by Syrie James
“It is a fairly simple play,” agreed Sophia, “and extremely charming.”
Edward Taylor said: “At first, some of Shakespeare’s dialogue might seem difficult to understand, but one somehow falls into the flow of its meaning. Believe me, Thomas, with practice, the rhythm of the words will become second nature to you, and you will find it thrilling to enunciate it as it rolls off your tongue.”
“Well; I suppose—if everyone else agrees,” said Thomas doubtfully.
Mr. Cage shrugged. “If the rest of you wish to proceed with this folly, I shall not stand in your way; but I shall be content to watch from the side-lines, or to assist, if I can be useful in some other occupation—but I should never feel comfortable on a stage.”
This declaration was very worrying to me, for if my plan was to succeed, Mr. Cage must participate and play a particular role.
“If we are all agreed on the play,” pointed out Edward Taylor, “we will require someone to manage the production.”
“I hope you will not consider me impertinent, or too forward,” said I quickly, “but I should dearly love to be considered for the position.”
“You, Jane?” Fanny shook her head. “You are too young to manage a play.”
“I am not so young,” returned I boldly. “I will be sixteen in December; and I have been observing, or participating in, home theatricals ever since I was seven years old. The last few years, my brother James allowed me to assist him in managing the productions.”
“That is true,” said Cassandra. “Jane may have been young at the time, but her interest in and contributions to our Steventon theatricals cannot be overstated.”
“This was Jane’s idea in the first place,” pointed out Edward Taylor. “She chose the play; I say, let her manage it if she feels equal to the task.”
His vote of confidence thrilled me. But Fanny countered:
“Jane is too young to take on so great and important a task. We had better let Mr. Deedes do it, for he is the eldest.”
“Oh, no!” cried Mr. Deedes with a laugh. “Give me a small part, whatever you think I am capable of, and I will do my best not to let you down; but any more than that, I would not think of.”
“I think the honour of managing the play ought to go to my Edward,” said Elizabeth, gazing up at her fiancé proudly. “He is the next eldest among us, and has all the experience required.”
“Yes! Edward! Edward Austen! Edward Austen!” cried a chorus of voices with enthusiasm.
“That sounds fairly unanimous to me,” said Mr. Deedes. “Will you do it, Austen?”
My own spirits now plummeted, for if I did not manage the play, how should I have any control over the casting? My brother Edward, observing my expression, hesitated before answering:
“I am honoured by your confidence in me, and I should be glad to accept the challenge; however, I cannot do it on my own. Fanny, you think Jane too young—and perhaps you will say that as her brother, I am prejudiced—but I believe my sister to be a most imaginative young lady. Her sensibilities will prove invaluable in general, and her skill with a pen in particular is very great; should any speeches require trimming, she is the one for the job. As has been pointed out, this enterprise was entirely Jane’s idea, and I could not in good conscience go forward without her assisting me at the helm. What say you all? Have I your approval?”
“Hear hear!” cried Mr. Deedes.
“Yes! Jane!” exclaimed Marianne.
The company broke out into cheerful applause, and even Fanny, looking round, and not wanting to behave in a manner dissimilar to the others, eventually joined in indifferently.
Filled with happiness, I smiled gratefully at my brother Edward, who winked at me affectionately in return.
“I could do with one other assistant, as well,” added he. “I have had little experience with Shakespeare, whereas that is apparently Mr. Taylor’s area of expertise. Will you help us, sir?”
“I should be happy to,” replied Edward Taylor.
Now I was immeasurably pleased! Edward Taylor and I would be helping to manage the play together! I had very little time to savour the moment, however; for at that instant, all the card-players, having heard the commotion, returned to the drawing-room, and Lady Bridges said:
“What are you young people talking about with such enthusiasm?”
“And who or what are you applauding?” inquired my mother.
Everyone rose and made room for the elders of our party to be seated.
Sophia said with excitement, “We are applauding your son and daughter, Mrs. Austen, who have agreed to lead us in a most delightful activity—that is, if you agree, Papa and Mamma.”
“What activity is that?” said Sir Brook.
With grace and passion, my brother Edward presented our plan, and explained why it was the perfect antidote to the rain. To my immense disappointment, Lady Bridges listened with growing horror, and finally cried:
“A home theatrical? What on earth put that idea into your head? I would not hear of such a thing!”
Chapter the Twentieth
Oh!” cried Fanny, very let down, upon hearing her mother’s pronouncement.
“Why not, Mamma?” said Elizabeth, equally distressed.
“You and your sisters are not children anymore!” cried Lady Bridges. “You are not living in the nursery. You are grown women now. I will not have you behaving like the members of some common travelling company. It would be ill-advised and imprudent to attempt anything of the kind, particularly now, with regard to your situation. We have just announced your betrothals! You both must conduct yourselves, going forward, with a certain caution and decorum.”
“I understand your concern, Lady Bridges,” said my brother Edward soothingly, “and indeed, I should never wish Elizabeth to be involved in anything indecorous.” He went on to make the same thoughtful arguments and rejoinders which he had made earlier, on behalf of the respectability of the production. Augmenting this were sensible observations by Edward Taylor, Fanny, Sophia, and Elizabeth; all of which sadly combined to produce a far less successful effect on our hostess, than they had had on Mr. Cage.
My heart began to fail me, for it seemed that Lady Bridges would not budge from her position, even when the timeliness of the play and the value of the topic we had chosen were pointed out.
“Of all plays,” cried she, “I can think of nothing more abhorrent than A Midsummer Night’s Dream!”
“But why? It is an enchanting and romantic play, Mamma,” said Sophia.
“It is a very silly play! I saw it once in town, years ago. It was full of fairies and magic and nonsense and I know not what else—it is not a respectable play at all!”
“I beg to differ with you, my dear,” countered Sir Brook. “I think it a most respectable play, and I should be delighted to see it performed at Goodnestone.”
“Sir?” responded Lady Bridges in stunned surprise.
“Nobody is fonder of the exercise of talent in our youth than I,” persisted he. “I still remember the sketches our children did for us when they were young—my God, that does seems ages ago! You have been worrying yourself half to death, my dear, as to how to keep the young people occupied over the coming fortnight, what with so many of your plans being cancelled, and the threat of more rain; well here is your answer. Let them stay home and rehearse indoors, and let them entertain us. It should make a very good ending to our celebrations this summer.”
Lady Bridges, greatly vexed, said to her husband: “You cannot mean what you say! At the very time that we are supposed to be, as a family, behaving with utmost respectability, and promoting the sanctity of marriage, you would have our children turn our house into a theatre?”
“Surely the whole house will not be affected,” replied Sir Brook.
“Not at all!” interjected my brother Edward. “One room only will s
erve; and the choice of that chamber will be entirely at your discretion.”
“But—” (with an apologetic look at her friends) “What should our neighbours think of us were we to do such a thing, as to put on a play at Goodnestone!”
“I should think it very entertaining,” replied Mrs. Knight.
“Indeed it would be,” agreed Mr. Payler. “When we visited my brother’s family in Surrey last autumn, home theatricals were all the rage.”
“All the most respectable families were putting on one play or another,” added Mrs. Payler.
Lady Bridges stared at them. “Were they really?”
“We have certainly been doing so in my household for a great many years,” said my mother, “and young people from the best houses in the neighbourhood often took part, to the great pleasure of all their families.”
“It was the same in Hertfordshire, before we removed here,” said Mrs. Fielding. “My Frederic, when he was just fifteen, played—I have forgotten the name of his character—it was some play or other, a tragedy as I recall—at Linchfield Hall at Christmas; he was absolutely lovely in it.”
Taking in these opinions, Lady Bridges responded uncertainly, “Well, I suppose if you do not find the idea objectionable—”
“Oh! Not objectionable at all!” cried my mother. “Quite the reverse!”
“My children would be allowed to participate, would they not?” said Mrs. Payler.
“Yes, yes; there would be a part for Frederic, would not there?” Mrs. Fielding’s red face shone hopefully.
“If we do A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” said my brother Edward, “there will be parts enough for everyone.”
The approbation of her friends was apparently all the reassurance which Lady Bridges required to validate the project; and in short order, she gave her permission, saying only:
“You may have your play, then; where, is yet to be determined; but know that, if good weather should return, and the roads are passable, I would like to go forward with as many of the events which I had earlier planned, as may be possible.”
All agreed that this sounded perfectly reasonable. My brother Edward suddenly said:
“Do you know, the dining-room seems to me the ideal setting in which to put on the play. The niche at the far end of the room, where the musicians played last night, looks very Grecian with its faux columns, and would make an excellent area for the stage; and the door at that end—it communicates with the gun and billiard room, does it not?”
Sir Brook answered that it did indeed; to which Edward Taylor pointed out that said chamber would make the perfect green-room for the actors, and an excellent venue from which to make entrances and exits.
“We could not wish for anything better,” agreed I. To Sir Brook and Lady Bridges, I added with great concern, “However, we should be obliged to once again shift the furniture in the dining-room (as you did for the ball) in order to create a space to perform, and to set up the chairs for the audience—and this inconvenience would last not a day, but nearly a fortnight.”
Sir Brook and Lady Bridges, in grave tones, now discussed the prospect amongst themselves, and after some consideration, and the rejection of several proposed alternatives, concluded that the dining-room was indeed the best location for the theatre, even though it would require the family to dine in the drawing-room for the duration, and greatly limit the use of that room for anything else; but that the library could serve instead as the parlour during the interim.
Their offer was met with universal gratitude and alacrity.
“Will we have an actual stage?” inquired Marianne softly. “Do you truly mean to build one?”
“My sons built a sort of a stage in the barn at Steventon,” replied my mother with a loud laugh, “but the materials cost a pretty penny, I can tell you.”
“Mamma!” said I, mortified by her remark, as it placed such emphasis on the cost involved. Indeed, Lady Bridges retorted with a sniff:
“The expense would be trifling and nothing to worry about, I am sure; but why go to all the trouble of building something which will only be used for one performance, and immediately taken down?”
“I agree with you entirely, Lady Bridges,” said Sir Brook. “The financial outlay of the enterprise cannot be of any great importance; but whatever you young people do or create, it must not injure our lovely room.”
“I promise that no harm will come to any part of your house in this endeavour, sir,” replied my brother Edward; to which Edward Taylor added:
“My own family put on our plays in the parlour of whatever house we happened to be living in at the time, and we made the performance our object, without so much as a door in flat or a single piece of scenery. We can easily do the same here, independent of the usual trappings of theatre. All we need is a performance space, rather than an actual stage.”
“Oh, but you must have some scenery,” said Mr. Knight, “or it will not look and feel like a real play.”
“You can do very well with a few simple things to suggest the setting,” said my mother very practically, “that will cost you nothing. Some small trees in pots from the conservatory to insinuate the forest, for example, and a table and several chairs for the duke’s palace.”
All those familiar with the play agreed this to be an excellent idea, and Sir Brook gave his approval.
“What about a curtain?” said Elizabeth.
“Oh yes!” cried Louisa. “We must have a curtain!”
“We made our own curtain of green baize at Steventon,” mentioned Cassandra, “and hung it from a line draped between two posts.”
“A curtain I will allow you,” said Sir Brook. “I will have my carpenter put up something temporary from which to hang it. Order as many yards of cloth as you deem necessary.”
“I shall have the maids make it up,” agreed Lady Bridges.
A great many young voices rang out, thanking Sir Brook and his lady for this concession, and my brother Edward then said:
“We need as many copies of the book as possible. How many of you have the works of Shakespeare in your libraries?”
It turned out that everyone did. Sir Brook knew of several such sets at Goodnestone, and promised to locate the volumes required; Edward Taylor maintained that his father’s library, which remained intact at Bifrons during the Fieldings’ residence, also contained several copies of the plays; Mr. Payler said he had at least two complete sets of Shakespeare’s works on his shelves, and promised to have A Midsummer Night’s Dream sent over; Mr. Cage and Mr. Deedes both owned the books, but although the former’s house was too far away to be of any help, the latter would have his servant fetch the relevant volume from his residence in Canterbury.
Knowing the play as well as I did, I believed there would be books enough for the most principal characters, and that the remaining parts were small enough, that their speeches could be copied out.
A break in the rain now being observed, which promised to be of short duration, the Paylers and Fieldings announced that they ought to go home before the roads got any worse. Mr. and Mrs. Knight also determined that in view of this change of plan, they would go home to Godmersham and return on Midsummer’s Eve for the play’s performance. Another matter of some consequence now occurred to me, and I said carefully:
“If we are to mount an entire production in less than a fortnight, we will need to rehearse every day. If the rain continues, it might be more convenient if everyone in the cast could stay at Goodnestone, at least part of the time—but—I wonder if that is even possible?”
“Lady Bridges,” said my brother Edward, “would you be amenable to such a plan? Would you have room enough for everyone?”
The house was very full already with its infusion of guests, and I worried that we were asking too much. Indeed, Lady Bridges frowned and thought for a moment, but at last said that if the young people did no
t mind sleeping on a pallet or blanket on the floor, either in a room with her own children, or in one of the few unoccupied chambers on the top floor, she ought to be able to find a place for everybody.
All those people so involved offered their acquiescence and thanks, and were granted their parents’ permission; and everyone was delighted.
“I need to familiarise myself with the play again,” said my brother Edward, “and will read it over to-night. Everyone who wishes to participate ought to meet here tomorrow at two o’clock after church; at that time, Jane, Mr. Taylor, and I will decide on casting, and we can hold our first table reading.”
It was further and universally agreed that all those who could, should read the play, and bring their copies with them. The visitors then departed, thanking Sir Brook and Lady Bridges for their hospitality.
I could hardly contain my delight. We were to do a play!
Chapter the Twenty-first
As confident as I now felt that the play would advance, there was one aspect of the production which was of paramount and immediate interest to me: the casting. If the endeavour was to benefit my prospective lovers (and myself) in the way I imagined, we must play very particular parts.
I read the play again that evening. I found to my satisfaction that it had just the right number of roles for everyone who wished to be in our company, down to the youngest child, who could play fairies and attendants. The love scenes and their complications were delightful. Were my actors to be properly paired, who could say where it might lead? In enacting their parts, true feelings might be kindled; a very real intimacy might well emerge! This was my hope.
I began by making assignments (in my mind) as follows: Fanny ought to play Hermia, and her lover Lysander should be Mr. Deedes. Sophia would make an ideal Helena; her paramour Demetrius must be Mr. Cage. It occurred to me that, in the same vein, two parts existed which were ideal for Thomas Payler and Cassandra: Theseus, the Duke of Athens, and his fiancée Hippolyta—a couple who celebrated their wedding in the final act. With one play, I could promote the future happiness of three prospective couples!