Part 1 (1/2)
Mistress Nell.
by George C. Hazelton, Jr.
A WORD
It is the vogue to dramatize successful novels. The author of the present Nell Gwyn story has pursued the contrary course. His ”merry”
play of the same name was written and produced before he undertook to compose this tale, suggested by the same historic sources.
A word of tribute is gratefully given to the _comedienne_, Miss Crosman, whose courage and exquisite art introduced the ”Mistress Nell”
of the play to the public.
MISTRESS NELL
A MERRY TALE OF A MERRY TIME
”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 on the throne.
Not that the wines were better or the ladies fairer in his day, but the renaissance of carelessness and good-living had set in. True Roundheads again sought quiet abodes in which to wors.h.i.+p in their gray and sombre way. Cromwell, their uncrowned king, was dead; and there was no place for his followers at court or in tavern. Even the austere and Catholic smile of brother James of York, one day to be the ruler of the land, could not cast a gloom over the a.s.semblies at Whitehall. There were those to laugh merrily at the King's wit, and at the players' wit. There were those in abundance to enjoy to-day--to-day only,--to drink to the glorious joys of to-day, with no care for the morrow.
It was, indeed, merry old England; for, when the King has no cares, and a.s.sumes no cares, the people likewise have no cares. The state may be rent, the court a nest of intrigue, King and Parliament at odds, the treasury bankrupt: but what care they; for the King cares not. Is not the day prosperous? Are not the taverns in remotest London filled with roistering spirits who drink and sing to their hearts' content of their deeds in the wars just done? Can they not steal when hungry and demand when dry?
Aye, the worldly ones are cavaliers now--for a cavalier is King--e'en though the sword once followed Cromwell and the gay cloak and the big flying plume do not quite hide the not-yet-discarded cuira.s.s of an Ironside.
c.o.c.kpits and theatres! It is the Restoration! The maypole is up again at Maypole Lane, and the milk-maids bedecked with garlands dance to the tunes of the fiddle. Boys no longer serve for heroines at the play, as was the misfortune in Shakespeare's day. The air is full of hilarity and joy.
Let us too for a little hour forget responsibility and fall in with the spirit of the times; while we tipple and toast, and vainly boast: ”The King! Long live the King!”
Old Drury Lane was alive as the sun was setting, on the day of our visit to 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 the windows above.
As we turn into Little Russell Street from the Lane, pa.s.sing many chairs richly made, awaiting their fair occupants, we come upon the main entrance to the King's House. Not an imposing or s.p.a.cious structure to be sure, it nevertheless was suited to the managerial purposes of the day, 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; so that the audience could not always hear the sweetest song to a finish without a drenching, or dwell upon the shapeliness of the prettiest ankle, that revealed itself in the dance by means of candles set on cressets, which in those days sadly served the purposes of foot-lights.
It was Dryden's night. His play was on--”The Conquest of Granada.” The best of London were there; for a first night then was as attractive as a first night now. In the balcony were draped boxes, in which lovely gowns were seen--lovely hair and lovely gems; but the fair faces were often masked.
The King sat listless in the royal box, watching the people and the play or pa.s.sing pretty compliments with the fair favourites by his side, diverted, perchance, by the ill-begotten quarrel of some fellow with a saucy orange-wench over the cost of her golden wares. The true gallants preferred being robbed to haggling--for the shame of it.
A knowing one in the crowd was heard to say: ”'Tis Castlemaine to the King's left.”
”No, 'tis Madame Carwell; curse her,” snarled a more vulgar companion.
”Madame Querouaille, knave, d.u.c.h.ess of Portsmouth,” irritably exclaimed a handsome gallant, himself stumbling somewhat over the French name, though making a bold play for it, as he pa.s.sed toward his box, pus.h.i.+ng the fellow aside. He added a moment later, but so that no one heard: ”Portsmouth is far from here.”