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 attention 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.