by Sarah Burton
“I used to do Father’s household accounts,” said Evelyn. “He said they were always very tidy.”
“Excellent,” said Aunt Madge and opened a drawer stuffed with papers. “I am at a loss to comprehend all that – your uncle used to take care of everything, and I have no head for it. Could you assist?”
“I’ll do my best!” said Evelyn.
Aunt Madge seemed very pleased.
“Well, girls, are you satisfied now? I seem to have lost two nieces and gained a secretary and a housekeeper. May I assume you will do me the honour of remaining a little longer as it now seems to me that this household could not have managed a moment longer without you?”
We knew our aunt was teasing us, but were as happy as she was that we had settled a way to live together, at least for the time being.
We met ever so many interesting people at this time, as Aunt Madge was a woman with many friends. She had a dinner party on the first Friday of every month for her two favourites, an old bachelor and an old widower, as she did not seem over-fond of female company. Respectable women were, she believed, too careful of their own reputations to unbend and be entertaining, and the presence of unrespectable women, who might be better company, cast too doubtful a shadow on her own virtue, as she lived without a man in the house who might otherwise be expected to govern her. It was all too delicate, so she stuck in the main to gentlemen, and gentlemen, at that, too elderly “to be a nuisance”.
“For you know of course,” she told us, “a woman who has lost her good name is dead while she lives,” and she looked at us wistfully, as if she wondered whether we understood how narrow were the gates and how straight the road we had to pass through. “London is not like the country, my dears,” she said. “You must always have an eye to your backs, especially where ladies of quality are concerned. Here there are women aplenty who will gladly murder another’s good name, if it serves to reflect agreeably on their own character. The world has cast us on hard ground indeed, where men do as they please and care nothing for reputation, so fling it to the women to fight over.”
6
Despite what had happened to Grace I was mad to see a play and the longer I lived in London, the more I felt sure that I had a good stock of the gorm she had lacked. I knew the London playhouses were nothing like the travelling players we had seen and the footmen, who loved to see the plays, told me such tales of how the playhouses were vastly improved since before the late troubles. In the old days, Reg said, the playhouses had no roof so if it rained everyone got wet but now they were indoors and had lights and scenes that moved and music and people of all quality went and even the King, he swore, he had seen there once (though I thought in this he must be mistaken), and instead of boys being the women there were real women (just as Katharina had said) and such beauties, he said and so bold. And most of all, Ted said, the plays were not all about kings and queens and huffing at the gods (though there were these still) and ending with everybody dead, but plays about these days, with people in them like they are today, dressed as we dress now, doing things that people really do and talking about things that really are, and ending with weddings mostly.
Early in our stay, Aunt Madge had offered to take us to the playhouse but Evelyn declined and she never asked again. In the first place Father had made it a condition of our earlier visits to London that we were never to be suffered to go to a bear-baiting, an execution or a playhouse. In the second place Evelyn would not allow Aunt Madge to be put to any unnecessary expense on our account. Again, I thought she was too proud, but I always deferred to Evelyn as she was so wise.
In any event, I had an opportunity to see inside a playhouse, if not see a play, because the Potters, one of whom Aunt Madge always sent ahead to get her a place, were employed repairing the coach and my aunt asked me if I would go instead and keep places for her and her friend Mrs Macready. I was about fourteen years of age at this time, but felt older, London having grown me up a good deal. It happened that Evelyn was abroad that day on an errand for our aunt so I readily agreed.
The playhouse, it has been said, is an enchanted island, where nothing appears in reality what it is nor what it should be. But please do not think this refers to the spectacle on the stage, for as I learned that afternoon the auditorium is its own stage and has its own play. I took my place in the pit, which Aunt Madge always maintained was the best place in the house, and looked about me. Of course, I was most excited but was already wise enough to learn that in society one never acknowledged surprise nor any sense of not belonging. A true Londoner could come upon a singing turnip or a squirrel dancing a jig and not disclose their amazement, if another Londoner were present. And if the other person were not a Londoner he would airily remark that this was an everyday occurrence. Londoners, it is a point of pride, take everything in their stride, however remarkable. It is a sign of their sang-froid, their urbanity. Your true Londoner gives you a superior sense that whatever you have seen they have either seen already or is not worth their notice. This at least I had observed and consequently wore on my face a blank mask which said I knew and was unimpressed.
Everyone about me appeared to become larger than life, as if the playhouse gave them license to show their shapes. Next to me a pair of rural gentleman, animated beyond measure, spoke loudly of their conquests of buck and doe, designed to impress, as it would in the country, which now I, a hardened Londoner, inwardly smirked at; there a languid beau, primped and pinked within an inch of his life, dared barely move a muscle for fear of displacing his frizzed wig or unruffling his cravat, both so carefully arranged to look as if he had just risen from his bed. Painted ladies in masks took in the scene while preserving their anonymity; others announced their presence with dazzling smiles, shining eyes and elegant gestures which drew attention as surely as if they were upon the stage itself.
However, even with the London ice in my veins, I jumped nearly out of my skin as a bully came roaring into the pit with the cry: “Damn me, Jack, ’tis a confounded play! Let’s to a whore and spend our time better!” and this was greeted with so many jackals cackling loudly, yet without true mirth. Then a boy raised a bottle and cried back, “Damn me, Tom, I am not in a condition. Here’s my turpentine for my third clap,” which, uttered shrilly through his unbroken pipes, sent a ripple of derisory laughter round the playhouse. Then another came drunk and screaming and stood upon the benches and tossed his periwig in the air, speaking powerful nonsense very loud. There was something about this character that I thought I recognised, though I could not place him. Sprawling over several benches they had not paid for, these sparks commenced quarrelling with other men, talking scurrilous stuff with the ladies in masks, and mussing the orange maids.
But the ladies most of all threatened to discompose my cool expression, which was now quite paining the muscles of my face. At first I had tried not to appear to stare but it was clear that it was the business of all present to see and be seen, and once I saw the gentleman next to me snatch off his wig and hastily comb it, I decided to abandon my knowing air, to my great relief. After all, I was not here on my own account and merely keeping seats for my aunt. So I cast aside my urbane mask and gawped like a village idiot. So many great beauties under one roof I had not seen since I had once been in the picture gallery at Hunsdon House. Ranged and framed, just like the paintings there, in boxes, they fleered about with softest looks and gave encouragement to all the pit. A lady would cast a smile below and some overjoyed creature would stand and bow to the very benches, and rising, look about him to see who had seen, who had taken notice how much he was in favour with the charming goddess. On the entrance of another lady the whole pit turned as though moved by an engine to see her, as if she were the most entertaining scene in the house. The man I thought familiar bowed elaborately to one of the ladies above, before taking an orange, kissing it, and throwing it up to her. This I thought a very pretty gesture and was observing what she would do when there was a general commotion and people’s attenti
on turned towards one of the boxes where a very fine couple were taking their seats. The gentleman, who had a mighty handsome long dark wig, seemed to acknowledge them with a little gesture of his hand, and the lady inclined her head slightly.
“What d’you make of the Duke’s new whore then, Tom?” Jack piped up, a little too loudly, I thought.
“’Tis not his whore, ’tis his wife, you shit-head!” roared Tom, and then retailed the exchange to the other cullies sitting round about them, and the one I thought I knew from somewhere laughed loudest and most mirthlessly of all and I noted that though his behaviour was ugly he was a most handsome-looking young man.
“Well then, a wife’s but a whore with a priest for a pandar!” Jack squeaked back, but no one was paying him any heed now.
I gathered from others whispering about me that this fine couple were the Duke and Duchess of York, and though I did not like to stare I took an opportunity once or twice to look at them, and was a little shocked to see how they kissed each others’ hands and leant on each other most familiarly in front of all the company.
I continued to cast anxious looks towards the door but still my aunt did not appear. And then the play commenced. Against her coming late, I kept my seat, and turned my eyes to the stage. I do not think they left it for the next two hours.
I straightway understood why the playhouse was thought a wicked place. Although the playbills outside had said the play was called Thomaso the story was more about Angellica, who I now know was a courtesan. There is the first deception, I thought, and resolved to be on my guard. First of all it presented marriage in a very wicked light. A man told a lady (who, you may be sure, was no lady) that marriage was no better than a kind of sale, and in marriage a man wanted only the woman’s portion and wanted her only as a chattel he takes to stock his family, as other cattle to stock his land. This seemed harsh and very likely against God, as God invented marriage. But then there were parts that made a deal of sense and reminded me of Margaret Cavendish, our friend in the library, as another man said “I do believe women may do most of their own business upon Earth themselves, if they would but leave their spinning and try.” And I began again to wonder uncomfortably whether Margaret Cavendish might be sinful as well.
And again Angellica berated Thomaso, asking him why when a man and a woman sin together, the woman loses honour by the crime, while the man gains honour by it. I confess this puzzled me, as it made a deal of sense. It set me thinking on my poor sister Grace and how her life was ruined by a single act, yet her lover most likely gave it not a second thought. And then Thomaso objected because Angellica sold her love, being a mercenary prostitute creature, and then she said “Well, would you marry a woman without a dowry?” meaning he expected to be paid too. And he had no answer to that. And this set me wondering again.
When the play ended I clapped and clapped but could not see the players so well on account of the bullies in front of me getting up to go.
“’Tis excellent apt casting, eh Tom?” shouted one to the other. “Mistress Gwyn plays the whore as true to life!”
“Ah, but she has an unfair advantage – she and Hart, eh?” and he made a circle with his left finger and thumb and thrust his right finger through it. I had never seen this gesture before, but immediately knew what it signified – after all, I was bred in the country. I thought I was like to vomit, it so powerfully affected me. I felt hot and wanted to get out and made my way blindly to the exit, but in all the confusion found I had mistaken my way and found myself behind the scenes. Casting about for a way out I saw behind a half-curtain the beautiful girl who had played the courtesan. She was getting undressed.
“Moll, are you there?” she called. “For God’s sake don’t suffer any of those pricks from the pit to come back here. Moll?” I scurried away, back the way I had come and finding the auditorium nearly empty followed the last of the spectators out.
I did not know what to make of my initiation to the theatre. It had been both a wonderful and a terrible experience. I ran all the way home, thinking it had not been at all like The Taming of the Shrew.
When I got home I went straightway to find my aunt. Evelyn had returned and they were playing a hand of cards with Puss at their feet.
I dropped a curtsey and then went to kiss my aunt.
“Did you enjoy the play?” she asked.
“Oh yes, Aunt, vastly,” I said, and began to pour out the evening’s adventures. But then I stopped and asked, “But why did you not come?”
“A head-ache, my dear,” she said. “Happily it soon went. Put the cards away, Evelyn,” she said and while Evelyn’s back was turned she winked at me and I realised that she had never intended to come to the playhouse and I loved her the more for that kindness. “Did you see anyone we know?” she asked.
“No, Aunt, but I believe I saw the Duke and Duchess of York.”
“Anyone else?”
“No,” I said. And then my eyes fell on the painting of Aunt Madge and her sons, and I suddenly realised who I had recognised in the playhouse. “Oh!” I exclaimed and explained to my aunt that I had thought I had seen one of my cousins.
Aunt Madge seemed grimly satisfied.
“Who was he with? Did you notice?”
“Jack and Tom, I think they called each other,” I said. “They were very – ” and then I stopped as I did not want to tell tales, or bring trouble on my cousin. “High-spirited,” I chose, thinking that safer and not a lie.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Aunt Madge. “In any event, your cousin is coming home on Saturday and you will be able to see whether this was the same person.”
“Yes, Aunt,” I said, hoping it would not be the same person, as though he was mighty handsome he was a very loud rough fellow and I did not like what I had seen of him.
7
I was coming down the stairs on Friday morning with clean linen for the table for the dinner party that evening when I heard someone coming in at the door, and looking down I spied the man I had seen in the playhouse; evidently he was my cousin. He threw his coat and hat to the Potters before bounding up the stairs two at a time. He stopped when he saw me.
“Who the devil are you?” he said.
“H, sir,” I said, dropping a curtsey. “I am your cousin from the country.”
He smiled.
“Then welcome, coz,” he said, and gave me a great smack on the bottom as he ran past, causing me to squeal and drop my linen. I had not been smacked so before and it took me some time to recover my composure. I picked up the linen and took it through to the dining room and then noticing a flower had fallen from the vase on the mantelpiece I replaced it, and happening to catch myself in the glass above the fireplace was surprised to see I was both grinning and blushing like a great country booby.
There was plenty to do that day, as we had to ready not only Roger’s but also his brother Frederick’s chamber, as he too was expected back from the university at Oxford for Easter. Their chambers were aired, the beds turned over, fires lit and fresh herbs hung about and I was hastening past Aunt Madge’s room with a new quilt when I heard raised voices.
“You have been in town a week and not come home, Roger!” Aunt Madge cried, sounding most vexed.
“Mother, how many times must I tell you, I arrived only this morning and came here straight from the Oxford stage,” answered Roger.
“That is a lie, to my certain knowledge,” said Aunt Madge.
“How so?” asked Roger.
Aunt Madge sighed. Her voice dropped lower.
“You were seen at the King’s Playhouse last week.”
“There must be some mistake. Perhaps it was my brother.”
“It was not your brother – that is an old song and will not serve.”
“Who says I was there?” asked Roger angrily.
“That is none of your business,” Aunt Madge said, to my great relief. “Suffice it to say I sent someone expressly to satisfy my suspicion.”
This was a blow to me.
I went on my way, hugging my disappointment to the quilt. Aunt Madge had not sent me to the playhouse for a treat, but to be her spy. I went to Evelyn and spilled it all.
“Do not be angry at our aunt,” she said. “We came here to be of service to her, did we not? And you were of service. And I’m sure she thought you would like to see the play. I am not so blind as you think,” she said, and winked at me, so I knew she knew.
I was fearfully excited about the evening ahead and looking forward to getting to know my cousins. There was also to be other company: Aunt Madge’s old gentlemen that we knew – Dr Rookham, her physician, and Mr Fluke, her lawyer – and two young ladies that would be new to us. I had the impression Aunt Madge was not overjoyed about the ladies, whom Roger had invited, but he had said, “Zounds, Mother, do you want an old bachelor party? Besides, my cousins will want some female company. Sylvia and Melissa can teach them something of the town – civilise them a little.”
One of the services we had found we could do our aunt was reviving her wardrobe; in an old chest we found many clothes we discovered she had cast aside not because they were worn through but because they were no longer the fashion. Evelyn and I had always made our own clothes and had restyled a number of her old gowns for her to her great satisfaction, but she had also given us some that she proposed to cast off, thinking them no longer suited to her years. (And indeed some were too small and would not admit enlargement to our aunt’s now generous proportions.) “My day is past,” she had sighed, giving us the pretty things. Evelyn and I had made ourselves three new gowns each out of this stuff, and new caps and kerchiefs, but two of the gowns were too fine to wear every day so this evening was to be their first outing. Evelyn’s was pea green and mine a mustard, both in velvet, and we looked at each other rather abashed at how fine we seemed. We went in to Aunt Madge, who complimented us, and herself looked very grand, and we took a cup of sack with her. She and Evelyn began discussing what we were to eat, which did not interest me, as I could barely sit still, so I took the opportunity to slip out.
