‘Won’t you step out with us, Mrs Bearwood?’ she said. ‘For ’tis a fine enough afternoon and Letty and I had thought to call upon the ’pothecary, and the ribbon-seller, and take a dish of something besides.’
‘Oh!’ I said, a little taken aback at her affability. ‘But I do not have the coin for fripperies, alas, for I must shift for myself on an understudy’s wage.’
‘It does not signify,’ she said, with an airy wave of her hand, which I saw was wearing a sky-blue glove. ‘For you do not have to buy anything, and I expect we can stand you a dish.’
This I thought politic to accept, and found myself pressed between the two women as we came out of the stage door and passed along the street, they still in their stage make-up and patches, and drawing much attention from the passers-by, especially the gentlemen who all made bows, or pressed their hands to their hearts, and gave such sighs, at which we laughed and called out greetings to them good-naturedly.
‘Always remember, it’s them that pays your wages,’ said Thruckle, solemnly. ‘For we are nothing without them.’
We called at the apothecary first, whereupon Careby bought a box of Spanish Paper, which were tiny sheets tinged with cochineal that she said were necessary for the playing of blushing parts, namely ‘country virgin’, ‘comely bride’, and ‘troublesome boy-child’.
Mrs Thruckle caught up a flagon of belladonna drops, to put in her eyes.
‘For though ye may be acting in a tragedy, ye may not always be feeling one,’ she said, shaking her parcel. ‘These make a girl’s eyes shine as wet and bright as a baby rabbit’s and will have the whole house in a fit of weeping.’
We went to the ribbon-seller’s, where we looked at lace and silk and satin, and bought none of them, and then on to the sweet shop, where Careby ordered a tray of French bonbons to be delivered to her rooms, for her sweetheart, who was at present a gallant called Sir Fringle, and seventy years of age, kept his energy up with an excess of sugar. At each shop we were greeted either with enthusiasm or disdain, depending on the shopkeeper, and I saw that while many of the gentlemen were happy to sell their wares to actresses, some of the women did not seem to like it, and gave us thin smiles even as they snatched up our coins and put them in their pockets, and I kept the thought to myself that if they knew I was a true lady of the quality, how they would fall over themselves to do my bidding; Careby caught me in the smirk and teased me that I had a lover.
It suddenly started to rain then, and though it was not heavy, Thruckle said we must come to her rooms, which were on the very next street, and take a dish of tea, and this we did. I was curious to see the living quarters of an actress, for I myself now lived very plainly, though in my old life I had grown accustomed to extravagance, and for sure, there were buttercup-coloured window silks, and a tall vase of peacock feathers and a screen painted all about with purple and crimson fruit, and a great gilt mirror, but the maid when she came up was small and slovenly, and the tea served in a pewter teapot, rather than a silver one.
‘I do declare,’ said Careby, throwing up her legs on the chaise, ‘that The Winsome Widows of Wickham is the dullest play we’ve ever done.’
‘Aye,’ said Thruckle, who had gone behind her dressing screen and was exchanging her usual buskin and skirts for a pretty gown of pale lilac, for she was expecting her sweetheart to call.
‘Were it not for Mr Manners and his amusing ways, I’m sure I’d go to the Duke’s in an instant.’
‘If they’d have you,’ said Careby.
‘Mr Manners seems a good fellow, though he is ever in an amorous mode,’ I said, sipping at my tea, and finding it over-stewed. ‘He has been very kind to me at any rate.’
‘Ho, I’m sure he has,’ said Careby, with a flash in her eye I understood. ‘For he has a great way with ladies, and they all of them fall in love with him in an instant.’
‘Not all of ’em do,’ called Thruckle from behind the screen, and came out quite cross looking, with her skirts on backwards.
‘Have no fear – I shall not fall in love with him!’ I said. ‘For I have had quite enough of that for the present.’
It did not take long before I felt I was getting accomplished at acting, and was as comfortable ’pon the stage as I had been a-raptured in the audience, and Parrykin said he thought of promoting me to the company by and by. Though I had picked it quite haphazardly to cover my identity, being the first thing that came into my head, my new name of Bearwood seemed to have done the trick of disguising me, for if Samuel heard it, and found it familiar he did not say, and if Tyringham found me out again, he did not claim me. Parrykin put about the story that I had given him, that I was a young widow newly come to London after the tragic decease of my husband, and if anyone questioned the veracity of my tale, they did not say so to my face.
Save for the disastrous Forc'd Marriage, my first few months of performances had enjoyed larger than usual audience numbers for that time of year, and all of the people very merry and bustling besides.
‘It’s always the way whenever we get a new girl,’ said Parrykin, stirring through the takings box after curtain one day. ‘All the gallants in town are in boxes pressing eye-glasses to their faces to get a squint at her – especially if she is rumoured to be a beauty. The jury’s still out on you, but we had York in the other day, if you noticed the disturbance? He and his men had a bit of sport with a couple of the orange-girls and got pelted by rotten fruit, and all around them in uproar. If he says you are a beauty, then it may get to Rex himself. And then we’ve made it.’ He squeaked the palms of his hands together.
But the Duke did not return, and the takings began to dwindle again to what they were before, which was still as good as any playhouse, for it was a merry age, and the theatre the haunt of every man and woman of mode.
‘It’s a shame you ain’t raven-haired and milk-white and then they’d come a-running and you’d be taken into keeping afore ye could say “Jack Sprat”,’ said Bunty, combing out my curl-papers one day.
‘It does not signify, Bunty,’ I said. ‘For I am happy enough just to be here, even if I am not the talk of the town. I take comfort that even if I be not pretty enough for the King to notice me, I am witty enough to make ordinary people chuckle, and that is plenty for me.’
IX
APPRECIATION
In which I receive some messages
My dearest Mrs Bearwood,
Forgive the impudence of addressing you so familiarly when you have never laid eyes on me, but I have laid eyes on you, every afternoon for the last fortnight.
You may recognize me as the broad young man with a fiery beard in the gallery (stage left). I always take the same seat in the hope that one day you will look up from your bows and notice me.
Until then I am your ardent admirer, madame,
JOHN NAZEBY of Scalding Alley
(Merchant, with £28 a year. Expectation of a family house.)
Dear Mrs Bearwood, aka the lady who has rent my heart in two for evermore!
Permit me to call on you after today’s performance of Love for Love. I will wait outside the ’Tiring Room in the hope of admittance to your inner sanctum.
YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT,
LORD CYRIL LYGGE
To the Blonde One That Cannot Act But Looks Fairly Well,
I will give you 5s for a quick whoopsy (your choice of location) that need not trouble you for more tha a moment or two.
Send word to the Sign of the Leg of Mutton if you will have me,
MR ‘COPIOUS PIZZLE’ (bathes above twice a year)
Dear Mrs B,
I find your light eyes dazzling, your small foot enticing, and your arm flesh entrancing and I would like nothing more than to shower your pretty shoulders with kisses.
I ask that during tomorrow’s performance of Cymbeline you make a sign to me (I will be in the pit wearing a tricorn, if some nasty fellow does not snatch it off). I suggest inserting the word ‘fiddlesticks’ into a line of the play, if it b
e not there already, and twitching your head in my direction as you say it, and then I will visit you directly and we can be together as I know we must be.
MASTER WILLY BROWN
Sweetheart (may I call you that?),
Your skin was glowing in the footlights tonight. You did not look up to me, but the nosegay of violets that hit you in the face in the third act was mine: a symbol of my undying devotion.
I have told my mother all about you.
I shall wait on you again after the curtain and hope that this time you will condescend to see me,
JOHN NAZEBY
Mrs Bearwood,
If that is your real name – no doubt half of you stage whores have made one up.
Someone should tell you that you are a terrible actress and not fit to tread the boards. I could not hear half of what you said in yesterday’s Jew of Malta and Ophelia is not meant to be funny.
A CONCERNED LADY
To the Blonde,
7s and that’s my final offer.
‘C. PIZZLE’
Dearest Ursula,
Permit me to address you thus? I found out your Christian name from your colleague Mrs Careby – Gad she is a toothsome jade (though not so much as you). She was most keen to hear all I had to say about you and found it endlessly amusing, I believe.
For the price of 2s, she allowed me to handle the costume you wore as ‘third laundress’ in A Man of Simple Pleasures and I am certain I could detect the clinging scent that can only be your own.
Let me lay my cards before you now, as I infer from the lack of responses to my notes that you do not believe me to be seriously a-courting: I would like to set you up into keeping. I can offer you a grand set of rooms, finely decorated (perhaps near me at Coleman of Throgmorton Street, ’twould be most convenient), all meals and board, and a new gown every three months and jewel-gifts such as I should deign to make them. All that I would ask in return is that you admit me to your bedchamber every Tuesday, Friday and second Saturday, and give up the playhouse. According to Mrs Careby you will not mind this, being only a minor actress and only in the company to attract the gallants.
I beg you, I am serious,
JOHN NAZEBY
A man of his word.
X
INSPIRATION
In which I am privy to something interesting
The stench of dung, newly dropped, was rising from the cobbles as I made my way down the hill to The Strand and the river behind it. It was a warm day for April, and the city lightly humming with odours, and I, having extricated myself from the rabble in the ’Tiring Room, felt very much inclined to clear my nostrils out with some river air. I stepped quickly along the street, enjoying the sensation of heads turning as I passed, for I wore a silk gown of saffron yellow, with a bodice of azure, and a pretty matching amethyst necklace and ear-drops that I knew no one would know were paste. As I came towards the little alley that would take me down to the river bank, I spied a tavern that I had been in before with the company, for Mr Manners had a wanderlust when it came to drinking spots, and was ever leading us all about the city, in search of new ales and new friends. Being quite thirsty, and wanting to use the chamber pot before I took myself on my walk, I stepped through the doorway and went quickly to the bar and asked for a mug of ale. This I took into a secluded little corner, so that I might not be disturbed by the type of man who bothered actresses, for I had learnt to keep my wits about me in this regard, having been chased several times by lusty gentlemen, who could not believe that acting and loving for money were not one and the same thing.
It was cool and dark in the tavern, and I leant my head against the wood of the seat behind me, letting the day wash over me. Being not much past six of the clock and the weather still very hot, the tavern had only a few lonely drinkers, though I could hear the rumbling sound of gentlemen’s laughter coming from a part of the inn I could not see.
‘Haw,’ came the braying voice of one of the laughers. ‘Everyone is at it these days, whether they have the gift of the pen or not. Why, I had it from the Duke of Monmouth himself – well, at least, gentleman in his company – that every man at Court thinks himself a playwright now, and they are at their papers from morning ’til night, and Rex does not like it, for there are none left to entertain him in his sickbed.’
More laughter at this. My ears were now well pricked, for I had heard the word ‘playwright’ and wondered who the gentlemen were.
‘Small wonder we had so many cards this month, asking to gain membership,’ said another, deeper voice. ‘I am thinking of changing the rules so that only established playwrights will be allowed to our club.’
‘Which I suppose,’ said someone else, ‘means they need to have written a poxy comedy that was put on in a Hounds-ditch playhouse, and then taken off after three days, for being completely unfunny – much like your play, Gregory.’
Laughter. The slapping of hands on a table.
‘There was an outbreak of scarlet fever and nothing wrong with She Was Better Than a Bawd, for Etherege himself came to see it and said he was very impressed,’ said the man who was presumably the feckless Gregory. ‘And so I invited him to join the Playhouse Pizzles and he may come next week.’
Then the first gentleman called order.
‘Mr Windlesham here would have it known to all the members,’ he said, and I thought it sounded as if he were reading from a card, ‘that Parrykin’s is in dire need of new play scripts and will consider all kinds of genre, only he is weighed down with dull political stories, and would rather have a drama – or a nice little comedy.’
I had sloshed the ale out of my cup in a start at hearing Parrykin’s name. In need of play scripts! I sat stock still all the better to listen.
‘Send ’em to him at the usual address as soon as you’ve bloody written them, all right?’ the speaker continued.
‘I suppose I shall,’ said someone. ‘For I have a mind to get closer to that Mrs Careby, who I believe to be bewitching.’
‘She’ll never have you with all them plague scars, Harry,’ said one of the men, and the rest of his sentence was drowned out with jeering. I got out of my seat and, pressing a coin onto the table for my ale, went out into the street in a daze, my mind turning over all the while with the meaning of what I had heard.
The very next day, I started work. A comedy, they had said – or a drama. A comedy would be best to do, I thought, for being constantly in the business of reading plays, and with a merry soul at heart, I had got rather good at landing jokes, and would sometimes add little asides to my scripted lines, for I dearly loved to hear the audience in fits. Some of these I had jotted down in my faithful notebook, and it only needed the usual plot – a feckless young man... a maid who would get to a nunnery... an aristocratic rake... a violent duel... a spot of lovering, and a chase around a thicket – and it would surely rise above anything the Playhouse Pizzles might be producing.
Licking the nib of my quill for luck, I dipped it in the ink pot.
A YOUNG WOMAN’S INNER VOICE UPON SITTING DOWN TO WRITE A PLAY
DEVIL: You can’t do this.
ANGEL: Yes I can.
DEVIL: It will not be funny, and everyone will point at you.
ANGEL: I have been writing since I was eight years old. I have been working towards this all my life, though I did not know it.
DEVIL: What you are attempting is scandalous; it is most likely against God.
ANGEL: The God I worship is a merry one and would have me happy.
DEVIL: You cannot do it.
ANGEL: Yes I can.
DEVIL: You cannot do it.
ANGEL: YES I CAN.
AFFLICTIONS I HAVE SO FAR INCURRED DURING THE WRITING OF A PLAY
1683 A.D.
A sharp cramping pain in the palm of my hand where it grips the quill, and makes it form, against my will, into a claw, and as the days of writing wear on has traversed up my arm right to the elbow.
An ache in the lower part of my back and
the midst of my shoulders from hours sitting at the table, that no stretching or bending or cushion can cure (in fact the only remedy I have found is a little dish of brandy-wine taken all at once, but after taking it my writing suffers).
A great head pain that came on after working with only a few candles lit, which pinched at the soft place behind my eyes and at the back of my neck and lasted above three days, despite all the remedies I applied to it.
An inability to fall asleep after a long late night of scribbling, for my mind has been a-whirring with ideas, and me ever getting up to note them down before I forget, and so I am now in the habit of keeping my writing book beside my pillow!
XI
LAPSE
In which I begin to feel peculiar
‘Uuurrrrgh.’ I let out a great belch and rushed again for my chamber pot, though when I got it I could only heave and spit out a little greenish water.
No sooner had I finished my first full grown-up play, than I had fallen sick with a stomach rheum, it giving me such twists and churnings in my belly that I sweated with the pain of them. Despite my lurching queasiness, I felt very pleased and proud of the thing I had written, on so many leaves of foolscap, though it had many ink blobs and several crossings out. After many changings of mind, I had finally named my play The Sweetheart Charade and, after thinking on how I could affect my scheme, disguised myself in a vizard, and sent a boy with it to the playhouse, telling him it was from my husband, for I had signed the manuscript in the name of MR GEO. J. FLAMSTEED, in as manly a hand as I could manage, noting that word could be sent to the author, newly come up from the country and not yet in lodgings, care of The Rose & Flag.
The Illumination of Ursula Flight Page 29