Winsor, Kathleen (37 page)

The
stage fascinated her. She loved everything about the theatre: The hours of
rehearsal, when she listened and watched intensely, memorizing the lines of
half the other characters. The thrilling day when she was sworn in at the Lord
Chamberlain's Office as his Majesty's servant. The occult mysteries of stage
make-up, into which she was now initiated, black and white and red paint,
false-noses, false-beards, false-hair. The marvellous collection of scenery and
other apparatus which made it possible to show the moon coming up at night, to
reveal the sun breaking through a mist, to simulate a bird's song or the rattle
of hail. The costumes, some of which were gorgeous things given by the nobles,
others mere cheap imitations made of shoddy and bombazine. She took it to her
heart, made it a part of her, in the same way she had London.

At
last the great day arrived and, after a restless turning night full of
apprehension and doubts, she got up and dressed and set out very early for the
theatre. On the way she saw one of the play-bills nailed up on a post and
stopped to read it: "At the Theatre Royal this present Wednesday, being
the Ninth day of December will be presented a play called: The Maid's Tragedy
beginning exactly at three after Noon. By His Majesty's Servants. Vivat
Rex." And when she reached the
theatre a flag was already flying from
the roof to announce that there would be a performance that day.

Oh,
Lord! she thought. What ever made me think I wanted to go on the stage?

It
was still so early that she found the entire theatre empty but for a couple of
scene-shifters and the tiring-woman, Mrs. Scroggs, a dirty profane drunken old
harridan whose daughter Killigrew hired at twenty shillings a week for the use
of his actors. With her easy camaraderie and frequent gifts of money Amber had
purchased her friendship at least, and Scroggs was as ardently partisan in her
favour as the women were violently antagonistic. By the time the other
actresses began to arrive she was painted and dressed and had gone out to watch
the audience from behind the curtains.

The
pit was already crowded, fops, prostitutes and orange-girls, all of them noisy
and laughing, shouting to acquaintances all over the theatre. The galleries
were spotted with men and women, and 'prentices were trying out their
cat-calls. Finally the boxes began to fill with splendidly gowned and jewelled
ladies, languid dreamy creatures who were bored with the play before it had
even begun. The very boards and walls seemed now to have changed, enchanted by
the glamour and richness of the audience.

Amber
stood looking out, her throat dry and her heart beating with anticipation, when
suddenly Charles Hart appeared behind her, slipped an arm about her waist and
kissed her cheek. She gave a startled little jump.

"Oh!"
She laughed nervously and swallowed.

"Now,
now, sweetheart!" he said briskly. "Ready to lay the town by its
ears?"

She
gave him a pleading look. "Oh, I don't know! Michael's in the pit with a
score of friends to cry me up. But I'm scared!"

"Nonsense.
What are you scared of? Those high-born sluts and fop-doodles out there? Don't
let them scare you—" He paused, as suddenly the fiddlers in the music-room
above the stage struck up the first bars of a gay country air. "Listen!
His Majesty's come!" And he drew back the curtains so that he and Amber
could look out.

There
was a scraping of benches and a low running murmur as they got to their feet,
turning to face the King's box which was in the first balcony in the center
just above the stage, gilded and draped with scarlet velvet and emblazoned with
the royal coat-of-arms. And then, as the King appeared, the music swelled and
the hats of the men swept off with a flourish. The tall and swarthy Charles,
smiling easily, lifting one hand in greeting, dominated the group of men and
women who surrounded him; but no one overlooked Barbara Palmer at his side,
glittering with jewels, haughty and beautiful and a little sullen. They seemed
very magnificent and awe-inspiring; and staring at them from behind the
curtains Amber was suddenly
overcome with an agonizing sense of her own
insignificance.

"Oh,"
she breathed unhappily. "They look like gods!"

"Even
gods, my dear, use a chamberpot," said Charles Hart, and then he walked
away, back to the tiring-room to get his cloak, for he was to speak the
prologue. Amber looked after him and laughed, somewhat relieved.

But
her eyes returned immediately to Mrs. Palmer, who was leaning back in her
chair, smiling and speaking to a man who sat behind her. As she looked Amber's
face hardened with hate. Her fingers with their long nails curled involuntarily
and she had a sharp satisfying image of clawing across the woman's face,
tearing away her beauty and confident smile. The jealousy she felt was as
violent and painful as on that far-away night when she had looked down into the
street and seen Bruce Carlton's head bend to kiss a red-haired woman leaning
out of her coach and laughing.

Soon,
however, she was surrounded by the other actresses, who came trooping up behind
her, giggling, elbowing her aside —until she gave one of them a sharp jab in the
ribs—lifting back the curtain to wave at their admirers below. All of them
seemed as merrily unconcerned as though this were nothing but another
rehearsal. But Amber was wishing desperately that she might bolt and run, out
of the theatre, back to the quiet and security of her own rooms, and hide
there. She knew that she could never force herself to go out onto the stage and
face those hard smart critical people whose eyes and tongues would go over her
like rakes.

The
prologue was done, the curtains had swung back, and Charles Hart and Michael
Mohun had started to speak their lines. The theatre was settling down, quieting
as much as it ever did, though the buzzing and murmuring went on and there were
occasional laughs or loud-spoken comments. Amber, who knew most of the lines by
heart, now discovered that she was not able even to follow the dialogue, and
the ladies-in-waiting had already started out when Kynaston gave her a little
shove.

"Go
on!"

For
an instant she hung back, unable to move, and then, with her heart pounding so
hard she thought it would burst, she lifted her head high and walked out.
During the rehearsals the other women had always maneuvered to keep her in the
background, despite the fact that Killigrew said he wanted the audience to see
her, but now because of her late entrance she stood in the front, closer to the
audience than any of them.

She
heard a man's voice from nearby, in the pit. "Who's that glorious
creature, Orange Moll?"

Another
one spoke up. "That must be the new wench. By Jesus, but she's handsome, I
swear she is!"

And
from the gallery the 'prentices sent up a low appreciative hum.

Amber
felt her cheeks begin to burn and sweat start in her armpits, but at last she
forced herself to sneak a glance out of
the corner of one eye. She saw several
upturned faces beneath her, grinning, and all at once she realized that these
were only men like any other men. Just before the ladies-in-waiting went off
the stage she threw them a dazzling smile, and heard another rising hum of
approval. After that she stood in the wings and fretted because her part was
done. By the time the play was over she was incurably stagestruck.

Beck
Marshall spoke to her as they were going into the tiring-room. "Look here,
Mrs. What-d'ye-call," she said, pretending to have forgotten Amber's name.
"You needn't strut up and down like a crow in the gutter. Those gentlemen
will have a swing at anything new—"

Amber
smiled at her, superior, very well satisfied with herself. "Don't concern
yourself for me, madame. I'll have a care of my own interests, I warrant
you."

But
she was more than a little disappointed when Michael and three of his friends
appeared promptly, surrounding her and shutting her off from any possible
outside interference, for several of the young men were watching her, asking
about her, curious and interested and admiring.

Oh,
well, she thought, I won't always be troubled with Michael.

The
next day
Amber
was given the part of the first Court lady, and had four short lines to say.
Not very long after that she was taking important roles, singing songs and,
dressed in a tight pair of breeches and thin white blouse, performing the dance
at the end of the play. It was her chief qualification as an actress that she
could easily achieve an accurate and only piquantly exaggerated imitation of
almost any kind of woman, whether great lady or serving-wench. And little more
was expected, for the audience had no interest in the subtleties of character
delineation. The taste was for crude gorgeous exciting effects, whether in
women, scenery, or melodrama.

They
liked the bloody noisy terrifying tragedies of Beaumont and Fletcher,
considered Ben Jonson the greatest playwright of all time, thought Shakespeare
too realistic and hence deficient in poetic justice. He required considerable
altering before he could qualify for presentation. A great deal of singing and
dancing, frequent changes of scenery and costume, battles and deaths and
ghosts, profanity and smut and seminudity was what they liked and what they got.
At every murder or suicide sheep's blood spurted from concealed bladders and
covered the actor with gore; ghosts rose and sank on trapdoors; scenes of
torture by rack, wheel and fire filled the theatre with anguished screams and
groans. But through it all the fops in the pit kept up a stream of banter with
the actors and prostitutes and orange-girls, and the ladies in the boxes waved
their fans and cast lazy smiles at the gallants below.

Amber's
popularity was considerable—because she was new, the women insisted—and every
day after the performance she was surrounded by a flock of gallants who kissed
her, tied her garters, watched her dress, and invited her to spend the night
with one or all of them. She listened and laughed, flirted with everyone, but went
home with Michael Godfrey.

She
was afraid of arousing his jealousy, for he knew all her secrets and could ruin
her if he chose. But even had she been free of him, she had not yet heard the
offer which could interest her. She was looking for a man of both importance
and wealth, who would keep her according to the manner in which she intended to
live—clothes and jewels and a coach, a generous annual allowance, handsomely
furnished lodgings, a serving-woman, and a footman. The man who could supply
those things was not to be found every day, even among the tiring-room
gallants, and when found he was not likely to be a ready dupe. Amber was
impatient, eager to better her status, but determined to make no rash change
which might precipitate her down the steep narrow road leading to common
prostitution. Penelope Hill's advice meant more to her now than when she had
first heard it—and she intended to turn some man's weakness to her own
advantage.

More
than a month went by and still Amber was on no better terms with the other
actresses than she had been at first. They missed no opportunity to confuse or
embarrass her, either on the stage or in the tiring-room, circulating rumours
that she had the French-pox and that she was living incestuously with her
brother—Michael—and were more annoyed than ever when she treated them all with
cool, superior contempt. But nothing they said seemed to discourage the men,
who brushed it all aside as mere jealous female slander.

"Well,"
said Beck Marshall to her one day, "they may poach after you here in the
tiring-room, but I don't notice
one
of 'em's made you an offer of more
than half-a-crown."

Amber
sat on one of the tables, legs crossed and carefully drew a black line along
the edge of her eyelid. "And what about you, madame? Who's your stallion?
The Duke of York, I doubt not?"

Beck
gave her a smug, complacent smile. "Not his Highness, perhaps. But then,
Captain Morgan's a man of no mean consequence."

"And
who the devil's Captain Morgan? That straight-haired nincompoop I saw you with
at Chatelin's the other night?" She got up and turned her back, beckoning
Scroggs to come help her into her gown.

"Captain
Morgan, Mrs. Double-tripe, is an officer in his Majesty's Horse Guard—and a
mighty handsome fellow into the bargain. And he's so mad in love with me he's
going to make me a settlement and take me off the stage. I don't doubt
he'd marry me
quick enough—if I could make up my mind to endure matrimony," she added,
examining her nails.

Amber
stepped into her gown and stooped over to pull it up. "You'd better make
up your mind to endure it before long," she said, "or you'll be
leading apes in hell." Leading apes in hell was supposedly the destiny of
an old maid, and Amber liked to taunt Beck with the fact that she was two or
three years her senior. "But where d'you keep this wonder? Under lock and
key?"

"He's
been out of town these two months past—his family's got a great estate in
Wales, and his father's just died. But he wrote me he expects to return within
the week and then—"

"Oh,
I don't doubt I'll be in a green-sickness of jealousy at the very sight of
'im."