The Loves of Charles II (115 page)

“Rarely indeed! Now, my friends, I will bid you goodbye. Matters of state … matters of state …”

They bowed themselves from his presence, and he laughed inwardly. But he continued to think of Moll Davies. For, he said to himself, my indolent nature is such, I am amused that my friends should bring my pleasures to me rather than that I should go in search of them. There are so many beautiful women. I find it hard to choose, therefore deem it thoughtful of my courtiers to do the choosing for me. This avoids my turning with regret from a beautiful creature and having to murmur apologies: Not yet, sweet girl. I am mighty capable, but even I must take you all in turn.

Buckingham presented himself.

“Your Majesty, have you seen Mrs. Nell Gwyn in the Beaumont and Fletcher revival of
Pilaster?.”

Charles’ melancholy eyes were brooding. “Nay,” he answered.

“Then, Sir, you have missed the best performance ever seen upon the stage. She plays Bellario. Your Majesty remembers Bellario is sick of love and follows her lover in the disguise of a page boy. This gives Nelly a chance to swagger about on the stage in her breeches. What legs, Sir! What a figure! And all so small that ‘twould seem a child’s form but for those delicious curves.”

“’Twould seem to me,” said the King, “that you are enamored of this actress.”

“All London is enamored of her, Sir. I wonder your fancy has not turned to her ere this. What spirit! What zest for living!”

“I am weary of spirit in ladies—for a while. I have had over-much of spirit.”

“My fair cousin, eh? What a woman! Though she be my kinswoman and a Villiers, I pity Your Majesty. I pity you with all my heart.”

“I conclude you and the lady have fallen out. How so? You were once good friends.”

“Who would not fall out in due time with Barbara, Sir?” You know that better than any of us. Now Nelly is another matter. Lovely to look at, and a comedienne to bring the tears of laughter to the eyes. Nelly is incomparable, Sir. There is not another on the stage to compare with Nelly.”

“What of that pretty creature at the Duke’s—Moll Davies?”

“Bah! Forgive me, Sir, but Bah! and Bah I again. Moll Davies? A simpering wench compared with Nelly. No fire, Your Majesty; no fire at all.”

“I am a little scorched, George. Mayhap I need the soothing balm that comes from simpering wenches.”

“You’d tire of Moll in a night.”

Charles laughed aloud. What game was this? he wondered. Buckingham is determined to put Barbara out of countenance; I know they have quarreled. But why should the Howards and my noble Duke have turned procurers at precisely the same time?

Moll Davies? Nell Gwyn? He would have one of them to entertain him that night.

He was a little put out with Buckingham, who had for most of last year been under a cloud, and, not so long before that, banished from Court for returning there without the King’s permission. Buckingham was a brilliant man, but his brilliance was marred continually by his hare-brained schemes. Moreover the noble Duke gave himself airs and had an exaggerated opinion of his own importance and the King’s regard for him.

Charles laid his hand on the Duke’s shoulder. “My dear George,” he said, “your solicitude for little Nelly touches me. It is clear to me that one who speaks so highly of a pretty actress desires her for himself. You go to my theater this day and court Nelly. I’ll go to the Duke’s and see if Moll Davies is the enchanting creature I have been led to believe.”

Nell heard the news; it sped throughout the theater.

The King had sent for Moll Davies. She had pleased him, and he had given her a ring estimated to be worth every bit of £700.

He was often at the Duke’s Theater. He liked to see her dance. He led
the applause, and everyone in London was talking about the King’s latest mistress, Moll Davies.

Lady Castlemaine was sullen; she stayed away from the theaters. There were wild rumors about the number of lovers who visited her daily.

Then one afternoon, instead of going to the Duke’s, the King came to his own theater.

In the green room there was a great deal of excitement.

“What means this?” cried Beck Marshall. “Can it be that His Majesty is tired of Moll Davies?”

“Would that surprise you?” asked her sister Ann.

“Indeed it would not surprise
me,”
put in Mary Knepp. “A more stupid simpering ninny I never set eyes on.”

“How can the King … after my lady Castlemaine?” demanded Peg Hughes.

“Mayhap,” said Nell, “because Moll Davies is unlike my lady Castlemaine. After the sun the rain is sweet.”

“But he sends for her often, and he has given her a ring worth £700.”

“And this night,” said Beck, “he is here. Why so? Can it be that he has a taste for actresses? Has Moll given him this taste?”

“We waste time,” said Nell. “If he has come here for a purpose other than watching the show, that is a matter which we soon shall know.”

“Nell’s turning to wisdom. Alas, Nell, this is a sign of old age. And, Nelly, you are growing old, you know. You’re turned eighteen, I’ll swear.”

“Almost as old as you are, Beck,” said Nell. “Of a certainty I must soon begin to consider myself decrepit.”

“I’m a good year younger than you,” cried Beck.

“You have a remarkable gift,” retorted Nell. “You can make time turn back. This year you are a year younger than last. I have remarked it.”

Ann interrupted: “Calm yourselves. You’ll not be ready in time; and will you keep the King waiting?”

While Nell played her part she was conscious of him. All were conscious of him, of course, but Nell was playing her part for him alone.

What did she want? Another affair such as that in which she had indulged with my lord Buckhurst, only on a more exalted plane? No. She did not want that. But Charles Stuart was no Charles Sackville. She was sure of that. The King was libertine-in-chief in a town of libertines, yet he was apart from all others. She sensed it. He had a quality which was possessed by none other. Was it kingship? How could Nelly, bred in Cole-yard, know what it was? She was aware of one thing only; she wanted that night, above all things, to hear those words: The King sends for Nelly.

She was a sprite that night, richly comic, swaggering about the stage in her page’s garb. The pit was wildly applauding; the whole theater was with her; but she was playing only for the dark-eyed man in the box, who leaned forward to watch her.

She made her bow at the end. There she stood, at the edge of the apron stage so close to the royal box. He was watching her—her only; she was aware of that. His dark eyes glistened; his full lips smiled.

She was in the green room when the message came.

Mohun brought it. “Nelly, you are to go to Whitehall at once. The King wishes you to entertain him in his palace.”

So it was happening to her as it had happened to Elizabeth Weaver. She did not see the glances of the others; she was aware of a great exaltation.

Mohun put a rich cloak about her shoulders.

“May good fortune attend you, Nelly,” he said.

In the great apartment were assembled the ladies and gentlemen of the King’s more intimate circle. Many of these were personally known to Nell. Rochester and his wife were there. She was glad, for, notwithstanding his often spiteful quips, she knew Rochester to be her friend. There was one thing he admired above all others—wit—and Nell, possessing this in full measure, had his regard. Buckingham and his Duchess were also present. The Duke’s eyes were shining with approval. He had worked to bring this about, and he was enjoying the rivalry with the Howards who were putting forward Moll Davies. At last he had succeeded in getting Nell to the Palace, and he had no doubt that pretty, witty Nelly would soon triumph over pretty, rather spiritless Moll Davies.

Bulkeley, Etherege, Mulgrave, Savile and Scrope were also there. So were the Dukes of York and Monmouth, with several ladies.

Nell went to the King and knelt before him.

“Arise, sweet lady,” said the King. “We wish for no ceremony.”

She rose, lifting her eyes to his, and for once Nell felt her bravado desert her. It was not that he was the King. She had suspected it was something else, and now she knew it was.

More than anything she wanted to please him; and this desire was greater even than that which she had once felt when her ambition was to become an orange-girl, and later to act on the stage.

Nell, shorn of her high spirits, was like a stranger to herself.

But Buckingham was beside her.

“I trust Your Majesty will prevail on Mrs. Nelly to give us a song and dance.”

“If it should be her wish to do so,” said the King. “Mrs. Nelly, I would have you know that you come here as a guest, not as an entertainer.”

“I am right grateful to Your Majesty,” said Nell. “And if it be your wish, I will sing and dance.”

So she sang and she danced; and her spirits returned. This was the Nell they had met so many times before—Nell of the quick wits; the Nell who could answer the remarks which were flung at her from my lords Rochester and Buckingham, neither of whom, she was sure, had any wish other than to make her shine in the eyes of the King.

There was supper at a small table during which the King kept her at his side. His glances showed his admiration, and he talked to her of the plays in which she had acted. She was astonished that he should know so much about them and be able to quote so much of their contents, and she noticed that it was the poetic parts which appealed to him.

“You are a poet yourself, Sire?” she asked.

He disclaimed it.

But Rochester insisted on quoting the King:

“Those are beautiful words,” said Nell.

The King smiled wryly. “Flattery abounds at Court, Nelly,” he said. “I had hoped you would bring a breath of change.”

“But ’tis so, Your Majesty,” said Nell.

Rochester had leaned towards her. “His Most Gracious Majesty wrote the words when he was deep in love.”

“With Phyllis?” said Nell. “His Majesty most clearly says so.”

“Some beautiful lady cowers behind the name of Phyllis,” said Rochester. “I begin to tire of the custom. What say you, Sir? Why should we call our Besses, our Molls, and our little Nells by these fanciful names? Phyllis, Chloris, Daphne, Lucinda! As our friend Shakespeare says: ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

“Some ladies wish to love in secret,” said the King. “If you poets must write songs to your mistresses, then respect their desire for secrecy, I beg of you.”

“His Royal Highness is the most discreet of men,” said Rochester with a bow. “He’s too good-natured. No matter whether it be politics, love, or religion.”

Rochester began to quote: