A persistent drizzle greeted them next morning but it could neither soil memories of their triumph on the previous day nor dampen their enthusiasm for the performance that lay ahead. Rain, sleet or snow would have no effect at all on them. Westfield’s Men were due to play at Court, and that made them impervious to bad weather. When they actually went into the banqueting hall at the palace, their spirits rose even higher. It was the ideal place in which to stage a play.
The hall was long but quite broad and its high ceiling gave an impression of more space than really existed. The floor was polished oak and the walls were covered with a series of portraits in gilt frames. Tall windows allowed light to flood in from both sides. If need be, curtains could be drawn and candelabra used to illumine the stage. All the benefits of an indoor performance were at their beck and call.
There was even a dais at one end of the hall for the regular music recitals that were held there. Nicholas Bracewell had merely to increase its size to accommodate the swirling action of a five-act drama. Doors on both sides of the stage gave access to an ante-chamber which was immediately designated as their tiring-house. The rehearsal was virtually painless and Firethorn only had to upbraid them once. Even George Dart got everything right. Voices and instruments carried beautifully. Everything pointed to another theatrical victory.
But it was not to be. The problems began with the choice of play. After being forced to stage two comedies that would be more accessible to foreign audiences, Lawrence Firethorn asserted his authority and demanded the right to exhibit his talent in a more serious drama. The Corrupt Bargain caused a faint tremor when its selection was first announced.
It was a fine play but the company remembered its last performance only too well. Incapacitated by a raging toothache, Firethorn had been unable to take the leading role. His deputy, Ben Skeat, an old and trusted actor, had suffered a heart attack in the middle of the play and died onstage. Though the company had somehow struggled on without their protagonist, it was an experience which had scarred their souls. Superstition clung tenaciously.
The excellent rehearsal stilled most of their doubts. Even in its attenuated state, Firethorn’s portrayal of the exiled Duke Alonso of Genoa quickened the pulse of all who saw it. He brought a subtle power and a deep pathos that Ben Skeat could never have matched, and the latter’s tragic departure from the text soon faded from memory. Every part he touched, Firethorn made his own, and Duke Alonso was no exception. With such a striking performance at its heart, The Corrupt Bargain became a far more interesting and exciting play. Its author, Edmund Hoode, dared to hope that it could be redeemed from the obscurity into which it had been cast.
Mishaps were only minor at first. James Ingram tore a sleeve as he was putting on his costume, George Dart cut his hand while testing the edge of the executioner’s axe and Richard Honeydew broke a string while practising on the lute. Such normal accidents were taken in their stride, as was Barnaby Gill’s last-minute outburst of pique at the way his preference for Cupid’s Folly had been brutally ignored. By the time of the performance, Nicholas had everything and everyone in the tiring-house completely under control once more.
Unfortunately, his supervision did not extend to the audience. From the sounds which they heard seeping through to them, they knew that they were graced by a large and august assembly. There would be no standees here, no common folk straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the action over the heads of the crowd in front of them. Everyone was seated. The usual hubbub of the Queen’s Head was now a subdued murmur. The Corrupt Bargain would be watched with close attention and reverence.
That, at least, was their conviction as they launched the piece on the placid waters of the Archbishop’s Palace. It floated smoothly at first. Owen Elias earned muted applause for the Prologue and Edmund Hoode impressed as a kindly Provost. Honeydew’s first song drew sighs of contentment from the ladies while their husbands wondered if they really were looking at a boy in female attire and studied his anatomy and movement with fascination. Colorful costumes and clever scenic devices gave the drama an added lift. Understandably nervous at first, the company soon found its rhythm.
Then Firethorn made his entrance and there was a gasp of astonishment. The actor put this down to his extraordinary presence on a stage and he hurled himself into his first speech with gusto. Disguised as a friar, the exiled Duke had returned to Genoa to regain power from his duplicitous younger brother, Don Pedro. Firethorn was busily explaining his plan in rhyming couplets when his eye fell on the noble figures seated in the front row. He had no difficulty in identifying the Archbishop of Cologne in his sacerdotal robes, nor could he fail to notice the splendour of the Duke of Bavaria. It was the man who sat between them who caused him to falter.
Not only was the guest wearing a habit identical to that of Firethorn’s, his swarthy complexion and Mediterranean cast of features marked him as an Italian. Bernado of Savona was the Abbot of the Monastery of Saint Peter. Though he spoke no English, he heard his native Genoa mentioned time and again. It persuaded him that Duke Alonso was less of a noble hero than a comic figure who was there primarily to mock him. As the Abbot’s discomfiture grew, consternation spread throughout the audience. The corrupt bargain which they saw was a theatre company in league with the Protestants to subvert the monastic traditions of the Roman Catholic Church.
Once the notion had a hold on the audience, it was very hard to dispel. Firethorn, the putative hero, began to attract glares and hisses. The rest of the company struggled on manfully but the frown remained on the face of Bernado of Savona. Only the inspired clowning of Barnaby Gill brought any relief. His songs amused them and his jigs diverted them, but even he fell foul of a staid gathering when obscene gestures which always won guffaws elsewhere were now met with stony silence. The tiring-house was a place of mourning.
‘They hate us,’ wailed Gill. ‘It is the wrong play.’
‘No!’ insisted Firethorn. ‘It is the right play. We happen to have offered it to the wrong audience.’
‘You have estranged them, Lawrence.’
‘They need a little wooing, that is all.’
‘We are deep into Act Three,’ complained Hoode, ‘and they are still hostile. Clearly, they despise my play.’
‘The Archbishop wrinkled his nose at me,’ said Elias.
‘The Duke of Bavaria yawned during my last song,’ said Gill in a tone of outrage. ‘I blame Lawrence for this.’
‘There is no point in blaming anyone,’ said Nicholas, swiftly interceding. ‘The play must run its course and there is still time to win them over.’
‘Not while my double sits glowering in the front row,’ said Firethorn. ‘He could teach Marwood how to pull faces.’
‘Your appearance offends him.’
‘It has been offending me for years,’ sneered Gill.
‘What can I do, Nick?’ asked Firethorn, ignoring the gibe. ‘Were I the villain, I could understand their dislike of me. But I am the hero, garbed like a holy friar. I am a symbol of all that is good and wholesome. Wherein lies my sin?’
‘Your disguise,’ said Nicholas.
‘It is the only way that Alonso may return to Genoa.’
‘Discard it in the next scene.’
‘But I only reveal myself in the last act.’
‘Do so earlier.’
‘That would ruin my play!’ protested Hoode.
‘No, Edmund,’ said the book-holder. ‘It may rescue it.’
Firethorn was baffled. ‘How do I maintain my disguise?’
‘Wear a hat and a cloak. Hug the corners of the stage. Turn your face away from people who might recognise you. As long as you pose as a friar, The Corrupt Bargain is doomed. Abandon the cowl and show them who you really are.’
‘Madness!’ opined Gill.
‘A betrayal of my work!’ exclaimed Hoode.
> ‘It may well be both,’ said Firethorn, frantically weighing the implications. ‘But it may also be our only salvation. What is more important? The fate of one paltry drama or the standing of Westfield’s Men?’
‘It is not a paltry drama, Lawrence!’
‘Perform it as written and we sink into further ignominy. Amend the play and we may hang on to our reputation.’ He heard the music which introduced his next scene. ‘It is decided. I am sorry, Edmund. We must all make sacrifices for our art.’
Leaving Hoode in tears, he charged back onstage, to be met by the same wall of antagonism. The Archbishop of Cologne was glaring at him, the Duke of Bavaria was curling his lip and Abbot Bernado looked as if he was about to excommunicate the actor. Firethorn took them all by surprise. Striding to the very edge of the dais, he tore off his cowl to reveal his ducal attire and stood before the audience in his true character. The measured voice of a friar now became the mighty roar of a dispossessed ruler. In the space of one glorious minute, he transformed a room full of grumbling enemies into an appreciative audience. At the end of his speech, it was the Italian Abbot who first put his tentative palms together to applaud.
Not all of the damage could be repaired, and vestigial doubts remained in the minds of the spectators. But the emergence of Duke Alonso into the light of day helped to salvage a great deal. The plot was now clarified, the hero identified and the embattled heroine—the winsome Richard Honeydew—able to reap her full harvest of sympathy as she was confronted with a stark choice between yielding her body to the tyrant or watching her brother die. The Corrupt Bargain was at last allowed to work its spell upon the audience.
Behind the scenes, its author was quite inconsolable.
‘This play has a curse upon it, Nick!’ he moaned.
‘That curse has just been lifted,’ said Nicholas as another round of applause rang out in the hall. ‘Listen to them, Edmund. They are hailing your work.’
‘What they are clapping is a travesty of my play. When Lawrence flung off his disguise, he altered the whole direction of the piece. We have had to improvise in every scene.’
‘With great success.’
‘But at a hideous cost.’
‘Be comforted,’ said Nicholas. ‘It remains a fine play.’
‘Not when it is savaged like this,’ retorted Hoode. ‘I do not know which is worse. Ben Skeat dying in the middle of The Corrupt Bargain or Lawrence Firethorn coming to life as the Duke of Alonso two acts before he is due to do so. The play is bewitched.’
‘So—at last—is our noble audience.’
‘Not by my art. They watch dribbling idiocy out there.’
Nicholas felt sorry for his friend, but the book-holder’s main concern was to keep the action moving. He signalled to George Dart to carry a bench onstage, then waved Owen Elias and James Ingram into position for the next scene. Actors who had been coming into the tiring-house with sad faces now showed a smiling eagerness to go back onstage. They knew that the tide of disapproval had at last been turned.
Success was modified by the earlier failure of the play. There was still a lingering suspicion in some minds that Roman Catholicism had been ridiculed. When they came out to take their bows, the actors were given pleasant smiles and polite applause. After their sustained ovation on the previous day, this was a decidedly tepid response, but at least they had won their audience over. Their cherished reputation had been partially vindicated.
Disappointment ensued. Expecting to be presented to the dignitaries, Firethorn and his company were dismayed to find themselves paid off and ushered out of the Palace. Instead of being treated as distinguished players, they were summarily dismissed like unwanted servants. As they made their disgruntled way to the inn, Firethorn sat in the first wagon beside Nicholas. The actor-manager was seething.
‘That was shameful!’ he railed. ‘We gave our all and they turned their aristocratic backs on us.’
‘Only to avoid embarrassment,’ suggested Nicholas.
‘Embarrassment?’
‘We caused unwitting offence with our play.’
‘How was I to know that my twin would be sitting in the front row? And from Genoa! What greater misfortune could we have faced? My performance must have seemed like a personal attack on him.’
‘You retrieved the situation superbly.’
‘Only at your instigation, Nick. If I’d kept that damnable cowl on until the final scene, I’d probably have been hanged from the rafters by now! Did they not recognise great acting when it was offered to them?’
‘They were overcome by it,’ said Nicholas tactfully. ‘You were too convincing in the habit of a friar. That is why your portrayal had such an effect on them.’
‘I never thought of it that way,’ said Firethorn, his ire cooling somewhat. ‘You may be right. I was the victim of my own brilliance in the role. That is some recompense. And there is more in that purse they gave us. What did it hold?’
‘Several florins.’
‘Money is the best kind of applause.’
While Firethorn slowly rallied, the rest of the company was still morose and Hoode was almost suicidal. For the second time in succession, his play had been hacked to pieces in the name of expediency. It was a dispirited troupe which trickled back into the White Cross. A familiar face awaited them.
The Burgomaster swooped with a beaming smile.
‘Wizzfeld’s Men!’ he gushed. ‘Danke! Danke vielmals!’
‘What is he saying?’ asked Firethorn.
‘He is thanking us,’ explained Nicholas.
‘For what?’
‘Visit to the Palace,’ said the Burgomaster. ‘The play, they no like very much. I hear, I have friends in Palace. Our play, we love. You give the city the best. Thank you, my good friends. This I give to Wizzfeld’s Men.’
And he pressed a bag of coins into Firethorn’s hand.
‘What have we done to earn this?’ said the actor.
‘Put the city of Köln first. We love you. Danke.’
He embraced Firethorn, kissed him on both cheeks, gave a cheery wave to the rest of the company, then went out, chuckling happily. The Burgomaster was delighted with their setback at the Palace. He believed that the company had deliberately chosen its finest play to offer to the city while reserving an inferior one for the Archbishop and his guests. Firethorn used the unexpected bounty in the most practical way.
‘Order a feast!’ he said, tossing the money to Elias. ‘We will spend our last night here in revelry. And do not be downhearted,’ he told his company. ‘We have only been rebuffed by an Archbishop, a Duke, and a mere Abbot today. They are of no significance to a company which will soon be winning plaudits from an Emperor.’
***
Rudolph II, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia, sat on his throne in full regalia. His vestments were embroidered with gold thread and his heavy crown resembled a bishop’s mitre which had been turned sideways to reveal a band of gold surmounted by a tiny cross. Held in his left hand, the massive sword of state rested on its point. The sceptre of office was held in his other hand and rested on his shoulder. He exuded a sense of quiet power and majesty. In outward appearance, he was an archetypal Defender of the Faith. All that Rudolph needed to do was to decide exactly which faith he was defending.
The distinctive Hapsburg face was devoid of expression. Large, protruding eyes gazed unseeing into the distance. The nose was like the beak of a bird, the undershot chin was the family signature. The drooping lower lip moved imperceptibly as he talked to himself. Rudolph was now in his fortieth year, but the weight of his melancholia made him seem older. His attitude suggested a man who was rueful about the years which had passed and fearful about those to come.
Studying him intently, the Milanese artist was undeterred by his subject’s mood of dejection. He saw what he
wished to see and his brush transposed his vision to the canvas. Short, fat and amiable, he offered a complete contrast to the sad, motionless figure on the throne. The artist was bristling with nervous energy and constantly shifted his feet or shrugged his expressive shoulders. They were alone in the Presence Chamber at the castle. The portrait was slowly taking shape.
A staff rapped on the door, then it swung open to admit the tall, spare figure of the Chamberlain. He padded across the marble floor to take up a position at the Emperor’s right ear. Rudolph gave no indication that he was aware of his visitor. The arrival of the Chamberlain in no way distracted the artist. His brush worked away at the same busy pace as before.
Clearing his throat noisily, the newcomer spoke in German with a mixture of deference and irritation. It was difficult to hold a conversation with a man who had absented himself from the world and its immediate responsibilities.
‘The Papal Nuncio is here,’ he announced.
‘Why?’ mumbled Rudolph.
‘He has an appointment to see you.’
‘Cancel it.’
‘You have already cancelled two appointments with him,’ said the Chamberlain. ‘He comes on important business.’
‘From the Pope?’
‘Of course, Your Imperial Highness.’
‘Then we know what he is going to say.’
‘It would be a kindness to hear him say it.’
‘I will. In time.’
‘When? Later today? Tomorrow? The day after?’
‘When I feel able to face him.’
‘The Papal Nuncio grows impatient.’
‘That is his privilege.’
‘You cannot go on refusing to see visitors.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is not politic, Your Imperial Highness.’
‘I am not a political animal.’
Rudolph set the sword and sceptre aside before lifting the crown from his head and setting it on his lap. He turned his wondering eyes on the Chamberlain.
‘What else have you come to tell me?’
The Fair Maid of Bohemia Page 15