After that night I had felt directionless. London had always been my destination, and I had served my apprenticeship there. In London I was more beautiful than ever before. In the mirror I saw that I had blossomed. I was Letitia Hardy, Mary the Maid of the Inn. I knew that I was learning the art of being someone other than myself. In fact, being someone else was easier than being Harriet Smithson. A critic from the Times wrote that I have “a face and features well adapted to [my] profession; but it is not likely [I] will make a great impression on London audiences or figure among stars of the first magnitude.” Their praise of my performance in the country rustic was intended to send me scurrying back to the provinces.
The French taste for curiosities was whetted by the arrival of the giraffe in May. In London we read that French streets buzzed with talk of the exotic animal, that thirty thousand people appeared from all over the country to witness the creature. Women wore their hair made tall by carefully planted sticks, à la giraffe. Men wore tall hats and neckties featuring brown and gold diamonds.
WE TRAVEL TO PARIS. I have allowed us the luxury of a cabin to mark this beginning. We are locked away from the French, who my mother says are not to be trusted. She falls asleep with an arm around my hunched sister.
In the morning I feel as though I have not slept. The sky has a smoky hue and the boards slosh with muddy water. This is not the Paris I have yearned to see. This is the first time I have been surrounded by so many foreign sounds. We queue with unshaven Frenchmen. They seem to jostle my mother deliberately, pushing her and elbowing her ribs with their thick bones. My mother grips Anne’s arm a little harder; Anne winces and Mother’s knuckles turn red. The men look at me. They stare at my eyes, and I look away. In their minds I know they trace my shape. They admire the paleness of my skin and the roundness of my hips; my ample figure. I am not here to be stared at, I want to shout. But I worry that this is not true.
Something changes the day I arrive in Paris. As soon as our carriage reaches the center of town, I know this is the city of my dreams. The magnificence of Notre Dame and the extravagance of the Opéra; the life of the Seine swelling and flowing.
Paris is a city of warmth and brilliance. There is music all around. If I could write music, I would note the cadences of the language. It is more beautiful than anything I have heard before. And yet during the night the words of Moore’s Irish Melodies come to me as naturally as air. They sing me to sleep. They carry me home.
This city opens my ears. Everything happens in waves of sound. Even voices, as I walk down the street listening to their strange music, crescendo and decrescendo as evenly as they would under the hands of a conductor. I know there is only a day for me to meet this city before it must become my place of work. Paris: the center of the world. The streets are bitter with the odor of coffee and the cut grass smell of horses. The sky is ornamented with majestic statues. Above them still is an immense sky; more vast than the sky in Ireland. More vast even than London. There is room here for me to soar. It is 1827, and I am excited at the prospect of France.
Paris: December 1832
MY MOTHER ROUSES ME from vivid dreams to give me bread and cheese.
“Harriet, you cannot sit around like this feeling sorry for yourself. And you cannot possibly know the nature of this situation without looking over the figures.” She sets out one of my better dresses for today. It is, in fact, my evening gown of soft blue silk, and I am surprised at her choice for I have not left the house for a week. I sit at the kitchen table, and my mother unplaits my hair. She combs it gently at first. Then she takes a brush to it, and when she catches a hair or discovers a knot I grit my teeth as though this is punishment for my foolishness. I remember her words when I told her of my plans to open my own theater in Paris. “You’re a woman. You have not been groomed for such things. Lord, what is to become of us?”
My mother takes such care over my appearance that it is as though she expects a visitor. It is as though she knows this is to be an important day in the story of my life. My mother has received her orders from Providence, and she has obeyed.
In stockinged feet I go to a box of papers, and my mother sighs. “Harriet, it’s Sunday. Must you do that now?”
I do not answer but carry the box to the kitchen table and grab the contents as though they are autumn leaves to be scooped up in my bare hands. And I pretend not to notice my mother pulling my boots upon my feet while I order the papers. I put them in date order, oldest to newest. Then I begin calculating sums, my legs out to the side to enable my mother to pull the bootlaces tight. Somewhere behind me Anne giggles, and I am pleased to have provided a diversion for her in my reluctance to live this day.
We are taking tea after eleven when there is a knock at the door. I look at my mother who is rising expectantly.
“Monsieur Schutter,” the maid says and curtsies quickly. The young man is English, and I am obliged to be polite to him because he writes for an English language newspaper in Paris. My mother has encouraged him because she likes him, she understands what he says, and she believes he has a more personal interest in me. She has already explained to me that she would prefer me to marry a man of greater wealth, though in truth she would very much like to see me married to anyone at all. For she believes a man would take care of us and relieve our troubles.
“Mrs. Smithson, Miss Smithson, and Miss Smithson.” Mr. Schutter bows and smiles in that congenial manner he has.
“So kind of you to call,” my mother says, and now I am quite sure she has invited him. “Please sit down. Will you have tea?”
“I thank you, yes. This needs to be a quick visit, however. I am hoping, Miss Smithson, that you will accompany me to a concert this afternoon.”
“I thank you, sir. However, I have certain matters I must resolve this afternoon.”
“Harriet, it is Sunday. Those matters can wait.”
“You should go, Harriet.” And it is my astonishment at my sister’s response that convinces me.
And so it happens that I am sharing a carriage with Mr. Schutter and also with Tom Wilkins, an actor from my troupe. It is a cool winter Sunday, but the sun is shining and I own it is pleasant to watch those carefree Parisians taking turns through gardens and making sure they are seen in all the fashionable places. I smile to myself at the prevalence of black veils, the ladies with straw in their hair. This new fashion is called coiffure à la Miss Smithson, à la folle. I have made madness à la mode. I am not disposed to speak during the journey, and I stare silently out the window while the two men converse, slightly suspiciously it seems to me. And then I hear Tom Wilkins ask, “And what is the concert we are about to see?”
“Oh, it promises to be an important musical event. Mr. Hector Berlioz is presenting his entire symphony for the first time.”
I turn to stare at them in disbelief, and Mr. Schutter thinks I have become remarkably interested in our afternoon’s entertainment.
“Here is the program, Miss Smithson.”
At the top of the page are the words Grand Concert Dramatique followed by the name of the composer. I read the words Rêveries—Passions. I hand the page back.
And as we near the Conservatoire I realize that we are all artists and our lives cannot help but entwine. Some force stronger than my own will is pushing me toward the man of my future, and I know not who this man will be.
The Conservatoire is a dull gray building on a narrow street. Mr. Schutter helps me down from the carriage, and I am pleased with the presence of his arm to lean on, for something strange is happening to me and I am beginning to feel quite feverish. In spite of the cold, my body is growing hot and my heart is beating fast as though I myself am about to commence a performance. We step into the Grande Salle du Conservatoire, and an usher points to the stairs that will lead to our box for the afternoon. And I wonder if I am imagining all those young men, turning to stare at me.
Although this is the largest theater in the building, it appears intimate compared with the Théâtre de
l’Odéon. It is like many provincial stages I have played upon. The intricate paint and plasterwork complete the image of an elegant ballroom, and I try to study my surroundings without looking down at the spectators. For I am now sure that I am not imagining the hum of chatter and the heads turning in my direction. Mr. Schutter squirms uneasily in his seat, and Tom tries to joke. Then I look to the orchestra and I see Hector Berlioz himself, finely groomed, his mane of red hair flowing. He sits in the pit clutching two large sponge-headed drumsticks behind the kettledrum, pale and wide-eyed. He is staring at me as though he cannot believe his eyes.
My cheeks flush and I feel strangely humiliated for this is not Ophelia or Juliet but rather Harriet Smithson they are all watching and there is no opportunity for me to slip backstage. Just when I can bear it no longer, Monsieur Habeneck lifts his bow and the music begins.
Lyrical violins begin the opening melody which soothes my nerves. And though most of the spectators have turned their attention to the orchestra, I notice occasional glances in my direction as though the entire roomful of spectators longs to see my response. I fix a smile upon my face and focus on the orchestra. When the attention of most in the room is taken by the music, I chance to look around and see many faces I have only seen in the print shop windows. There is a band of long-dark-haired musicians dressed in black. I try to lose myself in the music, and even as I do so I come to understand that my presence here has been fated to occur and that it is part of the performance and that for most artists in the room this is the concert of a lifetime where art and life collide, changing one another forever.
Never before have I been so moved by music. It is ever changing; one minute quiet and soothing and the next triumphant and stirring. Sometimes I strain to hear the melody, at other times the crescendos and crashes make me jump in my seat. All the time it has an air of suspense, and a question hangs over the conclusion. For this symphony tells a story. Bit by bit I come to realize this masterpiece is the culmination of a young man’s life and dreams. There is a sweetness and innocence about those sounds. The music transports me to another life.
During the interval, we remain in our box and Mr. Schutter translates for me the titles of the movements. And although I could never have articulated it, this program has already worked itself into my heart. The parody of the mass frightens me, and the “Dies Irae” brings blackness and death. I quiver at the thought that I have inspired this music, for whose death does it represent? Is it mine or his, or the death of his love? But I cannot possibly have inspired this music. For we do not know each other.
The second part, Mr. Schutter tells me, is called “The Return to Life,” and I am relieved at the title. The famous actor Boccage plays the young romantic composer, and he speaks. I understand few of the words but I feel the passion in them. He shouts, he cries. Mr. Schutter is writing something awkwardly in pencil upon his program. He hands me the page.
Oh! Could I but find her—that Juliet, that Ophelia for whom my heart is calling! Could I but find the intoxication of that joy mixed with sadness that true love brings. . . .
I hear no more words or music. I sit patiently for I have all the time in the world now that I know what to do. I will go where life leads me. In my mind I begin composing a letter.
Dear Monsieur Berlioz,
Congratulations on your fine symphony . . .
Paris: December 1832
THE FIRST TIME WE MET, Hector arrived at the lodgings I shared with my mother and sister.
“You say he is a—composer?” my mother had asked for the third time that afternoon. For she sensed the importance of the occasion, and even Anne, perched on a settee in the corner from which she would have a fine view of the proceedings, was quiet. And then came a frantic thumping at the door. Some moments later he was in the room.
So like a lion he was, with his mane of red hair. As he greeted my mother, she could not prevent herself taking a step back in fright. For that pale skin had a ghostly sheen, and his eyes had a fever within them that made one wonder whether he was entirely himself.
“Bonjour, monsieur!” my sister managed. And he nodded in her direction. My mother retired discreetly to a corner of the room where she took up her sewing. The maid brought tea on a tray and placed it on the small table by the chairs in which we sat. When all was calm within the room, I dared to lift my eyes from his large hands, their fingers twisted together and trembling slightly. I looked to his eyes. He held my gaze, and without any warning tears began to flow down my cheeks.
I know not what he said. Only that suddenly he knelt at my feet, clutching my hands in his left while using his right to wipe the tears from my face with the gentlest touch I had ever known. And soon he was also sobbing, and we leaned our heads together, laughing and crying at the same time.
There were many such visits. Hector was tender and attentive. He would take my hand or kiss my cheek; I let him have no more of me for always my family lurked close by. We began to tell each other our stories. We learned to speak slowly and gently; each of us used our mother tongue mixed with words we knew from the other, and in this manner we had a certain privacy, for my mother, strain as she might, had no French at all and could not hear from the other side of the room.
“J’habitais en Irlande. Avec a priest. A father. Père.” I held my hands together as though in prayer.
“Un prêtre?”
I nodded.
“Vraiment?”
At times we would pause our tales to stare at each other. He would stroke my cheek with a finger and whisper, “Ophelie, ma Juliette. Je vous aime.” And these words had a solemnity and seriousness about them that stilled my body like Sunday mass.
When Hector was not with us, my mother never failed to make her disapproval known to me.
“He is young and foolish, Harriet, with not a penny to his name. You cannot make a life with this man.”
“I understand, Mother,” I would say, barely hearing her words, feeling his touch on me still, and seeing those eyes which held my gaze without cease.
“You must discourage him.”
“Yes.”
“It would be unkind to do otherwise.”
“It would.”
I realized my French was improving a great deal. As I went about my daily business, entire sentences in French would enter my mind where before there had been only English.
“Aujourd’hui je dois répéter,” I would whisper to myself on the way to rehearsal. Each meeting we spoke more easily with fewer pauses for incomprehension. There was a lightness within me, and this new feeling was all comedy. It seemed the tragedy of my life was over.
But do not think for a moment that I was a woman free to ponder my life, my love, and my future. I knew all too well that I was not Juliet, set to make a marriage to assist her family, Desdemona, or Ophelia with a life at court. My heart pondered these questions while my mind continued to work.
After we began our more intimate friendship, there was one occasion on which he attended my performance of Jane Shore like a king displaying his queen to the court. He brought with him an enormous number of similarly bedraggled young men, their collars frayed, their hair uncombed, and their jackets missing buttons. Many of them brought their own friends until the whole theater was filled with artists, painters, musicians, and writers. The orchestra pit smelled like garlic sausage, and during those pitiful scenes which most pleased him he shouted “Bravo!” and clapped his hands until it was difficult for me to continue my performance.
Hector told me that our Shakespeare was a revelation. That in France, until the autumn of 1827, Shakespeare was considered barbaric. Our Shakespeare brought with it such freedom that Jeunes-France were surprised it was not banned.
I had never met a man who felt so deeply, and his response to hearing of my childhood separations was so intense that I regretted having told him.
“It was not so bad,” I said, smiling, trying to halt his tears. And then I tried to tell him tales of playing in the fields around
Ennis, and he smiled vaguely. It must be said that nothing ever had a greater impact on Hector than a tale with an air of tragedy.
1827
MY FATHER’S WATCH TELLS ME it is almost noon, and I notice daylight filtering through the streaked window of the bedchamber. This has been a strange kind of holiday filled with the heavy realization that I am putting myself through this business yet again. But this time there is a stronger anticipation. A feeling that perhaps this time it will be different.
I awake from my Shakespeare as though I have been in an enchanted sleep. This is the first day in Paris that I do not attend to my daily requirements accompanied by scripts, gesturing one hand vaguely while moving my lips to the words. It is the first time I have noticed the particular light of a French autumn.
My mother knows better than to try and accompany me on a walk so close to opening night. And while I sense she wishes to follow, she smiles and holds back, pretending she is presently occupied. I step into Rue Neuve Saint Marc wearing one of her bonnets and walk away from the center, toward the plains on the way to Montmartre. After only a few minutes my face is damp and I am slightly breathless. After some time the streets widen and give way to fields. There are no longer many people to be seen; from a distance an occasional farmer looks up from his work. When I feel sure I am alone, I furtively open the two top buttons of my gown, which swings heavily around my feet. I long to take off my boots and scamper in the grass like a child or at least to loosen my corset among the shrubs.
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