Hector’s father tried to talk Hector out of our union in his letters. I still do not believe it was necessary for me to hear every detail. For Monsieur Berlioz was critical of his son, and from his words it was apparent that he did not know or understand me at all. I once suggested we visit his family, and Hector paled at the thought. Such a long journey only to be greeted with rudeness? It was out of the question. But Hector had fought his parents before and had, in a sense, won. And so he resorted to his friend Rocher, who worked as a lawyer. Rocher told him he could take legal action against his father to prevent being disinherited. This was what Hector resolved to do. I told him I had had enough.
“What passes between you and your family is your own concern,” I said. “From now on, I do not wish to know of it.”
We spoke of returning to England; I wondered if I would finally find my fortune there and hoped, meanwhile, to secure some well-known actors for the following season. Hector stared solemnly as I told him of these plans.
“I shall come with you,” he said.
“Not if we are unmarried,” I told him.
“Then I shall blow my brains out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Mme Harriet Berlioz
Rue Blanche, 43
Montmartre, 25 May 1849
My dear Louis,
Last night I dreamed your father was at my graveside and a grave-digger had come to move my bones. The coffin came apart in the man’s hands and he was left holding my skull like Hamlet and poor Yorick.
I have been very ill, and I fear my time is near. Today my mind is clear and it is like a miracle sent from God to enable me to write this. I have had a number of fits. Hector says I writhed like someone ridding herself of demons. The gurgle in my throat was like a death rattle, and my face turned black. And after each attack a little more of me was gone. It is a long time since I have felt this tenderness toward your father. For he has been by my side a good deal; he makes the journey from Paris on foot, and I see him rubbing his heels when he thinks I am sleeping. He is always by me during treatment, especially when I am bled. He brings newspapers and flowers and occasionally something sweet to eat. When I am awake he reads to me.
I have trouble remembering any words of French at all. My left side is paralyzed, and my words are halting and awkward as though I am trying to speak with someone else’s jaw. But I shall not complain anymore, Louis, because today I am able to think and to clutch at my pen and write. For this I am grateful.
Your loving mother,
Harriet
1833
I WAS DISAPPOINTED to realize that I was performing on the evening of Anne’s birthday.
“We will celebrate together next week,” I promised her. “Just us. You will have a wonderful evening with Mother. And I’ll see you when you get home.”
My mother said to me, “I know not what to do for your sister on her birthday. Or where to go.”
“You could take her to a concert. I have heard the young virtuoso Franz Liszt is performing on the pianoforte. You know how Anne loves music. And she has so few opportunities to hear it.”
And so although I did not manage to hear Liszt play, I saw his performance every evening for a week. I would have given a month’s wages for the joy and spirit with which this concert imbued my sister for the next few months. The night of the concert, I crept in as quietly as I could manage, only to find her sitting by a single lamp sewing, a pot of tea waiting for me on the table beside her. It was a great effort for Anne to manage such objects as kettles of boiling water and tea leaves, so I knew she had spent much time preparing for my arrival.
“How was your evening?” I asked, kissing her.
“Oh, Harriet, it was marvellous. That Liszt is princely. So noble and tall, with long dark hair and sharp features. I’ll show you how he was.”
I sat down on one of the armchairs, untying my boots and rubbing my feet as I watched her. It was only then that I noticed my sister was wearing an old jacket of my father’s over her gown. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and let it tangle around her face. She had a collection of bootlaces on the kitchen table, and she held our her hands, asking me to tie one to each finger. Then her performance began.
She stood slowly and stretched herself as straight as she could manage. She took great steps as she walked from the armchair to a small side table nearby. Her earnest expression made me laugh, but she remained serious as she turned her head to me and then back to her table. She began shuffling the table and stool until she was finally satisfied with their positioning. Then she bowed to me and I applauded. Once seated, I saw that Anne had ensured I could see her in profile. She made no sound, but how she swayed as her fingers flew up and down! And the string was a truly ingenious effect, almost convincing me that it was fingers a foot long, flying up and down independently on a wooden side table that did indeed resemble a pianoforte. I began to giggle, and after some moments Anne also lost her composure. She swayed so hard that she lost her balance and tumbled to the floor, the bootlaces tangling around her. I ran to her quickly, kneeling beside her, fearing she had injured herself. But she was laughing as hard as I had ever seen. I pulled her up into a sitting position, and we spent the rest of the evening disentangling her bootlaces.
We began to look forward to these evenings. I would collect and embellish characters for my sister to perform. Anne took to waiting up for me to return from the theater in the evenings.
“How was it, Harriet?” And her eyes would bore into mine, longing for stories and characters. And so I began to tell her of the artists of Paris. Anne absorbed my stories as though she were reading novels. And bit by bit she began constructing characters from my descriptions, devising costumes from my mother’s rag basket. It was not long before she performed my stories back to me in the evenings before the dying fire: my own private theater.
“Who are you this evening, Miss Smithson?” I would smile as I walked in the door and kissed her. Once she even mimicked Joseph; no one was safe from her mockery.
Another evening it was a version of Mademoiselle Mars, the older French tragedienne, I discovered in our drawing room when I returned home. Anne had stuffed rags under her clothing and particularly over her chest which made her body look strangely out of proportion. From this solid trunk emerged spindly limbs. She had used some of my skin paints to draw lines upon her face, which from a distance made her look aged and close up gave her the appearance of the kind of performer usually allotted the second greenroom. And in this bizarre outfit, she fussed over me with a heavy French accent.
“Mademoiselle, this Ophélie is parfaite. Such madness I have never before seen!”
Anne’s enduring favorite character was Hector Berlioz. Again she donned the old clothes of my father’s that my mother had kept. And somewhere she had found a tangled blond curly wig. Sometimes she would merely wave one of my mother’s wooden spoons frenetically in front of her, conducting an imaginary orchestra. Other times she was more cruel. She began to involve me in her dramas.
“Mademoiselle,” she would grab my hand and try to kiss it, clutching at my skin until she scratched and I pulled away. She would mock his tears and his explosions of rage. Always her Berlioz was alarmingly thin with the air of an elderly woman. One night I told her to stop.
“It’s cruel Anne. We shouldn’t laugh at him.”
“Why not? We laugh at everyone else.”
“He is sensitive.”
“Nonsense.”
“It’s true. He’s very kind hearted. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t understand? Choose him if you prefer!” She shuffled as quickly as she could to her room and slammed the door behind her.
The following evening, she tried Berlioz again. I had had a particularly difficult evening, performing in both dramas, and I longed for sleep. My sister was standing by the window in her blond wig when I walked in the door. I pretended not to notice as I kissed her cheek. “I’m going to bed, Mouse,” I said.
“Going to bed? I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m very tired. I’m sorry.”
“Let me play for you.”
“Anne, show me in the morning.”
“I’ve been preparing all afternoon. Why do you spend so much time with him and not me?”
1833
I COMMENCED PLANS for my benefit concert, which we all hoped would relieve some financial pressure. Meanwhile Hector tussled with his family and we continued to meet, though slightly less often. In my situation, it fell upon my shoulders to undertake most matters of business, and thus it happened that I attended an appointment with the Ministry of Commerce in which I sought the permissions required for my concert. Such men were not accustomed to working with women and were a little shocked upon my arrival. But after their initial surprise they spoke to me tolerably well, and my aims were achieved.
As I returned home, my mind was more filled with work than it had been for some time. I compiled lists of actors and musicians I could call upon to perform for my benefit concert. I tried to imagine a program that was diverse yet unified. In my mind I planned the afternoon. I needed to look through my own roles to choose which one I wanted for myself. I was impatient to work and did not wait until the carriage had stopped before standing. I did not see the hem of my gown catch in the wheel.
I heard the bones snap as I landed on my left ankle. Pain shot through my foot and up through my body. I was light-headed and screamed in pain as though I could force it away. The carriage was gone. I clutched my swelling ankle, which now felt as though it would burst. It was as though I had taken too much drink. Suddenly all was black.
I do not remember the young men who carried me upstairs, though I imagine they struggled for I was no longer thin or slim-waisted. However, I do recall the doctor tugging at my boot as I screamed. And then my mother handing him her best kitchen knife, tears rolling down my cheeks as I felt the pinching and watched him saw through that soft, expensive leather.
This accident was almost the end of me. I could not leave my bed for almost four months, though occasionally Hector would carry me to the sofa to relieve the monotony. I wept at the thought of how burdensome I had become. The English doctor visited often, and we could barely pay his fees. My mother told me I would soon work again, though I heard the doctor say otherwise when he thought I was sleeping. Then she said to me that she imagined it would not be long before Monsieur found a more able-bodied girl and that I was not to distress myself over him. I watched him keenly, for I had little else to do. And I saw that for some days he wavered. But then he brought a box of names and addresses. He began to organize my benefit concert for later that year.
We knew some peace during that time. Whenever I cried over my predicament, Hector would console me with stories of how successful my concert would be, of how well I would be received, of how the money earned would pay off my creditors with some to spare. Not a day went by when he did not tell me of George Sand or Liszt or Chopin asking after my health and praying for my quick recovery. He brought Franz Liszt to see me without any warning one afternoon. My mother and sister stood dumbfounded in the doorway. The man was tall with a prominent forehead and a serene face. Although my mother had helped me dress, I was wearing one of my older gowns and my hair hung loose about my shoulders. I was somewhat ashamed to have to greet him in my disheveled state.
“Mademoiselle,” he reached down one of his enormous hands to shake mine. “Enchanté,” he said. “I admired your Juliet, Miss Smithson. You have inspired a genius. Mind Hector looks after you.”
“We look after her,” my sister said, finding her voice.
MY SISTER’S TONGUE developed a venom I had never before known.
“He sees whores, you know,” she told me one day.
“Does he.” I tried to keep my voice level. And though the very idea was vile to me, I knew this was not something I could ask him or even something I could resent him for. But then she told me he was having an affair with George Sand and committing unspeakable acts with men.
“Stop!” I shouted at her one day, bursting into tears.
Had he been half the deviant Anne insisted he was, I should have been pleased to be rid of him. He himself could fly into a rage whenever she opened her mouth. And if he did not understand what she said, this did not stop him.
The doctor brought me some rude wooden crutches. In the beginning, merely swinging myself from one room to the next was enough to bruise my underarms, but it was a delight to move independently. I was never fast, but I did learn to move more smoothly. After four months, Hector could lead me slowly, walking upon my tender ankle to the Jardin des Tuileries where we would sit, my head resting upon his shoulder. Prostrate months had left my body large and stiff. My mother did not feel it necessary to accompany us; Hector’s gentleness and my decrepit state presented no threat whatsoever.
In this way I became accustomed to his presence. Although he would not have been my mother’s choice for me, she grew more accepting of our courtship.
One day in the apartment he told me that the sommations against his father were over. We were free to marry.
I stared at my hands when he said this to me. “Hector, I need more time.”
“More time? After everything I have done for you, you need more time?” He began to shout in angry French and waved his hands about, knocking some scripts off a table. Then he left, slamming the door behind him.
That night I did not sleep. Still I could not see the future with him or without him. I knew better than to tell my family of our changed situation. The next day he returned. Taking my hand, he looked me in the eye. “I have the papers,” he said.
“Which papers?”
“The forms we need to sign before we marry.”
“Put them down a minute. Let’s read a little.” Hector helped me to the small bookcase in my bedchamber. When we returned to the sitting room, I noticed the form in torn pieces on the floor while my sister sat nearby attending to her sewing.
“Oh, dear God, Anne, what have you done?”
She began to cry. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just can’t bear it.” She left the room, and Hector, for once, said nothing. He knelt and silently retrieved the patches of parchment with the same reverence as he showed for his music scores.
“Why do we have to marry now?” I asked him, once she had left. “Why can’t things stay as they are a little longer?”
“We are not united completely,” he said. “I cannot support this waiting. If you will not marry me, you will never see me again.”
I felt the tears sting my eyes.
“Why do you hesitate?” he shouted. “One more day! I give you one more day. Tomorrow I must have an answer.” With this he suddenly threw the shreds in the air, turned, and left, parchment raining down on his head.
That night I decided. I would be free of him. Now that my leg was better, I could travel to London and if not perform then at least employ some actors for the next season. My travels would distract me and perhaps introduce me to a more suitable man. It was just a matter of telling him.
When he arrived, he was paler than usual and there was a wild look about him. We said nothing for some moments as I tried to find the words I needed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large vial. I looked around the room, wondering what to say. He tipped his head back and swallowed. A groan escaped him.
“What was that?”
“Quoi?”
“That liquid? What did you take?”
He took my hand. It was as slippery as wet soap.
“It was opium.”
“But Hector, so much? It will kill you!”
“Will you marry me?”
The commotion brought my mother running, and she watched the proceedings unfold like some bizarre type of pantomime. A young musician of morbid sensibility and fiery imagination poisons himself with opium in a fit of amorous despair.
“If not I shall die here.”
�
��I. . . . Oh, God! Hector, of course, I love you.”
“There . . . in my bag . . . the remedy.”
My leg ached as I dragged myself to his bag. It contained a few coins and a crumpled page of manuscript. There was a large handkerchief. Down at the bottom was another vial. I could not make out the words.
He had crawled to me, and now he snatched the vial from my hand like someone possessed. He sucked the liquid from the glass and licked the rim for good measure. Then he collapsed, groaning on the floor. My mother brought him a pillow, and the maid brought a chamberpot.
“What’s wrong with him?” Anne asked. I slapped her and she howled.
For three days I did not know whether he would live or die.
1827
DURING THE LAST FEW DAYS before Hamlet, Paris is airless and it holds heat like an oven. There is nowhere to escape. On my way to rehearsal I see sleepless ladies fanning themselves in early morning patches of green or shade. I am too tired to lie tossing beneath my sheets and instead fall into dangerous, still, and heavy sleep from which it is almost impossible to wake. I relish the late evening when the sun is briefly hidden.
The Théâter de l’Odéon, due to its size, heats up rather more slowly than other buildings. But each day, more and more actresses appear with fans they have bought in the streets, garish and fashionable. I have nothing but my script with which to fan myself, and it is not done to appear with a script three days before opening night.
After rehearsal one afternoon my mother gives me a gift. She is rosy cheeked with droplets of moisture on her forehead. She has sacrificed some clothing and locked herself in our airless apartment to construct a fan for me. It is white with a pattern of pale blue flowers.
At the final rehearsal Charles Kemble twitches like a child bitten by flees. “I am still not satisfied with the stage directions!” he says. “Miss Smithson, would you kindly improve your posture.”
I open my eyes. I have been furnished with a sofa for the viewing of the play within Hamlet and, fanning myself, had begun to doze. I sit up straight. For a moment all eyes are upon me, shadows beneath them.
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