Exit the Actress

by Priya Parmar

  À bientôt,

  Ever your eyes and ears,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  LONDON GAZETTE

  Sunday, April 2, 1668

  Most Deservedly Called London’s Best and Brilliant Broadsheet

  The Social Notebook

  Volume 301

  Ambrose Pink’s theatrical observations du jour

  Darlings!

  Actresses are all the rage at Whitehall these days. Quel glamour! Joining the witty Mrs. Hughes in the ranks of royal mistresses is the amply formed Mrs. Mary (Moll) Davis—like a ripe, rich butter cow soaring among the larks, my dears! We can only assume that the king’s bed is infinitely preferable to the cold, cold ground.

  À bientôt, dearests!

  Ever your eyes and ears,

  Ambrose Pink, Esq.

  When I Meet Mrs. Behn

  April 4, 1668—Theatre Royal

  Tom brought an old friend to the tiring rooms after the show this evening. He introduced her as “Mrs. Aphra Behn, a woman of travels and letters.” What an extraordinary way to introduce a woman. We are all off to supper. Must finish changing, as I am late!

  Later

  Goodness. She has had a gloriously exciting life. Mrs. Behn was raised in Surinam and was friendly with the exotic princes in that country. One in particular, Prince Oroonoko (no idea how to spell it), is to be the subject of the great heroic tragedy she is planning to write—he was a prince then a slave then a prince again. She plans to write—for money, in her own name. Quel glamour, as Teddy would say.

  Beyond her wild childhood, she has already been a spy for the government, of all things, and has been spying in Holland, of all places—during a war. Agent 160. How official. How frightening. Upon making her return voyage, she was shipwrecked off the south coast of England and was only saved by a passing fishing boat. She looks nothing like how I would imagine: far too frail for a dashing spy and far too sturdy for a shipwrecked maiden.

  Unfortunately, she incurred such expenses in her espionage (expenses not met by the government) that she went to Newgate Prison for debt. Her husband, Mr. John Behn, died of the great sickness in ‘65, and she has had to make her own way ever since. She has returned to London to pursue a writing career—professionally—unheard of for a woman.

  “I was not pretty enough to be on the stage, you see,” she confessed over supper. “Tom would only have cast me as a witch or an old crone or some-one’s aunt.” I privately agreed but did not say. Tom likewise smiled but did not deny it. It was true she was not pretty; her eyes bulged, and her features were overlarge for her oval face, but there was something arresting about the look of her. Her open face invites confidences, and her easy manner encourages laughter, but something else…

  “It is her candour,” Tom whispered, watching me try to puzzle it out. “In the way she looks at you and talks to you. There is a forthrightness. Don’t worry,” he said, seeing me colour, embarrassed to have been caught staring, “it fascinates everyone.”

  I tried to change the subject. “And you were really a spy?”

  “My code name was Astraea, and I reported to the spymaster, Mr. Henry Bennet himself, now Earl of Arlington, God rot him.”

  “He never paid her, nor helped her to get back to England. She had to find her own way home,” Tom said, by way of explanation.

  “Home to Newgate for debt. I think he hoped I wouldn’t survive. That way I wouldn’t pester him about paying me.” Aphra laughed.

  I looked back and forth between the two of them. Were they serious? I felt quite ill with a sense of adventure in a wide-open world.

  April 5, 1668—Tiring rooms

  “She warned them about the Medway, you know,” Tom said, stopping by my room. “Aphra. She knew the Dutch were planning to burn our ships, and she wrote to warn the Council.”

  “And what did they—”

  “They ignored her. Arlington will never forgive her for that.”

  April 30, 1668

  “What we need is to feel the feminine more,” Sedley said a bit too loudly (drunk, again).

  Aphra and I had accompanied the Wits to see Etheredge’s Love in a Tub, on at the Duke’s, and we were having a heated discussion afterwards.

  “Yes, women really are the trickiest to write,” added Savile gravely. I could sense Aphra beside me, rolling her eyes.

  “The authentic female nature is nearly impossible to capture,” Ether-edge complained, sneezing into his handkerchief. He has caught cold, again.

  “I don’t expect Aphra shall have that problem with her heroines,” I said, catching them off guard.

  Note—The king attended but left before the third act. He spoke to Sedley and Savile and even Aphra, but not to me. The earlier intimacy of our first meeting feels forgotten—the unlikely company that calamity creates—well, my calamity, I suppose. His are woven on a larger loom, I think. His face is drawn in leaner lines. He seems grimmer now, less carried along by an effortless light step.

  May 1, 1668—Theatre Royal (The Surprisal, again)

  A rainy, rainy May Day. The blue-glazed cupola is leaking again, and the crowd is getting wet. Please put a penny in the old man’s hat. The king and Castlemaine attended the early performance but left on account of the rain. I don’t blame them; half the cast could not be understood for their chattering teeth. Now everyone will catch cold.

  As I am not cast, Johnny, Aphra, and I took in Tom Shadwell’s The Sullen Lovers (or the Impertinents) at the Duke’s. Henry Harris, whom I am now free to chat to, played Sir Positive At-All. Poor Rob Howard! Johnny told me that this fop’s part is meant as a caricature of him. If that is true, it is both ruthless and incorrect. Rob is a good, kind, sweet, and talented man, not this vain, be-frippered pastry puff depicted onstage. Now back to the theatre to rehearse Sedley’s new play The Mulberry Garden, on next week. The dialogue is a bit stilted, but no one has the courage to tell him.

  Note—Johnny is returned from the country, bringing with him an extraordinary manservant called Alcock. Trust Johnny to find a valet with a name such as that. Lady Rochester did not accompany him, and he seems to miss her truly, although I suspect it does not keep him faithful.

  May 3 (Lord’s Day)

  Damn! (Oh dear, I seem to have picked up swearing from Aphra—Grandfather will be disappointed.) We went on the wrong day! Becka Marshall took great pains to tell me how she and her sister Nan saw both the king and his brother, James, Duke of York, at the Duke’s last night. But in consolation Downes, the stage manager, said that the king looked bored throughout the performance, and Castlemaine, too, looked to be in an evil temper. Downes could not be sure if the king’s boredom stemmed from the dismal play or his ever-demanding lady.

  Note—Rumours that Peg has been accompanying Lord Sedley as well as Prince Rupert—what rubbish.

  May 5, 1668—Theatre Royal (The Virgin Martyr)

  Prologues and epilogues have become my specialty—and then a gigue in my breeches, naturellement. Even if the play is a boring tragedy, Tom ensures me a witty prologue, spoken as myself. It breaks up the monotony, but there is something frightening about going out onstage without a character to hide you. It is like going out before a crowd and realising that you are only wearing your undergarments. I am playing Nell, I tell myself—my never-ending part. The audiences seem to love it. They cheer and call to me familiarly. Do they think I am truly this confident, mischief-ridden sprite? I am always pretending.

  Note—Aphra has become a regular in our circle and joins us most evenings after the show. She is informal and easily amused, but her mind is fast as lightning. Johnny and Sedley have both felt the business end of her wit. I just sit by and laugh.

  When I Am Sent For

  May 6, 1668—Theatre Royal (still The Virgin Martyr)

  Aphra told me that the king, who has been frequenting our theatre of late, accompanied by Castlemaine (she seems larger—she couldn’t be … not again?) or Mrs. Davis (still irritating), has noticed me.

  “B
ut he never speaks to me!” I told her, after the show. It was true. He just seems to sweep in, surrounded by a swarm of women and Wits, watch the play, flirt, collect more women and more Wits, and sweep out.

  “Yes, but he watches you,” observed Teddy, helping me out of my gauzy Angel wings (I love this role).

  “You will be sent for, my dear,” Aphra predicted with authority. “Careful how you play it.”

  Later

  Play it? I have ever been tongue-tied with the king, and I have never been able to play anything. This must be a mistake. Dear God, I hope Hart hears nothing of this. I’ll be back to playing tragedy within the week.

  May 7, 1668—Theatre Royal (A King and No King—fitting)

  She was right. Peg arrived at the theatre tonight with a note. I have been sent for—to entertain the king—tonight. I feel ill. Teddy sent me to the company seamstress immediately to wash and change. He said I must wash everything, with a great wiggling of the eyebrows. I am wearing Ophelia’s new nunnery-scene dress: a kingfisher-blue taffeta. Becka will be furious—it is her favourite, and she paid for it. Peg donated her own lovely white underclothes for the occasion, and I am ashamed to say that she is wearing home my less than white underthings. Both Becka and Peg are taller than me, so I feel a bit hodge-podge. I must not be sick, I tell myself. It will all be over soon.

  Lacy insisted on a brief tutorial with my theatre family to bring me up to date with current court news, as I am woefully undereducated in this department.

  Things to Remember:

  Item: he is in a monetary struggle with his Parliament right now over a bill for three hundred thousand pounds (an unimaginable sum) to pay his navy—avoid the subject of money.

  Item: his brother is most likely a Catholic, as are his mother, sister, chief mistress (she keeps a prie-Dieu in her bedroom now), and wife, and he is arguing with Parliament over the nonconformists (he is for toleration, bravo!)—avoid the subject of religion.

  Item: he is very fond of his children (although none of them legitimate)—delicately enquire after them but avoid the question of the succession.

  Note—Peg told me that several days ago the queen miscarried; they eased her pain with mugwort and foxglove, and she is now recovering. “But we must not grieve!” she assured me. Rather it is to be celebrated that she can conceive at all—that is the attitude the courtiers mean to take. I pray for the little queen. For her, I am quite sure that it is a cause for profound grief.

  Seven p.m.—Theatre Royal

  Last-minute advice:

  “Don’t say too much,” advised Tom. “A king wants to feel as though you are hanging upon his every utterance.”

  “Don’t move about too much,” advised Lacy. “You want him to feel he has your full attention. Remember, hands together, feet together, and just the barest sliver of delicate slipper poking out from under your gown. Was that your tummy rumbling? It mustn’t rumble, Ellen. But don’t drink anything, either. You do not want to need the water closet—disaster.”

  “Don’t look about you too much,” advised Elizabeth. “A king wants to feel that you are interested in him as a man, rather than a monarch. He won’t if you are busy gawking at the silver.”

  “Don’t eat too much,” advised Teddy. “A king wants to see his women as delicate creatures, able to subsist on his company alone, and who have no need of food—and besides, belching at Whitehall would finish you.”

  Don’ts: don’t speak, don’t look, don’t move, and don’t eat. Got it. So just sit?

  Note—Hart, attuned to my moods, noticed my edgy temper this evening. Breathing evenly, I managed a careless smile. This is a nightmare.

  Half past nine p.m.

  I was taken through a side door by a Mr. Chiffinch and told to wait on a slim bench in a long hallway. Restless, I kept getting up to pace, but quickly sat if I heard the least noise. My stomach began to growl, and I wished I had eaten some bread before I left.

  “Mrs. Gwyn?” A gentleman usher approached from a door at the end of the hall.

  I rose to follow him, quickly running my tongue over my teeth to check for any bits of food—I was regretting the peppered capon from this morning. Without another word, he swung open one of the double doors, and I entered the empty fire-lit room. A large meal was spread over the oak table: roasted chicken, stewed meats, figs, apricots in honey, and several soft cheeses on a platter. I was too nervous to contemplate eating anything.

  A wooden door in the far corner of the room opened, and the king—dressed as I have never seen him, in a richly embroidered, deeply cuffed robe over a loosely tied lace cravat, creamy shirt, and silk breeches—walked quietly across the thick carpet. He wore no wig, and I saw for the first time that his hair, shorn close to his head, was strewn with silver. His laughing boyishness was gone, and a calm sincerity had taken its place. I smiled to see his herd of spaniels about him; they alone anchored me to familiarity.

  I dropped to a deep curtsey, and, as I knew he would, he raised me up with his long, sturdy hands. We moved through the choreographed steps of greeting and flirtation. He lightly took my hand and led me to the table.

  “You must be hungry,” he said, gesturing to the food. “Peg assured me that these are your favourite dishes.”

  I looked at the unfamiliar food: had I ever eaten apricots in honey?

  “Oh, yes,” I lied. Stilted into silence by my long list of “don’ts,” I opened my mouth and then closed it again. I had nothing to say. My palms felt sweaty, and I began to get the panicked feeling of every actor’s nightmare—onstage and unable to remember any lines.

  “Did you perform tonight?” the king asked, leaning down to feed some chicken to his dogs.

  “Mmm. A King and No King.” Speak, Ellen! Sparkle! Shine! Nothing.

  “You seem changed, Mrs. Gwyn. I seem to remember a rather surprising young imp, and I find a formal, serious girl in her place.” The king smiled mischievously, as though he meant to tempt me into indiscretion.

  “You have more dogs,” I said randomly. Why?

  He laughed. “Very observant. Yes, two of my bitches had litters. I find I cannot part with them and so keep them all. Not very practical, I am afraid.” He laughed a different, private laugh; a musical laugh played on only the loosest strings. It was wondrous. I felt spun into a golden web.

  “Well, your children must like them,” I said, finally easing into myself, comforted by the growing sense of familiarity. “I know I longed for a dog as a child but was not permitted one.”

  “Would you like one now?” he asked in all sincerity. I felt like, if I asked, this extraordinary man would rise from this table and help me to choose a dog immediately.

  “I have a lovely pug called Ruby,” I reassured him. “I adore her. She is waiting with my friend Tom.”

  “Tom Killigrew? Careful, his Kitt is a beast who would probably devour your Ruby like a macaroon.”

  His face softened into a gentle smile, and he patted my hand.

  At his touch I felt tilted: tipped out of myself into someone new.

  “Terrible that you did not grow up with one. All children should have dogs,” the king pronounced merrily, aware of his affect on me and clearly amused by my disorientation. “How else are they to learn what it is to be responsible for another creature? My children each have at least one. My eldest, Jemmy, has six.”

  “Well, if there is only so much food to go round, I suppose children can learn that lesson another way,” I said in a light attempt to regain my footing. I had intended to tease, but it fell flatly like a criticism. Grasping about wildly for a topic, I asked how his family fared. “Your mother, Queen Henrietta, and your sister?”

  “Both well,” he said, pleased by the question. “Henriette is the Queen of France socially, the most admired and accomplished young woman.” He smiled warmly when speaking of his sister. I understood. It is good to see a sister made happy.

  “And your wife is recovering well from her … disappointment?” I had meant the q
uestion kindly, but I read the absolute impropriety of my words in his shocked face.

  “You must excuse me, Mrs. Gwyn,” he said smoothly. “It grows late, and I must go to Newmarket tonight.”

  And then he left me alone in the beautiful room with the food I did not want.

  Half past twelve—Henrietta Street (Tom’s house)

  I directed the royal coach to return me to Tom’s house, where my loyal friends (all but Johnny—he has accompanied the king to Newmarket) waited up for me anxiously.

  “Well?” demanded Teddy.

  “Disaster,” I said flatly, shedding my dove-grey mules (they pinch). “It is over. It was short. It was gruesome. I did nothing.”

  “Did you—” began Lacy.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. Except—”

  “Maybe that is good?” interrupted Tom. “A blank canvas—”

  “No, it was dull. I was dull. I was not myself. I was no one, in fact. I was not memorable.” I will never have a second chance. “Except—”