Jane Austen’s First Love (22 page)

“She seems to have her heart set on playing Hermia,” replied I, adding guardedly: “Perhaps I should not mention it, knowing how absolutely opposed you are to the idea; but I feel certain that she is counting on you, Mr. Cage, to play her fiancé Demetrius.”

He hesitated. “Is she? I will be sorry to disappoint her. Even if I
were
interested in being part of the company, I could not play Demetrius.”

“Why not?” asked I.

“I cannot admire him. His infatuation with Hermia caused him to turn his back on Helena, the woman to whom he was once engaged. He is a morally corrupt man.”

“What do you care?” cried Mr. Deedes. “It is a character in a play, and one of the heroes of the piece at that! Actors portray scoundrels far more villainous every day; certainly, no one judges the person who is playing a part.”

“Very true,” said I, “and I beg to differ with your assessment, Mr. Cage. Demetrius is not morally corrupt; he is merely human. His abandonment of Helena is a necessary element to the conflict of the story. We do not begrudge Demetrius his change of heart; it only gives him a direction in which to grow and change, and
us
something to hope for.”

Mr. Cage took this in, and appeared to be thinking it over (which I took as a point in my favour); but before he could respond, Mr. Deedes cried eagerly:

“Wait—never mind Demetrius! You ought to play Hermia’s lover, Lysander. Really, you must, Cage. It would be a tremendous case of life imitating art.”

“Life imitating art?” repeated Mr. Cage. He seemed intrigued.

I was alarmed by this suggestion, for it did not fit with my plans at all. “Lysander is too passionate a character, I think,” said I, “to suit Mr. Cage’s taste; and his morals are surely even lower than those of Demetrius, for he desires and pursues his friend’s fiancée. However, perhaps
you
, Mr. Deedes, would not be offended by the thought of playing Lysander?”

“Me?”

“Lysander is lively, charming, and well-spoken; I believe nothing could suit you better.”

“Do you really think so?—That is an excellent part. Well; let us see what the others think. That is—if you are quite sure you do not want it, Cage.”

“I should never think of playing
Lysander
,” insisted Mr. Cage.

My heart quickened, for in the way he emphasised the character’s name, I thought I detected a certain something, which indicated a lessening of disinclination for playing a part in
general
, but only an aversion to playing Lysander in
particular
.

We had nearly reached the church now, where Fanny and Sophia stood waiting by the portico. As we made our final approach, I said pointedly: “Demetrius is a conscientious gentleman, with only one very relatable flaw; and
he
is the one betrothed to Hermia. If you like the notion of life imitating art, Mr. Cage, you can do no better than that. Only think how pleased Fanny would be, were you to play that part! But if you do not—well, it will be interesting to see who
else
,
besides your friend, ends up making love to your fiancée.”

Mr. Cage’s countenance drained of colour. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned from me and joined his waiting lady. Mr. Deedes bowed to Sophia; all closed and shook off their umbrellas, and proceeded into the church.

Watching them go, I felt an immediate pang of conscience. I had no wish to make Mr. Cage
truly
uncomfortable, but only to put into play such steps as might be required to help him recognise and rectify a relationship which I knew to be a terrible mistake.

Had I gone too far? Was he offended, or would my manoeuvrings result in a positive effect?

Only time would tell.

Later that morning, Edward Taylor joined my brother Edward and me at a corner table in the drawing-room (whose furniture remained intact for the moment, the grand removal from the dining-room postponed until the next day), where we shared our views with regard to the casting of the play.

“If there is no objection,” said my brother at the start, “I should like to play Oberon.”

We all agreed that he would make a very fine King of the Fairies.

“I imagine you as Nick Bottom,” I told Edward Taylor. “I realise it is a very great undertaking—I believe he has the most lines—but you said you preferred a comic role, and there is nobody more humorous than Bottom.”

“Yes—thank you—why not?” replied Edward Taylor. “Bottom is a very deluded and ridiculous fellow—to play him would prove both a challenge and an amusement.”

I struggled to contain my delight. This was going very well, indeed. Now, I had only to put forth my preferred role for myself. “I was thinking I could play Titania.”

“Titania? Oh, no,” insisted my brother. “You can never be Titania, Jane;
that
part can only be played by Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth?” cried I, dismayed. “But she said she wished to be Puck.”

“She told me, only this very morning, that she wished to be Titania; and I could not agree more.”

“But—I had my heart set on playing Titania.”

“Did you? I am sorry, but a brother and sister cannot play those parts; they are lovers; it would never do. Elizabeth alone must be my Queen of the Fairies.”

“You will make a very handsome pair indeed,” agreed Edward Taylor, adding, “Jane: you ought to play Puck.”

“Puck?” My heart sank. “Puck is a male role.”

“
Every
role in Shakespeare is a male role, when it comes down to it,” responded Edward Taylor.

“True! If men could play women in Shakespeare’s time, then let
us
be equally as liberal, and allow
women to play men
,” said my brother. “I have heard you read aloud, Jane, and seen you perform; although it was some years ago, you had a great gift for it
then
, and I can only imagine that you have improved since. As such I can only second the motion, that you should be Puck.”

I was too devastated to reply. I had lost out on the role which was so important to me, and instead I should be playing a man!

“Do not look so downcast, Jane,” added my brother. “Have you forgotten how marvellous and important is the role of Puck?”

“He is, arguably, the leading part in the play,” noted Edward Taylor. “It requires someone of a particular talent—which I feel certain you possess.”

At length, I forced a smile. If I could not be Titania, then Puck was indeed a most excellent part; I knew I should be flattered and content. “I accept; that is, if you think all the others will agree.”

“Let us not leave it up to the others,” said my brother. “That will lead only to chaos and confusion. I say,
we
are managing the play, therefore
we
ought to assign the parts. If anyone objects to his own casting, we can listen and reconsider.”

I quickly admitted to a similar view, and shewed them the list I had written out, with all the parts and actors specified. We went over it together, and with only a few exceptions, they thought my ideas to be sound. Their only change was to insist that Marianne ought to play the fairy in Act II Scene 1, for although it was a charming part, it was small enough that it would not tire her beyond her strength; and Charlotte Payler would be the ideal person to play Flute. This development I did not welcome.

“Are you certain Miss Payler is the proper person for that role?” said I. “Again, it is a man’s part; and she is so reserved and silent.”

“Flute has very few lines until the craftsmen’s play,” countered Mr. Taylor, “and then
he
plays a young woman—a sweet and lovely young woman. What could be more appropriate?”

My brother agreed with this assessment. I was disconsolate. Mr. Taylor’s description was sincere, and conveyed such affection for its object, as to reawaken with sudden force all my feelings of jealousy and insecurity. Now, Charlotte Payler would be in nearly every scene with Edward Taylor—and worse yet, would perform opposite him as Thisbe to his Pyramus! Oh! Was there to be no end to my travails where Charlotte Payler was concerned?

The only thing which concerned my two Edwards was that Mr. Cage had refused to be involved.

“If he does not play Demetrius, I do not know who else should,” said Edward Taylor.

Our worries proved to be groundless, for when the entire company assembled an hour later in the same room with copies of the book in hand, Mr. Cage was among them, and said that
if
Fanny was to play Hermia or Helena, then he would be amenable to undertaking the part of Demetrius—should anyone wish it. Mr. Deedes attempted once again to persuade his friend to play Lysander, a role he still considered more suited to him, but Mr. Cage was resolved.

Everybody was pleased with the parts assigned to them except for Brook Edward, Charles, Frederic, and Harry Payler, who wanted first to know how many lines had been given to each, and only after receiving the assurance that their parts were very nearly equal as to length, could be content. At my suggestion we offered the part of Egeus to Sir Brook, who responded with a hearty laugh that he should be “very glad to play the father to his own daughter, but we should be forewarned that he had not been obliged to learn lines by heart since he was at school, and was not certain he retained the facility.”

Costumes were discussed, with the conclusion that, as the play was set in ancient Athens, we could simply fashion togas from white bed-sheets, and secure them with a kind of belt.

“The fairies can be similarly attired,” proposed Cassandra, “although
their
dresses might be in colour and more elaborate.”

My brother Edward commended this suggestion, and ever the master of delegation, immediately charged Cassandra with the duty of taking charge of costumes, to which she readily acceded. A review was made of the plans for the staging area, and the two Edwards and I agreed to work together to find such furniture and properties as might be required.

Many of the important matters were now settled, and I was pleased; for my casting scheme had, with two exceptions, met with all my hopes; and the task before me—to help shepherd a play into being, while at the same time gently manoeuvring a few of the players into making them aware of their real feelings—was an undertaking which would surely hold all my attention for the coming fortnight, and prove enjoyable.

A
t the first reading, it became clear that our exercise was to be more challenging than I had anticipated.

Sir Brook joined the rest of us as we squeezed onto chairs and sofas around the room, with the younger boys scattered on the floor, many of us obliged to share books as we read. The two smallest boys, John and George Bridges, as their roles were so minor, were excused. From the first lines spoken I realised to my dismay that Mr. Cage had been quite prescient. I had not truly considered the difficulty of reading with any kind of flair or style when one has little or no experience of acting—much less reading a work entirely in verse, of such verbal complexity as Shakespeare.

The result proved somewhat dreadful. Words were mangled, mispronounced, or missed entirely, often removing all meaning from the speech; great gaps ensued in the dialogue, when people did not notice it was their turn to speak; some talked too low or too rapidly, while others were slow and faltering. In the couples’ scenes, the players did not read their lines in such a manner as to render them anything resembling romantic. Sir Brook dozed through most of it, snoring occasionally; Harry Payler complained that he did not have enough to do, and found the whole thing deadly dull; Brook Edward proclaimed it the worst play he had ever heard, and wondered why we had not chosen something else. Fanny was angry to discover, in Act III, that through misapplied magic, the two men who had worshipped Hermia in Act I now hated her and preferred Helena (“You never mentioned
that
, Jane!” cried she). She sulked through many pages until the resolution at last restored Hermia to her “beloved.”

There were, however, several high points: Mr. Cage, for all his former insistence that he could not and would not act, proved to have more skill than expected. My brother Edward brought Oberon to life with just the right degree of pompous self-assurance and kingliness. Although I still coveted the role of Titania, I could not deny that Puck was a tremendous part. Sophia was so gentle, funny, and modest in a role which required her to be constantly self-deprecating, that she inspired real sympathy from all.

Charlotte surprised me—and everyone—by reading her lines with a real dramatic flair. When Edward Taylor, astonished and proud, complimented her on her ability, she blushed modestly and only said that she loved Shakespeare and poetry.

Mr. Taylor, even in the simple act of reading lines from a book, proved to be the most accomplished actor among us; everybody said so. He had great confidence and a talent for expression beyond anything I had ever met with, and brought such a depth of humour to the role of Bottom, as had everybody laughing until tears came to our eyes.

His performance reminded me—all of us, I believe—what pleasure a play might give; and gave us all hope that, with great effort, perhaps we
might
be able to accomplish something creditable after all.

Midsummer’s Eve was only twelve days off, and the amount of work to be done in that length of time was acutely felt by everyone. A rehearsal schedule was drawn up on the spot, and we all vowed to devote the evening to studying our lines.

The next morning, the dining-room was once again emptied of most of its furniture, with only a few chairs remaining, while several other pieces were brought in to serve as part of the set. Thenceforward that chamber was referred to, with great enjoyment, as
the theatre
; and many long hours were spent within its four walls over the ensuing days, blocking out and rehearsing the play. Although progress was at first slow, in time the production progressed. I dedicated a great deal of time to copying out scenes for those who did not have books, and to lopping and cropping some of the longer speeches to make them easier to memorise.

An immense roll of green baize was delivered, and Sophia, assisted by several of the maids, took over the duty of making it into a curtain. Sir Brook hired a carpenter as promised to form posts and a frame; and Lady Bridges, after much discussion, approved the rest of the furniture and potted plants requested to dress the scenes. My mother offered to help my sister with costumes, and after a great many bed-sheets were found or furnished from three different households, fashioned them into togas for most of the members of the company.

A quantity of emerald silk and brown satin was discovered in the attic, which Lady Bridges had once thought to have made into gowns; these were dispositioned for the fairies. “The colours are ideal,” enthused Cassandra, “as they reflect nature and the earth; and we shall adorn the fairies’ costumes with flowers fashioned from colourful fabric, and real flower wreaths for their heads.” The fairies were to also have wings made of silk and wire.

The enthusiasm of the company rapidly became evident, as pairs or small groups began to coordinate rehearsals of their own in various rooms all over the house. My brother Edward and Elizabeth were indefatigable rehearsers; he and I spent long hours independently working on Oberon and Puck. I had a great many lines to learn, and applied myself to the task. I was secretly elated to discover, on several occasions, Cassandra and Thomas Payler working together in the billiard room (now the green-room), Fanny meeting with Mr. Deedes in the library, and Sophia and Mr. Cage exchanging lines on the back lawn.

Not everything went according to plan. The youngest children were so full of energy as to be a handful, but Marianne and Cassandra, whose parts were relatively small, took charge of keeping them occupied and out of trouble. Christopher Payler, although adept as Quince, never appeared on time, and his brother Harry could not remember when or where he was to move on the stage. Frederic Fielding, despite having only sixteen lines (and brief ones at that), still could not get through a single one without help. Everyone became disgusted with him except his mother, who (upon observing a rehearsal one morning) applauded his every word with eagerness, and regretted that his part was not more considerable.

By the end of the first week, though, many had learned their lines, and most were more at ease with the text. Elizabeth played the fairy queen as self-centred, passionate, and slightly wanton, an accomplishment which I considered less wonderful in that it required her only to give a performance true to her own nature. Sir Brook brought vigour and dignity to the role of Egeus, and we were grateful to have an elder presence in that role. Charles and Brook Edward began to sense the excitement in what we were putting together, and to find pride in both the play itself, and in being a part of it.

Fanny read her part with real enjoyment, spirit, and abandon, proving that her own opinion of her abilities was not without merit. On several occasions, both on the stage and off, I observed her flirting rather outrageously with Mr. Deedes, and laughing and whispering in his ear, behaviour which always made him blush. Although in their love scenes,
he
was at first reticent (when he and Hermia expressed their love and made a pact to run away together, he kept directing cautious looks at the watching Mr. Cage), in time he performed with more tenderness of expression, so as to emulate a true and mutual attachment between them. To
me
, this progress was elating!

Sophia and Mr. Cage, however, looked on with uncomfortable expressions, prompting Cassandra to say to me: “It must be difficult for Mr. Cage to witness his best friend being so intimate with his fiancée. Sophia is very sympathetic, and seems to feel all his discomfort.”

“It is only acting,” replied I playfully—secretly hoping that it would, in time, prove to be
more
. Shakespeare’s line,
the play’s the thing
, had never been more true or more important.

Everything did indeed appear to be moving in the desired direction; for one morning, I happened upon Mr. Deedes alone in the central hall, where were displayed the four works which had won the painting and sketching contest. He was secretly gazing at Fanny’s painting.

“It is an excellent rendering, is it not, sir?” said I.

“It is indeed, Miss Jane. How skilled she is! She depicts the windmill with such vivid detail, one can almost feel the force of the wind, and imagine the blades to be spinning.” His expression as he spoke left no doubt in my mind, that he not only admired the work, but the person who had painted it!

Just then Fanny entered the hall. I took advantage of the opportunity to say,

“Mr. Deedes was just admiring your painting, Fanny.”

“Was he?” Flattered, she came forward.

Mr. Deedes coloured and paused; finally he said, “You are a consummate artist, Miss Bridges, and very deserving of the prize you won.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After a small hesitation, they fell into a conversation about their love of art in general; filled with delight, I slipped away, leaving them to their own devices.

Later that same morning, I came upon Mr. Cage reading
Gulliver’s Travels
in the library
,
and recognising it as an opportunity, mentioned in an offhand manner that Sophia had expressed a fondness for that particular book.

“Did she indeed?” said he.

“Oh yes; Sophia greatly admires Mr. Swift’s work. I have noticed her frequenting the drawing-room every morning before rehearsal to practise the pianoforte. Perhaps she would enjoy discussing it with you some time?”

I said no more, but as I turned from the room, I noted an intrigued expression on Mr. Cage’s countenance.

As I exited the door, I encountered Cassandra in the hall.

“Jane, what are you doing?”

“I am on my way upstairs to work on my lines.”

“No; I mean just now. I was walking by and overheard you propose a literary discussion between Mr. Cage and Sophia.”

I shrugged and responded innocently, “It just occurred to me that they both enjoy reading.”

She studied me, a wary look on her face. “Is that the only reason you suggested it?”

“Yes—of course—what other motive could I have?”

“That is what puzzles me. I have noticed you watching them both of late with rather fixed attention—and Fanny and Mr. Deedes as well.”

My cheeks grew warm, but I tossed my head, and said emphatically, “I am the assistant director of our play, Cassandra. It is my duty to observe them, and to monitor their progress.”

“I am not talking only of the play, dearest; you watch them when they are off the stage as well. I know you do not like Fanny, and think her and Mr. Cage ill-suited for each other; but you are not qualified to make such a judgement, dearest. It is not a simple matter, to read the depths of the human heart. If you are hoping or expecting that something might come between those two—that would be very wrong indeed.”

“I hope for no such thing!” lied I. “You are letting your imagination run away with you, Cassandra.”

We said no more on the subject. It was distressing, however, to learn how transparent were my thoughts and motives to my sister. I only hoped that no one else could read me as readily.

Early the next morning as I passed the library, I observed Mr. Cage and Sophia deep in a discussion of the very book in question! My heart sang. It was all progressing precisely as I wished! Despite Cassandra’s admonition, I knew that I was doing the right thing. With only a few other subtle promptings, I felt certain that nature would take its course.

To see the play moving forward was delightful to me; to know that all this bustle had been occasioned by
my
idea, was very pleasing; that the planning, rehearsing, and execution required me to see Edward Taylor on a daily basis,
should
have been the most exciting aspect of all. However, to my regret, I could not spend much actual time with him; for not only were we in very few scenes together (and never exchanged any dialogue), but his ease in delivering the lines of Shakespeare (unmatched by anybody else) caused many members of the cast to request his services as a dialogue guide—a service he was happy to provide, and which occupied nearly every moment of the day and evening when he was not absolutely required on the stage.

I say
nearly
because, with the rain continuing incessantly, making it impossible to go without, he could at times be found sitting in a corner playing cards with the Payler boys, and sometimes rolling dice, with real money being wagered. When Lady Bridges and my mother discovered them so engaged one morning, there was a great outcry; but when they applied to Sir Brook in horror, insisting that such activity desist at once, he laughed and said: