Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  “I have it!” Kemble lifts his index finger as though he has solved a puzzle. We all watch as he lies down at my feet, his right shoulder against my knees.

  “Miss Smithson, may I borrow your fan?” He takes it with his left hand and begins to fan behind him, in my direction, while watching the miniature stage.

  “The beginning of act 3, scene 2, please.”

  On opening night my mother will be delighted to see how her fan has become the center of the scene, how Kemble fans both me and himself, how he walks the stage with it, brandishing it like a sword. She will be proud when someone explains to her that Monsieur Dumas, the playwright, has renamed this scene “La scène de l’éventail.” “What a gentleman that Mr. Kemble is,” she will sigh.

  IT IS A WONDER anyone can summon the energy to leave their homes on Tuesday the 11th of September. I travel by coach to hasten the journey, but still the driver cannot deliver me to the backstage door on account of a jam of carriages blocking the road for several streets. I pay him and walk the final two blocks in the heat, carrying a white muslin dress, my scalp dripping and heart fluttering as I realize it is none other than my own theater troupe that has stopped traffic in the middle of Paris.

  I have arrived in good time, but already there is a crowd of people all along the Place de l’Odéon jostling each other in the heat. Some of them are extremely well dressed and looking slightly put out that they, too, should have to wait their turn. I hear hurried and animated French and the occasional smattering of the king’s English. I stumble my way among them to the backstage door.

  Backstage, Mrs. Vaughan is peering through the sets into the auditorium.

  “Look at them all squashed together in the pit,” she says. “Bless them.” And sure enough, quite a number of ragged young men in tailored suits have already claimed the few inches that will be theirs for the night.

  “A very important audience this evening,” Kemble says later in the greenroom. “Almost all the English in Paris as well as many young French artists, I’ve been told. They’ve come to learn about Shakespeare.”

  I make my way to my dressing room, realizing with relish that it is one of the cooler parts of the building on account of its lacking windows. There must be some advantage to having to prepare in near darkness. I light the candles and fill a bowl with water from the jug. I push a chair against the door and begin peeling back my clothes. It is slow work dressing myself, but I forbade my mother to accompany me. Being alone enables me to imagine myself to be Ophelia. When I stand in my underclothes, I sponge myself down and dab lavender water behind my ears. I pull on the light muslin dress and line up my properties on the table: my wildflowers in water, the straw, the fan, and my long black veil, stretched and ironed with dried wildflowers fastened to it.

  In the greenroom, everyone is rigid with anticipation. The benches are empty, and we all stand as close to the door as we can manage. Every now and then we hear roaring from the audience, and we know not what to make of it.

  I first enter the stage as Ophelia with Laertes in scene 2. As Ophelia I listen to his advice to be wary of Hamlet and to remain guarded in my behavior. Although I cannot see many members of the audience and I daren’t be distracted by them, I am aware of their silence and attention. It is true, what they say about how other countries provide spectators yet it is only the French who will provide an audience. And although I fear they barely hear let alone understand my words, there is a silence within the hall, as though one thousand people hold their breath.

  Later that evening, in my dressing room, I take much time to prepare for my third entrance. I let my hair fall loosely and untidily down my back. Slowly I weave strands of straw among my hair so that I rustle when I shake my head. I pin the veil and stand to let it fall over my shoulders. I sit quietly until I am called to the greenroom. Some of the other actors snigger when they see me with dark veil, straw, and wildflowers. It is as though I have entered a different world.

  I walk slowly onto the stage, turning my head to look all around. I am clothed in black; the veil flows behind me.

  “Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?” I ask Queen Gertrude breathlessly. And she turns to me in concern.

  “How now, Ophelia!”

  I fall to my knees thinking of Hamlet and then my dead father and then Hamlet again. I sing slowly and softly. I have no voice, it doesn’t matter. My right hand lifts ever so slowly.

  How should I your true love know

  From another one?

  And I am looking to the dead on my left, and Hamlet in front of me. And then suddenly I am unpinning the veil, laying it gently over my father’s body. I am shuddering and sighing, sobbing for my father. I am drawing circles among flowers with my feet, looking down in grief.

  Back in the wings I hear roaring, and I fear I cannot face the audience’s disapproval. “My God, what are they saying? Do they like it or hate it?” I ask.

  “It is a marvelous success,” someone shouts over the audience’s roaring, and pushes me back on stage.

  The basket over my arm swings as I return to the stage.

  “I hope all will be well,” I say sadly. And with my right hand on my heart and my left hand moving up to join it as though in prayer, I say, “But I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him in the cold ground. My brother shall know of it.”

  Then I see I am surrounded by ladies and gentleman, still and watchful. A wave of sobbing washes toward me and I look up, puzzled. I smile and spread my hands, the basket knocking against my left hip.

  “I thank you for your good council.” I turn to my basket and lift flowers one by one. There is lavender, rosemary, and sky blue forget-me-nots. I lift a sprig of lavender between two fingers and hand it to Queen Gertrude who forces her lips into a smile. A daisy for the king. “There’s a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. . . .”

  I swing and turn to my ladies in waiting. “Good night, ladies; good night.” One by one I hand them forget-me-nots. Then there is a wave of sobbing again. Then it is gone as I speak, “Sweet ladies; good night, good night.”

  I notice that there are still flowers in my basket. I scoop up the petals like seed and fling them into the darkness, over the edge, and I fancy there are people there; women weeping into handkerchiefs and men sobbing as they stumble out a door, petals falling like rain. Someone takes my arm and leads me away.

  HAD CHARLES KEMBLE not gripped my arm during the curtain call, I am sure I would have collapsed in the heat, the stench of perspiration fanned by plaudits, the air heated by shouting and tears. As I stared into the vast hollow of the Odéon, I fancied I saw the stone walls trembling.

  Backstage everyone possessed a new energy in spite of the temperature. Other actors tried to drag me straight to the greenroom, but I shook my head.

  “In a minute. I must change first.” Once in my changing room I locked the door and unpinned the veil from my head. The tops of my arms were streaked in a rash which I hoped would soon clear. I struggled from my gown and began sponging myself, trying to return sensation to my limbs for the small room was airless as a closed oven. Wearing only my underclothes, I fell into the chair and lay my head on the table.

  A steady firm knocking woke me from dozing, and I grabbed for something to cover myself.

  “Just a minute!” I called, expecting a voice to indicate whose presence it was. The person did not speak, but I sensed there was someone there waiting; occasionally I heard heavy breathing as I pulled my day dress over my sticky skin. I did not have time to fix my hair and must have looked a sight standing there, bulging in all the wrong places for I had not had time to adjust my clothing. My hair was partially caught under the dress, the rest of it flowing untidily around my face with wildflowers and straw caught in it. I unlocked the door and a stately older woman examined me.

  “Mademoiselle!” she took my hands in hers and kissed both my cheeks.

  “Merveilleuse!” she looked me in the eye, an
d I feared I would not understand her.

  “Madmoiselle Mars,” she said, holding her right hand to her heart.

  “Oh,” I said. “Miss Smithson. Harriet Smithson.”

  She smiled. “Very good, Miss Smithson. Zis Ophélie she is merveilleuse! You play vell. I shall come tomorrow.”

  I nodded. “Thank you. Yes, please come again.”

  After she had gone I dabbed rose water behind my ears, caught my hair in a bun, and adjusted some wildflowers for ornamentation. I wondered who had let that woman come backstage.

  MRS. BRINDAL TAKES MY ARM in the greenroom, as though she is still Queen Gertrude and I am Ophelia and she is worried about my health.

  “A drink, Harriet?” she asks, pouring me something deep red. I resist the urge to drink quickly, each sweet sip adding to my haziness. “That was lovely,” she says. “Original and quite beautiful. The audience loved you.”

  “I really think you should learn to sing Ophelia’s songs, Miss Smithson,” Mrs. Gashall says. “But apart from that I gather it was a reasonable—”

  “Ah, Miss Smithson, Miss Smithson.” Charles Kemble is striding toward me, around the food table which I have just spotted and walking quickly as though he has been seeking me for hours. “Excellent performance!” He takes my hand. “The French seem to love our Shakespeare—I was thinking about Romeo and Juliet for Saturday night. How would you feel about the role of Juliet?”

  “Well, I—all right.”

  “They are very taken with you, Miss Smithson.” He winks. “On my way backstage I could still hear them calling for La Belle Irlandaise!”

  “Mr. Kemble, a woman came to speak to me in my dressing room. I had never seen her before. She said her name was . . . Mademoiselle Mars.”

  At the mention of her name, it is as though all conversations in the room cease.

  “Mademoiselle Mars?” Kemble asks.

  “Ahh—yes.”

  “Well. The great French tragedienne. She is known for her portrayal of madness. She was paying you a great compliment, my dear.”

  Charles Kemble escorts me to my carriage around the back of the theater, urging me to walk quickly with my head down.

  “They will not harm you, but it is best to avoid any unpleasantness,” he says, and I realize that there is a gathering of young men lurking around the backstage door hoping to catch another glimpse of me, this time out of costume. There is a slight breeze now, and the sky has the evening lightness of summer. There is a hint of celebration in the air. Here in Paris, members of society walk in certain streets in the evenings, and they nod to me as I pass. I see coffeehouses, and there is an occasional waft of garlic and cream, bursts of laughter from open doors, excited chatter. On this night I feel that I am the subject of every conversation. I stretch my legs under my gown and slouch back in my seat. Charles Kemble has advised me I am not required at rehearsal tomorrow. Act 5 is to be altered slightly to make Hamlet more acceptable as a hero. Ophelia touched them to the very core. I will be able to rest.

  I climb the steps to our lodgings, and my mother is already standing in the doorway, beaming. Anne stands behind her in her nightgown. I hand my mother the pastries Mrs. Brindal packed for me when I left. I feel as though I have not eaten for a day.

  “Harriet, you were marvelous! What generous people these French are. And what a magical city! Oh, you will have great success here. And we will never have to worry again! Come, sit down. Tell me of your evening.”

  For three nights I sleep fitfully, my waking thoughts blurring into dreams. For the first time I allow myself to believe everything in my life has led me to this moment.

  MY FAMILY HAS MOVED into more comfortable lodgings at Rue Neuve Saint Marc; there are three bedrooms, a withdrawing room, and a parlor. Monsieur Tartes is a very helpful doorman, and we also have a maid and cook. Although I have ensured my mother is freed from almost all domestic duties, I still find she enjoys sewing in the evenings, though it cannot be good for her eyes.

  Anne collects newspapers and journals looking for my name. Soon there is a whole box of clippings describing me as pure and beautiful. The French write “Miss Smithson nous a montré une véritable folle!” and “À la fin de la pièce, Miss Smithson meurt de douleur. . . .” They like me best when I am mad or dying.

  I would have expected my mother to delight in our newfound fortune, but she has found other anxieties with which to occupy her mind. I am not to receive guests in my dressing room, she says. I must always travel by carriage. And it seems that my inaccessibility drives the Parisians to fury. Almost every day there are callers at the front door leaving cards and letters. Monsieur Tartes collects them patiently, assuring visitors he will pass them on, and sends the callers away.

  Madmoiselle Mars calls each week to help me with my mail. At first I wondered why she would give of her time so generously for such a tedious occupation, but now I have seen how her eyes light up as she reads those sweet young words of love; sometimes I have to call her name three times to remind her to translate the words. I gather it is some years since Mademoiselle Mars received such letters. Even after she has translated the meanings for me I am usually left wanting, for I cannot believe all the letters are nearly identical.

  “Love,” she says, nodding. She instructs me to write Merci and sign my name. She spells their names to me in halting English mixed with French.

  “Who is this Monsieur Berlioz?” I ask her one day when she has spelled his name for the third time. “Why does he write me so often? What does he say?”

  “Fou,” she says. At first I think she curses. Then she says it again. “Musicien et fou. Mad. You must be careful.” I shiver as though I have heard a prophecy. I put his letters in a drawer together with my unsent responses and wait for Mr. Turner who meets with me weekly to discuss my business affairs.

  After we have finished discussing financial matters, while he sips his tea, I say, “Mr. Turner, I have received three letters from a Frenchman and I wonder whether you could help me decipher them?”

  “Certainly, Miss Smithson.” He beams, and my mother blushes as though he has whispered something indiscreet in her ear. “I would be delighted.”

  He sits back in his chair, leaning his chin upon his right palm while holding the letter in his left hand. And when he finishes I expect him to turn to me. Instead, he begins the second letter and then the third. He stares at his teacup as though deciding what to say.

  “This young man takes liberties in what he says to you.”

  “What does he say?”

  Mr. Turner clears his throat. “He claims to be in love with you, Miss Smithson.”

  “All the young men are in love with her!” my mother states proudly. “She has had some fine proposals!”

  “Hush, Mother.”

  “He seems rather—Miss Smithson, I must tell you I have heard of this Berlioz. He is a student of composition at the Conservatoire. He approaches all work and life with great determination and passion. A very talented young man but a most unstable character. I advise you to avoid him. I believe he may suffer from epilepsy.”

  “Is he a danger to her, then?” my mother asks.

  “I believe he can be dissuaded from his affections if Miss Smithson is careful not to respond to his advances. Tell the servants you wish to receive no further correspondence from him.” Mr. Turner looks from me to my mother and back again. “I think we are best rid of these,” he says, dropping the letters one by one into the fire. Each letter flares briefly, as though it has been dipped in lamp oil, before collapsing into ash.

  And suddenly I realize that this Monsieur Berlioz is the red-headed young man who watches my performances with such anguish, the same man I have seen among the columns of the Odéon as I arrive for rehearsal.

  1827

  NOW THAT I HAVE BECOME someone who is noticed in public, I can no longer bear to wear those worn and scrubbed dresses and the whalebone corset made for narrower hips, which I inherited from Eliza O’Neill so many years ago.
I am vague about my salary when my mother asks; I have given her enough to put some away. I take almost all I have left, with promises of much more, to a small boutique near the Opéra. My mother thinks I am attending rehearsal.

  I enter beneath the sign Modiste et Corsetière. Two extremely well dressed women are standing behind a table speaking. The shorter woman raises an eyebrow at me, as though she believes I belong in the épicerie down the road, but the other one bustles over and begins chattering in quick French I do not understand.

  They take me into a small room where they undress me in a business-like manner and stand me on a pedestal. The thin woman does not flinch as she pulls her tape measure around my hips and waist, then measures the distance from my hips to bust. And when she has finished I gather she is having corsets made for me; she asks me to write my address, and I know she will have them delivered.

  And although the corset I am wearing is obviously inadequate, bent out of shape and slightly gray, the shorter, wider woman takes great delight in sweeping gown after gown off the rack. One by one she holds them against my body, squints, nods, and beckons me to floor level so she can slip the shiny fabrics over my arms and fasten them at the back. I begin with one gown for each day of the week, silks and satins in pale blues and pinks, a deeper navy and bottle green, a light mauve, a white, and a cream. Many reveal my neck and arms; they have capped sleeves and can be fitted with short jackets during the day in summer or cloaks in winter. Without saying a word, simply nodding and smiling, I purchase the gowns, wordlessly communicating my approval. Finally, the short woman sits me before a mirror and begins emptying the jewelry cabinet. I laugh and shake my head, and eventually she remembers a word of English. “Try,” she says. “You try.” There are heavy diamond earrings, perfect pearls, gold bracelets that sparkle like chandeliers. All these riches a woman of my station must not purchase for herself. Particularly a woman who two weeks earlier could barely afford to feed her family. But I admire the glittering against my skin and stare deep into sapphires which match perfectly with the navy gown. And I dare to hope that one day I will love a man who buys me such jewels. When I have pushed every trinket to one side, the woman places a small wooden box before me. I am tiring of her game, but I open the box so as not to offend her. Inside is a gold bracelet ornamented by a gold shamrock. Clutching the small wooden box, I wave to the two women as I leave.