  Rue de Londres

  Paris, October 1841

  My dear Louis,

  It was only years later that your father guessed what had passed between Camille and her mother the afternoon he learned he had won the Prix de Rome. He realized that Camille’s weakness and anxiety had not been entirely the result of her desire for Hector’s success. He discovered her that evening, languishing on her mother’s sofa in a state equal to a dying Juliet. And if Hector arrived at the Mokes’ that evening expecting their immediate consent to his marriage to their daughter, he was disappointed. One success was not enough. Hector needed to achieve prominent concert successes in Paris. I wonder that Hector did not see this ploy for what it was. The prize required him to spend three years in Rome, and if he could not be in Paris, how could he possibly achieve prominent success there? And if he renounced the prize, he would not have the income which was the first requirement for him to be permitted to marry Camille.

  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Hector had married Camille that summer. Would he have taken her with him to Rome? Or would he, instead, have remained in Paris and pursued some other living to support the woman so accustomed to material comforts? Would Hector have forgotten my existence? When Hector first related this story to me, he cursed the dishonesty of Madame Moke. And I can see that she should have admitted that she was never going to consent to the marriage. But I can also see that she would have feared telling him this. For Hector’s rage has always been something to be feared. And he is a rash man who could easily have made off with their daughter in the dark of night. Madame Moke probably thought distance would cool his romantic fervor.

  Hector wrote proudly to his parents, telling them of his achievement in winning the prize. Instead of sending him praises, his mother reproached him for failing to visit them and their Parisian friends and for becoming involved in politics. His father did not write for some time. And so the winning of the Prix de Rome did not immediately alter Hector’s life as he hoped it would. The judges at the institute complied unknowingly with Madame Moke’s secret plan and forbade Hector from accepting the prize and remaining in Paris.

  Hector set about organizing concerts of his music before he left. The first performance of his music composed for The Tempest was flooded out by the most violent storm to strike Paris in fifty years. On this night your father sensed his music would one day shake the world like thunder.

  Hector has always said that the first performance of the Symphonie Fantastique was for me. It was his last attempt to attract my attention before he left France. But I believe it was for Camille, so that she would finally hear some of her lover’s music. And for her mother, in case a successful performance would encourage her to give her consent to their union. I believe Hector would have traveled to Italy more gladly had Camille been permitted to travel with him. Although the music itself was happily received by the public and many critics, it failed on all other counts and Hector was forced to say farewell to Camille for the last time.

  A new world opened up to your father during the voyage to Italy. He befriended young Italian revolutionaries and experienced near death during a violent storm. His love of travel was born. For some months, Hector became an adventurer. He attracted the attention of Italian authorities wherever he went, exploring ruins and hills. All the time he waited to hear from Camille. In Florence he visited Il Duomo cathedral where a beautiful young woman was laid out for burial, having died in childbirth. Hector clutched her hand and wept.

  When he could bear the solitude no longer, Hector resolved to forfeit his prize—his five years of income to compose—to leave Italy and return to Camille. It was on his return journey that he received the letter from Madame Moke. It seems she had been waiting until he left Paris to match her daughter with the wealthy Monsieur Pleyel. Your father has never repeated to me the derogatory remarks contained in the letter, but he says that Madame Moke had the forethought to ask him not to take his own life. I wonder whether it was this reference to death that inspired your father with his plan. In his state of extreme fury, your father devised to arrive at the Moke household in disguise and kill the entire family before shooting himself.

  Hector had himself measured for a lady’s maid’s outfit and packed his bags with vials of strychnine and two loaded pistols. With a strange clarity of mind, he scribbled a note on the revised ball scene from my symphony and left it with his other belongings in a trunk to be sent to La Côte St-André.

  In Genoa he realized with great disappointment that he had left his disguise in a previous coach and resolved to have another made. He was staring into the sea from a low-lying cliff that afternoon, weak and exhausted, when dizziness overcame him and swept him into the sea. It was not the first time he had resigned himself to death by drowning, and he was lucky he did not hit rocks as he fell. A passing fishermen dragged him from the sea with a boat hook. Fear and salt water had made him ill, and he lay in the sun until his clothes were dried and stiff with salt.

  For four weeks Hector reworked movements from my symphony and composed its sequel, “The Return to Life,” in which music proved a purer mistress. He breathed sea air and sunshine until his fever for Camille passed.

  Harriet

  London: 1826

  NOT LONG AFTER the visit from Charles Castle Coote, Joseph moved away from us. He was secretive about his whereabouts but continued to come for Sunday dinner.

  In the evenings my mother sometimes stayed up late washing the clothes in near darkness. Occasionally I returned in the evening to the sound of sloshing and dripping. When there was no work to be done, Mother retired for the evening at the earliest opportunity after dark. I have always been drawn to the still of darkness, where I can capture time and hold it greedily to myself. And so with those parts of my wages that remained mine, I would save for months to buy the cheapest candles I could find. There were some alleyways I occasionally slipped to in secret, in a break from rehearsal, always in daylight, and a Chinaman with a toothless grin would sell those shapeless waxy lumps with enough wick to read a book by.

  And at night when the house was still, after a performance or earlier if I had not been required to work, I would sit by the fireplace with its glowing embers, and a single candle lighting my pages, not worrying that it would hurt my eyes. And there I would become Lady Anne, Portia, Cordelia, whoever took my fancy.

  On one such evening I heard a faint scuttling and drew my knees up to my chest, thinking some animal might have come to warm itself by the fire. Then I heard my name, whispered from behind the door.

  “Harriet!”

  “Who is it?” I whispered back, clutching my book to myself like a shield.

  “It’s Joseph!”

  I fumbled with the heavy key in the lock and stepped aside for him to enter. Once in the room, he swung me up in the air.

  “My fair sister!”

  “Joseph!” I laughed. “Where have you been?”

&
nbsp; There was a saltiness about his skin and the smell of smoke in his hair.

  “About London,” he said.

  “Sit down.”

  “Are Mother and Anne. . . .”

  “Asleep. There is a little hot water left. Will you have tea?”

  “Not tea,” he said, pulling a small flask from his pocket. “Will you have some of this?”

  “What is it?”

  “Try.”

  The liquid burned my throat and brought tears to my eyes. But it sent heat through me like fire.

  We sat, staring into the glow of the fire. Then he leaned to one side and pulled something out of his pocket. He began shuffling cards. “Do you know how to play Black Magic?” he asked.

  “Black Magic? But isn’t that—”

  “It’s a game, Harriet. That’s all.”

  And so he showed me, in the dimness, and we played until it was too dark to read the cards.

  “Joseph, you know we will soon be leaving for Paris?”

  “Mother sent word.”

  “Will you come with us?”

  He shook his head. “I have friends here now. And work.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “I have a room. They know how to find me at the Coburg.”

  I said nothing, for I could not blame Joseph for taking work at London’s illegitimate theaters. But he had made a choice that could not easily be undone.

  Mme Harriet Berlioz

  Rue de Londres

  Paris, December 1841

  My dear Louis,

  My mother gave me some papers before she left France. I still have in my possession an article from the Clare Journal and Ennis Advertiser. February 1808. Its edges have been hurriedly cut. The paper is brown and spotted. I try to imagine my mother snipping quickly, hushing children, a sense of heaviness in her heart. The weight of decision bearing upon her shoulders.