HECKLER 1. Can’t hear you!
NED (a little louder). ‘Our poet hopes you ladies will not find
His rhyme and prose to be so ill designed.
Or contemplate that, once the prologue’s done;
The wit is ended…’ Um, sorry. (He’s dried.)
‘The wit…’
HECKLER 2. Oh no.
NED. ‘Wit is ended…’
He subtly checks the lines he has written on his hand.
‘ – Ere the play’s begun!’
HECKLER 3. He’s got it written on his hand!
HECKLER 1. Cheat!
NELL (in the audience). Let him alone! (To NED.) I want to hear the play.
NED. Thank you.
Meanwhile, an actor enters surreptitiously, dressed as an astrologer, carrying a telescope, his face covered by his hood.
‘So to the heavens must we cast our gaze.’
HECKLER 1. Hey! Blockhead, make us laugh.
NELL (to the HECKLER). You want a laugh? Why don’t you look in a glass?
HECKLER 1. Enough of your cheek.
NELL. Don’t think you’ve ever seen my cheeks, sir.
HECKLER 1. Everybody else has.
NELL. Every fellow that could afford them, sir. Not you.
NED. Um… shall I carry on?
NELL. Yes, you carry on. (To the HECKLER.) Let him play his part. (To NED and the crowd.) He’s just jealous cos no one’s played on his part for a while.
HECKLER 1. Think you’re so quick, don’t ya?
NELL. Not as quick as you, sir. So your good wife says.
Laughter from the audience.
NED. Ladies and gentlemen, the lady’s a wit!
HECKLER 1. She’s an orange hawker! Fool! Have done, woman, we’ve all had enough of your fruit.
He throws an orange at NED, which lands on the stage. NELL GWYNN decides, against all convention, to walk onto the stage to retrieve it.
NELL. I am an orange hawker, sir. So thank you for the compliment – and for the return of my stock. But I think you’ll find that you are the fool. You paid me a sixpence for this. And now I have it back. So you are left with nowt, while I just doubled my profits.
She puts it back in her basket.
Carry on.
NED. Where was I?
NELL. Gazing at the heavens.
NED. Ah, yes.
‘So to the heavens must we cast our gaze,
To peer upon the fortune of our plays.’
He takes a bow. Spooky music. The disguised actor pulls
down his hood to reveal CHARLES HART, the most
popular actor of his day. Rapturous applause.
HART. Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. And thank you, Miss…
NELL. Gwynn. Nell Gwynn.
HART. Miss Gwynn, thank you for the prologue to the prologue. Now, onwards. What secrets do the heavenly bodies hold?
HART strikes an attitude and peers through the telescope.
‘Aha! First Jupiter o’er Saturn is to reign,
And in ascendance bears the sign of Spain!
Whence I conclude, it is our author’s lot
To be endangered by a Spanish plot! (Boo!)
But hold! Now Mars in his apartment rises
Perchance this English wit may yet surprise us.
And though he can’t the heav’nly bodies steer
Perhaps his friends on earth may raise a cheer.’
Music. The COMPANY arrive and burst into song as the
play’s opening number begins.
Song – ‘A Brimmer to the King’
ALL (singing).
Come boys, fill us a bumper,
We’ll make the nation cheer.
Bang the drum and the thumper,
The days of joy are here.
Sing, for London is merry,
Let no man balk his wine,
We’ll sink the sack of canary
To toast the King divine.
CHORUS
Fill the pottles and gallons
And bring the hogshead in.
We’ll begin with a tallen
And a brimmer to the King!
Into…
Scene Two
The Attitudes
Later that same day, after the performance, NELL is gathering spilled oranges from the yard. CHARLES HART arrives from backstage and calls to her, which takes her by surprise. He is something of a star.
HART. Gwynn!
NELL. Mr Hart!
HART. What was that?
NELL. Sir?
HART. What exactly did you think you were doing?
NELL. I was just jesting.
HART. Your audacity astounds me.
NELL. Sir, I –
HART. You’ve got no right to interrupt the prologue.
NELL. I was only trying / to help.
HART. In the middle of Mr Spiggett’s performance!
NELL. I didn’t mean / to –
HART. You can’t just stride up here and talk to him!
NELL. I’m sorry.
HART. Talk to everyone!
Beat.
NELL. What?
HART. Talk to everyone. First rule of acting. Include your audience.
NELL. Sir?
HART. Come along. Put the fruit down and get up here.
NELL. Me?!
HART. Do you want to learn or not?
NELL. Learn?
HART. Acting.
NELL. But I’m a woman, Mr Hart!
HART. Project. ‘Mr Hart!’
NELL. Mr Hart!
Continuing as he helps her onto the stage…
HART (demonstrating). Mr Hart!
NELL (louder). Mr Hart!
HART (indicating her diaphragm). From here!
NELL (louder). Mr Hart!
HART (louder, faster). Again!
NELL (louder, faster). Mr Hart!
HART. Yes!
NELL. Mr Hart!
HART. More!
NELL. Mr Hart!
HART (building to a climax). Say my name!
NELL (yelling). Mr Hart!
HART. We’ll work on that. Now, being heard is the first lesson. But being felt – conveying the consumptive passions which overwhelm you, as… (Acts each state out.) as your lover gasps her final breath. Or the grim sense of callous death which stirs your soul when you spy Old Hamlet’s ghost. Try this. ‘Terror.’
He pulls a terrified face. She looks at him awkwardly.
Come along!
He pulls the face again. NELL copies.
Terror is the first of the attitudes. ‘Fear aroused by an object of dismay.’ There! Eyebrows raised. Nostrils drawn up. The eyes and mouth are wide. Wide, I say!
She strikes a compelling pose.
Hm. Let’s try anger. Fury rises in your bowels. Furrow your forehead. Flare the nostrils and the lips like so.
He demonstrates. She copies.
Now cry out, with all the blood-swelling torment of your heart. Aargh!
NELL. Aargh!
HART (simultaneously). Aarrgh!
NELL. AAARGH!
HART. Tolerable. Anger often comes naturally to women.
NELL. Mr Hart!
HART. Well projected. Why don’t you try the next one on your own? Despair. ‘The absolute privation of hope’; the lost love, the shattered soul. Tears rise, breath catches.
He watches her. She is more naturalistic than one might expect.
Make it bigger. Play it to the gods, they’ll never see that at the back. More, Gwynn! Allow it to consume you utterly.
She gives a small look upwards, her eyes filling with tears.
What are you doing? Are you quite all right?
She is on the verge of sobbing.
NELL. I’m – I just –
HART. Nell! I’m sorry. It wasn’t a criticism.
NELL sobs loudly.
Nell?! Nell!
She drops out of the act immediately.
NELL. I’m just acting, sir.
HART
. Well, blow me down, I thought it was real.
NELL. I was only pretending.
HART. But it was convincing. Moving, even. How very intriguing.
NELL. What’s next?
HART. Love.
NELL. Love?
HART. Yes, love. ‘Pleasant delight with reference to the object of affection.’
NELL (cheekily). You mean your lover?
HART. Yes I do. It’s the final and most complex of the attitudes. It’s not only on the face, but in the very blood. It must possess your entire being.
NELL (begins to flirt… just a little). Show me how to do love.
HART (touching his heart). It’ll be in there.
NELL. Tell me. I’d like to hear it.
HART. Well. Love is ‘complete and utter indifference to everything, except the one you admire’.
NELL follows his instructions with flirtatious confidence; this is one role she knows how to play. HART, won over, finds it hard to concentrate.
Eyebrows raised slightly. Head inclined towards the cause of love. Lips moisten softly with vapours which rise from the heart. Eyes connect with the object of affection.
NELL. I look into your eyes.
HART (under her spell). Yes. Yes, you do.
NELL. Might I step towards my ‘object of affection’?
HART. Affection, yes. Step towards / your –
NELL. My object of –
HART. Object of affection.
NELL. Desire.
HART. Or – or desire. Yes.
NELL. I’m good, aren’t I?
HART (mesmerised). You are – surprisingly good.
NELL. ‘Love.’
HART. ‘Love.’
They both stand close to each other, there is a moment of intensity. A beat. He breaks the spell.
Um, yes. Excellent. Excellent.
NELL. You all right, sir?
HART (flustered). What? Yes. No. Exactly.
She looks out over the audience.
You like it up here?
NELL. S’all right.
HART. All right? There’s nothing like it, when it’s full. Packed in, like pippins on a cart; and all of them, looking at you. It’s like no other feeling in the world.
NELL. You do like it.
HART. Somehow I’ve never quite felt myself anywhere else. Which is ironic, now I think of it.
NELL. Odd, though. Pretending for a living.
HART. I suppose it is a strange existence. My father has two dozen scars on his back for his efforts.
NELL. They whipped him?
HART. They said it was ‘the devil’s work’! But that was before. We’re all right for now, as long as Charles keeps his head. So to speak.
NELL. If they thought you were sinners, lucky they didn’t come down the Madam’s.
HART. Of course. Sorry.
NELL. Oh, I don’t do it any more. Swapped selling my oyster for my oranges, didn’t I.
HART. And does it make you happy? Hawking?
NELL. S’pose. I never thought to ask.
Pause.
HART. Listen. If you were willing to work… hard, perhaps I could teach you.
NELL. Teach me?
HART. You would have to commit. Every day, at dusk we’d meet, for a month. And we’d practise. And then, if you show aptitude, I might take you to meet Mr Killigrew. What do you say?
NELL. Why?
HART. I don’t quite know.
NELL. I don’t think so.
HART. Why not?!
NELL. There’s no point.
HART. You don’t know that.
NELL. I might not be any good.
HART. Then go back to your oranges.
NELL. And I’m a woman!
HART. What have you got to lose? Say yes.
NELL. Mr Hart.
HART. Say yes!
Pause. Will she? Won’t she?
NELL. All right. Yes. Yes!
HART. Good! Well, till tomorrow then!
He goes to leave.
NELL. Sir?
HART. Gwynn?
NELL. Thank you, Mr Hart.
He gives her a look. She projects.
MR HART!
He exits. She watches him go, then tries some poses of her own. She tests her projection, aiming to a different place in the auditorium each time.
Mr Hart! Mr Hart! Mr Hart!
ROSE (appearing in the yard). Mr Hart?
NELL. Oh, Rose! I was just… ‘Romeo, Romeo! Lend me your ears.’
ROSE. We need to get back.
NELL (pointing in terror to something behind her). AARGH!
ROSE (panicking). What?!
NELL. Nothing. Just acting. Terror. Eyebrows raised. Nostrils flared.
ROSE. Stop fooling –
NELL. It’s a serious art, Rosey. Mr Hart said.
ROSE. Mr Hart? Charles Hart?! He spoke to you?
NELL glows a little.
And what else did Mr Hart say? ‘Let’s meet again tomorrow’?
NELL. Yep.
ROSE. What? Nell!
NELL. He’s teaching me acting.
ROSE. But you’re a woman.
NELL. He liked my positions. Said I’m natural.
ROSE. He’s an actor!
NELL. So?
ROSE. They’re bad types, actors. You can’t trust anyone at the playhouse.
NELL. You make your coins here.
ROSE. Doesn’t mean I like it. We need your orange money. If you come home without coins, Mother’ll / have you.
NELL. He thinks I might be good.
ROSE. You think he gives a sot about your acting? He wants you, Nell.
NELL. You don’t know that.
ROSE. He’s a man with desires. I know men.
NELL. So do I.
ROSE. Not like I do. You’ve never had – (Beat. Can’t bring herself to say it.) You’ve just been lucky.
NELL. Hey, it’s hardly likely to come to anything, but … I want to try. Just in case.
Scene Three
An Actor-ess
A month later. THOMAS KILLIGREW, the theatre manager, has called a company meeting. So far only DRYDEN, the nervy playwright, NANCY, the dresser, and NED are assembled. KILLIGREW is evidently worried.
KILLIGREW. I suppose you’ve heard the news.
DRYDEN. What news?
EDWARD KYNASTON, who takes the female roles, arrives in a fury.
KYNASTON. ‘What news?!!’
NANCY. Wait for it…
KYNASTON. The crooks! The swindlers! The flaccid bottom-dwelling pig farts!
DRYDEN. What’s the matter, Mr Kynaston?
KYNASTON. What’s the matter? I’ll tell you what’s the matter. They’ve disgraced our trade. Ruined our art.
NED. Who has?
KYNASTON. Those muckweeds at the Duke’s Company have… they have…
He can’t bring himself to say it.
KILLIGREW. They’ve put a woman on the stage.
NED. A woman?
KYNASTON (darkly). A whore.
KILLIGREW. Miss Davies is not a whore. She is an actress.
KYNASTON. A what?
KILLIGREW. An actor-ess.
NANCY. It’s a lady actor.
KYNASTON. It’s ridiculous, that’s what it is. It’ll be the death of theatre, I tell you!
DRYDEN. I don’t know. We’ve got women in the company.
KILLIGREW. Nancy washes the stockings and sets the props. She doesn’t take the lead.
NANCY. Miss Davies played Desdemona.
KYNASTON. That’s my role!
KILLIGREW. And apparently she was rather convincing.
DRYDEN. Did it sell?
KILLIGREW. To the rafters. And now they’re queuing all the way to Cheapside.
NANCY. Can you imagine?! We’ll be writing plays next.
KYNASTON. Haven’t you got laundry to do?
DRYDEN. Perhaps it was just a one-off.
KILLIGREW. Sadly not. They’ve commissioned a new season, with Moll in the lea
d. Etheredge is writing it for her.
DRYDEN. Dratting hell, I can’t write for a woman!
KYNASTON. You won’t need to, darling. Have faith. Audiences have taste.
KILLIGREW. Audiences want entertainment.
KYNASTON. I am entertaining.
KILLIGREW. But you’re not Moll Davies.
KYNASTON. And what, pray, does she have that I don’t?
NANCY. Tits.
KILLIGREW. Thank you, Nancy.
KYNASTON. Tits! What have tits got to do with it?
KILLIGREW. Unfortunately I think they have rather a lot to do with it.
KYNASTON. That’s ridiculous. I have a perfectly rounded, pert pair of linen tits that I am very fond of, thank you. What’s the fuss, anyway? It’s not like anyone sees them.
There is an awkward pause. KYNASTON looks to KILLIGREW who looks pained.
(Quiet, slow.) Oh. She doesn’t?! Barbarous!
NED. She shows her… ? To the punters?
KILLIGREW. She does.
KYNASTON. And people pay to see that?!
KILLIGREW. Some folk, Mr Kynaston, are rather partial to the female accoutrements.
KYNASTON. Then they should go to the bawdy house. Theatre is sophisticated, sublime, not a cheap tattle show where any old Nancy gets her knockers out.
NANCY. Hey!
KILLIGREW. He didn’t mean you, Nancy.
KYNASTON. Desdemona?! It’s sacrilege. At what point does Desdemona get her tits out?
‘Good my lord, if I have any power to move you, prithee come apace and I’ll show you my tits’?
KILLIGREW. They’ve done a rewrite, the bit with the pillow – it’s all rather revealing.
DRYDEN. Are there any tickets left?
KILLIGREW. Dryden!
DRYDEN. Sorry.
KILLIGREW. If they start selling out, they’ll run us into the ground. We may have to make… unpopular decisions.
KYNASTON. Is that aimed at anyone in particular?
KILLIGREW. The King has decreed that women should be on the stage. And he is our patron, don’t forget. And who knows, it might be rather jolly to play a love scene with a real woman. Imagine. Juliet, a real lady with hopes and aspirations –
NED. And tits.
KILLIGREW. Yes, Ned – she wouldn’t just be convincing. She would be real. Dryden, think! You could write any sort of woman you want – not just the passive lover, the fragile beauty. If you’re writing for real women, they won’t need to be so feminine any more.
Nell Gwynn Page 2