Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “Hart,” I tried to coax, “what is so amiss? It is not so very unusual for me to visit that house.”

  “At the invitation of Henry Harris?” he replied with a bite. As if I were to know what that meant.

  “Henry has asked us to dine often enough and is a friend of—”

  “Don’t be naïve, Ellen.” Hart interrupted. “You know Henry would like nothing better than to steal you away from me.” He looked at me with sorrowful eyes. “Promise me that you will never leave me. Promise. Say it now.”

  “Oh, Hart,” I said putting my head on his shoulder as we pulled up to the house. “I am here. I wouldn’t leave you for—”

  “Proof! You are a whore! You cannot even promise me so little when I offer you so much!” he burst out suddenly. “And you would leave me for the highest bidder, like the slut you are!”

  Humiliated and angry, I jerked my arm away from him and shouted for Hugh to stop the coach. I opened the door with a bang and hopped down before Hugh could help me. “Do not follow me,” I hissed over my shoulder. “I do not want you!” I said vengefully, uttering his worst fears aloud. Poor, shocked Hugh tried to pretend that he hadn’t heard our exchange and closed the door behind me. As I had alighted on Chancery Lane, it took me an hour to walk home, and my new blue satin mules are ruined.

  Later—Drury Lane (in my own bed)

  Whore. It is not an unfitting word. I am an actress, but not an actress. With child, but not a wife. I live in a grey no man’s land. Is this where whores live?

  Wednesday—Drury Lane

  My anger has melted into fear. I understand his jealousy stems from his great love for me but do not feel I can take back my fierce words. I think of the life rooting inside me and know I have made a mistake.

  Friday, December 9—still in Drury Lane

  “What do you plan to do, my dear?” Grandfather asked, gingerly sitting on the edge of my trundle bed, where I have taken up residence this week.

  “About what?” I answered evasively, tugging at the coverlet. My troubles were numerous at this point.

  “Well,” he said, shifting to look at me directly, “it seems you may be abandoned, penniless, and, according to Rose, pregnant.” His face held no judgement, only concern and love.

  “Oh, Grandfather!” I sobbed, diving into his arms like a child. “What do I do? I dare not go back to the theatre: I no longer work for Meg, since becoming Hart’s mistress, and I never went onto the stage. I have no money of my own. I am not fit for anything,” I babbled. Grandfather brushed his hand through my unkempt hair.

  “I suspect that it will all come right, if you truly want it to,” he said evenly. “Do you want it to?”

  “Do you mean do I want Hart?”

  “I mean do you truly care for Mr. Hart? That is what he wants from you,” Grandfather said, handing me his clean handkerchief. “That is what he is waiting for.”

  “I do care for him,” I said, blowing my nose loudly. “He has grown overly suspicious of me, but he is kind and good and looks after me—and that is something.”

  “It is a great deal,” said Grandfather generously. “But I suspect he needs more.”

  “I have tried to love him—but in fact I cannot imagine how to begin. I know he is a good man, and I know that he is sincerely attached to me, but somehow that does not add up to the passionate love he feels for me. It is as if I do my figures wrong every time and come out with friendship and gratitude. And he looks at me with such a … wanting.” I breathed deeply, relieved to confess my unloving secret. “I feel as if I owe him everything and I do miss him … but I said such terrible things and I can never go back.” Grandfather just kept stroking my hair until I fell asleep.

  Sunday, December 11

  I am resolved. I must find him and make it right. What other choice do I have?

  Later—Maiden Lane

  All is forgiven. I braided my untruths with half-truths and said enough to give him peace. It was not difficult. He has been as miserable as I. I ought not to have left it so long. We are united by the baby I am carrying. Determined to get out of this particular pickle, I have convinced Hart that I will be more settled, occupied, and happy if I am permitted to go on the stage. A truth of sorts. He will not allow it once I am showing my condition, but for this brief window I am permitted. I cannot sleep for excitement! I am to be cast early in the new year. I will never allow myself to be so dependent again.

  When I Experience a Terrible Loss

  January 3, 1665—Will’s Coffee-house

  Nearly skated here as we have had such a hard frost. No matter—I have been given my part and shall be on the stage in less than two weeks’ time! I am a tiny bit bigger each day and have asked Rose three times now to let out my gowns. I take great care not to rest my hands upon my belly or to stretch my back as expecting mothers do. Surely people will begin to notice soon?

  Hart, Teddy, and Lacy coach me every morning. I must astonish, they say. Not sure how I will do that, but their faith in me is touching. “Astonish, but not move about so much,” Hart complains. He is ever watchful as I have a tendency to “romp,” as he puts it. The script is strong, James Shirley’s The Traitor, and I have learned it off by heart—and been deemed an eccentric for my care. At the most, actors learn their own words—to remember the whole script is unheard of, but I will be far too nervous to make up my lines on the spot like the others. Elizabeth has an extraordinary memory for words and always keeps to the script and reassures me it is no bad thing. Becka and Nan think me gauche and green, but then they just play to the audience and hardly bother to learn their words anymore. Now, Dryden refuses to write for them.

  Note—In the morning rehearsal, Hart, good to his word, has pronounced me ready. Not necessarily astonishing, but ready. And would I please sit down and rest now?

  Sunday, January 8—Maiden Lane

  An accident—terrible pain.

  A great tearing away.

  Forgive me.

  Undated

  I ask for my diary, quill, and ink.

  No, you must rest.

  I want … I want…

  What do you want?

  Who is here with me?

  Sleep.

  Undated

  Voices:

  She will recover, but only if she rests.

  Infection is the great danger.

  Her womb is still open.

  January 13—Maiden Lane

  They tell me it was a carriage accident. The horse slipped on the ice. The carriage overturned. Hugh was lucky to jump free. He pulled me out, but I have been in a fever for days. My womb is empty. I am alone. Sleep.

  January 20—Maiden Lane (now)

  Teddy visits every day. Sometimes I am asleep, but I know he has been here with me. He says The Traitor is a success, but Kitty is not half as good as I would have been. My gold-and-silver gown has been remade to fit her. She tends towards affectation, Teddy says. Lots of flailing about and waving hankies. I try to muster jealousy, but it will not come. Such a long time ago. Did I ever want to go on the stage?

  February 11—Maiden Lane

  Dr. Bangs has proclaimed me healed. How can I be healed when I feel so unwhole? I am in such small pieces I cannot imagine how to fit them together again. The doctor tells me, as long as I maintain a light diet (now I can eat all the herrings I wish) and get plenty of rest, I can get up, move about, and return to the theatre, if I choose. If I choose? I choose to hide away in my little blue study in this great grey house.

  When I Receive a Gift

  St. Valentine’s Day

  “You are my only Valentine,” Hart woke me, kissing me gently. I suppose he is mine as well, as he is the first man I saw today. I will try. I will look at him and talk to him and even send Betsey out to the New Exchange to find him a Valentine’s gift. I will pretend and pretend and pretend.

  Note—I opened my door and caught Betsey kneeling on the floor, quickly bundling something into brown paper. I asked to see it, and she was rel
uctant, but I insisted. A small posy of handpicked yellow roses wrapped in a crude string. “From whom?” I asked. Wordlessly, she led me to a small, unused bedroom on the third storey. Inside were dozens of similar bouquets—all placed in small jars, mugs, vases, and even tankards. “For me?” I asked, touched.

  Three p.m.—Maiden Lane (hard, bright day)

  Betsey came to my closet this afternoon. I was surprised to hear her knock, as Hart is at the theatre and everyone knows to leave me be at this hour. Poking her head round the door she told me that my mother was here to see me. Wrapping myself tighter in my blanket (I have been constantly cold since…) I bid her tell my mother I was sleeping and not receiving visitors.

  “But, Mrs. Ellen,” she faltered, and with that, Mother pushed past her and into the small room.

  “Not receiving,” said Mother, her voice throaty with contempt. “Coffee, Betsey,” she said, throwing open the heavy window draperies, flooding my dim room with dazzling winter sunlight. “You could suffocate in a room like this,” she muttered, settling into the cushioned armchair opposite. “And Betsey, bring cakes, if you have them, and brandy,” she called after my retreating maid. “You look like you could use some plumping up.”

  I winced. It is true. I have grown quite gaunt of late; it does not suit me, and I do not care. What does it matter now? The one I was to grow plump for is gone.

  “Stop it,” snapped Mother, as if reading my thoughts. “You are young, there will be others. Dr. Bangs says that your womb is intact. You can have others.”

  “Dr. Bangs? You spoke to Dr. Bangs? You were here?” I asked, shaking my head and struggling to recall, struggling to shake out the cloudiness.

  “Yes, I was here. Teddy came to fetch me. He is a good boy and thought you might want your mother with you.”

  She pulled off a small green hat I have never seen before. I looked at her more closely: her thick brown hair was neatly combed and pinned and her dress carefully pressed. Her fingernails were clean, and her face had a raw, fresh look, as if it had been recently scrubbed. I was moved by her effort.

  “Of course,” she continued, “Teddy wasn’t to know that you don’t care a jot if your mother is with you or not. Grandfather and Rose were here, too, by the by. Rose was quite shaken, but Grandfather was sanguine as always—plenty for him to write home to Margaret about. She’s never approved of me anyway.”

  This wasn’t about her, but I did not say so, as Betsey returned with the tray. Mother poured out two cups of coffee and laced only mine with brandy.

  “Surprised?” she scoffed, catching my expression. “I do not have to drink. I simply choose to drink,” she said, handing me my cup and saucer.

  I was surprised to see how easy she seemed in these surroundings—unfazed by the rich oak furniture and silk curtains. But then she was the daughter of a clergyman and the wife of a captain, I thought to myself—she was not born to poverty but has brought poverty upon herself.

  “Here, eat this. You look terrible,” Mother said, cutting a generous slab of cake.

  “Oh no, I can’t,” I said, repelled by the food.

  “Oh yes, you can,” she said, laying the dish on the side table. “Pretty soon you are going to do such damage you won’t come back. I know about sadness that eats you up from the inside. It will kill you. Long before it kills your body, it will kill you. You won’t be able to find your way back.”

  I looked at her quizzically. Everything—my mother’s sadness, her happy life with my father, the destruction of that life, her sadness for something that could not be changed—does she look for a way back or just plunge ahead into greater darkness? I picked up my fork.

  “There you go,” she said approvingly. “That’s the way. Keep living or it will catch you up.”

  “Mother…” I faltered, tears in my voice. I wanted to tell her so much: my dread of the awful pain that lies beyond my fogginess; my inability to share it with Hart; the coldness in my fingers; my sleeping heart, waiting to break.

  “No,” she said firmly. “We won’t speak of any of it. What would be the point?”

  So we sat in silence by the fire, my mother and I, and ate cake.

  Note—Betsey is now leaving the posies on my vanity—pinks, yellows, and clear white, such cheery colours. I wonder … Hart?

  February 22, 1665

  Theatre Royal, Bridges Street

  Dear Ellen,

  Lacy and Hart tell me that you are improving, and I am heartily glad to hear it. There is a part waiting for you, whenever you feel up to returning to our theatre. Please call upon me for anything you might require.

  Your etc.…

  Tom Killigrew

  Note—As I know you missed your birthday celebrations during your convalescence, I have been so bold as to include a small gift.

  February 22, 1665

  Maiden Lane

  Dear Mr. Killigrew,

  Thank you for your kind invitation to return to the theatre. I believe I shall be able and ready quite soon and am looking forward to seeing you all again.

  Thank you truly, sir, for your gift! She popped out of her travelling basket, made herself at home, and licked my cheek directly. I have not felt such joy in the last months. She is curled asleep beside me as I write this. I have decided to call her Ruby, for her ruby red tongue that poked out and licked me when I first held her. It was a most welcome kiss. What a surprise for Hart when he returns from rehearsal! Again, I thank you,

  With all my heart,

  Ellen

  Tuesday, February 28—home at last

  Exhausted!

  I had forgotten how much life there is out there. Talk, talk, talk. Everyone talking about: the Dutch, the king and Castlemaine, the increasing price of lace and sugar and meat. Rehearsal this morning: singing with Hart, deportment and dancing with Lacy. Teddy partnered me, and we acquitted ourselves well, considering we have not practiced in months. Lacy thoughtfully asked us for a French branle, with a tempered choreography without caprioles or jetés. Becka and Michael lumbered through a courante without half our panache, consulting Playford’s Dancing Master constantly as they went. It takes Becka forever to learn the steps.

  “More kick!” Lacy kept shouting at them.

  What does that mean? They never seemed to figure it out, and Lacy threw up his hands in exasperation.

  Then we all headed off to Will’s before the afternoon performance. I was hesitant, but Teddy was insistent. “Now that I have pulled the mole from her hole, I am going to get the most out of her,” he said, firmly steering me in the direction of the coffee-house. He tactfully avoided the corner of Drury and St. Martin’s lanes, where my carriage overturned.

  At least I am not cast for another week. I still get so tired. Ruby slept peacefully in her travel basket throughout the ruckus. She is a pug—pale brown with a velvety black snout, quite the most fashionable dog. I feel very au courant.

  Note—A comet. Everyone is also talking about ill omens. Teddy (who believes all this guffle passionately) says that a coffin appeared in the sky above Vienna last week, causing much fear among the people, and in Warsaw, a hen laid an egg marked with a flaming cross, a rod, and a drawn bow. Seems a lot for one egg.

  WHITEHALL PCALACE, LONDON

  TO OUR BELOVED SISTER, PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS, THE MADAME OF FRANCE

  FROM HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES II

  MARCH 1, 1665

  My dear sister,

  I fear I have at last exhausted my good queen’s patience, and Monmouth has at last exhausted mine. All this conjecture as to his legitimacy has put dangerous ideas into his head (spurred on by Buckingham, no doubt), naturally upset the queen, and ruffled our brother James (this amuses rather than bothers me). The rumpus began when Monmouth ordered a coat of arms without the baton sinister. Such a public claim of legitimacy embarrasses me as well as him and must be dealt with. Rumours are one thing, public acknowledgement is quite another. I will send him to you for a visit in the spring
if I may? If only to get him out of here.

  While James’s animosity towards my son is no secret, the queen has gone out of her way to befriend him. Such a snub and pointed reference to her infertility is uncalled for. That she can produce an heir is a fiction we all must uphold. Must go as we are supping on the river tonight. And, speaking of aquatics—have you received my gift?

  I will always be your,

  Charles

  Saturday—Theatre Royal

  Rehearsal, dinner, rest: capriole, jeté, pas de bourée, sing, dance, laugh. Slowly, slowly, I come back to life.

  Note—Blushing cream roses today in the same rough twine.

  When I Take to the Stage

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, February 26, 1665

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