“The boys are all so busy now,” she said. “Preparing their careers. I’m sorry we didn’t have the opportunity to attend your season in Dublin.” Her words had an air of falseness about them. Although I had been caught up in the excitement of our capital and the new friends I had there, there was not one night when I did not wonder hopefully whether a Castle Coote might be in the audience, and when I did not remember them in my prayers.
Lady Castle Coote had a letter for me from Mr. Elliston of England. A well-known stage manager and a friend of the Castle Cootes, he had written requesting my services for the Birmingham Theatre Royal in the following season. I confess this news did not please me as much as it should have.
“Harriet, you should accept Mr. Elliston’s offer. You will be safer in England, and there are far more opportunities for a young lady with talent.” She lowered her voice. “Irish theater managers have the reputation for buying more services from their actresses than they wish to sell. The custom in England is different; you would be well advised to go.”
In spite of the significant event that had befallen me, I was in melancholy spirits that afternoon. I found a quiet place in the garden where I wept from loneliness. For the first time I realized I did not belong with the Castle Cootes and that, in fact, there was nowhere for me to belong at all. I had no home. My belongings were few and scattered wide. Many were with the Castle Cootes, but I knew that I could not take them with me, since I did not know where I was going or for how long. It was difficult enough to manage my trunk and my costumes without carrying unnecessary luxuries such as books and letters. My mother still carried some of my belongings with her; my childhood possessions had been left with charities in Ennis. Nothing reminded me of all that had been. Nothing proved the truth of my memories. And I remembered this when I saw the Castle Coote home and how it contained objects belonging to all the boys and even to myself. Other people did not live as I did. There in the garden under a peach tree where I could imagine the peach juice dripping from the chin of a young Charles, I wept for all that was not mine and for the home I did not have.
Mme Harriet Berlioz
Rue de Londres
Paris, 23 October 1840
My dear Louis,
It is some months since your father took you away to school. I kissed you and held you out from me so I could see your six-year-old face, for it will change again before we next meet.
“Dieu te bénise,” I whispered, hoping you would not see my tears. You stood straight and tall, but I could see the quiver in your lip. As you grow you will be surrounded by people who are not your family. My childhood and yours are not so very different.
My papers occupy me as I recover. You are reading your mother’s cure.
You wrote to me from school that you were studying Shakespeare. What could your father and I not teach you about Shakespeare! I shall expect a little Hamlet when you return in the summer. Learn it well, my son. To Shakespeare you owe your entire existence.
If I cannot speak with you about Desdemona, Lady Anne, Ophelia, and Juliet, at least I can remember them for you. Love them, Louis, as your father did. Donning a black gown in place of all those pure white robes, I could have played a witch in Macbeth. I should have liked to perform a character with less purity.
Most of all I was Ophelia and Juliet. Sometimes I think I am them still—one, then the other, even both at once. There was a time when all of Paris was under my spell. I will show you how Providence carried me there.
Your loving mother,
Harriet
Birmingham, England: 1817
I CROSSED THE IRISH SEA alone. The fresh air lifted my spirits, though the heavy rocking of the ship churned up my insides so heavily that I felt I was going to die. A gentleman whose name I cannot recall assisted me to a seat but did not stay long; I expect I was not very good company. The vessel was not crowded, and I found a post against which I could lean my head. White sleep relieved me from my illness, and when I next opened my eyes I was in England.
There was not much green or pleasant about this land; it was all black smoke and manufactories. It was disappointing to learn that there was still a long journey ahead. I awoke to an unshaven man shaking my arm and saying, “Birmingham, miss.” In the dark I stepped down from the carriage somewhat shakily and was surprised to discover a man lifting my trunk. “Well, Miss Smithson. I trust you had a pleasant journey,” he said in a clear voice. “I am Mr. Elliston.” I nodded my head. My eyelids ached, and it took all my strength to keep them open.
“I have arranged lodgings for you,” he said.
ALTHOUGH I WAS there an entire summer, I did not see much of Birmingham. I walked through the town square and past the town hall with its clock tower on my way to the theater every morning. This was a great meeting place for many shopkeepers and workers; some would doff their caps to me as I passed, and I would wonder whether this was from recognition or other interest. A lady walking in town on her own always occasioned speculation. Directly outside the town were many of the new manu- factories, and in the distance you could see black smoke pumping up into the sky.
My days in Birmingham were long. While it was still dark I woke and began memory work on my lines by candlelight. I did not play leading roles during this time. The company was strong and featured Miss Somerville and Miss Brunton, both of whom were more accomplished and older than me. Since my roles were quite small, there was plenty of time when I was not required at rehearsal, and during this time I commenced my training.
Miss Brunton’s mother was in charge of training young actresses. There were two or three other girls, though I no longer remember their names. Mrs. Brunton used to say, “An actress must perform with her whole person,” and slowly I came to understand what this meant. At the beginning of each session we simply stood still. I remember Mrs. Brunton peering at me through her eyeglass, gripping the end of her rod while leaning it against the boards. Sometimes she would hold the rod against my limbs to examine their straightness, and she would rub her hands up and down my back, examining its curve and pushing down on my hips. My biggest difficulty was always in straightening my shoulders for I had developed a slight hunch during all those years of trying not to be noticed. At Madame Tournier’s school I had begun the habit of retreating into myself; this had involved leaning forward and allowing wisps of hair to fall over my face like a curtain. Mrs. Brunton would stamp her rod on the boards, glare at me, and say with stern, clear vowels, “Miss Smithson, your shoulders!” And I would blush in front of the other girls, pushing my shoulders as far back as they would go.
All I lacked in deportment I made up for in dancing. I was frequently asked to demonstrate the steps for the other girls.
“Dancing is of particular importance to an actress,” Mrs. Brunton would say. “Even if you err in gesture, all will be forgiven if you turn a pretty step.”
Then there was the art of ordinary movement: Mrs. Brunton made even walking seem a chore. We learned to walk gracefully with a heavy blanket tied around our waists, trailing behind us on the floor. Our feet had to point straight in front of us at all times. We walked miles and miles up and down a plank which had been placed on the stage for our benefit. The elevation filled me with dread. While it was not very high, it seemed like a mountain when dressed in a long gown with satin shoes, so I practiced whenever I had an hour or two between rehearsals and performances when there was no one about. The exercise of walking the plank began with slow walking in a perfectly straight line. Then it had to be done with eyes closed; more than once my feet missed the plank or my knees buckled beneath me and I tumbled to the boards. I was glad of stockings and flowing gowns for they covered my bruises. Then there was fast walking with attention to be paid always to straightness of direction and uprightness of carriage.
As we progressed though our training, there was more and more work on gesture. Mrs. Brunton lectured us on the principles of the art of gesture; how it must always seem natural and refined. In spite of this, i
t was not natural at all but learned. I came to walk to and from the theater with my third and fourth fingers held together, my other fingers slightly curled. I learned about prone and supine palms, that an open hand can be seen to represent an open mind, while a palm facing downward can reveal conviction. She told us about beginning gestures in a downward position and working our way up with the drama of the play until our hands were held high above our heads. Mrs. Brunton frequently reminded us that too little gesture was always better than too much, especially for a lady. She showed us how, together with voice, gesture could add emphasis and meaning to our words.
Mrs. Brunton worked endlessly on my pronunciation. She said my Irishness should not be apparent through my speech, but I am quite sure that it always was. Sometimes she had me repeating vowel sounds until I cried. She emphasized the clarity and distinctness of the sounds.
“The English lack patience for foreigners, and you will be received harshly in London if you do not learn to speak like a lady, Miss Smithson,” she said.
And through these private classes I came to realize that Mrs. Brunton had great faith in my abilities and high hopes for my success.
MR. ELLISTON WAS far more strict than my previous manager, Mr. Jones, had been during rehearsal. For Elliston, all was performance. He said himself that he was the same person on the stage as off. Mr. Lamb wrote that wherever Elliston was, the theater was there with him. He was known among actors as the Napoleon of the Stage. I believe he was flattered by the title.
There were times when I had to practice my mere entrance ten times while other actors sighed and shifted their weight from one foot to the other. He remembered my parts in such detail that I could be fooled into thinking he had attention for me alone. If I so much as misremembered a word or stepped too far to one side during performance, he would recall it the next day. Most days he would tell me that my voice had been barely audible during the previous evening’s performance. But there was not much that could be done to help this during rehearsal when we were all trying to save our voices. Elliston advised me to imagine that the audience members were deaf, as they often seemed to be. Gradually I began to make more use of gesture. During this summer season I learned to survive on very little sleep, my body continuing long after my mind no longer could. I met and performed with many of the most successful actors of the day, including Liston, whose comic powers were increased by a missing front tooth, and Charles Matthews, who would later marry Madame Vestris. The two actors were great friends and assisted me in learning my craft. The older Mr. Liston relied on the comedy of situation and costume. He was one of the few great actors still prepared to play minor roles. In one such role he welcomed me to the stage offering warm wishes to my mother to such applause that he was quite overcome. He gave a particularly lively rendition of a broomgirl singing “Buy a Broom” in falsetto. Where Elliston performed on stage as well as off, Charles Matthews appeared to perform nowhere and was equally relaxed on the stage as he was off. He was known for a brown coat he wore at all times. More than any other actor, he remained himself upon the stage and employed few gestures or variations in intonation. Yet his performances were powerful.
“Miss Smithson, you have no need to force your hair into such ringlets. It is quite lovely of its own accord,” Mr. Matthews would say as we waited in the greenroom. “And what an elegant gown. But surely it is too fine for Lydia Languish to be wearing at home in the drawing room with Mrs. Malaprop?”
I became accustomed to his teasing and soon learned to reply. “Why, Mr. Matthews, surely it is time your coat was cleaned? Should you not wear a cravat if you are dining in such elegant surrounds?”
I relished evenings without performances. On these occasions I would take my supper early in my room and retire just after nightfall, sleeping deeply through the night.
Friday evenings were most memorable at the Theatre Royal. Elliston had deemed them “fashionable nights.” When I peered out at the audience I saw gowns in deep blues, reds, and greens. Sweet scents wafted around me. Audience chatter was polite, and round vowels echoed in the foyer. In the greenroom afterward we came to know many members of Birmingham society. Despite encouragement from my mother in her letters, I rarely attended the society dinners and dances to which I was invited, preferring instead to retire to my lodgings and read. I found it exhausting to spend days completely surrounded by people. I felt it important to guard my own reputation. In the greenroom I would sometimes stand like a statue in a corner, smiling to myself and wondering if one day I would come to see the stage habitually from its other side.
I was always at my most awake when returning from performance in the evening. Eleanor, the Irish maid from Limerick, often left some supper in my bedchamber and occasionally she would knock on my door before going to bed, to see if there was anything else I wanted. I would ask her to join me in the evenings, and we would speak for hours, remembering home and our friends there until the early morning. When I was alone, I took to writing letters to my mother and to Eliza O’Neill. In this manner I could forget my growing loneliness.
At the end of the season I earned my first benefit concert. Mr. Elliston and Mrs. Brunton instructed me on the selling of tickets, and I began work composing letters to the ladies of Birmingham to request their patronage. I could no longer suppress my longing for a flattering gown of my own, an alternative to the white muslin dresses I wore in my performances. I decided to sew myself a new gown in anticipation of the funds I would gain. My only time for sewing was after returning from performance and eating supper. I was grateful for the thimble from Charles Castle Coote, which prevented many injuries. Still my hands were red raw, and I spent a number of tearful evenings realizing I had made errors in cutting or stitching, the thought of unpicking or recutting more than I could bear. I sewed in the early hours of several mornings and survived on even less sleep than usual. Although I had sewn previously, it had always been under the eye of my mother, and so it was with great satisfaction that I finally viewed my new gown. The dress was blue satin, displaying my shoulders and neck with short puffed sleeves. It flowed out from my growing hips. The fabric was the softest I had ever touched.
I was trying on my new gown when Eleanor knocked on my door. She frowned as she handed me a letter. “This arrived for you, Miss Smithson.” She remained as I opened the letter.
“Thank you, Eleanor. That is all,” I said with unaccustomed formality.
The letter was written in Joseph’s childish scrawl. He had never written to me before, and I guessed what it must contain. Word of my father’s death drew my thoughts from my upcoming performance and plunged me into a deep melancholy. There was nothing to be done, for the funeral had already taken place. My mother had taken it very badly, he wrote, and had not left her bed since the funeral. Joseph asked me to send any money I could spare. I know not how long I lay still and silent in my room.
The morning before the concert I awoke with a dry, aching throat. I forced myself to dress and attend the theater. On arriving at rehearsal I was sent immediately home to rest by Elliston himself, who did not want to have to alter the playbills or inform the public of the changes that would occur if I were ill. I barely made it back to Lichfield Street on foot. My knees shook as I pulled myself up the stairs. I was so relieved to see my bed that I fell asleep wearing my rehearsal gown. That afternoon I dreamed in vivid pictures. I heard symphonies of sound, I saw nymphs, fairies, and witches. I awoke with a start once, feeling that my spirit had left my body and been drawn back down to earth. I could hear drums, growing louder and more rapid, and then suddenly I heard someone call, “Are you ill, miss?” I groaned and the door opened. Eleanor stood before me.
“Good lord,” she said. “I will find a compress.”
She returned a few minutes later and helped me into my nightgown. Then she sang to me as she sponged my forehead. How tender were her fingers! How long it was since I had felt a human touch! I fancy I heard her sing one of Moore’s Irish Melodies before I fell onc
e again into a deep sleep.
Next morning I was still weak but sent word that, although I would not attend rehearsal, I would be performing that evening. I gave the maid two tickets for herself and two for my housekeeper.
“Thank you, Miss Smithson,” Eleanor said, smiling. “I have never been to the theater before.”
That afternoon I sponged myself down and dressed. I sat at my table and read through my parts. The Bruntons had been selling tickets for me, and at three they arrived. My quarters seemed quite small once they contained the woman and her daughter. They did not hesitate to sit upon my bed as though they had done so every day of their lives.
“Sorry to hear about your father, Miss Smithson,” Miss Brunton said. “You will be performing tonight, then?” I nodded and she exchanged looks with her mother. “We have sold a great many tickets on your behalf.”
Mr. Elliston sent a carriage to collect me that evening. I traveled alone; my hands could not keep still, and my limbs were weak. As I crossed and uncrossed them, my lines ran through my mind from beginning to end. It was nearing the end of the season. I needed to make a good impression if I was to secure work somewhere next season.
I arrived at the stage door to find a crowd waiting for me.
“Miss Smithson!” they all shouted, crowding around me. One man handed me red roses, and I know I soon imitated their glow in my cheeks. I did not see his face, only the flowers. And suddenly all manner of objects were being thrust in my direction. I felt enclosed, and the stage door seemed a mile away. I began to quiver and gasped for air. Suddenly I heard a very loud voice, “Clear the way, clear the way! Miss Smithson has been unwell, clear the way!” At the word unwell there was a gasp and the crowd cleared, allowing me just enough room to scamper to the door like a rabbit.
Ophelia's Fan Page 7