The True Story of a Sable Maid’s Appearance in the 18th Century

Words by Zoë Brigley and Frances Turpin | Poem by Jenny Mitchell

It was reported this month that Francesca Amewudah-Rivers, who has been chosen to play Juliet in a London production of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’, has been subject to swathes of online racial abuse. In response, 800 Black actors signed an open letter in solidarity with the actor. 

I response to this news, we’re featuring a poem by Jenny Mitchell which highlights the event and Black women’s right to creative self-expression. She writes in solidarity, telling a story from the past about the little-known Irish actress Rachael Baptiste who played Juliet in the 18^th century. 

This poem was first published by Culture Matters and is reproduced here with their generous permission.

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The True Story of a Sable Maid’s Appearance in the 18th Century

My skin’s not black as night but close, yet I played Juliet. When chains were held 
towards my feet, I danced across the stage – a quadrille at a ball – and though 
his skin is white – not dove but tanned, Italia close to Africa – my love 
was booed into the wings when first he saw my face and said – 

It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night, 
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear;
beauty too rich to use, for earth too dear! 
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows – 

The rest was lost as slow hands clapped till rebels in us both said Kiss. A long, slow 
grind with hips as well, my Romeo alert between the folds of a white dress, 
diaphanous enough, they said, to show I was no virgin child but broken 
by a team of men as all black girls are damned as whores. 

Those villains in the audience threatened to bombard the stage, then pull it down.
And with the weight of envy on their heads, they also called for blood, 
expecting mine to run black as the heart they said I had. To save our lives, 
my Romeo and I ran to the balcony where he adored me more with this –

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief.

We gulped a drink, but black or close enough is never weak so death 
was not our fate. No poison in the end but Romeo and me asleep. Believing 
we were robbed of life, the audience walked from the hall with howls 
that echo still, insisting on a clear divide when white descends from black. 

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