Maggie was able to tell me something about the great actor before I was summoned to his presence.
"You will find him a very grand gentleman," she told me. "He acts all the time. Sometimes I wonder whether he ever stops, even in his bedchamber when he is alone—as I suppose he sometimes is. But it is second nature to him. You will have to be careful all the time to treat him with the utmost respect. Kitty will be there to help you along. Mind you, he is a very good actor. He never forgets his relationship to Shakespeare. I can tell you what that relationship is, because he makes sure that everyone who comes in contact with him is aware of it. William Shakespeare had a sister named Joan, and Charles Hart's father was her eldest son. The great Master Hart is of the opinion that he has inherited his kinsman's genius, with a little more thrown in."
"It is small wonder that he 'struts and frets upon the stage,' " put in Kitty, who had come in while this conversation was taking place. "But he reckons his will not be a case of being heard no more."
"Well, he has done well. He has acting in his blood, and the theater means a great deal to him," said Maggie. "You must admit that he is one of our finest actors."
"I would not deny it," agreed Kitty. "I was merely pointing out that he may not be quite so good as he thinks he is—but then, that could apply to most of us."
Maggie told me that he had played some good parts in his time, and when the war broke out he had joined the King's army and fought under Prince Rupert. When the war was over, he was playing in Beaumont and Fletcher's Blood Brother when the Roundheads broke in and carried him off to prison. When he was released, he acted privately and secretly in the house of a nobleman.
"Yes, Charles Hart has acting in his blood. And God bless him for it."
When the time for my appointment came, I was filled with apprehension. Suppose he did not like me? I asked myself. What then? Suppose I did not get the part? Could I go on hoping? How would Kitty feel? She would think she had made a mistake and should never have brought me to London.
Maggie tried to cheer me. "You're nervous, that's what it is. It's like going on the stage to play a part. Most actresses feel then as you do now. If you don't feel nervous, you don't bring out everything you've got and you're not going to give of your best. It's natural, dearie. It means you'll be all right when the moment comes."
"Yes," said Kitty. "If he thinks you are right for the part, you'll get it. And if he does not think so? Well, it's not the only part in the world, is it? There are others in London besides Charles Hart, I can tell you."
How they cared for me, those two! How lucky I was to have been "discovered" by Kitty and to have been brought through her to Maggie!
In due course, Kitty and I were ushered into the presence of the great man. The room was small and dark with a little window looking down on the street. He stood up at the window—tall, upright, his hands clasped behind his back, striking a dramatic pose, I guessed, from some role he had played. Before him was a desk on which some papers were scattered. He was an impressive figure, accustomed to dominate the scene, and I tried not to be overawed. I remembered Kitty's words. If I failed with him, there were others.
Maggie had said he acted all the time, and I knew he was playing a part now. At least, I thought, I cannot be so insignificant if he takes the trouble to act for me. I, too, was acting my part, that of the humble, inexperienced girl in the presence of genius— and acting so, I forgot my fear.
He was looking at Kitty. "So, dear girl, you think this child may be an actress?"
Kitty replied: "I am sure of it, Charles. You and I know talent when we see it."
"Oh, yes. And you, my dear child, you think you may be an actress?"
"Yes, sir," I said humbly.
"Do you know that every wench in every tavern ... selling her wares in the streets ... wherever she may be ..." He was declaiming to an audience, his resonant and musical voice rising and falling as he listed the girls of London and analyzed the drama of every milkmaid churning her butter in some remote country village ... all were sure that they were great actresses.
"You are right, Charles, as always," said Kitty. "But when they are found and proved, they should be given a chance."
"They are very few, dear lady. Talent is a rare gift."
"That again is true."
"I know I have it," I said boldly.
That seemed to startle him, but I could see that he was not displeased—indeed, he seemed faintly amused.
"Kitty, dear girl, I trust your judgment. What if we were to put this child to the test? It is a small part. The play is A Midsummer Night*s Dream, written by my kinsman, William Shakespeare, who is reckoned to be a dramatist of some considerable ability. A small part, it is true, but small parts are for beginners. We must all perforce prove ourselves, as you will agree." He turned to me.
"Dear child, I shall require you to read the part. Where is the piece?"
He turned to the desk and turned over some of the papers. At length he found what he was looking for.
"Here," he said. "You will read this. Just a few lines, that is all. The part is of a Fairy. It is the beginning of Act II. A Wood near Athens. You come in on one side. Puck on the other. He will say to you ..."He threw back his head and declaimed with dramatic emphasis:
How now, spirity whither wander you?
"Then ... here are your lines:
Over hill, over dale.
Thorough hush, thorough brier ...
"Read from there, my dear."
I took the paper and read until I came to the lines:
I must go seek some dewdrops here And hang a pearl in every cowslipss ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; Fll be gone: Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.
I was there. I had forgotten him temporarily. The words enchanted me. It was indeed a small part, but how I wanted to do it! I longed for the opportunity to say those words on the stage and give them the rendering such poetry deserved.
Charles Hart was swaying on his heels. Kitty was smiling triumphantly.
I was not surprised to hear the great man say: "It would appear that you have the part of Fairy in my kinsman's piece. You must learn your lines with all speed."
For the next days before the great occasion I practiced my lines continually. Kitty and Maggie helped me. At odd moments one of them would start up with "How nowy spirit! Whither wander you?'' and I would start up with ''Over hill, over dale,'' and go through the lines. Even Martha and Rose took it up, and ''Whither wander you?'' became a phrase constantly heard throughout the house.
I think the lines are engraved upon my mind and will be until I die.
The great day came. I cannot say that my performance was received with wild enthusiasm, but neither was I booed off the stage. It seemed that no sooner had I stepped on stage than I was off and that was the end of my brief glory. But I had made a start. I was a professional actress.
Those were happy days. Kitty was still playing in Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, and there was I, a Fairy in A Midsummer Night's Dream. We were indeed a theatrical household, and I was a part of it all, as I had not been before.
Sometimes I would complain that mine was such a little part.
"There'll be others," Kitty assured me. "Charles is pleased with you, I can tell. He watches you. He'll have something else for you and each part will be a little better than the one before. We shall soon have you complaining of the number of lines you have to learn."
"If only that could be so!"
"It will, I promise you." And with the coming of the new year, there were other parts. They were still small, but with each one I felt myself creeping nearer to success. Mine was not to be a spectacular rise, such as are dreamed of.