Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  There were times when noblemen would seek an audience with Queen Katharine, who would decide whether or not to pass on messages to the king. Sometimes she would let things pass, reassuring the messengers that she would take measures to assist them. On smaller matters she often wrote to kings and queens of other nations to spare the king the trouble and free his mind for higher thoughts. But when there was talk of rebellion over taxes, she met with His Majesty immediately. Queen Katharine was always well acquainted with all the noblemen in the court. She took pains to ensure the king heard their concerns and treated them with respect.

  Before I was sent to King Henry’s court I had many fanciful notions about what my new life would be like. I thought it would be like the estate in Burgundy where everyone kept to his or her own place but knew the goings on of everyone else. In Burgundy I had been free to spend my mornings with the cook in the kitchen, or the gardener, though I did have to spend time at my lessons or with my father if he visited. And the nurse always kept me informed about the lives of her own daughters. There was no one there who would not smile at me or stop to say a word or two. And I wonder now whether this was all because I was a small child then, and no danger to anyone at all.

  The court of King Henry VIII was a place of great secrecy. If you happened upon one of the lower servants, she would curtsy quickly and look to your feet. If a messenger or a noble chanced to meet you, he would rarely look you in the eye. In this way I never forgot my station. And whenever I went around a corner I knew there were whisperings in the air surrounding me. I always felt that I was being watched. The court of King Henry VIII was a place where stories grew from sentences left in unswept corners.

  Until the day of the ball, I only ever saw King Henry from a distance. He was always heavily robed and surrounded by his men. His was a weathered face. He had bright eyes and thick hair; I fancied he was handsome to look at, though he had a large and round figure. I knew that I should never stare, but I do not think anyone ever saw me peer from afar into his face. I wondered at all the other kings and queens of England who had left a legacy in his face as well as his name. I wondered at the important matters that must fill his mind every minute of the day. And yet, as I was to discover, the king often played with great frivolity.

  The first time I had any personal communication with His Majesty was the day I received my invitation card to the supper ball. Queen Katharine urged me to go; I would never have gone without her permission. And when I asked whether Her Majesty was coming, she shook her head and said she would be otherwise engaged that evening. But I must go, she said. And what would I wear? Many morning discussions were taken up with this subject until I almost thought Queen Katharine would even help me dress. And although she did not do so, she let me off early on the day to allow me time to prepare.

  The presence chamber was all color and light on that evening. I cannot think how much all those candles must have cost. There were quite a number of guests, some of whom I had seen around the court, others I knew to be lords and ladies from the district. At first Sir Henry Guildford on behalf of Cardinal Wolsey greeted the ladies. Lord Sands sat next to me and commenced a conversation regarding the madness of his father. I do believe he himself is losing his wits for before I had time to draw breath he kissed me wetly on my left cheek. At that moment Cardinal Wolsey entered, and I was most pleased because it drew all eyes away from my fiery cheeks.

  There was much wine and merry laughter that evening. After a while I could hear the faint echo of an oboe. It grew louder in its reedy mellowness, and then finally a musician entered the room with red and green silks flowing from his instrument. Following the musician was a line of men dressed as shepherds wearing all manner of masks. Each man took the hand of a lady. The man taking my hand was large with thick, dark hair. “The fairest hand I ever touch’d,” he said to me. “O beauty, Till now I never knew thee!” And I curtsied to him as is the custom before dancing. He spoke little during the dance, but his feet moved gracefully and I fancied he was staring at my face all the while.

  After one dance, the music stopped and a game was played. Cardinal Wolsey was set to discover which of the masked men was the king. And I was astonished to discover that it was in fact the man I had been dancing with. The king bowed to me, and I curtsied once more. Then he led Cardinal Wolsey away and I saw them whispering in the corner, their eyes looking in my direction.

  It was after the ball that I first heard rumors of the queen’s plight. Betsy the kitchenhand stopped me one morning and asked if the rumors were true.

  “Which rumors?”

  “That the king wishes to leave his wife!”

  “I have not heard such tales,” I told her.

  And from then on I watched Queen Katharine carefully at all times. I fancied she looked poorly. Her skin became too soft and wrinkled like wilting petals. During the night it was hard for me to sleep because her tossing and turning caused her bed to creak like the masts of a ship.

  It is true that some days after the dance I met with Lady Oswald, an elderly lady of the court. This lady questioned me for some time on whether or not I would ever be queen. I was frightened. I did not know who had sent her or why. No, I told her. I would never be queen, not for all the money or jewels in the world. And I swear, at that moment I would not have been queen. For I had seen what it did to a woman to be locked up like that under the pretense of freedom but really watched over by a husband who could do as he pleased. And I had seen what was being done to her now that she was older and could bear no more children. I now knew that King Henry wished to divorce her, which meant to cease to be married to her, and that this meant he would be able to choose another wife under the law.

  The ceremony could have been a wedding; I know not what the ceremony for the ending of a marriage should be. There was cheerful music which did not seem right. Many noblemen were present as well as the Archbishop of Canterbury, several bishops, Cardinal Wolsey, and Cardinal Campeius. If God was ever present in a room it was that one. And there in front of all those people Queen Katharine knelt before the king and asked him why he wanted to be separated from her. And as she listed all she had done for him, I stared at the floor. Even the king could not find fault with her. But suddenly he revealed that they had never been truly married. He thought that God had punished him by denying him a son and male heir.

  Life was very different for me from that day forward. Queen Katharine took to weeping and staring wistfully out of windows. Oftentimes she asked us to sing for her pleasure, but she failed to look pleased. She demanded that windows be left open in the night. Even I began to catch a slight chill. The queen grew weak and tired; when she breathed, a rasping sound came up from her chest. We were told that soon we would all have to leave the court.

  I noticed that as I moved around York Place, people stared. The noblemen examined me as closely as they dared, while the lower servants peered at me as though I were the queen herself and would give them orders of my own. And then finally Betsy asked me whether I had caused the rift between the king and queen.

  “Where did you get such an idea?”

  “It is all over the palace. Everyone says so.”

  The next day the king summoned me. Heads turned as I walked through the antechamber where noblemen waited for an audience with His Majesty. I was led through the door and into the king’s chamber. Suddenly I was alone with His Majesty for the first time. He sat back in his chair with a gilt oak table between us. I stared at my feet. He asked whether I understood what was happening between himself and Queen Katharine. I confessed I did. He stood and walked around the table until he was standing beside me. He took my hand, forcing me to look into his eyes. Then he asked if I would be his wife and the next queen of England.

  Panic welled inside me, and I wanted to run from the room. I thought of Queen Katharine. She had been brought from Spain to be queen of England, and now she was being banished. And as though he saw me hesitate, King Henry told me that our marriage would be true
, unlike his marriage with Queen Katharine. Until that day I had been someone who would one day be lost to the world. If I were queen of England in such important historical circumstances, I would always be remembered. I would have my own elegant rooms in York Place and my own attendants. And why had my father sent me to the court if not in the hope that I would make a suitable marriage? Who could be a more suitable husband than the king? I wondered if the difficult circumstances of my becoming queen would also be remembered, and whether I would only be seen as the second queen.

  And suddenly I wondered what would happen to me if I did not obey the king’s wishes. I realized that I would be banished from the court and that there was nowhere for me to go except back to my father in shame. No one would ever wish to marry a woman who had been banished from the court of King Henry VIII. I saw his weathered face with those bright eyes, and I imagined kissing his thin lips. I imagined his touch on my skin and shivered.

  “I will think on it, my lord.” I said. He kissed my cheek. I fled his chambers.

  I could not face Queen Katharine and asked another of her attendants to tell her I was indisposed. I fled to the garden where I walked; the spring grass was soft under my feet, and the flower beds were rich royal colors. I passed fountains and statues. Could all this be mine? I passed a gardener and saw Princess Mary in the distance. I wanted to sleep and wake some time in the future when decisions were made and difficult situations over. And then I heard someone call my name.

  Queen Katharine had seen me through her window and wished to speak with me. I felt hot to my very core as I made my way up the stairs.

  “My Lady Anne,” Queen Katharine took my hand and pulled me close to where she lay. I fell to my knees and sobbed. She stroked my hair until I was calm. I lifted myself to a chair next to her and peered at her old face.

  “There is nothing more to be done for me. I have fallen from His Majesty’s favor. But you, you must marry him. For your own sake.”

  London: 1821

  IT IS NOT SURPRISING that I am barely noticed at all when I perform beneath Madame Vestris and Fanny Kelly. Madame Vestris is a tall woman, and her voice is clear and strong. Even when speaking normally, her voice rises above the audience and can be heard over a certain amount of shouting and plaudits. And when she sings she commands silence. A crying infant would halt its wailing to hear the sweetness of that sound. People believe she has important things to say. Critics find only praises for her. I wonder if they are as afraid of her wrath as her husband is. Madame Vestris is the favorite with Elliston and has the power to demand whichever role she pleases. This is because Madame Vestris draws crowds. She frequently absents herself from rehearsal and feigns illness before a performance (illness is one of her most successful roles) yet she is never fined, and though Elliston mutters under his breath, I am certain he never complains to her directly.

  Fanny Kelly’s moods vary greatly. She is a particular favorite with Charles Lamb, and when I see him creeping about backstage I wonder whether he has been with her though I have never seen them together. She would do well to deny she knows him at all. Her popularity with Mr. Lamb has caused her to be much written of in the newspapers. This means Elliston ranks her highly. The papers speak of her feeling, her bright eyes, and her fine figure. They do not use such terms to describe me.

  I know that Fanny Kelly is very thin and has not changed the size of her dresses since she was fifteen. I have never seen her eat. Compared to Fanny Kelly, I am large boned, rounded, and clumsy. There is none of that quick boyishness about me. And so it is Fanny Kelly who is the great favorite with the London crowd. I flit in and out of secondary scenes like a ghost. All Fanny need do is enter the stage and spectators roar and clap. She is barely required to act at all.

  These women treat me like a younger sister. At times they are kind; Madame Vestris once consoled me after a difficult rehearsal where I had forgotten my lines. But there is always something artificial about their kindness, as though it is payment for some future demand. And more often than not I am running to them in the greenroom with glasses of water or cold compresses for their headaches. I am tying their corsets and arranging their curls. On occasion they bequeath me a carefully timed leading role when they decide they are too tired or too ill to perform. Only rarely does this occur in time for my name to be added to the playbills.

  I have spent three years hanging about backstage, waiting for some new opportunity. I wonder whether Fanny Kelly may marry and retire from the stage, allowing me my own attempt at fame. If they would only let me have a season at her roles, I know I would have as much success as she. But how am I to be noticed when I am on the periphery of the company? As I grow older I long for the success that will lead me to love and something new in my life. I feel strongly that the man I am to marry is there among the smoke and laughter, his passions stirred by what he sees. If only I could capture his attention.

  Mr. Elliston does not tell me personally of my demotion. He hands me a letter which I read later in my dressing room. My income is stated as three pounds. And when I return, my cheeks red from the cold water I have used to scrub away the salt, I notice Fanny Kelly beaming. Later I hear her salary has increased to twenty pounds a week.

  It is 1821 and I am one of the lowest paid in the company. I wonder whether I have performed badly enough to deserve this. I imagine myself as a governess or a schoolmistress. Or tending the sick. But now that my career is marred by years on the stage, no other profession will have me, of that I am certain.

  Anger swells my body like venom. If only my father were still alive. He would speak to Elliston and have him improve his treatment of me. Fanny Kelly has her father acting as her manager. Madame Vestris has her husband, Charles Matthews, though she is naturally in a far stronger position. I try to remember every mistake I have made. Every wrongly executed gesture or misremembered line. But the errors have been slight, and I know I have had favorable reviews in the newspapers. One day I will be successful and Elliston will blush at his error of judgment. My name will be on the lips of every worthy member of society. I will play Shakespeare to my heart’s content. I will feign illness whenever I do not feel like working.

  As I begin the journey back to the lodgings I share with my family, I feel ill. How will I provide for us all? I cannot bear the thought of telling my mother. I do not go home straightaway. I walk through unseemly London streets. I look at the loose women, their hair streaming around their faces, painted bright colors, their dresses revealing their figures. One woman grins at me, and I notice she is missing some teeth. Acid rises from my stomach and I am ill on the dirty cobblestones, my head swimming. Somewhere behind me I hear cackling laughter. The toothless woman touches my shoulder and asks if I require assistance. I shake my head, wipe my chin with a handkerchief, and continue walking.

  I cannot think clearly what I ought to do. If I joined one of the illegitimate theaters, I would have no chance of ever truly succeeding. I would never again play Shakespeare or perform with the best actors in London. I would share my dressing room with horses, dogs, and dancers. And I would never earn more than three pounds a week. If I stay with Drury Lane, my fortunes may change. It is a fickle business. I can never know who will see me on stage and what will come of it. But at least I can observe the successes of others, if not share in them myself.

  The next evening I realize I have been relegated to the second greenroom. Oh, the trials I must endure! I try to think of my father’s strolling players and the conditions they must have lived through for months on end. They slept in coaches or under trees. They bathed in icy rivers during the cold northern summers. I fold my arms before my chest, lift my head, push back my shoulders, and enter. This room has no carpet or fire, and the air is chilled. It is not difficult to see how everyone else keeps warm. A tightrope walker is walking on her hands. A man in garish costume is juggling. In the corner I see a horse covered in ribbons and silks. It neighs, and I notice a bucket and shovel in the corner. There are lumps of dirt
on the boards. The room smells like a barn. A dwarf sits on a bench, joking with a man holding a fire stick. Three ballerinas are shouting steps to each other by a bar before a mirror. I read through my script from the very first page. I tell myself one day I will be a great success and my experiences in the second greenroom will form an interesting anecdote in my remembrances.

  The men in the company treat me with more interest now. I have seen the way some of them look at me, imagining they will have me at their mercy in their dressing rooms after the performance. I am always the first to leave opening night parties for fear of being taken advantage of. And my mother rarely offers advice or instruction, but her presence is enough to frighten any man. Yet they do not lose hope, and many of the younger men in particular come to speak with me in the quietness backstage during rehearsal when my mother is not there. They whisper gossip and news. They smile, and when they move too close I find a reason to move into the foyer and into the light.

  One morning I arrive slightly early to rehearsal. I am on my way to my dressing room, which they have not yet taken away from me, weaving among properties, when I hear footsteps. They are light footsteps and sound unfamiliar. My heart begins to beat quickly, and I start to run. As I rush I trip over a plank, landing on my knees. I try to get up, pulling at my skirts. Suddenly a gloved hand is on my arm. I see a thin man with a bushy mustache in a heavy coat and wearing a hat. He helps me to my feet. I struggle for air as he says, “Can you tell me, please, where I can find Mr. Elliston? It is rather urgent.” I try to speak but no sound comes, so I point to the location of Mr. Elliston’s dressing room.

  Once finally in my dressing room, I lock the door and fall into my chair. It is some minutes before I am calm again.

  I first hear about John Howard Payne in the greenroom during rehearsal for The School for Scandal that morning. His name slips quietly from everyone’s lips. Madame Vestris and Fanny Kelly look at their feet when he is mentioned. The men huddle together and speak of him with animated gestures and bright eyes. John Howard Payne is in jail.