Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  EACH NIGHT AFTER OPHELIA, it is as though the grief and madness have sucked the very life from my bones. It takes longer and longer to return to my own world. Most evenings I return home and my mother grips my arm to ask what has happened. Wearily I tell her it is just Ophelia. Only sleep wipes the melancholy from my brow, and in the mornings I lie awake and grin to myself, remembering the carriage at my permanent disposal and how the young men from the Latin Quarter run after it shouting “I love you!” They have taught themselves those three words of English.

  One morning I ask Pierre to deposit me and my mother in one of the cobbled streets leading like points of a star to the Odéon at their center. I am going to attend rehearsal, but punctuality is no longer of the essence and I wish to examine the lithographs of my performances in the windows of the tiny bookshops that Mrs. Vaughan told me about. Although the weather is cooling now, and brown leaves are beginning to scatter over the streets, I carry my parasol elegantly over my left arm. My mother clutches my right arm and walks beside me as a man would, shielding me from the road in case the carriages should splash mud in our direction. In the first bookshop there is a large print on an easel. It shows act 3, scene 2, in which all members of the court are present to watch the performance by the traveling players. It is a poor likeness of me, sitting forward in my seat, my arms bent awkwardly. And there is something comical about Charles Kemble, who has been depicted as youthful and quite handsome as he lies fanning at my feet.

  Suddenly the bookseller is before me, all in brown with an animated face speaking in rapid French as though he wants to get every word in. Then he pauses. I smile, and then my mother looks alarmed as the man takes my left hand and kisses it. My hand is moist and he will not stop; I tug at my hand, but he will not let go. Suddenly in place of the man I see dogs from childhood, and I try to withdraw my hand with a feeling of distaste. And then suddenly there are more men like him, surrounding us, and I can no longer see the theater, my destination. The men are staring, mouths agape, some trying to separate my arm from my mother’s. One is kneeling at my feet, another is trying to kiss my boots.

  “Excuse me,” I say firmly. “We must go.” And they stare with furrowed brows. I push forward, and they do not move. I begin to feel trapped, fastened tightly into my new corset and gown, surrounded by these tall men who will not allow me to leave. It becomes difficult to breathe, and now my mother is shouting. Eventually our arms are separated, and I raise my parasol high in the air. I have only to poke one man in the ribs to cause them to begin to disperse. I grab my mother by the hand and walk her quickly toward the theater. Suddenly I notice Pierre and the horses trotting next to us, his brow furrowed.

  “Allez, allez!” he shouts at the men on the street, cracking his whip.

  It is this incident which teaches me that my days of anonymity are gone, and I begin to look back nostalgically to the days where my presence on stage was barely noticed and I could walk where I chose.

  I HAVE BEEN IN PARIS some weeks when I feel settled enough to find a church. When I think of Father Barrett and all that he taught me, I feel a deep shame that I have been such an irregular attender of church these past years. But I have always believed that it is familiarity that makes church such a comfort, and when one spends so much time traveling from one town to another, working all the while, both familiarity and time can be difficult to come by.

  And though I do not remember saying the words, I have a feeling that somehow I did promise Father Barrett that I would never neglect my duties by God. I must say that I rarely forget my evening prayers, and at times it is Father Barrett’s voice I hear in my mind when I remember the words. I pray that God will care for me and make decisions clear in my mind and cure my sister and look after my brother. But prayers do not seem enough, so some weeks after my arrival in Paris I ask my mother to wake me on Sunday morning in time to attend mass. And although my mother is not familiar with mass, she agrees to attend with me.

  By the time we arrive at Église Saint-Roch, there is a crowd of people on the stone steps making their way inside. Some small boys are running around the statues inside the iron gates, and two women stand nearby, deep in conversation, occasionally looking toward the children and shouting, “Robert! Jacques!” As we near the entrance, I fancy the crowd of people has fallen silent to stare at us. Some girls have reached the front of the line. They turn behind them, look at me with large brown eyes, turn back, and slip through the doorway. An elderly woman with a stick pauses and hisses, “Actrice!” Then she shakes her head, mutters under her breath, and disappears through the doorway. A slightly thinner man, who might be her husband, stops on the step and begins addressing me in rapid, angry French. He points at me and then toward the doorway. It is not that I am unaccustomed to being stared at. It is just that I am usually watched in the process of being someone else. And I feel strangely vulnerable on a Sunday morning, washed and neatly dressed, standing as myself outside the church. My body stiffens and heats. The man turns, and I am briefly relieved that he is going to enter the building. But suddenly he turns back and a lump of spit flies through the air and lands on my cheek.

  I have barely registered the offense when my mother has wiped the filth from my skin with the lace handkerchief I planned to use as Desdemona. And while I am wondering whether to stay or go, she grabs my arm and drags me through the heavy doors. The church is all arches, domes, and columns. But the smell of sweat and the noise remind me of the pit after half-price entry. I begin to realize it is not by accident that people on the ends of rows stick boots in front of me. They are standing all around us, pointing and shouting. On the column to my right is a carved wooden Jesus on the cross. I see his ribs struggling to rise and fall, his rounded muscles, his knees bent weakly trying to support his weight. More men are spitting, and a rotten tomato splatters my mother’s arm. A priest stands at the altar; he does not speak, and his inaction passes like judgment. Above me are whitewashed walls, sunlight tinted the colors of stained glass, and a mosaic of Jesus in Heaven. As I lift my arms to shield my face, I see the priest out of the corner of my eye, watching the congregation hit, spit, and throw, and my mother, head down, pulling me after her out the door.

  Later, my mother pours tea and we sit somberly at the kitchen table. “You know, Harriet, Talma had to renounce the theater before he was allowed to marry in the church. Remember that it was people and not God who prevented you attending mass today.”

  DURING THE DRESS REHEARSAL Charles Kemble wears black face paint, but even so he is more a Roman than a Moor. It is as well the stage lighting is so poor or the audience would see the patches of black on my face like mud after his embraces. In general the casting is somewhat comical, and I wonder whether people find me as miscast in the role of Desdemona as Kemble is as Othello.

  I am not at all sure about Desdemona. It is one thing to be mad or passionate on stage, another thing altogether to be smothered. However, it is easy to see that no other of the actors is suited to the part. I have requested the removal of the “Willow Song” for I can only manage a song if sung in madness or jest; the soft earnestness of my voice travels only to the curtains and back again without reaching the crowd.

  There is much interest in this latest Shakespearean play, and this time I make sure I arrive well in advance so as not to get caught up in the crowd. They know the story from Rossini’s Otello, and there are raucous renderings of choruses from the pit. I fancy the red-headed man with the mad eyes is there, and sometimes he stands and waves his arms about as though conducting the others. I see this through cracks in the curtains and in my imagination. For I am loath to go near the audience before a performance.

  And so I sit through several scenes in the greenroom. This more than the others is a play of men. Of male friendship, war, and rivalry. Desdemona does not appear until it is time to defend her husband against her father.

  Next time I am on stage it is the heart of the drama. Desdemona has been speaking to Cassio, for she enjoys the compa
ny of men. And then I am offstage while schemes are plotted and men cease to be what they seem.

  It is difficult to lie serenely on my stage bed when I know that any minute Kemble will come at me with a pillow. It is a strange thing to lie there in a nightgown, my hair aflow before an audience. Kemble embraces me, and I smell his sweat. Then he is like a man possessed, with blazing eyes and all that face paint, and I scream and scream, holding out my hands. I tell him to stop and remind myself that I must weaken, I must allow this to happen, for it is in me to fight. And then the pillow is gently over my face and I feign weakness, falling limp into the bed. Enraged, Kemble mimes striking me twice with his dagger. I am lying still for some seconds before I hear pandemonium. There is sobbing, cries of “Non! Non! Affreux!” and furious chatter. I hear boots on boards and someone backstage whispers, “They are leaving! The audience is walking out! They are covering their eyes!” And I wonder if this has been an immense success or a failure.

  THERE IS A LETTER awaiting me in my dressing room one morning, and Mr. Turner informs me that Achille Deveria wishes to meet me and to paint my portrait. I have only met Monsieur Deveria in passing before, but I know he is responsible for the scenes from Shakespearean plays in the windows of the Parisian print shops. He has sketched me lightly as Ophelia, Juliet, and Desdemona, but he has not yet attempted to create a likeness.

  My mother insists I must be extremely elegant for my portrait; she spends hours the previous evening putting my hair in rags, creating fine ringlets. In the morning I wake with a headache, and she dresses me in a gown crawling with heavy woolen lace and hemmed with frills. Deveria completes the appearance of a peacock with an enormous feathered hat. My mother sits in a corner of the studio and is soon asleep. I sit slightly forward on my chair, my right hand dangling finely over the armrest. Monsieur turns his head first one way, then the other. He is close to my age and has a slightly ragged appearance, a slight beard as is the fashion, and a dark filth that could be paint underneath his fingernails. He instructs me to pinch some dress fabric between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand and asks me to point my left foot out from underneath the gown. A heavy sleepiness comes over me as I wonder how long I shall have to sit like this. He has seated me before the mantel, and I ask him to allow the logs to burn low. I notice he has a line of moisture across the top of his lip.

  Achille speaks more English than most, and I learn from him that he has already painted many important Parisian figures. “I should like to perfect your features, Miss Smithson. Boulanger and I are thinking to compile a book of lithographs on the English theater.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “Do you like Paris?”

  “Very much.”

  “This Shakespeare! He is—beautiful. You are very liked here, Miss Smithson.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Especially Hector Berlioz, you know.”

  “Berlioz?”

  “Yes. He speaks of you often.”

  “What does he say?”

  “You inspire him. Miss Smithson, Hector Berlioz is a genius.”

  HECTOR BERLIOZ BEGINS to haunt me both awake and in my dreams. I am strangely drawn to him though paralyzed in fear of what he would do to me given half a chance. Whenever I take my carriage through the streets, I seem to see his face in a crowd. He is there in the pit staring at me in anguish when I perform. Once I even see him staring up at my window from the street. I fancy I hear him humming, and this tune calls me to him in my dreams. I drag the curtain across the window, exposed as though inadequately clad. What a strange thing it is that public figures are so easy to find in this city. I do not know what to do, for the man has not defied the law and I have trouble distinguishing Berlioz in flesh from Berlioz in my imagination.

  I agree to perform in a benefit concert for the poor. I am grateful that the Salle Favart is within walking distance for it means I do not have to wake early and it seems I am always tired. We are to perform the final act of Romeo and Juliet, and when I first see the program I notice that an overture by Hector Berlioz is to open the evening. After my soliloquy I spend a good deal of time dying and being dead. At rehearsal, Kemble is holding me limp in his arms when I hear a door close. Then suddenly there is a great scream and I open my eyes to see that man Berlioz, shrieking and running from the theater. I struggle, and Kemble helps me to stand. I point at Berlioz. “Beware that gentleman.” The words spill from my lips before I realize what I am saying. “Beware that gentleman with the eyes that bode no good!”

  Kemble laughs. “Come, come Miss Smithson. That is the composer of our overture. He is merely one of your admirers, that is all.”

  1833

  IN ALL MY CHILDHOOD DAYS it never crossed my mind that I would marry anywhere other than a church. I had watched Father Barrett prepare so many young couples for marriage. Occasionally I had attended ceremonies. I had simply thought that a wedding, like mass or a christening, was a happy ritual that must be witnessed by God. Hector had been raised Catholic, and though it was not important to him, it was very important to his family. And though in my soul I was more Catholic than he, no Catholic church would have admitted us. He made all the arrangements with the British Embassy, and I wore my best silk gown. I could not afford the extravagance of a new one when I still owed so much money in unpaid bills. Silently my mother helped wash and style my hair.

  There were only five guests at the ceremony: Hector’s friends Liszt, Hiller, Heine, and Gounet, and my mother. Anne refused to attend. The Reverend Luscombe spoke English and kept a stern countenance.

  HECTOR GRIPPED MY ARM firmly and half lifted me into the carriage. Ever since my accident I had been wary of carriages. I blamed them for my limp, the affliction which made my movements jerky and took away the gracefulness of a young woman. He sat there with me as we began the few hours’ journey to Vincennes for our wedding tour.

  During the course of the journey, Hector began to teach me his Symphonie Fantastique.

  “Sing with me, my sweet Ophelia,” he said.

  “No, no. Hector, I have no voice.”

  “Sing with your heart.” He said. He started again, and when I thought he was not looking, I opened my lips and sang as quietly as I could, still staring out the window. I did not wish to meet his eye, but when I eventually turned to him, he beamed.

  When our carriage deposited us at the front gate, it was difficult to see the cottage for all the shrubs and flowers. I wondered if he had delivered us to some sort of paradise, and suddenly I did not mind if there were no cottage and no roof. All my life until that day had been concerned with finding a roof. And now, finally, I was free. Parts of my skin that had never seen sunlight would go ripe and soft in the warmth. We would be like Adam and Eve there in our nakedness in the sunshine. Finally alone. We would wear the sweetness of rose and jasmine. We would adorn ourselves in lilacs and magnolias. Sweets for the sweet.

  He led me through the smell of sweet tea and cinnamon. There was blue, yellow, white, and pink. With each step I saw a new tangled corner. The warmth of the sun on my eyelids made me squint at the creeping, towering, carpeting green.

  Hector pushed open the wooden door which had been left unlocked for us. The kitchen was cool and shadowed by the foliage masking the windows. It was a simple cottage with a rough wooden table in the center of the room. I was grateful for the dimness. It would give my mind and my eyes some due rest.

  He led me gently, as though I were a small child. He took the hat and case from my hands and laid them on the bed. Then he drew me into his arms. He trembled, and I felt his warmth and his moisture. There was little pleasure in those new, wet sensations. But he made me feel tall and graceful and more womanly than I had ever felt before.

  I remember very little of our first private meal together. We ate at an inn not far from the cottage, but I could not tell you which one or what we ate. There must have been other people at the inn, yet I recall only that we were there together.

  Afterward, Hector trie
d to carry me home. I must have had too much wine with my meal to have allowed this, for it nearly caused him permanent injury. However, he insisted, and I must have been flattered by his attention. Every few feet he stopped again and set me down, and we both giggled so hard we could barely stand. In the end he carried me like a child, my legs wrapped around his slender hips to keep from falling and my heavy skirts drooping beneath. He led me around the back of the cottage where we found an orchard. I formed a basket with my skirt, and Hector filled it with apples, pears, and figs. Next to the cottage was a grapevine. Hector fed me fat grapes peeled with his teeth, juice dripping down our chins. And his sweetness mixed with the sweetness of the fruit.

  We felt our way back to the bedroom in the darkness. A single candle created a dim glow on a desk near the window which was open, filling the air with the scents of flowers. Crickets hummed loudly, and occasionally a moth flapped in through the window. The open curtains billowed slightly in the wind, and between the branches of a tree I could see glittering stars.

  In the morning I was surprised to hear one of his melodies singing somewhere inside me.

  MY MOTHER PREPARED our lodgings for us while we were away. On our return she embraced Hector; however, I could not help but notice the suspicious way they eyed each other. Mealtimes were a strain, for Hector and I could sit silently staring into each other’s eyes between mouthfuls, words of English and French shooting between us like sparks from a fire. Since our marriage, my sister no longer looked me in the eye or spoke with me; my mother soon took to staring at her plate until the maid removed it, and then retiring immediately to her bedchamber.