Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  “Yes,” I answered quietly.

  “Yes, to which?”

  “Yes, to all,” I said, meeting his gaze levelly.

  “Humph. We shall see,” he said, turning to Meg. “Call the company up here. No, better yet,” he said, eyeing me, “to the stage. Come along, Mistress Gwyn.” We all—Mr. Hart, Meg, Kitt, and me—trooped out of the room behind him.

  A lute was brought. A song Mother sang. An aching ballad. An empty stage. Sing.

  “Look at her up there. You can hardly see her. She’ll never hold this stage,” observed Mr. Killigrew from the back of the pit, loudly enough to be heard by the little clutch of friendly faces in the first row. Loud enough to reach me, up here, all alone. “Go on then, girl!” he called, louder still.

  I breathe in and begin. Clear-eyed. Low and lilting, soft and strong. A woman singing in the night. A woman singing for her lover. Her lover, lost at sea. A woman calling. A woman waiting. I sing, light and full. I sing, strong and sweet. I sing. Lulling them. Coaxing them. I sing. Charming them into captivity. I am more than myself. My voice is rich and clean, my fingers are sure on the strings; my hips sway gently, my head tilts with pleasure.

  I hold them.

  I hold the room.

  The cavernous, golden room.

  I am enchanting.

  3.

  Theatrical Ellen

  When I Learn to Sing

  Saturday, August 22 (hot, everyone buying oranges)

  It is decided—finally. I will train with Mr. Lacy and Mr. Hart, the more intimidating of the two, in dancing, singing, speech, deportment, French (for the new comedies), and gesture, each morning, and still work for Meg selling oranges in the afternoons and evenings until I debut. If I debut. Until I am actually given a role, Mr. Killigrew will not put me under contract. Ever sceptical, he waits for me to fail. But I won’t! I won’t! We begin tomorrow.

  SOMERSET HOUSE, LONDON

  TO OUR DAUGHTER, PRINCESSSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS

  FROM HER MAJESTY QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

  AUGUST 30, 1663

  I understand your distress, my dear, but you must not weep, nor mourn. Instead, you must remember exactly what you did and vow never to do it again. These things happen when a mistake has been made—accept the blame and find the mistake. Did you perhaps eat spiced foods? Take too much exercise? Breathe unhealthy air? Dance or laugh with too much enthusiasm? One must not grieve at these events but learn from them. And you must pray for forgiveness.

  Maman

  P.S.: To lose a living child is far worse, believe me. At least you have been spared that.

  And another—I read the script of this new Monsieur Molière you are patronising. Do you think it wise to be associated with such smut? Theatre is meant to ennoble the spirit.

  To: Mr. Thomas Killigrew, Being the Holder of Two Shares in the King’s Company of the Theatre Royal, Royal Patent Holder, and Previous Groom of the King’s Bedchamber

  From: Mr. Charles Hart, Being the Holder of One and One Quarter Shares in the King’s Company of the Theatre Royal and Actor of Standing and Renown

  Concerning Mistress Ellen Gwyn’s Progress as an Actress

  Weekly Report

  Tom,

  As we agreed, Lacy is her dancing master and I her action and singing master. I will report to you weekly on both our doings with our new pupil. Mistress Gwyn (Ellen) is a sweet-tempered, biddable girl and learns quickly but is a constant surprise to us. Her mimicry is cannily precise, but when asked to strike an attitude and sing in a proper voice and tone, with proper stage decorum, she falls flat. We have yet to re-create the glorious (if unrefined) rapture of her audition. Although Lacy reports that her dancing is quite exquisite, and her feet are lovely.

  Hart

  Postscript: I think reviving Jonson’s Alchemist is a superb thought, considering we have not put it on since June of’61. Although with their Royal Majesties and the whole of the court at Bath, perhaps we should wait for the season to start, as it is a court favourite. Would Walter still be up to the role, I wonder? If not, consider Nick, although he makes an excellent Face. Subtle is not a part I have any particular liking for, but I would be happy to appear briefly as Lovewit.

  To: Mr. Thomas Killigrew

  From: Mr. Charles Hart

  Concerning Mistress Ellen Gwyn’s Progress as an Actress

  Weekly Report

  Tom,

  Frustration abounds! I am quite sick with it. She has a quick mind and is a technically able if not a truly gifted songstress, but she is cursed with an inability to justly conform to the proper action and then sing! She stumbles and falls out of key when holding her attitude. Her arm, held before her, as is right, looks stiff and childish. Her head looks pitched and askew, much like a pumpkin on a pike. Her eyes are not demurely cast down, but stubbornly wander up to look at the house directly. She altogether looks like an ill-positioned, thoroughly miserable, but uncommonly pretty doll.

  She fares better in her action tutorials, and is even picking up French with a swift ear, but again when instructed to deliver a speech of any length, she falters and fails. Although I must note that she reads rapidly and learns her lines with all diligence and speed, and her soft Oxfordshire lilt is dulcet and alluring.

  Lacy is well pleased with her deportment and dancing, which I do concede is characterised by a rare grace and delicacy.

  At a loss,

  Hart

  Postscript: While I understand your wish to observe our pupil’s progress, I do beg you for at least a month’s leave before you act upon such a notion. If you must come betimes, please do so in secret. She is terrified of your presence, with reasonable cause.

  September 7, 1663—Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, Bridges Street

  Hart,

  If she is to be an actress, she must learn to expect an audience. I am travelling briefly to the country and will attend a rehearsal upon my return. Inform her or not, I leave it to your discretion.

  Tom

  Monday, September 22, 1663 (finally home)

  My arms, my legs, my very bones ache. My head swirls: Jonson, Shakespeare, Beaumont, and Fletcher. One two three, one two three, un, deux, trois, plié, arabesque, and change. “China oranges! Juicy and sweet!” I fall into my bed and sleep. Finis. Finis. Je suis finis.

  Wednesday, September 24—early early early!

  Teddy and Nick joined my lesson this morning. Ever helpful, they corrected my arms, improved my lines, and turned out my feet. “There, there! That’s it! Now sing!” I sang.

  “Oh dearie, no!” moaned Teddy.

  “Stop! Stop!” cried Nick.

  “You see! You see the problem!” Hart scowled.

  “But her dancing, her dancing is magnifique!” added Lacy unhelpfully.

  “Yes, but she isn’t dancing at present, is she, Lacy?” grumbled Hart.

  “What happens to you?” asked Nick, genuinely baffled.

  “You look so, so … so … wrong,” said Teddy, circling behind to check my posture. He shrugged his shoulders. “It should be right. She hasn’t moved.”

  “She certainly hasn’t. She manages to look like a marionette up there—wooden,” Hart offered, bluntly.

  “The arms,” said Teddy, critically standing back with his slim hands on his slim hips. “I think it is the arms—too tight.”

  “No, it’s the legs, they have no fluidity, no give—more pliés, definitely. That’s what she needs,” Nick said conclusively, dropping into a graceful plié.

  “Not sure she’s breathing,” Hart said gruffly. “Perhaps she should try that.”

  “Ellen, what feels wrong?” asked Lacy, kindly changing tack and at last addressing me.

  “I just feel false, and stuck, like, like … a statue,” I said miserably. I felt tears pressing and squeezed my eyes shut to keep them back.

  “But that’s right, my dear, a graceful statue. We’ll get it. Don’t you worry,” said Lacy, handing me his handkerchief.

 
“Yes, we’ll all help,” Teddy said, folding me into his slender arms. I blew my nose loudly.

  “Yes, you certainly will,” said Hart in a determined sort of tone. “All of you here at break of day tomorrow.”

  “Ugh!” wailed Teddy, who hates to rise early.

  Nick put his arms around Teddy and me. “We are all in it together now, chickees.”

  Monday, September 28 (eight a.m.)

  Elizabeth, Kitty, Theo, Peg, Rob, Nick, Teddy, Lacy, Hart All in it together.

  Friday, October 2, 1663—Theatre Royal

  Help help help:

  Peg: Turn out your feet!

  Kitty: Tuck in your bottom!

  Teddy: Pull in your tum!

  Rob: Bend your knees!

  Lacy: Point your toes!

  Hart: Breathe, for God’s sake!

  Elizabeth: Take your time. Enjoy it. This is your moment.

  Nick: I honestly have no idea anymore.

  All: No! No! No!

  When I Rehearse and Rehearse

  PALAIS ROYAL, PARIS

  TO MY BROTHER, KING CHARLES II D’ ANGLETERRE AT WINDSOR CASTLE

  FROM PRINCESSE HENRIETTE-ANNE, DUCHESSE D’ ORLÉANS

  FRIDAY, 2 OCTOBRE 1663

  My dear brother,

  I simply adored the suit of men’s clothing Catherine sent to me. It is piquant, charmant, and parfait ! Not suitable for the French court, naturellement (we could never relinquish our complicated gowns and feminine mystery—and Phillipe would never allow it), but I am pleased to know that Catherine has found her style in England—and it is a delightful style at that. Your queen will surely bear many healthy princes, no matter what she wears.

  I am sending this letter via Monsieur de Grammont, whom you were so kind to send to me. You were right: Philippe is opening my letters. Such scrutiny is a dreadful thing.

  À bientôt, chéri,

  Minette

  P.S.: I enclose the recipe for the burdock tooth tonic that my physician has patented, as well as a bottle of the calming spirit of lavender and white lilac parfum that I recently discovered on my last visit to Colombes. Mam’s château there is truly falling into disrepair. If Louis will not fund the renovations, could you, perhaps?

  Monday, October 5—Theatre Royal

  Rehearsal:

  Everyone comes. Teddy raids Will’s coffee-house and carts over breakfast: coffee, chocolate, bottles of lemony stepony, bread, cheese, and cold mutton pie. Meg often looks in, bringing oranges, of course. We gossip and breakfast, seated on the edge of the dusty stage, legs dangling. Teddy is always careful to lay down a cloth before he sits down. He insists on dressing smartly even to rehearsal. All morning before the audience arrives we have the huge space to ourselves. It is a happy time.

  “She definitely miscarried last week, and then three days later was up and returned to the king’s bed in Oxford,” Kitty declared with authority.

  “Even for the energetically wicked Castlemaine, that is impressive,” said Teddy, sceptically. He carefully tucked a linen serviette under his chin to catch any falling bits of flaky pastry.

  “Teddy, it’s true!” screeched Kitty. “I heard it from someone who would know … directly,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows meaningfully. Lizzie, seated next to her, rolled her eyes.

  “This irrefutable source wouldn’t be the dashing Lord Sedley, would it?” asked Rob, giving Kitty a sidelong glance. Kitty flushed a furious red.

  “Careful, sweeting. Even among the Wits, Sedley’s a wild one,” cautioned Meg, handing me my heavy basket of oranges for later.

  “Johnny Rochester and George Buckingham are worse,” said Lizzie, yawning.

  “And Buckingham’s beautiful cousin, heavens, what a harlot,” said Teddy, handing Theo a hefty slice. “ Can we return to that topic, please?”

  “Mmm, she is beautiful, but then so is the queen, in her way,” offered Nick, his mouth full of pie.

  “Did you hear that the king sacked Sir Edward Montagu just for squeezing the queen’s hand?” asked Peg, putting down her coffee and standing up to begin her stretches.

  “He didn’t actually go out of his way to squeeze it; he was handing her down from a coach. More of an accidental squeeze,” said Teddy, lifting his bowl of rich chocolate.

  “A wife is a lovely thing,” said Theo absently.

  “Good morning, ducklings!” chirped Lacy, joining the group and cheerfully helping himself to some chocolate. “Ooh, slip-coat cheese! Is this from Will’s? Mmm, scrumptious.” Then, seeing me sitting by Teddy, he kissed my brow affectionately. “Good morning, Ellen, dear.”

  “Right, shall we all get started?” boomed Hart, striding onto the stage. “Ellen?” He beckoned me over. “Perhaps you should try these,” he said quietly, holding out a pair of delicate petal-pink silk slippers, tiny in his vast hands. “How can we ask you to stand properly if you are always wearing those wretched boots?”

  Delighted, I surprised myself and stretched up onto my toes to kiss his powdered cheek. “Oh, Hart! Thank you!”

  He beamed. “Now, none of that,” he said, flushing.

  I had never noticed before how pleasant his features are, generous and even and, while not finely drawn, certainly not coarse. He reminds me of an absolutely enormous, powerfully built cherub.

  “To work, shall we? Everyone!” Hart’s loud voice sounded, and his brows knit in displeasure as he thundered across the stage—not a cherub then. “Clear away this mess! John, is Peg here yet? We need to rehearse her scene this morning as well. Ah, there you are…”

  “Yes, I have been thinking about that scene…” I heard Lacy say as he and Hart moved downstage.

  I sat down and pulled off my worn leather boots. I slid into the whisper-pink slippers. My feet arched gracefully, as if they had been made only for dancing in gilded ballrooms. I pranced in my delight, twirling in the feather-light shoes. When I stopped, breathless, I was conscious of Hart’s eyes on me, his scowl replaced by a look of curiosity. I openly smiled back at him.

  Thank you.

  Later—after my lesson

  Everyone had taken themselves off to the tiring rooms to change and make up for the performance. I took off my beautiful slippers and set them next to my crumpled boots. Flexing my cramped limbs and wiggling my toes, I luxuriated in my undisciplined stance. Bare-footed, I stood on the empty stage and looked out at the great tiered room, undaunted. The candles glowed golden in their cressets, warming the waiting rows of green baize cushions. The October rain drizzled on the blue glazed cupola above. Stretching out my aching arms in ownership, I took to the stage.

  Picking up the lute at my feet, I played.

  Singing softly, gaining confidence, I moved to the music, supple-spined.

  I twirled, lissome, laughing and dizzy.

  I felt small and limber, and giddy with song.

  Monday, October 5

  Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, Bridges Street

  Hart,

  I am now convinced that the tutelage of Mistress Ellen Gwyn is moving in an inappropriate direction as per her abilities. We may have misjudged her talents. It is an error that begs a remedy. Please come and see me early on the morrow. Six o’clock? Best to come before your lesson and rehearsal.

  All best wishes,

  Tom

  Tuesday October 6—Theatre Royal

  Rehearsal:

  Loitering and laughing on the stage, we waited to start. Teddy, in a fine mettle so early in the morning, pulled me up to dance a jig, to limber up. Theo, in his armchair in the wing, tucked under his coach blanket (he has been feeling poorly this autumn), lowered his news sheet to watch us affectionately. His wife, Anne, who had stopped in to leave some mended costumes and re-curl his periwig (he is forever unravelling), dropped a kiss on his forehead. Nick had fallen asleep, his long legs hanging off the stage.

  By and by, Hart arrived with Mr. Killigrew. “Everyone, please!” Hart called out. “I would like to work with Ellen and Teddy just at present. Would the rest o
f the company please clear the stage?” Seeing Theo struggle to rise, he said, “No, no, Theo, if it pleases you, stay as you are.”

  Mr. Killigrew, who had taken a seat in the first row of the pit, was silently watching.

  “Ellen,” Hart called me over softly, “you and Teddy are to sing the duet from the new Dryden: the one you have been rehearsing. Mr. Killigrew would like to mark your progress.” Then, under his breath, he said, “Have faith, my girl, this will all come right for you.” With a quick pinch of my cheek, he left me to the stage and took a seat beside Killigrew.

  “Ready, Ellen,” whispered Teddy beside me, “like we’ve practiced, grace. You can do this. Relax. I am right here.”

  “When you are ready, please,” called Hart officiously.

  Teddy began, his clear tenor voice holding the slippery notes easily, exuding an effortless charm.

  My cue. Breathe in. Now.

  I began. My voice thin, my reedy arms held before me in a poor imitation of grace. Even to me, they looked childish and silly.

  “Thank you,” called Mr. Killigrew, after only a few bars, “that is enough.” Climbing the stairs to the stage, he waved Teddy away without a glance. “Ellen? Is it?” he asked in a gentle voice. I nodded, too ashamed to speak. “Ellen, I want you to sing. Just sing.”