Ophelia's Fan

by Christine Balint

  One morning my mother came to me in the drawing room. “Harriet, there is nothing for us in Paris,” she said.

  I could think of no reply.

  “I am thinking to take Anne back to Ireland.”

  “To Ennis?”

  “Perhaps Dublin. I will find somewhere we can live.”

  “I see. Mother, I shall speak to Hector. If you choose to go, I will ask him to send an allowance after you. You must do what you think best.” She walked slowly over to my chair and took my hand. She leaned over and kissed my forehead, her lips resting upon my skin.

  Hector accompanied us to the poste restante from where my mother and sister would begin their journey. They had but one case; we would send a trunk after them once they sent an address. The journey would take several days, and I wondered if any of us would make it again. I embraced them both, and each time it was difficult to let go. I clung to them as though to my life. “Mother, thank you for all you have done,” I whispered to her.

  In the end Hector had to peel my arms away for the driver was impatiently cracking his whip. Hector lifted Anne to her seat and gave an arm to my mother. He kissed each of them quickly on the cheek.

  “Look after my girl!” I thought I heard my mother’s voice break as the carriage drew away.

  “Remember to write, Anne!” I called, my voice breaking.

  Hector held me firmly. He kissed the tears from my cheeks. He led me home.

  1828

  THERE IS A LULL in the season, and I have hours of time to myself. The sweetness of such days! The season is turning slowly from winter to spring, and it is nearing my twenty-eighth birthday. My mother allows me to open our house some evenings to guests, and I become a hostess for the first time. Charles Kemble, Mademoiselle Mars, Mr. Turner, all these people take tea with us and bring friends, and our lodgings take on the air of a fashionable salon.

  In the daytime I read every Shakespearean play I can find and imagine roles for myself in all of them. I am less familiar with the comedies, and I wonder what it would be like to play a fairy or a princess or a duke’s daughter who finds herself happily married at the end. I attend public balls, a new gown and often a new trinket to wear to each. I meet elegant gentlemen who kiss my hand in the European fashion and lead me on their arms as though they would protect me from the world.

  But even as my days have such lightness, a disquiet lurks beneath the surface. For I know not what the future holds. I wait for some sign, some offer or invitation to guide me. But nothing comes. I see an end to this season in Paris, and I do not know where to go next. I cannot bear the thought of returning to that unwelcome city of London. My mother urges me to find a husband. She says I may not know such success anywhere ever again and that I must make good use of it. “Befriend a gentleman of means,” she says. “And you shall never have to work again.” I imagine such a life of ease and contentment. I know I could be a good wife to a man of society. But Shakespeare has taught me to follow my heart without fearing the consequences. With every touch of my fingers and kiss of my hand I wait for a fluttering in my chest that will give me an answer. But none comes.

  At one of my evening gatherings, Mademoiselle Mars takes me aside and says it is time I had a benefit concert. When he hears, Kemble claps his hands together. And so I begin composing a letter to the minister, requesting permission. It is my custom to write such letters in English for I would require a good deal of assistance to write so in French and most government officials are proficient in English. My colleagues begin petitioning for the evening’s entertainment and I decide we will perform the third act of Romeo and Juliet.

  Mademoiselle Mars sits with me a whole morning during which we compile an extremely ambitious guest list. She writes every member of royalty she can think of, and at the end we have the names of the Duchesse de Berry, the Duc and Duchesse d’Orléans, the Duc de Chartres, the Prince de Saxe-Cobourg, and the king. I blush and shake my head, but Mademoiselle is insistent and soon we have a pile of invitations signed by us both, ready to be posted by Monsieur Tartes.

  Tickets are to be sold directly by the theater, and I am pleased to be divested of such a tedious responsibility. When I arrive for rehearsal I am told they are selling extremely well and that my concert is expected to be sold out by the end of February, a week before it is to take place. It is only when entertainment has been confirmed that I am informed Mademoiselle Mars has requested the Théâtre-Français perform the comedy Le Manteau and the Théâtre-Italien a part of Il Barbiere di Siviglia. I feel that I am feted by all the arts of Europe.

  I am almost sleepless, but excitement pulses through my veins. My mother predicts great things for us: travel without work to make us weary, a house in the country full of servants, friends of rank in every corner of the earth. And when I tire of her chatter, it is my sister she tells, muttering to her even as she helps her dress, for Anne will not allow the maid to touch her.

  Something has come over my sister. She questions my every move as though there is important business being kept from her. She wants to know exactly with whom I have spoken at every ball. She begs the details of my performances and what I observed of audience response. Anne has her own bedchamber now, and I lend her copies of my plays and books. It is only at intimate family gatherings that Anne is allowed to be present, and for this I am sorry. My mother is sure to lock her away in her bedchamber in the evenings whenever we have company. She fears Anne’s weakness will dampen our prospects. At such times I can almost weep for Father Barrett and the kindness he showed to all unfortunates.

  And so it happens at one of our suppers, we are all sitting in the parlor. At Mademoiselle Mars’s instigation, Madame Pasta has done us the honor of attending and she is midway through an unaccompanied aria when all is silenced by a piercing scream. My mother freezes and turns pale. I run to Anne’s bedchamber. My sister is lying twisted and sobbing on the floor. There is a wound on her head, and a small statue given to her years ago by my brother is lying on the bed. Even as I try to lift her, I wonder whether she has done this to herself. Mr. Kemble and Mr. Turner have followed, the other guests are murmuring quietly in the parlor. If the men are surprised at the existence of my sister, they do not indicate so, and together they lift the girl gently back to her bed. I remove the statue and watch my mother thank them as she touches my sister’s stockinged legs looking for injuries.

  “Harriet, a compress for your sister,” she says as Anne weeps softly and my mother wipes the blood from her brow with a lace handkerchief.

  “Shall I call for the doctor, Mrs. Smithson?” Mr. Kemble asks.

  “That will not be necessary. Thank you, Mr. Kemble.”

  For some moments he remains in the doorway, and I brush past him to see the maid looking helplessly between the guests, my mother, and Charles Kemble.

  MY MOTHER GIVES ME a string of pearls, and I do not dare ask where she found the money to pay for them. She kisses my cheek and says Father would have been proud. And I have a tear for him and also for Father Barrett that they could not live to see me like this, at my most beautiful, the beloved of all Paris. I travel in a coach alone while my mother finishes preparing herself and Anne.

  My family has a box for the evening of my benefit concert, and I am able to join them from time to time, though I take care to arrive in the darkness of a scene for fear my presence will draw eyes away from the stage. I cannot concentrate on the drama or the performances for I am buoyed by the crowd and amazed at all the royalty within that theater. I remember my father’s fears of his theater burning down, and I wonder at all the disruption to the running of France if this theater were to burn at this moment.

  I have purchased a new gown for the evening. It is a cream silk, and I wear it even as I am Juliet dying in the arms of Romeo. And as I lie there I start suddenly at the memory of an agonized cry. And I find myself as Juliet, in a lull between life and death, opening and shutting my eyes, weeping to the sighs of the spectators. Kemble does not protest at my inspi
ration. Romeo touches my face and weeps. The moment is perfection.

  At the end of Le Manteau, Abbott speaks to the crowd in a French slow and ponderous; in it I can hear the roundness of English, yet the crowd roars. He speaks my name a number of times, and afterward Mr. Kemble tells me Abbott praised my talent exceedingly. There is warmth and merriment in the air and the roar of the crowd. I stand shaking with emotion in the wings; the audience calls my name and I am drawn to them. Mademoiselle Mars has her arm around my shoulders and will not let me move. It is good she does so, for at that moment I do not care that it is against the law for an actor to make a reappearance. Eventually the crowd quietens, and I know from the breeze touching my skin that the doors have been opened. There are many people coming in, I am told. They are the crowds who missed out on tickets and who hope for a glimpse within.

  Mademoiselle Mars leads me quickly to my dressing room where she straightens my hair and reapplies my scent. And then I am in the greenroom, all garlanded in the most brilliant of early spring flowers. There are daffodils, tulips, and the flowers of daphne, and the air is as sweet as cake. Within seconds there is a line of royalty all awaiting my attention. They greet me like a friend. The Duchesse de Berry kisses my cheek with such innocence it is difficult to believe the scandals that will soon befall her. And then a young man standing beside her hands me an enormous porcelain vase, white and blue with dramatic curves. My mother is there to take it from me and place it in a corner where it is soon filled with flowers. And throughout all the other conversations of that evening I cannot resist turning back to look at the vase, three feet high, the most beautiful object I have ever received. I imagine it traveling with me wherever I go, and I wonder what words and music it will hear during the passing of years.

  I recognize some journalists from the Courrier Français examining the vase. I am handed discreet envelopes and small boxes of trinkets and jewelry. Mr. Turner takes me aside and whispers that the young man Hector Berlioz is at the backstage door wishing to offer his congratulations. I shake my head and he nods, leaving to convey the message. Many people bring flowers, and my mother begins removing them from the crammed greenroom, piling bouquets on top of each other in my dressing room until there is nowhere to step and it looks like a flower shop. And when the crowd is beginning to lessen, I become aware of my aching cheek muscles and that my knees wish very much to sit down. I look around me for a chair, and then suddenly an extremely well dressed gentleman bows before me and says he comes from the king. And I wonder whether I am part of a fairytale when he hands me a purse of gold.

  It is early morning when my mother, Anne, and I return to our lodgings. None of us wishes to sleep, and we sit in the drawing room discussing the evening until late. Anne cannot help but mimic the French in gushing tones.

  “Incroyable! Sublime! Elle est pure et jeune! Si belle!”

  I smile.

  We count the gold coins over and over again, and I am impatient for my other gifts to arrive by coach.

  It is light when I make my way to my bedchamber and begin to undress. I open the curtains a crack and stare down to the street. My carriage is there, and I imagine that Pierre is here delivering my gifts. And then suddenly I see the carriage move off down the street. On the side are painted the words My kingdom for a horse.

  1827

  THERE IS A BUZZ in the air that first night I am Ophelia, a palpable electricity that makes my arms tingle if I move them too quickly. And it is as though the angel of destiny is there, hovering over the stage where the curtains should be. She wishes to reward me for making the less than obvious decisions. For being an Irish girl playing an English girl playing a Danish girl in the city of Paris. And so she will now lead me, freeing me from the concerns of this wandering life.

  And while my heart and mind are absorbed in the madness of Ophelia, there is a part of me standing still and silent, staring out into the crowd and hungry for what she can absorb from there. First she stares out into the boxes; there are tailored gentlemen and ladies with fans. She notices the red and blue of the British flag, and then she realizes this is bigger than theater. This is politics, the stuff of revolutions. This night could change British and French relations forever. She is momentarily puzzled and wonders if she will have to choose a side. She chooses harmony and wonders if this night will change the world.

  Then she lowers her eyes to the pit, and there she sees countless young men. These are the artists, she has been told. And these people have all bought the English-French text of Hamlet from the stand that was being set up earlier in the day. They are flipping backward and forward, mouths open, their eyes wide. The action of looking constantly between the stage and their books makes their heads nod, giving them a slightly comical appearance, like strange waterbirds. But she has never seen anyone as serious as those men, quivering with emotion, overwhelmed by Shakespeare.

  She notices that many of the young men are staring right at her, and she shivers, simultaneously thrilled and exposed, as though their eyes are fingers. There is one man who does not look at his text at all. The booklet is untidily crushed into his pocket, allowing him to clutch at his seat with white knuckles. His mouth is agape, and he does not try to conceal his feelings. A line of ginger whiskers crosses his cheek, and a mane of red hair tumbles around his ears and neck. Fiery strands wave almost vertically from his head, and it is as though he is possessed by the electricity in the air. He is like a madman, unkempt with fire in his eyes. Every now and then he lets out a great sob, and it is as though he has foreseen his own death.

  HER WORDS CREST and break on the heads of the gaping onlookers, dissolving, dispensing their magic, like the golden dust of fairies’ wings, until—

  The rest is silence.

  And she sees a world of sighs climb to the rafters.

  And there in the cascades of applause that wash through the darkest corners, she tastes the sunshine and the earth and the clover, and she hears—“Good night. Good night.”

  And now she sees the sweet prince.

  And as she curtsies, she feels the flights of angels singing.

  Acknowledgements

  HARRIET SMITHSON lived from 1800 to 1854. Her significant influence over French Romanticism has largely been overlooked; she is known today mainly for her role as muse to Hector Berlioz. This novel attempts to recreate her life and work in its own right. While I have tried to remain true to documentary sources, this remains a work of fiction.

  This project would not have been possible without the support and assistance of several individuals and organizations.

  Research in England, Ireland, and France was undertaken with financial assistance from the Foundation for Young Australians (formerly the Queen’s Trust for Young Australians). I made particular use of the British Library; British Library Newspapers at Colindale; Birmingham Library; Drury Lane Archive at the Theatre Museum, London; National Library of Ireland; Clare Local Studies Centre, Ennis; archives at the Bishop’s Palace, Ennis; Freemason’s records, Dublin; La Bibliothèque Nationale de France; and La Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal. I am indebted to the thorough research and generosity of Peter Raby and David Cairns, biographers of Harriet Smithson and Hector Berlioz, respectively. Without their work I would not have known where to begin. In particular, I thank David Cairns for his detailed proofreading of this manuscript. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own.

  County Clare local writer and historian Seán Spellissy gave his time generously and provided crucial background on the town and people of Ennis. Anne Hignett provided friendship and the space that made it possible for me to spend as much time in London as I needed.

  I am grateful to staff and students at the School of Creative Arts, The University of Melbourne, for their interest and support of this work, which formed the basis of a Ph.D in creative writing. In particular, I thank Dr. Kevin Brophy, who cast a gentle eye over early drafts.

  Crucial polishing and structuring work was undertaken during a three-week fellowship at Var
una, the Writers’ House. I thank Peter Bishop, executive director of Varuna, for giving so generously of his time and helping the novel take form.

  I am grateful to Helga Hill for her patience in teaching me the basic principles of historic gesture. Thank you to Anne Radvansky, who put a lot of time and thought into reading drafts and giving detailed feedback.

  I thank my Australian agent, Fran Bryson, for her continuing hard work, enthusiasm, and encouragement; and Maria Massie of Witherspoon Associates, my New York agent, who has worked tirelessly to bring this novel to publication. I also thank Amy Cherry, my editor at W. W. Norton, for her patience and understanding, and for believing in this project from its early stages.

  I thank my parents as well as the Smith and Talbot clans for their interest and encouragement of my work, and for living with Harriet and Berlioz over the last five years. Finally, thank you to Rupert for his unfailing support and assistance.

  Select Bibliography

  Berlioz, Hector. Symphonie Fantastique. Compact disk and program notes. Sony SM3K 64 103.

  Berlioz, Hector. Correspondance Générale. Vols. 1–8. Ed. Pierre Citron. Paris: Flammarion, 1972–1975.

  Cairns, David, ed. The Memoirs of Hector Berlioz. London: Victor Gollancz Ltd., 1969.

  Cairns, David. Berlioz: Volume 1: The Making of an Artist: 1803–1832. London: Allen Lane, Penguin Press, 1999.