“The association lasted for some time. I have heard it said that she accompanied him to Jersey. Her son had been born and the King accepted him as his. None could doubt that now. Monmouth, though certainly far more good-looking than the King, undoubtedly has a look of the Stuarts. Well, when the King went to Scotland, he left Lucy at The Hague. I do not know much about Lucy’s adventures after that, except that her association with the King was over and that she took other lovers, then returned to England. When she arrived, Cromwell had her arrested and sent to the Tower…but not for long. It was decided that she was too insignificant to be dangerous and her association with the King was in the past. She was freed, returned to the Continent and soon afterwards died. The King, aware of his obligations to his son, put the boy in the care of Lord Crofts and Monmouth was said to be related to him. He was educated as a gentleman of noble birth, and two years after the King was back in England. James Crofts, as he was then, was given apartments in the Palace.”
“So everyone knew then that he was the King’s son?”
“Yes. His looks betrayed that, if nothing else, but young James Crofts was determined to remind people who he was at every turn. This amused the King and only last year he was given the grand titles of Baron Tyndale, Earl of Doncaster and Duke of Monmouth. This son of Lucy Walter had become a Duke. You can understand why he cannot forget it and tries to make sure that no one else shall.”
“And so he came late to the theater, when everyone else was seated.”
“He must make his entrance, of a surety. This is characteristic of this young man. He wants everyone to know that he enjoys special privileges. So he comes late, bows to the King and receives a warm paternal smile. You understand?”
“I do.”
“This is not such a simple matter as you might think. You see how it is. The King has no legitimate son. Well, of course, it is early yet. But the Queen has miscarried. There is this failing with royalty—an inability to get male heirs. Charles the Martyr was fortunate only in this one respect. Not so our present King. Strong, most certainly capable, he has several bastards, but no legitimate child. The heir to the throne is the Duke of York. And there are rumors about the Duke.”
“I suppose there are rumors about all people in high places.”
“Their relationships with women, you mean. That is light-hearted gossip and the people love those who provide it. And even those who are shocked enjoy their disgust. But I speak of a matter which could affect the whole country. The Duke of York is flirting with the Catholic faith and the people of England are determined never to have another Catholic monarch on the throne. They still talk of Bloody Mary and the fires of Smithfield. Three hundred people were burned at the stake in her reign. And although many more were tortured and put to death in Spain by the Inquisition, this is England. Never again, they said.”
“But we have our Catholics.”
“Therein lies the danger. But there are many here who would stand firm against a Catholic monarch, and if the King has no children by his wife—Heaven knows he has enough and to spare from others—the Duke of York would be King of England, and he is a Catholic. Now the Duke of Monmouth is the King’s son, although born, as they say, on the wrong side of the blanket. Monmouth would dearly love to be King. That is why he appears at all Protestant ceremonies. He wants everyone to know how firmly he supports that faith. Now suppose the King should have no legitimate children, would not Monmouth be a better choice than the Duke of York?”
“But surely that could not be, since he is not the King’s legitimate son?”
“What is to prevent some long-lost documents being found? Charles was a wandering exile. Suppose he really did marry Lucy Walter? He was not the crowned King then, was he? He was only an exile. He was young and the young are reckless and the relationship with Welsh Lucy was not of short duration.”
I stared at her in amazement. “Maggie, can you be sure of this?”
She smiled. “Of one thing I am sure, and that is that no one can be sure of anything in this world.”
That was the way she talked and for me brought to life so many of the people who had just been names before.
It gave an added interest to the life which was going on around me. It made intriguing and exciting listening while I waited to get a start in the theater.
At last it came. Charles Hart was arranging to put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Theatre Royal and Kitty had prevailed on him to give me a chance to see what I could do.
Maggie was able to tell me something about the great actor before I was summoned to his presence.
“You will find him a very grand gentleman,” she told me. “He acts all the time. Sometimes I wonder whether he ever stops, even in his bedchamber when he is alone—as I suppose he sometimes is. But it is second nature to him. You will have to be careful all the time to treat him with the utmost respect. Kitty will be there to help you along. Mind you, he is a very good actor. He never forgets his relationship to Shakespeare. I can tell you what that relationship is, because he makes sure that everyone who comes in contact with him is aware of it. William Shakespeare had a sister named Joan, and Charles Hart’s father was her eldest son. The great Master Hart is of the opinion that he has inherited his kinsman’s genius, with a little more thrown in.”
“It is small wonder that he ‘struts and frets upon the stage,’” put in Kitty, who had come in while this conversation was taking place. “But he reckons his will not be a case of being heard no more.”
“Well, he has done well. He has acting in his blood, and the theater means a great deal to him,” said Maggie. “You must admit that he is one of our finest actors.”
“I would not deny it,” agreed Kitty. “I was merely pointing out that he may not be quite so good as he thinks he is—but then, that could apply to most of us.”
Maggie told me that he had played some good parts in his time, and when the war broke out he had joined the King’s army and fought under Prince Rupert. When the war was over, he was playing in Beaumont and Fletcher’s Blood Brother when the Roundheads broke in and carried him off to prison. When he was released, he acted privately and secretly in the house of a nobleman.
“Yes, Charles Hart has acting in his blood. And God bless him for it.”
When the time for my appointment came, I was filled with apprehension. Suppose he did not like me? I asked myself. What then? Suppose I did not get the part? Could I go on hoping? How would Kitty feel? She would think she had made a mistake and should never have brought me to London.
Maggie tried to cheer me. “You’re nervous, that’s what it is. It’s like going on the stage to play a part. Most actresses feel then as you do now. If you don’t feel nervous, you don’t bring out everything you’ve got and you’re not going to give of your best. It’s natural, dearie. It means you’ll be all right when the moment comes.”
“Yes,” said Kitty. “If he thinks you are right for the part, you’ll get it. And if he does not think so? Well, it’s not the only part in the world, is it? There are others in London besides Charles Hart, I can tell you.”
How they cared for me, those two! How lucky I was to have been “discovered” by Kitty and to have been brought through her to Maggie!
In due course, Kitty and I were ushered into the presence of the great man. The room was small and dark with a little window looking down on the street. He stood up at the window—tall, upright, his hands clasped behind his back, striking a dramatic pose, I guessed, from some role he had played. Before him was a desk on which some papers were scattered. He was an impressive figure, accustomed to dominate the scene, and I tried not to be overawed. I remembered Kitty’s words. If I failed with him, there were others.
Maggie had said he acted all the time, and I knew he was playing a part now. At least, I thought, I cannot be so insignificant if he takes the trouble to act for me. I, too, was acting my part, that of the humble, inexperienced girl in the presence of genius—and acting so, I forgot my
fear.
He was looking at Kitty. “So, dear girl, you think this child may be an actress?”
Kitty replied: “I am sure of it, Charles. You and I know talent when we see it.”
“Oh, yes. And you, my dear child, you think you may be an actress?”
“Yes, sir,” I said humbly.
“Do you know that every wench in every tavern…selling her wares in the streets…wherever she may be…” He was declaiming to an audience, his resonant and musical voice rising and falling as he listed the girls of London and analyzed the drama of every milkmaid churning her butter in some remote country village…all were sure that they were great actresses.
“You are right, Charles, as always,” said Kitty. “But when they are found and proved, they should be given a chance.”
“They are very few, dear lady. Talent is a rare gift.”
“That again is true.”
“I know I have it,” I said boldly.
That seemed to startle him, but I could see that he was not displeased—indeed, he seemed faintly amused.
“Kitty, dear girl, I trust your judgment. What if we were to put this child to the test? It is a small part. The play is A Midsummer Night’s Dream, written by my kinsman, William Shakespeare, who is reckoned to be a dramatist of some considerable ability. A small part, it is true, but small parts are for beginners. We must all perforce prove ourselves, as you will agree.” He turned to me.
“Dear child, I shall require you to read the part. Where is the piece?”
He turned to the desk and turned over some of the papers. At length he found what he was looking for.
“Here,” he said. “You will read this. Just a few lines, that is all. The part is of a Fairy. It is the beginning of Act II. A Wood near Athens. You come in on one side, Puck on the other. He will say to you…”He threw back his head and declaimed with dramatic emphasis:
How now, spirit, whither wander you?
“Then…here are your lines:
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier…
“Read from there, my dear.”
I took the paper and read until I came to the lines:
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone:
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.
I was there. I had forgotten him temporarily. The words enchanted me. It was indeed a small part, but how I wanted to do it! I longed for the opportunity to say those words on the stage and give them the rendering such poetry deserved.
Charles Hart was swaying on his heels. Kitty was smiling triumphantly.
I was not surprised to hear the great man say: “It would appear that you have the part of Fairy in my kinsman’s piece. You must learn your lines with all speed.”
For the next days before the great occasion I practiced my lines continually. Kitty and Maggie helped me. At odd moments one of them would start up with “How now, spirit! Whither wander you?” and I would start up with “Over hill, over dale,” and go through the lines. Even Martha and Rose took it up, and “Whither wander you?” became a phrase constantly heard throughout the house.
I think the lines are engraved upon my mind and will be until I die.
The great day came. I cannot say that my performance was received with wild enthusiasm, but neither was I booed off the stage. It seemed that no sooner had I stepped on stage than I was off and that was the end of my brief glory. But I had made a start. I was a professional actress.
Those were happy days. Kitty was still playing in Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, and there was I, a Fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We were indeed a theatrical household, and I was a part of it all, as I had not been before.
Sometimes I would complain that mine was such a little part.
“There’ll be others,” Kitty assured me. “Charles is pleased with you, I can tell. He watches you. He’ll have something else for you and each part will be a little better than the one before. We shall soon have you complaining of the number of lines you have to learn.”
“If only that could be so!”
“It will, I promise you.” And with the coming of the new year, there were other parts. They were still small, but with each one I felt myself creeping nearer to success. Mine was not to be a spectacular rise, such as are dreamed of.
“Meteors do not last,” soothed Kitty. “They fly across the sky, brilliant, admired, and then they fall to earth and are forgotten. You are doing it the best way, the gradual rise, and with each part you are a little more experienced.”
I often thought how fortunate I had been to have fallen in with those two wonderful and loving women.
Kitty was particularly careful that I should be guarded against what she called the pitfalls of life, which meant the ever-prowling male.
“They come to the theater. They select those they want and they then tell you they will die if you deny them. You are the most wonderful creature that ever lived—until they have what they want, and then it is goodbye and they’ve forgotten who you were in a week or so. That’s not the way. Keep them at bay.”
“Lord Donnerton was not like that.”
“There are few like him, I do assure you.”
“Are you regretting?”
She shook her head. “The soft life was not for me. This is where I belong and what’s best suited to me.”
So we were happy, and I believed that life would go on like that forever.
The spring had come. It was warm and pleasant. I felt I was now a seasoned actress. I had a small part in Killigrew’s Claracilla, and one night, after the play, I was walking back to the house, which was but a short distance from the theater.
It was a warm and balmy night, and as I came through the cobbled alley which led to the square in which we lived I saw a woman lying on the pavement.
My first thought was that she had been robbed.
I went over to her to see if I could help.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She did not answer.
Then she opened her eyes. I saw that she was flushed and she stared at me as though she did not understand what I said. She was obviously very ill.
As I stepped nearer to her, she shook her head at me violently, as though urging me not to approach.
“Go, lady,” she murmured. “Do not stay near.”
I did not move. I felt I must take some action, help her to her feet. If she could not walk, perhaps I could bring some friend or member of her family.
She was shaking her head, obviously frantically urging me not to come near.
Then suddenly she opened her blouse and on her breast I saw the ugly red spots.
I understood then why she did not want me to go near her.
I was aware that the plague had visited the villages near the city. There had been one or two outbreaks recently. Maggie and Kitty had talked of it.
I turned and left the woman, though I felt I should not have done so. However, she was so eager for me to keep away.
When I went home and told Maggie and Kitty of the incident they looked grave.
“There have been one or two cases this year,” said Kitty. “There always have been,” added Maggie, but I continued to wonder what had happened to that woman.
June had come. The weather was exceptionally hot, and before the month was out there was no doubt that the plague had come to London.
Many people were leaving the city and our audiences were becoming smaller every day.
“If it goes on like this,” said Kitty, “we shall be playing to empty houses.”
We did not do that because the theaters closed down. It was no longer profitable to stay open, for people did not congregate in numbers, for fear that among them might be someone who carried the dreaded infection.
We were fortunate in being able to rely on Maggie. She was, as she had said, comfortably off, and insisted that w
e share that comfort. She had stored cases of ale and flour to make bread should we need it, she said.
By the time August had come, we knew that this epidemic of the dreaded plague was different from the others which had come to the city. During the first week of that August, four thousand people died, and the numbers were rising. The streets were quiet, for few people ventured out. London had lost that air of bustling activity which had been one of its main characteristics. It was strange to walk out into those quiet streets, which we did very rarely. Shops were closed, and only occasionally did one see another person, who would hurry past, glancing fearfully about, suspicious that anyone might soon be a plague victim who would pass on the infection to them—just as I was wondering the same about them.
Many of the houses were marked with a red cross on the door and with it the words “Lord have Mercy upon us.” One avoided passing such houses, for the sign meant that within the house was someone suffering from the plague. The law was that if there was such a person in any house, that house must show the sign and none of the inmates could emerge for a month.
A terrible gloom hung over the city. At night the only sound was the bell of the pest cart as it came through the streets, followed by the dismal cry “Bring out your dead,” and we knew that the dead body of some loved one would be put into the cart with others in the same state, to be taken outside the city, there to be thrown into a pit where many other victims of the dread disease already lay.
The King and the Parliament had moved to Oxford. London was a dead city and behind the walls of our house the five of us waited in fear for what would happen next.
It was the end of August. I heard later that during that week the death toll had risen to over seven thousand. I was glad I did not know it at the time. Even so, we were all aware of the horror of this fearsome plague. We had survived largely through Maggie’s foresight. Food was not plentiful, but we managed on what she had got together in her wisdom. Shops were closed, and the stalls had long since disappeared. London was a city of gloom.
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