And now here was I in the very Temple of Shakespeare, the Drury Lane Theatre, wherein I was about to witness the show of Macbeth, with no less than David Garrick himself in the primary role. It was all, so to speak, in the line of duty. Sir John, having ascertained his wife’s soporific condition from Mrs. Gredge, had declared that a visit to the theatre was in order. Little as I wished to discourage him from such an expedition, I was curious as to the reason (for Sir John always had his reasons). He explained that the evening’s performance o{ Macbeth had been billed as the farewell of Miss Lucy Kilbourne, who would appear as Lady Macbeth. She was taking an early and unexpected retirement from the stage, and that had put a number of questions in his mind.
So here we sat in the gallery, the balcony above and the pit below, with such a congregation in attendance as I had never before imagined, much less seen. The boxes on either side were filled with the gentry. It would seem that every seat in the house was filled. Was Lucy Kilbourne such a favorite? Indeed she was, Sir John assured me. In less than twelve years’ time she had risen from one of the general company to principal player, and then was elevated still higher by audience acclaim, so that of all the ladies of the theatre who played opposite Mr. Garrick, she was by far the most applauded.
The curtain rose. The play began. I was soon lost in a story that though now well known to me, I had then never seen acted, nor even read. It is indeed a dark story, perhaps Shakespeare’s darkest, and that may be why there seems to be some prejudice against it among players. The prophecies of the witches thrilled me. The plots of Lord and Lady Macbeth baffled me. Each new murder shocked me. I was quite exhausted by the time of the intermission, but was assured by Sir John that there was more to come.
“Would you mind,” he asked, “if we got up and moved about a bit? I am on my backside all the day long and often feel the need to stretch.”
And so we went with care through the crowd, as they milled about and conversed in separate groups in the hall outside the gallery. He was recognized and greeted by some, ignored by most, and stared at as a curiosity by a few who seemed to wonder what a blind man might be doing at the theatre.
“What of Mr. Garrick, Jeremy?”
“He—” I started. “Oh yes, he is Macbeth, is he not? In truth, Sir John, I had quite forgot they were actors on the stage. It all unfolds in a manner so real.”
“His performance convinced you then?” “Oh, indeed. He does not move much about the stage as I saw some do in Lichfield, shouting and throwing their arms about.”
“There is no necessity,” said Sir John. “He has the music of the poet’s words. That is all he needs.” Then he added: “And indeed all I need.”
It was at that moment that I spied the familiar figure of one whom I would have wished us to avoid. In one dark corner, alone, leaning against the wall, was Mr. Charles Clairmont. He had seen us. He smiled his crooked smile and started in our direction. I let out an exclamation of surprise and consternation.
“What is it, boy?”
“Mr. Clairmont,” said I. “He is coming to us.”
“Well and good. Why not?”
“Will I not be an embarrassment to you, considering how you presented me to him earlier?”
“Leave that to me.”
And in a moment Mr. Clairmont was upon us, having scuttled through the crowd in a manner so quick it surprised me.
“Ah, Sir John, what good fortune to meet you again so soon! What brings you here tonight?”
“Shakespeare,” said Sir John simply.
“Then you come often?”
“Often enough.”
“And your young companion? If I remember aright, he was serving out a sentence when last I saw him.”
“True,” said Sir John, “true, but you will recall, Mr. Clairmont, that I told you I did not hold with whipping or flogging?”
“I do, yes.”
“I believe in rewards, rather. He did a tolerably good job cleaning my chambers, or so I am told, and so I decided to reward him with a visit to the theatre.”
Mr. Clairmont then gave me a look which I can only describe as skeptical. “Lucky lad,” said he.
“But tell me,” said Sir John, “what brings you here tonight?”
“Ah, well, here I am a visitor in a city I once called home. I rattle about, looking for amusement and thought I might find it here.”
”Macbeth is not what I should term an amusing play.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Clairmont, “but entertaining in the higher sense.”
“Ah, no doubt. But this performance is to be the last, I understand, by Miss Lucy Kilbourne. Did that attract you?”
“I made note. Tickets were damnably difficult to obtain because of it. I’m not accustomed to the gallery.”
“She was a friend of your late brother’s. He was something in the nature of her patron.”
“So I’m given to understand,” said Mr. Clairmont. “That made me curious to see her, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Sir John, “and what think you of her talent?”
“Very highly. Her Lady Macbeth is a properly ruthless bitch.”
“She might not thank you for that description, yet it seems accurate enough. Strange, don’t you think, that she should choose to retire from the stage with so much of her career before her?”
“Perhaps. Yet I know nothing of life behind the curtain. I am satisfied simply to be one of the audience.”
“And amused?”
“Yes, amused and entertained.” Mr. Clairmont looked about and noted what I myself had observed some moments before: “Ah, but I see that it is time to return to the theatre. The play is about to resume.”
“Good evening then,” said Sir John. “Who knows when our paths will cross again?”
His hand was offered, and it was taken and given a manly shake.
“Whenever that should come to pass, may it be a happy occasion. Well met,” said Mr. Clairmont, “and a good evening to you!”
Then he parted from us, moving swiftly through the crowd, disappearing into it; as we, for our part, proceeded to a door at the opposite end and thence to our seats.
Once we had settled in, Sir John said to me: “An interesting farewell on his part, don’t you think, Jeremy? ‘May it be a happy occasion.’ Hmm. Well, he has nothing to fear from me if he has told the truth.”
The remainder of the show of Macbeth brought further excitation to me with the reappearance of the witches and with them their mistress, Hecate, and the incidence of more murder still. Yet embarrassed by my earlier confession to Sir John, I sought to keep firmly in mind that these were actors, and the story they told was, after all, just a story. Thus I gave particular attention to the performance of Lucy Kilbourne, since she had provided the occasion for our visit.
She was indeed a favorite of the audience. Earlier, I had noted an intake of breath from the pit as Macbeth voiced a certain faintness of heart, and Mistress Kilbourne as Lady Macbeth scolded him thus: “We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.” A murmur ensued as she oudined the plan of Duncan’s murder. And then, as the end drew near, and she wandered about the stage in her fit of repentant madness, the entire audience applauded her exit; it proved to be her last appearance.
There was a great thunder of approval as the last curtain came down. The players made their reappearance and were given their separate ovations, none greater than Mr. Garrick’s or Mistress Kil-bourne’s. At a signal from Mr. Garrick, all left the stage save Mistress Kilbourne. Again, applause rang out for her. She listened to it, smiled sweetly, then ended it with a wave of her hand.
“My dear friends,” she began. “This is a sad occasion, but there is some joy in it, as well. For the sadness I feel in going is lifted somewhat by the happiness I feel in the affection you show me this night. What I wish to say to you all is expressed in some lines that were penned by me with the help of a friend. It is to my great sorrow that this dear friend did not live to help me through this occasion, yet—”
A sudden whisper of “Goodhope … Goodhope” went through her audience, followed by a murmur of comment.
“And” said she, raising her voice above the noise of the crowd, “if he were here, he would be as proud of the consideration you have given me, and as grateful to you for it, as I most certainly am. If I may—”
With that, she began her recitation, a smallish figure on the stage, still dressed in antique Scots garb. Yet she commanded the attention of the audience as might the King himself have done on the most solemn state occasion. There was no word, no whisper, as all seemed to bend in concentration to grasp each word she delivered with gesture and flourish:
To you my patrons, all my thanks be due, As I with sorrow take my leave of you. Let not your hearts be heavy, do not repine, For I offer you to hands far abler than mine. May you remember me as one who tried To please, and will honor you whatso betide. And may the stage, to please each virtuous mind. Grow every day more pure and more refined; Refined from grossness, not by foreign skill, Weed out the poison, but be English still.
Merits you have to other realms unknown;
With all their boastings, Shakespeare is your own!
There was silence, and then a great roar of applause and shouting. She curtsied nice, slow, and deep and with gravity. The curtains closed, and though the applause continued, they did not reopen. Gradually the tumult subsided, and the audience began slowly to make for the doors. A number pushed past us, yet Sir John held fast to his seat.
“Should we be leaving?” I asked him.
“No, Jeremy, our work here has just begun. Let me know when the house has cleared.”
Then he fell into silence, whether pondering the play or meditating on other matters, I could not rightly conjecture. Nevertheless, silent he sat, and something of the nature of his silence told me he wished not to be disturbed. And so I waited, as he had instructed, until the audience had quite vanished and then informed him that we were alone in the theatre.
He stood. “Point me toward the door,” said he. “And then let us ask our way to Mr. Garrick.”
Passed from usher to stage manager, we made our way backstage, where there was a great hurly-burly of moving and removing. Forest boughs from the final scene were gathered and carried away. Castle walls were hauled up and out. I then realized how cleverly I had been deceived during the last hours.
Led through all this and down some stairs. Sir John was asked whether Mr. Garrick expected him. “Shall I announce you. Sir John?”
“As you see fit,” the magistrate replied. “I have an appointment.”
“Then I shall leave you here at the door,” said the stage manager, and disappeared back up the stairs. Down the hall stood a number of players, still dressed in motley plaid. They talked and joked amongst themselves.
Sir John rapped stoutly on the door with his stick.
“Come ahead,” came a call from behind the door.
And with that we entered a small room crowded with bits and pieces of costume from the play. A small man, not much taller than myself, stood, giving close attention to the mirror before him as he wiped diligently at his face with an oiled cloth. It was difficult to believe this was David Garrick and harder still to think him Macbeth.
Spying us in the mirror, Mr. Garrick turned reluctantly from it and with a ready smile greeted us in friendly fashion. If he and Sir John were not friends, it was plain to me that they were at least well acquainted.
“I’d give you my hand,” said Mr. Garrick, “but it’s quite besmirched with face paint.”
“You must look a proper Red Indian then, David. But here: Let me present to you my young friend, Jeremy Proctor.”
Young friend? That was indeed an elevation from my former status as helper. The smile I offered Mr. Garrick was thus inspired. He held up his greasy hand for my inspection by way of apology, then honored me with a proper bow, which I returned.
“Like you,” said Sir John, “Jeremy is a Lichfield native.”
“Not quite true in my case,” said Mr. Garrick, “though I certainly grew up there.”
“You are much discussed in Lichfield,” said I to him.
“Ah, well. I have family there still. No doubt they keep my name alive.”
“Come now, David,” said Sir John, “modesty is a suit that fits you ill.”
“I try it on from time to time and find it pinches in the chest and shoulders,” said Mr. Garrick, with a wink at me. “Tell me, though, Master Jeremy, does London please you?”
“Beyond my dreams,” said I. “This evening here would be worth a thousand in Lichfield, or any other city in England.”
“You do honor to the Drury Lane, and I thank you,” said he most sincerely. Then: “I do hope. Sir John, that your seats were not too unsatisfactory.”
“By no means. Mr. Wren designed an auditory marvel in this place. I heard perfectly. And we thank you for the tickets.”
“My pleasure, truly. But you deserve a box, and I regret I could not provide it: All this damnable fuss with the farewell performance of her highness.” Mr. Garrick hesitated, then with a look of frank curiosity, he added: “I’d no idea you were one of her enthusiasts.”
“Of Mistress Kilbourne? In all truth, I am in no special way devoted to her, though I credit her with a good performance tonight.”
“The woman can act. I’ll give her that.”
“No, my interest lies in her conduct offstage. She figures somewhat in an inquiry now under way.”
“Ah-hah! I thought it! Might that be in the matter of Lord Goodhope’s death?”
A slow smile spread across Sir John’s ample features. “It might,” said he.
“Murder has been bruited! Is this so?”
“The inquiry is under way, David. It is not yet concluded.”
“But—”
“Please, let me ask a few questions of you.”
“Of mef’ Mr. Garrick seemed a bit taken aback at that. “But of course I shall be happy to respond to any query. I am at your service, Sir John.”
“Very good. Could you tell me, for instance, just when Lucy Kilbourne informed you of her decision to leave your company? I understand it all came about quite suddenly.”
“Well, it was certainly a surprise to me,” said Mr. Garrick. “That must have been something between ten days and two weeks past. In fact, it constituted a breach of her contract with the theatre, but she had dreamed up this plan for a farewell performance and bought me off with that. I give her credit. She filled every seat in the house tonight. It was not me they came to see.”