Each day Nell found full of incident. Never could one guess what would happen next at the playhouse, what great scandal would be talked of, or what great personage would quarrel with another during the course of the performance.
She could listen to the loud and often lewd conversation between courtiers in their boxes and vizard masks in the pit, conversation in which the rest of the audience would often join as they combed their hair or drank noisily from the bottles they brought in with them; some stood on the benches and jeered at the players, quarreled with the sentiments of the play, or even climbed onto the stage and attempted to fight an actor for his dastardly conduct in the play or mayhap on account of some real grievance.
It was all clamor, and color, and Nell loved it. Nor was this the sum of her excitement; for her, by no means least of the theater’s attractions was the play itself.
And when the handsomest actor of them all, who was considered by many to be the company’s leading man, played his parts he could often quiet the noisiest of the audience. He would strut the stage, not as himself, handsome Charles Hart, but as the character he played; and if that character were a king it would seem that Charles Hart was as much a king as that other Charles who sat in his box, alert and appreciative of one who aped his royalty with such success.
Nell thought Charles Hart godlike as he came from the back stage and stepped onto the apron stage, and by his magnetic presence demanded attention. She would stand very still watching him, forgetting her load of oranges, not caring if Orange Moll should see her staring at the stage instead of doing all in her power to persuade someone in the audience to buy a fine China orange. Nell had spoken to the great man once or twice. He had bought an orange from her. He had noted her dainty looks with appreciation, for Charles Hart was appreciative of beauty. He had never yet been made aware of the agility of Nell’s tongue, for she had been reduced to unaccustomed silence in the presence of the great man. Yet he must have known that she had a ready gift of repartee since no orange-girl could have survived long without it.
This day he was playing the part of Michael Perez in Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, and many from the Court had come to see him. Nell was in a daze of admiration as she went into the tiring room to see if she could sell an orange or two to the actresses.
Several gallants were already there, for they were admitted to the tiring room on payment of an extra half-crown, and there it was possible for them to have intimate conversation with the actresses, perhaps make love to them there or make assignations for such lovemaking in more private places.
Nell was greatly attracted by the tiring room; she had heard that actresses were paid as much as twenty to fifty shillings a week—a fabulous sum to a poor orange-girl; they looked quite splendid off the stage as well as on it, for they had beautiful clothes which were given by courtiers—and even the King himself—for use in their plays. The gentlemen fawned on them, pressed gifts on them, implored them to accept their invitations; and the actresses gave answers as pert as any they used to their stage lovers.
“A China orange, Mrs. Corey?” cooed Nell. “So soothing, so cooling to the throat.”
“Not for me, wench. Go along to Mrs. Marshall. Mayhap she’ll get one of her gentlemen friends to buy her a China orange.”
“I doubt she’ll get much more from him!” cried Mary Knepp.
And Mrs. Uphill and Mrs. Hughes went into peals of laughter at Mrs. Marshall’s expense.
“Here, wench,” called Mrs. Eastland, “run out and buy me a green riband. There’ll be a groat or two for your pains when you return.”
This was typical of life in the green tiring room. Nell ran errands, augmenting her small income, and very soon took to wondering what Peg Hughes and Mary Knepp had that she lacked.
It was when she had returned with the riband and was making her way backstage, where Mary Meggs kept her wares under the stairs, that she came face-to-face with the great Charles Hart himself.
She curtsied and said: “A merry good day to Mr. Perez.”
He paused and, leaning towards her, said: “Why, ’tis little Nell the orange-girl. And you liked Michael Perez, eh?”
“So much, sir,” said Nell, “that I had forgot till this moment that he was an even greater gentleman—Mr. Charles Hart.”
Charles Hart was not indifferent to flattery. He knew that he—with perhaps Michael Mohun as his only rival—was the best player among the King’s Servants. All the same, praise from any quarter was acceptable, even from a little orange-girl, and he had noticed before that this orange-girl was uncommonly pretty.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her lightly. “Why,” he said, “you’re pretty enough to grace a stage yourself.”
“One day I shall,” said Nell; and in that moment she knew she would. Why should she not give as good an account of herself as any of the screaming wenches in the green room?
“Oh,” he said, “so the girl hath ambition!”
“I want to play on the stage,” she said.
He looked at her again. Her eyes were brilliant with excitement. There was a vitality which was rare. God’s Body! he thought. This child has quality. He said: “Come with me, girl.”
Nell hesitated. She had had similar invitations before this. Charles Hart saw her hesitation and laughed. “Nay,” he said, “have no fear. I do not force little girls.” He drew himself up to his full height and spoke the words as though he were delivering them to an audience. “There has never been any need for me to force any. They come … they come with the utmost willingness.”
His fluency fascinated her. He spoke to her—Nell—as though she were one of those gorgeous creatures on the stage. He made her feel important, dramatic, already an actress, playing her part with him.
She said: “Willingly will I listen to what you have to say to me, sir.”
“Then follow me.”
He turned and led the way through a narrow passage to a very small compartment in which were hanging the clothes which he wore for his parts.
He turned to her then, ponderously. “Your name, wench?” he asked.
“Nell … Nell Gwyn.”
“I have observed you,” he said. “You have a sharp tongue and a very ready wit. Methinks your talents are wasted with Orange Moll.”
“Could I act a part on the stage?”
“How would you learn a part?”
“I would learn. I would learn. I would only have to hear it once and I would know it.” She put down her basket of oranges and began to repeat one of the parts she had seen played that afternoon. She put into it the utmost comedy, and the fine lips of Mr. Charles Hart began to twitch as he watched her.
He lifted a hand to stop her exuberance. “How would you learn your parts?” he said. Nell was bewildered. “Can you read?” She shook her head. “Then how would you learn them?”
“I would,” she cried. “I would.”
“The will is not enough, my child. You would be obliged to learn to read.”
“Then I would learn to read.”
He came to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “And what would you say if I told you that I might have room for a small-part player in the company?”
Nell dropped on her knees, took his hand, and kissed it.
He looked at her curly head with pleasure. “’Od’s Fish!” he said, using the King’s oath, for he played the part of kings now and then and had come to believe that in the world of the theater he was one, “You’re a pretty child, Mrs. Nelly.”
And when she rose he lifted her in his arms and held her so that her animated face was on a level with his.
“And as light as a feather,” he said. “Are you as wayward?”
Then he kissed her lips; and Nell understood what he would require in payment for all that he was about to do for her.
Nell knew that she would not consider anything he demanded as payment. She had already learned to adore him from the pit; she was ready to continue in that adoration from a more intima
te position. She laughed, signifying her pleasure, and he was satisfied.
“Come,” he said, “I will go with you to Mary Meggs, for it may be she will by now be too ready to scold you, and it is my wish that you should not be scolded.”
When Mary Meggs caught sight of Nell she screamed at her: “So there you are, you jade! What have you been at? I’ve been waiting here for you this last quarter-hour. Let me tell you that if you behave thus you will not long remain one of Orange Moll’s young women.”
Charles drew himself up to his full height. Nell found herself laughing, as she was to laugh so often in times to come at this actor’s dignity. In everything he did it was as though he played a part.
“Save your breath, woman,” he cried in that voice of thunder with which he had so often silenced a recalcitrant audience. “Save your breath. Mrs. Nelly here shall certainly not remain one of your orange-girls. She ceased to do so some little time ago. Nelly the orange-girl is now Nelly the King’s Servant.”
Then he strode off and left them. Nell set down her basket and danced a jig before the astonished woman’s eyes. Orange Moll—none too pleased at the prospect of losing one of her best girls—shook her head and her finger at the dancing figure.
“Dance, Nelly, dance!” she said. “Mr. Charles Hart don’t make actresses of all his women—and he don’t keep them long either. Mayhap you’ll be wanting your basket back when the great Charles Hart grows Nelly-sick.”
But Nell continued to dance.
Now Nell was indeed an actress. She quickly left her mother’s house in Cole-yard and most joyfully set up in lodgings of her own; she took a small house next to the Cock and Pye Tavern in Drury Lane opposite Wych Street. Here she was only a step or two away from the theater, which was convenient indeed, for the life of an actress was a more strenuous one than that of an orange-girl. Charles Hart was teaching her to read; William Lacy was teaching her to dance; and both, with Michael Mohun, were teaching her to act. Mornings were spent in rehearsing, and the afternoons in acting plays which started at three o’clock and went on until five or later. Most of Nell’s evenings were spent with the great Charles Hart who, delighted with his protégée, initiated her into the art of making love, when he was not teaching her to read.
Rose was delighted with her sister’s success and she became a frequent visitor at the lodgings in Drury Lane. Nell would have liked to ask her to come and live with her; but Nell’s small wages just kept herself—and as an actress it was necessary for her to spend a great deal of her income on fine clothes. Moreover Rose had her own life to lead and often a devoted lover would take her away from her mother’s house for a while.
Harry Killigrew was one of these, as was Mr. Browne; and in the company of these gentlemen Rose met others of their rank. She was as eager to avoid flesh-merchants from East Cheap as she ever was, and continuously grateful to Nell who, she declared, had saved her from a felon’s death.
Nell played her parts in the theater—small ones as yet, for she had her apprenticeship to live through. Charles Hart proved to be a devoted lover, for Nell was an undemanding mistress, never a complaining one; her spirits were invariably high; and she quickly learned to share Charles Hart’s passion for the stage.
There were times when he forgot to act before her and would talk of his aspirations and his jealousies, and beg her to tell him without reserve whether she believed Michael Mohun or Edward Kynaston to be greater actors than he was. He often talked of Thomas Betterton, one of that rival group of players who called themselves The Duke’s Men, and who performed in the Duke’s Theater. It was said that Betterton, more than any man living, could hold an audience. “Better than Hart?” demanded Charles Hart. “I want the truth from you, Nell.”
Then Nell would soothe him and say that Betterton was a strolling player compared with the great Charles Hart; and Charles would say that it was meet and fitting that he, Hart, should be the greatest actor London had ever known, because his grandmother was a sister of the dramatist, Will Shakespeare—a man who loved the theater and whose plays were often acted by the companies, and which, some declared, had never yet been bettered, surpassing even those of Ben Jonson or Beaumont and Fletcher.
Sometimes he would tell her how he had been brought up at Black-friars and, with Clun, one of the other members of the company, had, as a boy, acted women’s parts. He would strut about the apartment playing the Duchess in Shirley’s tragedy The Cardinal, and Nell would clap her hands and assure him that he was the veriest Duchess she had ever seen.
He liked to pour his reminiscences of the past into Nell’s sympathetic ears. And Nell, who loved him, listened and applauded, for she thought him the most wonderful person she had ever known, godlike in his ability to raise the orange-girl to the green room, a tender yet passionate lover to introduce her into a milieu where, she was aware, she would wish to play a leading part.
She allowed him to tell his stories again and again; she would demand to hear them. “Tell me of the time you were carried off and imprisoned by Roundhead soldiers—taken while you were actually playing, and in your costume, too!”
So he would throw back his head and adjust his magnificent voice to the drama or comedy of the occasion. “I was playing Otto in The Bloody Brother…. A fine play. I’ll swear Beaumont and Fletcher never wrote a better….”
Then he would forget the story of the capture and play Otto for her; he would even take the part of Rollo, the Bloody Brother himself, and it was all vastly entertaining, as was life.
And in the boxes at the theater there appeared at this time the loveliest woman Nell had ever seen: Mrs. Frances Stuart, maid of honor to the Queen. The King gazed at her during the whole of the play so that his attention strayed from Charles Hart, Michael Mohun, and Edward Kynaston; and, what was more remarkable, neither tall and handsome Ann Marshall, nor any of the actresses could hold his gaze. The King saw no one but Mrs. Stuart, sitting there so childishly pretty with her fair hair, great blue eyes, and Roman nose, so that my lady Castlemaine was in such a high temper that she shouted insults to the actors and actresses—and even spoke churlishly to the King himself, to his great displeasure.
It all seemed remote to Nell; she had her own life to lead; and if it was less grand than those of these Court folk in their dazzling jewels and sumptuous garments, it was lively, colorful, and completely satisfying to Nell; for one of her great gifts was to be able to enjoy contentment with her lot.
And there came a day when she thought her joy was complete.
Charles Hart came to her lodging and, when she had let him in and he had kissed her, declaring that she was a mighty pretty creature in her smock sleeves and bodice, he held her at arms’ length and said in his loud booming voice: “News, Nelly! At last you are to be an actress.”
“You are insolent, sir!” she cried in mock anger, her eyes flashing. “Would you insult me? What am I indeed, if I am not an actress!”
“You are my mistress, for one thing.”
She caught his hand and kissed it. “And that is the best part I have yet been called upon to play.”
“Sweet Nelly,” he murmured as though in an aside. “How this wench delights me!”
“As yet!” she answered promptly. “I beg of you to tell me quickly. What part is this?”
But Charles Hart never spoiled his effects. “You must first know,” he said, “that we are to play Dryden’s Indian Emperor, and I am to take the part of Cortes.”
She knelt and kissed his hand in half-mocking reverence. “Welcome to the conquering hero,” she said. Then she leaped to her feet. “And what part for Nelly?”
He folded his arms and stood smiling at her. “The chief female role,” he said slowly, “is Almeria. Montezuma will sigh for her favors; Mohun will play Montezuma. She however longs for Cortes.”
“She cannot help that, poor girl,” said Nell. “And right heartily will she love her Cortes. I will show the King and the Duke, and all present, that never was man loved as my Cortes
.”
“Ann Marshall is to play Almeria. Nay, ’tis not the part for you. You are young yet to take it. Oh, you are learning … learning … but an orange-girl does not become an actress in a matter of weeks. Nay, there is another part—a beautiful part for a beautiful girl—that of Cydaria. I have said Nelly shall play Cydaria, and I have made Tom Killigrew, Mohun, Lacy, and the rest agree that you shall do this.”
“And this Cydaria—she is of small account beside that other, played by Mrs. Ann Marshall?”
“Hers is the sympathetic part, Nelly. There is a pink dress come from the Court—a present from one of the ladies. You will well become it and, as you are the Emperor’s daughter, you shall wear plumes in your hair. There is something else, Nelly. Cydaria wins Cortes in the end.”
“Then,” declaimed Nell, dropping a curtsy, “I must be content with Cortes-Hart and revel in this minor part.”
She was dressed in the flowery gown, her chestnut curls arranged over her shoulders. In the tiring room the others looked at her with envy.
Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Page 4
