MISTRESS NELL
"And once Nell Gwyn, a frail young sprite, Look'd kindly when I met her; I shook my head perhaps--but quite Forgot to quite forget her."
It was a merry time in merry old England; for King Charles II. was onthe throne.
Not that the wines were better or the ladies fairer in his day, but therenaissance of carelessness and good-living had set in. True Roundheadsagain sought quiet abodes in which to worship in their gray and sombreway. Cromwell, their uncrowned king, was dead; and there was no placefor his followers at court or in tavern. Even the austere and Catholicsmile of brother James of York, one day to be the ruler of the land,could not cast a gloom over the assemblies at Whitehall. There werethose to laugh merrily at the King's wit, and at the players' wit. Therewere those in abundance to enjoy to-day--to-day only,--to drink to theglorious joys of to-day, with no care for the morrow.
It was, indeed, merry old England; for, when the King has no cares, andassumes no cares, the people likewise have no cares. The state may berent, the court a nest of intrigue, King and Parliament at odds, thetreasury bankrupt: but what care they; for the King cares not. Is notthe day prosperous? Are not the taverns in remotest London filled withroistering spirits who drink and sing to their hearts' content of theirdeeds in the wars just done? Can they not steal when hungry and demandwhen dry?
Aye, the worldly ones are cavaliers now--for a cavalier is King--e'enthough the sword once followed Cromwell and the gay cloak and the bigflying plume do not quite hide the not-yet-discarded cuirass of anIronside.
Cockpits and theatres! It is the Restoration! The maypole is up again atMaypole Lane, and the milk-maids bedecked with garlands dance to thetunes of the fiddle. Boys no longer serve for heroines at the play, aswas the misfortune in Shakespeare's day. The air is full of hilarity andjoy.
Let us too for a little hour forget responsibility and fall in with thespirit of the times; while we tipple and toast, and vainly boast: "TheKing! Long live the King!"
Old Drury Lane was alive as the sun was setting, on the day of our visitto London Town, with loungers and loafers; busy-bodies and hawkers;traffickers of sweets and other petty wares; swaggering soldiers,roistering by, stopping forsooth to throw kisses to inviting eyes at thewindows above.
As we turn into Little Russell Street from the Lane, passing many chairsrichly made, awaiting their fair occupants, we come upon the mainentrance to the King's House. Not an imposing or spacious structure tobe sure, it nevertheless was suited to the managerial purposes of theday, which were, as now, to spend as little and get as much as may be.The pit was barely protected from the weather by a glazed cupola; sothat the audience could not always hear the sweetest song to a finishwithout a drenching, or dwell upon the shapeliness of the prettiestankle, that revealed itself in the dance by means of candles set oncressets, which in those days sadly served the purposes of foot-lights.
It was Dryden's night. His play was on--"The Conquest of Granada." Thebest of London were there; for a first night then was as attractive as afirst night now. In the balcony were draped boxes, in which lovely gownswere seen--lovely hair and lovely gems; but the fair faces were oftenmasked.
The King sat listless in the royal box, watching the people and the playor passing pretty compliments with the fair favourites by his side,diverted, perchance, by the ill-begotten quarrel of some fellow with asaucy orange-wench over the cost of her golden wares. The true gallantspreferred being robbed to haggling--for the shame of it.
A knowing one in the crowd was heard to say: "'Tis Castlemaine to theKing's left."
"No, 'tis Madame Carwell; curse her," snarled a more vulgar companion.
"Madame Querouaille, knave, Duchess of Portsmouth," irritably exclaimeda handsome gallant, himself stumbling somewhat over the French name,though making a bold play for it, as he passed toward his box, pushingthe fellow aside. He added a moment later, but so that no one heard:"Portsmouth is far from here."
It was the Duke of Buckingham--the great Duke of Buckingham, in the pitof the King's House! Truly, we see strange things in these strangetimes! Indeed, William Penn himself did not hesitate to gossip with theorange-wenches, unless Pepys lied--and Pepys never lied.
"What said he?" asked a stander-by, a butcher, who, with apron on andsleeves to elbow, had hastily left his stall at one of the afternoon andstill stood with mouth agape and fingers widespread waiting for theplay. Before, however, his sooty companion could answer, they werejostled far apart.
The crowd struggled for places in eager expectation, amid banter nonetoo virtuous, whistlings and jostlings. The time for the play hadarrived. "Nell! Nell! Nell!" was on every lip.
And who was "Nell"?
From amidst the players, lords and coxcombs crowded on the stage steppedforth Nell Gwyn--the prettiest rogue in merry England.
A cheer went up from every throat; for the little vixen who stood beforethem had long reigned in the hearts of Drury Lane and the habitues ofthe King's House.
Yea, all eyes were upon the pretty, witty Nell; the one-timeorange-girl; now queen of the theatre, and the idol of the Lane. Hercurls were flowing and her big eyes dancing beneath a huge hat--more,indeed, a canopy than a hat--so large that the audience screamed withdelight at the incongruity of it and the pretty face beneath.
This pace in foolery had been set at the Duke's House, but Nell out-didthem, with her broad-brimmed hat as large as a cart-wheel and her quaintwaist-belt; for was not her hat larger by half than that at the rivalhouse and her waist-belt quainter?
As she came forward to speak the prologue, her laugh too was merrier andmore roguish:
_"This jest was first of the other house's making, And, five times tried, has never fail'd of taking;_
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_This is that hat, whose very sight did win ye To laugh and clap as though the devil were in ye,_
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_I'll write a play, says one, for I have got A broad-brimm'd hat, and waist-belt, towards a plot. Says the other, I have one more large than that, Thus they out-write each other with a hat! The brims still grew with every play they writ; And grew so large, they cover'd all the wit. Hat was the play; 't was language, wit, and tale: Like them that find meat, drink, and cloth in ale."_
The King leaned well out over the box-rail, his dark eyes intent uponNell's face.
A fair hand, however, was placed impatiently upon his shoulder and drewhim gently back. "Lest you fall, my liege."
"Thanks, Castlemaine," he replied, kindly but knowingly. "You are alwaysthoughtful."
The play went on. The actors came and went. Hart appeared in Orientalrobes as Almanzor--a dress which mayhap had served its purposes forOthello, and mayhap had not; for cast-off court-dresses, without regardto fitness, were the players' favourite costumes in those days, therichness more than the style mattering.
With mighty force, he read from the centre of the stage, with elocutiontrue and syllable precise, Dryden's ponderous lines. The King noddedapprovingly to the poet. The poet glowed with pride at the patronage ofthe King. The old-time audience were enchanted. Dryden sat with atriumphant smile as he dwelt upon his poetic lines and heard thecherished syllables receive rounds of applause from the Londoners.
Was it the thought, dear Dryden; or was it Nell's pretty ways thatbewitched the most of it? Nell's laugh still echoes in the world; butwhere are your plays, dear Dryden?