Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  My mother was sixteen and performing the part of Belvedira in Venice Preserved. She remembers nothing of the night she met my father except the shy man who tried to shake her hand after pushing his way through the rowdy audience to meet her. My mother says his hands were calloused yet tender as she held them in her own.

  After I was born, my parents toured Ireland for a year, taking me with them. But with both of them working, they frequently had to leave me with strangers. The decision to leave me with Father Barrett was made one night after they collected me, screaming, from a neighbor, my face splattered with sour milk and my clothes soiled.

  I know there would never have been any question of my parents giving up Joseph, the second child. My father was overjoyed to behold his only son. Joseph became a part of the theater world from the day he could walk. I know that this means he spent hours on his own, crawling among moth-eaten costumes and abandoned props. That occasionally a leading actress would give him sweets and stroke his blond curls. And the rest of the time he would have to find his own morsels of food, snatching bread from actors’ belongings, curling up among the carpetbags when he was tired. But for all this neglect, the theater was in his blood more so than it was in mine.

  After the birth of Joseph, my father said my mother was afflicted with a deep melancholy. She did not eat for months, and then she would only eat barley. She grew swollen and was prone to bouts of crying. She was eight months pregnant before they guessed. Father said he started feeding my mother vegetables and mutton. He could scarcely afford to feed himself, but he knew that she needed to eat well for the strength of their child.

  Anne was born breathless and blue, tangled in the umbilical cord. She was curled in the shape of a cashew nut, and no one could straighten her arms or her back. She did not cry for days. My mother never stopped fearing she would die.

  I DID NOT SLEEP for weeks leading up to my debut performance, and had I been any older this would have shown itself in heavy shadows under my eyes. And while part of me could not sleep for excitement, the other part could not sleep for shame. As an actress I would be admired by some; I also knew I would be reviled by others. And once on the stage there would be no removing the experience from my past. As I thought about Lady Castle Coote, Father Barrett, and the girls at my school, I felt the beginnings of a deep shame that pride would force me to become a working woman.

  In Dublin I spent hours reading my scripts in bed. In the mornings and on performance evenings my mother would leave for rehearsal in a great flurry of drapery and calling out instructions to heat soup and boil potatoes as she closed the door. We could not afford to eat meat, and to this day I do not understand how she made meals on the small salary she must have earned. We ate a good many potatoes during that time, but my mother always found a few herbs, an onion, or some butter, and so our meals were flavorsome and nourishing enough.

  After my mother left, I would wake my sister and help her dress. I would prepare some gruel for breakfast and sit her at the table with Joseph and my father.

  “Who are you this morning, Harriet?” my father would grin.

  “Albina, Father.”

  “Lovely,” and small flecks of gruel would spatter the tablecloth. Anne would screw up her nose, and Father would pretend not to notice.

  “And shall you marry the man or not, then?”

  “I shall.”

  “Very good.”

  “Mind you treat him well. Feed him up and remember to darn his stockings.”

  “He shall darn his own stockings, Father.”

  “No!” he feigned shock.

  “What sort of man is he, then?”

  “One that likes cotton and thread, Father.” At this, Joseph and Anne would begin to giggle.

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  There was great anticipation surrounding my debut performance, and my father requested to hear my lines once a day. Lying there with his eyes closed, he would offer advice on inflection and intonation. He suggested gestures and clicked his tongue at the bad habits I seemed to be acquiring.

  “Stop swaying, child, for heaven’s sake! You are not a pendulum,” he said. He put much time into preparing careful instructions for me. He said the Crow Street Theatre had only just been reopened after rioting spectators damaged the building.

  “Aah, the people of Dublin have too much time on their hands. They rioted on account of a dog withdrawing from the stage over a pay dispute.”

  Dublin was an excellent theater, he told me, and a fortuitous beginning. I wonder now whether I could have stayed in Dublin and made my mark there, sparing myself all that was to follow. I knew the Theatre Royal to have been a step in the careers of many actors and had heard that a number of the better known London players performed there in summer. I hoped to see the great actors Kean and Macready there. My father said that Edmund Kean was known for his love of pomp and circumstance, and that certain theater managers had been required to hold parades in his honor before Kean could be persuaded to appear. And Macready had a dislike of reciting lines, even those written by Shakespeare, and would frequently add his own or change what had been written. But each actor had such a gift that he could forget himself upon the stage and become the very essence of the character he represented.

  My father told me that Mr. Jones was a gentleman and he was pleased I was in such safe hands. At first I was astounded at hearing how much I was to be paid. I had never had my own money before, and my mind filled with the colored fabrics, shoes, and jewels I could buy. Then I remembered that my parents had not accompanied me merely for my own protection. They wanted their share.

  Although I knew my lines from the first, the other actors were not always kind to me in rehearsal. I could barely open my mouth before Mr. Jones would beg me to make more sound. He was a small and gentle man, but this made his requests all the more powerful.

  “If you please, Miss Smithson, could you speak a little louder?” These frequent interjections only served to increase the self-doubt I nurtured, and to make my voice, if anything, quieter. During the rehearsal of my scenes, the chatter around me frequently rose to such volume that Mr. Jones’s instructions were inaudible. He waved his arms at the other actors in vain. I would pause and close my eyes, biting my lips together, willing myself to remain composed. Then I would commence my lines again, with slightly more conviction, and Mr. Jones would allow me to continue for the sake of the rehearsal schedule. In performance, Mr. Jones was known for his peculiar way of rolling his eyes.

  Years later I came across some of the Irish players in London, and they seemed surprised I was capable of uttering my own speech. They heard me recite lines often enough, but during rehearsals I watched and listened in silence. It would not be until the performances that I managed to lose myself in the character I portrayed.

  Although I could never have told my father, the theater in Dublin was grander than I had ever imagined, my only experience of theater being the one in Ennis. I had heard that my father’s theater was now a school, though I did not like to ask him. In Dublin the stage was spacious and there were a number of entrances to the building. The balcony railings were gold, and altogether the brilliant colors were like Christmas. In the coffee room it was possible to procure mulled wine and other refreshments.

  The Theatre Royal was also known as the Crow Street Theatre, and to us it was simply the Old Crow. My mother and I would leave Father and Joseph with Anne and walk to the Old Crow in the evenings. We had to walk fast for we were usually running late. As my own thoughts became preoccupied with the role I would soon play, I was reminded of an occasion when my parents had visited Ennis. On the night of a performance, I had tried in vain to gain my father’s attention. He had seemed absent and had later said he had been picturing the forthcoming scenes in his mind.

  Mr. Jones had a hold on his actors. The English system of fines would be nothing by comparison. At the end of each rehearsal he lectured us all on our conduct before and during the performance. If anyone was found to
have had so much as a drop of wine, he would not merely be fined but would be banned from performance for at least an evening. Not one of us could risk losing a whole evening’s wages, and so it happened that the actors at the Old Crow were a respectable society for a young girl.

  ON MY OPENING NIGHT in The Will, I sat by myself in the greenroom, hoping my skirts were straight but reluctant to examine myself too closely in the glass in front of the other actors. And then I noticed someone standing before me. I stood.

  “Miss Smithson?” A young woman smiled. I had seen her before but could not place her. “I am Eliza O’Neill.” She shook my hand in a way I had only seen men do. “I have been watching you in rehearsal. I think Albina is a perfect role for you.”

  “I still have much to learn. But thank you.” I smiled. My father had told me about Eliza O’Neill. I knew that she was the favorite of the London audiences, but she had also begun her career in Dublin.

  “Are you performing this evening?” I asked.

  “Only later in the second drama. Come, sit down.” We sat together on a bench. “Do you have a charm for your first night?” she asked. I shook my head. “Then you must borrow mine,” she said, reaching inside her skirts so that I had to look away.

  “Here.” She dropped a ball of soft fur into my palm. “My brother caught it years ago. I always have it with me when I perform.” I examined the white hairs and realized I held a rabbit’s tail.

  As I stood in the wings that night, I entered a state of numbness where I was deaf and barely breathed, my mind completely empty. And then suddenly someone gave me a great push and I was on the boards, lit from below, and through the fog I could discern an audience. People laughed and conversed, but they were focused in my direction as I began to speak. And as I spoke, I became Albina; my life until that moment dissolved.

  All through The Will that night, Eliza sat with me in the greenroom. She asked me about my scenes in advance. “Now, what is Albina thinking in the next scene? How can you show this through gesture?”

  When I came off stage, she greeted me with glasses of water and her own soft applause. At the end of the performance she helped me seek out my mother who was standing in the foyer speaking with some of my colleagues. My mother paused in her conversation when she saw me approach.

  “Mother, have you met Eliza O’Neill? She is recently arrived from London.”

  “I don’t believe I have.” She held out her hand. “But I have long admired your work, Miss O’Neill.”

  “Thank you. Your daughter Harriet has great talent, Mrs. Smithson. I believe she will soon be seen in the greatest roles. It is rare for a new performer to receive three separate plaudits after a debut performance.”

  Eliza O’Neill was a commanding presence and performed throughout my first season. Her eyes were an unusual shade of dark blue, her hair blond and curled. She had a prominent forehead and a large nose. She was tall and large-boned and rarely laughed. Although not considered by many to be beautiful, Eliza was much admired. From the day I met her, I would strive to be everything Eliza O’Neill was.

  Our season together in Dublin seemed short. Her family guarded her closely; her father and brother were never far away. She attended church every Sunday, and occasionally I accompanied her. The relaxed friendship between the O’Neill men and the players protected her from untoward attention.

  At the end of the season, the O’Neill family invited me to stay with them before the summer touring season. I savored those days as though knowing such times would not be possible again. Eliza seemed to have no end of stories inside her. She had so much to tell me about her family; she could keep me entertained for hours without repeating a word. One by one I learned about them all. It was usually late by the time everyone retired for the evening. And in Eliza’s bedchamber she whispered stories to me in the darkness.

  “My mother was a lady,” she whispered to me one night. “As a girl she learned piano and painting and French. Her parents disowned her when she married my father. We had to make our own family; there were no grandparents to show us how. When we were small, Mother taught us all music. That was how it all began, this playing.”

  The O’Neill lodgings had something of home about them. They were on permanent rental, and many of the family’s belongings were left there during the summer touring. Unlike our lodgings, their rooms contained more than simply essential items. At the O’Neills there was a bookcase full of leather-bound volumes. I was drawn to these books and the smell of fresh-cut pages. I would stand staring, overwhelmed, unable to select one to read, for it would mean leaving the others. There were many great novels on those shelves, the works of Sir Walter Scott, Henry Fielding, and Jane Austen. I would run my fingers along their spines, confirming for myself that the objects were real and not merely conjured by my imagination.

  “Where’s your friend, Eliza?” I would hear Mr. O’Neill asking.

  “At the bookcase, I expect,” Eliza would say, herself looking up from The Lady of the Lake.

  “Too much book learning be not good for a lady!” he would say and laugh. And then I would see Eliza appear in the doorway. “She is just dreaming, Father.”

  Eliza had her own bedchamber and a large collection of trinkets from Ireland.

  “This is my memory stone,” she told me once, holding out a piece of slate perfectly smooth and round. She had a tiny stoppered bottle that contained a sprig of lavender from her grandmother’s garden. Eliza woke me with its sweet scent one morning, removing the stopper and holding it under my nose while I dreamed of walking among sweet flowers. There was also a lace handkerchief that had her initials embroidered in pink silk.

  “My sister Kate made this for me when she was ill,” she said solemnly. “For my twelfth birthday. Before she died of the fever.”

  At the O’Neills there was a large drawing room with a piano. It contained a number of heavy armchairs laden with cushions. It was here that we spent our evenings, Eliza and I curled up in the chairs reading to each other one of the latest serials. She had a particular fondness for the novels of Jane Austen. She would read a chapter, savoring the suspense, even though we both knew how the books would end. Then she would yawn and stretch.

  “Oh, how sleepy I am!” and then, taking a moment to draw breath, she would begin to sing. Eliza’s songs were unlike anything I had ever heard before. Even now sometimes I fancy I hear those soaring high notes. A bird call is enough to bring Eliza back to me, her awkward features, that thick blond hair that took hours to wash and comb, and her smile so warm, so unafraid, so full of love.

  Eliza’s haunting song had something ancient about it. The vowels meandered in her upper register, wordless but full of beauty. And this call stirred her family so that soon her brother John would be taking up his fiddle and tapping his foot, eyes closed, the very strands of his red beard vibrating with sound. After a few seconds of their duet, her other brother, Marcus, would be trilling on his uilleann pipes, that breathy Irish sound weaving over and under Eliza’s melody. If I closed my eyes, I could almost see their threads snaking around each other, separate lines of melody so much in tune with one another.

  Mrs. O’Neill would sit through her children’s performances perched on her piano stool the wrong way around and swaying back and forth, animated joy on her face while her husband tapped his right thigh to the beat. The three O’Neill musicians could play like this for hours. In the warm evenings, with the window open, they entertained the street and we would hear shouts of all kinds from down below. Occasionally one of the neighbors thumped a protest on the wall over the noise, and Mrs. O’Neill would look briefly worried, tell her children to quieten their playing. But within moments they were back to their usual volume. John took over as leader of the band, since he only required his hands and not his voice to make music. And he would call out to others of us to join in. I would shake my head, laughing.

  “No, John. I cannot sing.”

  “Dance then. Come on, Harriet. Dance!”

&n
bsp; The rhythm burst from me, and within seconds I was dancing what could only be seen as some kind of ancestral dance, my feet stepping rhythmically back and forth, my arms curved in a swan-like gesture of grace, weaving around my head and body. Mr. and Mrs. O’Neill cheered as I circled the musicians; there was hot sweetness inside me, and my head felt light as though I were floating in the air. And all the time I was looking at John, his bow flying up and down the fiddle, with his smiling clear blue eyes and his encouraging words.

  “Harriet,” Eliza whispered to me one night as my mind began to slip into sleep. “Jane Austen has not married. Can you believe that?”

  “Hmmm. . . .”

  “All those stories about love. Do you think she simply invented them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or perhaps she almost married. Maybe she had a secret suitor.”

  My mind was becoming more alert. “There are enough love stories around, Eliza. Enough for all of us to have one to tell if not to live.”

  “What if there aren’t? I mean, what if we use them up by talking about them—or acting them—and then there are none left for us to live?”

  “Now you’re being silly.”

  She was silent for a while. I opened my eyes. The glow from the fire showed the shadow of Eliza sitting up, her hair falling around her shoulders.

  “Harriet, if I were Caroline Bingley, would you be Lizzie or Jane?”

  “Jane,” I said. “But I’m glad you’re not Miss Bingley.”

  “Shall I tell John?” she whispered.

  “No.”

  Waterford: 1817

  IN THE SUMMER OF 1817 I visited the Castle Cootes. I had been longing to see the family once more, and while I had had little time for letters, during my three years in Dublin I had been collecting tales with which to entertain them. But this was a visit unlike the others. When Lady Castle Coote asked after my father, she did not seem to listen to my response. I was most disappointed to discover that none of her sons were home during the period of my visit.