Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  THE REV. DEAN BARRETT

  About six o’clock, on Tuesday morning last, departed this life, at his house, in Chapel-Lane, after an illness of only a few days, the Rev. Doctor JAMES BARRETT, Titular Dean of Killaloe.

  The task of portraying in language of appropriate energy, the truly Christian career of this exemplary man, must devolve on abler pens than ours: claiming only to ourselves the right of paying a last tribute of esteem to departed excellence—to venerated worth and piety the most adorned.

  The unwearied vigilance of this reverend pastor, to the duties of a sacred and arduous function, has only been equalled by the “spirit and the truth” with which he performed them; during a period of 46 years, he combined in every sense, the earnest Christian with the man of feeling and philanthropy; to the poor of this populous town, he has ever been a sedulous benefactor—a benefactor whose finances never kept pace with the munificence of a soul illumined by the sacred fire of real charity: In truth, he loved his neighbour as himself—sought the cheerless abode of wretchedness and want—of sickness and despair. Sorrow fled from his benignant smile, and the before hapless wretch felt the influence of his ministering hand. Heaven has blessed his deeds, and registered the reward in another and a better world.

  Your loving mother,

  Harriet

  Ennis: 1808

  WHEN HARRIET STOOD in Father Barrett’s dark room with her family, the old man lying death white with closed eyes was no longer someone she knew. Her mother sniffed and heaved her shoulders. Her father looked grimly and respectfully downward. Bridie twitched sadly from the doorway, not wanting to tell them it was time to leave. They had had their turn. Harriet thought she heard her mother whisper “Thank you” before someone took her hands and led her away.

  There was whispering in the stairwell, and a line of people snaked down the stairs and all the way out into Chapel Lane. People began to arrive in the early hours of the morning, and Bridie sent them away at dark. Every day there would be a shout of “Doctor” and people would move respectfully aside while Dr. O’Brien wound his way carefully up the rickety stairs to the sickroom. Everyone who had ever seen Father Barrett administer the last rites to a family member came to pay their respects. People came by coach from Limerick. It was as though they wanted to give something back, Harriet thought. Only Father Barrett was probably too tired to notice.

  Harriet wanted to stay in the house. She wanted to greet all those people who had come to visit. She wanted the women to pat her head and stroke her chin. She wanted the men to sing her songs. She wanted to run up and down the staircase in her boots with her hair flowing behind her as though nothing were wrong.

  She was the one who lived with Father Barrett. She was the one who knew about his dirty dishes splattered with gravy and cough, the noises he made. She was the one who saw him sometimes in the mornings, silver stubble on his chin and tufts of hair on end. Harriet’s mother took her arm and led her away.

  She had only been allowed to pack her clothes and some of her books. Harriet’s bedroom at Father Barrett’s house still looked as though she might come back. In the small room where her parents lodged, she sat sullenly reading the Tales from Shakespeare that Father Barrett had so often read to her. Little Joseph tugged shyly at her hand. “Please, Harriet. Play with me?” and Harriet shrugged him off. In her mother’s arms, Anne wept. The air smelled like rotting wool.

  A gloom descended on the town on the day of Father Barrett’s funeral. If Father Barrett wasn’t dead, it could have been Easter the way all the shops were closed and everyone gathered on the streets. It was an icy but fine winter’s day. Harriet trailed behind her father as they joined the crowd in Chapel Lane. And there was Father Barrett, inside his wooden box in a carriage drawn by six horses. The streets were slippery, and the sound of sobbing was heavy in her ears. Where had all these people been when he was alive? Harriet wondered. Why had they waited until he was dying to come? And who would say the eulogy now that Father Barrett could no longer speak?

  The procession was made up of just about everyone Harriet had ever seen. There were Protestant and Catholic church elders in robes, scarves, and bands, the landowners and merchants, as well as many of the poor people from the district. Harriet waved to the children from the charity school and wondered how she would ever find Molly. It didn’t matter whether she found Molly or not, she thought. On a day like this, her parents would never let her go and play.

  It was a long walk to Drumcliffe. They went through Market Street, Jail Street, and Church Street, over the Lifford-Lysaght bridge. Harriet started to feel lighter as they moved through pastoral land. She stared at the cows, and some of them stared back. If she could just forget for a moment the fleshy hand so unlike Father Barrett’s bony fingers gripping her wrist, she could imagine she was with him on their way to visit Molly and Mrs. Baird. Soon she would be able to take her shoes off and run in the fields. Harriet tripped on a stone and began to cry.

  Her feet were tight inside her boots. As they neared the cemetery, her father let go of her hand. She ran from him, in through the metal gate. The grass smelled damp, and Harriet watched her feet leave footprints. The cemetery was crowded, and Harriet doubted she would be able to see what happened, let alone hear the eulogy.

  A shy-looking man wearing a large hat and draped in a brown coat stood near the entrance to the cemetery, pointing upward with his spade. A man with a small notebook was asking him questions. Inside the cemetery were three black-and-white dairy cows with fat udders. They munched the wet grass thoughtfully. Harriet could hear the moaning of other cows in the distance.

  The thing was to climb the hill. Father Barrett would have wanted to be buried up high, close to God and with a great view of the surrounding valley. He was going to be underneath an oak tree, near a fence backing onto some of the greatest dairy country in all of Ireland. And from there you could see Lake Ballyalla in the distance. Even with all the people clambering up the hill, she could still see robins, thrushes, and blackbirds flitting among the shrubs.

  Harriet wished she could be here by herself. Father Barrett had not taken her to many funerals, but he had told her once that they were a time of “reflection.” This helped her understand why he was being buried so close to the lake. And she knew that the service was not in Father Barrett’s chapel because it was too small and the Protestants would not have been allowed in. She wondered if she would ever come back. One day, when she could make her own decisions.

  “Harriet!” She stared behind her at all the grown-ups panting as they climbed the hill. Suddenly, Molly burst through and came running toward her. Harriet grinned to herself. She had hoped that somehow Molly would find her. Friends always had that sense of where you were. She and Molly had practiced sending secret messages to one another at a certain time each afternoon. It was like understanding Father Barrett when he spoke French.

  “Let’s visit the old chapel!”

  Harriet looked around for someone to ask permission from. All around her was a mass of Irish faces. Some plump, others oval. All pale, with doughy skin and bright eyes. Wisps of black hair twitched in the wind like kites. Many people were blowing their noses on worn, stained handkerchiefs. Most were muttering to each other over the shame of it all. They were familiar faces, but they held no expectation. Harriet knew that she did not belong to them.

  “All right.”

  Harriet had not noticed that a little farther up the hill was a small graystone chapel. Some stones were missing, and the roof was falling away in tufts. Around the side was a heavy wooden door with a hole just big enough for a small child to climb through. She scampered after Molly, and they slipped through the hole before anyone could notice.

  Inside the chapel, Harriet could feel God. He shone in warm shafts of light onto the stone floor. He touched the walls so that you could see their rough texture. He kept her warm and safe.

  “This can be our secret place,” Molly said. Harriet smiled. She thought she remembered Father B
arrett telling her about the old church at Drumcliffe. It used to be the local church long before he built his own chapel. It was hundreds of years old but had now been left to ruin.

  There was no trace of any of those people who had been here before them. The church was but a warm shell, and it did not tell stories. You would have to sit quietly and wait for stories to come to you. Among all the people and noise, the church was quiet apart from the twittering of a bird somewhere in the remaining roof and a scuttling in one of the dark corners.

  Harriet wondered if there would come a time when no one would know where Father Barrett was buried. A thought came to her that some day a girl might come looking for traces of him, for traces of her own story. She saw someone standing in a long coat, staring toward one of the windows overlooking the lake beyond. And then the thought evaporated into the dark stillness.

  “Molly?”

  Molly stood in front of Harriet, her long hair coating her shoulders. “What?”

  “Remember me? Remember me always?”

  “Why? Are you going away?”

  “I don’t know.” Harriet stood staring into Molly’s face, sadness dripping from a cold place inside her. “I don’t know what will happen next.”

  “Will you live with your ma and pa?”

  Harriet tried to imagine her future. She saw herself in a cramped, damp room with her tired mother and her screaming sister. She saw her little brother tugging on her hand and wanting her to play. In Harriet’s mind there was nowhere to play. She could not see beyond the room. She could not see any books apart from her copy of Tales from Shakespeare from Father Barrett. She would have to read it over and over again for the rest of her life. She would know it by heart. She would be able to recite it in her father’s theater. The word theater was sweet in her mouth, and when she spoke it Harriet saw lights and heard laughter. There was more world than she had ever even imagined in the theater.

  “I will never forget you, Harriet. Can’t you stay here? Mother wouldn’t mind. You could come and live with us,” Molly said solemnly.

  “Can you ask?” This was a solution Harriet had not thought of. Endless days of playing on the Bairds’ farm and eating Mrs. Baird’s stew stretched before her like a summer’s day. She and Molly would be sisters.

  They pulled two flat stones over to one that was shaped a little like a table.

  “Some Irish stew?” Molly broadened her accent to make it more like her mother’s. “Don’t be shy now,” she screwed up her eyes as she tried to wink. Harriet watched Molly dip her fist as though reaching into a pot with a long ladle. She saw Molly’s fist tip slightly, her eyes watching the invisible liquid dripping into a bowl. “Here you go then.”

  As they ate their stew, the girls talked quickly, fitting the rest of their childhoods into their last half hour together. In their minds, they climbed the apple tree, played in the cellar, ran down the hill to the house, watched Jacob milk the cows, and flew, all the way to Paris.

  SHE STOOD NEAR the door of her family’s lodgings, surrounded by torn cases and battered trunks. She could be a statue. Harriet thought that if she stood still enough, perhaps her family would forget to take her with them. Her mother was pulling stockings on Anne’s bony limbs. Joseph was tracing a finger trail through the dust on the windowsill. Her father was preparing to pack the carriage. Someone knocked at the door. Harriet opened the door a crack and saw Mrs. Baird, a twin on each hip. She pulled the door wide open. Molly stood next to her holding Mikey’s hand. She had combed her hair until it shone, and Mrs. Baird had taken her apron off. Suddenly, Harriet’s father stood behind her.

  “Joan Baird, a friend of Father Barrett’s.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Harriet’s father sounded quite English, and he looked puzzled as he moved aside to allow them to enter. Harriet’s mother looked up from Anne and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “My daughter Molly here is a great friend of Harriet’s.”

  Harriet’s father nodded.

  “The thing is, we were wondering. Well, if it would help you—Harriet could come and live with us.”

  Harriet’s mother sniffed loudly. She stared at the woman and noticed that her dress was frayed along the hem. One of the twins began to cry, and the woman started rocking up and down on her feet.

  “Mrs. Baird. Please sit down.” The chair had uneven legs and rocked slightly as she sat, pulling the twins on her lap. Harriet’s father did not sit down.

  “You’re very kind. It’s just that—Father Barrett made arrangements. His wish was—” he puffed out his chest like a fat bird. “He wanted Harriet to be ed-u-cated.” He said the word slowly, savoring it like pudding. “She will be going to school in Waterford.”

  Harriet stared at Molly who stood behind her mother, perfectly still. She traced a line around Molly’s figure with her eyes. Molly twitched and held her fingers to her lips. She began to blow slowly and opened out her hands, moving them wider and wider apart. Harriet knew that she was blowing a bubble. These invisible bubbles could travel great distances with secret messages inside. Molly mouthed “good-bye” and pushed the bubble gently toward Harriet. Harriet watched the space in the dingy room where she thought the bubble was. She held out her hands to catch it. She hardly noticed as Molly ran out the door, slamming it shut behind her. Harriet caught the bubble and followed Molly to the door. The last time Harriet saw Molly, Molly was running down Simms Lane, her dark hair streaming behind her. Harriet looked to her hands, which still cupped the large bubble. She felt as though Molly had handed her the world.

  Part Four

  HARMONY

  At length, after having refused the hands of several Dukes, Princes and an innumerable number of commoners, after having caused a dozen suicides and about twice as many duels; after having drawn tears from the Dutchmen’s eyes, fast as the medicinal gum flows from the Arabian trees . . . Miss Smithson has appeared.

  —DRAMATIC MAGAZINE, 11 MAY 1829

  The impression made on my heart and mind by her extraordinary talent, nay her dramatic genius, was equalled only by the havoc wrought in me by the poet she so nobly interpreted.

  —HECTOR BERLIOZ, ON FIRST SEEING HARRIET SMITHSON IN 1827

  The tide of mutual passion in their breasts is seen mingling and flowing on, making sweet music as it flows to immortal raptures. . . .

  —OXBERRY’S PREFATORY REMARKS TO ROMEO AND JULIET: A TRAGEDY BY DAVID GARRICK

  Mme Harriet Berlioz

  Rue de Londres

  Paris, 24 November 1842

  My dear Louis,

  These last days have been among my worst. For months Hector and I have been arguing over whether or not he should travel. I begged him to stay with me for I am not well enough to journey and the thought of him going to London was more than I could bear. How different my life should have been had I been lauded there as I was in Paris.

  Then I woke to find him gone. By the time I dressed there was nothing but the solemn face of Joséphine and a hastily scrawled note to tell me he had left. I have little memory of the intervening days. I believe I took to my bed in hysteria and a clear liquid was administered to me. A death-like sleep deprived me of my affliction.

  Every morning Joséphine brings my papers to me in a box with a cup of tea. Today I begin to write once more. I thank heaven I still have Joséphine. She sends her love to you. This morning I awoke more determined than ever that you should have my story.

  I do not know how this will end, or indeed, how we came to this.

  Your loving mother,

  Harriet

  In the Beginning

  I MIGHT HAVE BEEN CONCEIVED at Kilkenny. My mother turned pink when I was bold enough to ask and said she does not remember such things. She asked where I had learned to ask such questions. I reminded her that she had sent me to work in the theater and that no amount of protection from licentiousness during the first fourteen years of my life could make up for that. In fact, it was my father who relayed to me every detail
he could recall, late in his life during some of his less sober moments. In the absence of knowing his love, stories were all I could cling to. And when my father told me that I had always been his favorite child, the words had an air of emptiness about them. I was the one most like him. I was also the one he had left.

  I have chosen to believe that I was conceived at Kilkenny, after a very successful performance of A Cure for the Heart Ache: “An Excellent Lesson to Mankind.” My father had combined “Drama as may be found Moral and Instructive” with his love of comedy, the thought of which would light up his eyes. He would clutch his stomach absently at the memory of a good belly laugh. But my mother, during these early months of marriage, had instructed him on the purposes of drama. She always believed that people learned most quickly from watching other people’s mistakes, even if they were merely a facade. Keeping in mind the instructional purposes of drama, my mother convinced my father, for the first time, that children should be admitted to the theater at half price.

  The season had begun with the musical play Every One Has His Fault. And following this production, my father had moved on to matters more romantic. A Cure for the Heart Ache had filled all the players with a sense of frivolity, Father said. Even the apple sellers and the charwomen were buoyant. So they had all celebrated with an evening at The Rose and Crown. Father told me that there was an air of something new in the mild darkness that night.

  I imagine my mother, warm and happy after a little whiskey, not long married and still a little shy, losing her timidity with him that evening.

  Paris: 1827

  MY MOTHER DID NOT UNDERSTAND why I wanted to leave England. As a young actress herself, she had longed for England. She used to close her eyes and whisper “Drury Lane” as though it were Buckingham Palace. But the English are a riotous crowd. I remember one night when they could no longer contain their fury at some unknown offense. They pelted us with brass buttons and the remains from their dinners. An egg smashed on a pillar and dripped pungent brown ooze in my hair. I stood at the back of the stage, frozen, as orange peel flew in all directions and Elliston screamed his lines to a deaf crowd.