That spring of 1602 was warmer than usual, so we began our outdoor season early in May. Unfortunately, it was also wetter than usual. Only when there was a distinct downpour did the sharers call off a performance. This did not mean that we did not work. They might simply call a rehearsal instead, in one of the practice rooms. Or they might send us out to spy on some rival company, such as the Lord Admiral’s Men or the Children of the Chapel Royal, who had begun to get a reputation for their lively comedies and satires.
Though we did not regard a company of children as a serious threat, neither did we wish to underestimate them. So it was that, one sodden day in June, Sander and I were dispatched to the Blackfriars Theatre to see how much of the young upstarts’ reputation was deserved. Since the essence of spying is to go unnoticed, we prentices were the logical choice for the mission, for our faces were not likely to be recognized, unadorned as they were with wigs or face paint.
Blackfriars, which lay just across the Thames from the Globe, was so called because it had once been home to a brotherhood of monks called the Black Friars. The building that housed the theatre had formerly been a guest house. The walls had been removed to create a spacious hall that was lighted, on this gloomy afternoon, by dozens of candles in sconces. While Sander pursued a vendor hawking apples, nuts, and candies, I found us a seat a few rows back from the stage. My neighbor was a burly, sunburned man dressed in the wide-legged trousers and conical wool cap of a seaman. He was chewing as noisily as any cow at some substance that gave off a smell so acrid and spicy it made me screw up my nose.
The sailor grinned, showing teeth that had been brown to begin with and were made more so by the substance he was chewing. “Angelica root,” he said, and a bit of it came flying forth to land upon my sleeve. “’Tis a sovereign protection against the plague.” He tapped the side of his red, prominent nose. “But just to be certain, I’ve stuffed my nose holes with rue and wormwood.”
I felt a chill run up my back. “Why …?” I began, but my throat was thick, and I had to clear it to continue. “Why take such measures now, though? The plague is no particular threat.”
“That may be true here, but …” The man leaned down close to me, as if not wishing all to hear. “I’ve just come from Yarmouth, and they’re dying by the dozens there. The city fathers have taken to shooting dogs, and setting off gunpowder in the streets to clear the air. It’s but a matter of time before the contagion spreads to London—if it hasn’t already.”
I shrank back from the man and his foul, angelica-scented breath. I had known the smell was familiar, but until that moment I had not known why. Now the answer came to me in a flash of memory. I saw myself at the age of seven, standing by my old master, Dr. Bright, as he treated a plague victim. I was heating over a candle flame some concoction of grease and herbs, which the doctor then plastered on the patient’s open sores. The reek of the medicine alone was enough to nauseate; added to it was the putrid stench of the sores themselves and, underneath it all, the bitter presence of the angelica root that lay like a tumor beneath my tongue, gagging me.
Now, with the same scent strong in my nostrils, I felt nausea rising in me again, accompanied by a sickening feeling of dread. Most folk believed that the plague was caused by corrupted air. But according to Dr. Bright’s theory, the contagion spread by means of tiny plague seeds, invisible to the eye, which entered our orifices and took root inside us. When they matured, they bore more seeds that went wafting, like the seeds of a dandelion, on the wind of our breath until they found fertile ground.
I sprang from my seat and made for the rear of the room, meaning to put as much distance between myself and the sailor as I possibly could. As I swam against the incoming tide of playgoers, I collided with Sander, who carried a paper cone filled with roasted hazelnuts. “Why did you not save our spot, Widge?” he asked. “It would have given us a good view of the stage.”
“Too close,” I muttered. “The players’ spittle rains down upon you when they say their t‘s and p‘s. Let’s move back.” Before he could protest, I struggled on to the very last row of benches and plopped down. “This is good,” I said. “An there’s a fire, we’ll be the first ones out.” Agreeable as always, Sander took a seat next to me.
The play was a fairly challenging one—Jonson’s satire The Poetaster—and the Children of the Chapel, who ranged in age from about ten to fourteen or fifteen, were sadly inadequate to the challenge. Though they tried hard to please, mugging and gesturing in an effort to coax laughs from the audience, the whole thing was more in the nature of a pageant than a performance, all surface and no depth.
I leaned over to Sander, meaning to say that I had seen enough. Then the boy who played Horace strode out upon the stage and sang,
“Swell me a bowl with lusty wine,
Till I may see the plump Lyaeus swim
Above the brim:
I drink, as I would write,
In flowing measure, filled with flame, and spright.”
I sat up in surprise. Could it be that there was a real performer among them? The newcomer was tall and thin, with a head of blond curls that would have let him play any of our young ladies’ parts without benefit of a wig. Though he was likely a year or two younger than Sander or me, he had the assurance of an adult actor. His voice was not mature, and it had a rough edge to it, as though he was straining a bit to be heard. Yet he spoke his lines with such authority, such conviction, as to give the feeling not only that he understood them, but that he meant them.
When the boy took his bow, the applause and cheers were not quite as raucous as they had been for Mr. Armin, but they were enough to make me envious. As we left the theatre, Sander said, “Was the blond fellow truly that good, or did he only seem so put up against the others?”
“‘A was truly that good,” I replied. “I’m glad ‘a’s wi’ the Chapel Children and not the Chamberlain’s Men.”
Sander gave me a look of surprise. “Why?”
“Because, an ‘a were wi’ our company, ‘a’d have all the meaty parts, and you and I would ha’ to be content wi’ scraps.”
Sander laughed. “Don’t price yourself so cheaply, Widge. You’re as capable an actor as he is.”
“Liar,” I said, but I couldn’t help feeling grateful for his loyalty. I said nothing about the sailor and his talk of the plague, for I was trying hard not to think about it. Instead, I said, “Did not the fellow who played Tibullus put you in mind of our old friend Nick?”
Sander considered this. “Now that you say it, he did bear a certain resemblance, though I think that Nick, for all his faults, was a better actor. I wonder what’s become of him?”
“‘A’s drunk himself to death, most like, or been gutted by someone in a duel.”
Sander nodded soberly. “It would scarcely surprise me. I never knew anyone so determined to make himself miserable.”
“Not to mention those around him.”
Sander clucked his tongue. “We shouldn’t speak so uncharitably of him. Perhaps he’s learned the error of his ways.”
“Oh, aye,” I replied, “and perhaps a dunghill can learn not to stink.”
The look of disapproval Sander gave me was severely undermined by the snort of laughter that escaped him. We would not have been so quick to laugh had we known how near the mark our jabs had struck.
A few days later, as we were dressing for a performance of What You Will, Sam rushed in, wide-eyed and breathless. “You’ll not believe what I just learned!”
Had I been wearing hose and not a dress, my heart would have sunk into them, for I expected him to reveal that there had been an outbreak of the contagion in the city. Instead, he said, “I’ve just been at the Swan playhouse, talking with a prentice from the Earl of Pembroke’s Men. It seems they lately took Nick on as hired man.”
“What, our Nick?” Sander said.
“The very same. But that’s not the news. He says that Nick had a falling-out with one of the other members of the company, a
nd the man challenged him to a duel.”
“Gog’s blood,” I muttered. “It’s just as I said.”
“This prentice, he served as a second in the duel, and the weapon of choice was not swords but pistols.”
“I doubt that Nick has ever fired a pistol before,” said Sander.
“Apparently not,” said Sam, “for it was loaded wrong—they put in too much powder, perhaps—and blew up in his face.”
Sander drew in a sharp, sympathetic breath. “He’s all right, though?” he said hopefully.
Sam shook his head. “This fellow says not. He and his man made a hasty departure to avoid arrest, but he seemed to think Nick was a gone goose.”
Sander and I glanced guiltily at one another. “It’s as if we wished it upon him,” Sander said softly.
“Nay, don’t think that,” I protested. “Though I’m sorry for him, it was none of our doing. ‘A brought it upon himself.”
“Widge is right,” said Sam. “You know as well as I what a hothead Nick was.”
“I know. But he wasn’t a bad fellow. He didn’t deserve to die.”
We relayed the sad news to the sharers. They made inquiries but could learn nothing more of the matter. This was no surprise. Though dueling was a common enough practice in London, it was also against the law. Pembroke’s Men would naturally make every effort to protect the player who had been involved, as any company worth the name would do. We could only hope that poor Nick had been delivered into the hands of the church or the coroner’s office and given a proper burial.
3
As the second act of a play follows without intermission upon the heels of the first, the warm, wet spring gave way without a break to a sultry summer. We at the Globe were, as usual, too busy to notice. Though our company was smaller than normal, the size of our audience was, the sharers said, at an all-time high. A portion of the profits went toward having the roof rethatched, purchasing properties and costumes, and buying new plays for our repertoire. But much of the money was paid to the temporary players.
It was hard for us prentices, always having to work with someone new. But I made no complaint; I had no wish to be but a temporary player myself. It could not have been easy for the sharers, either, constantly having to seek competent actors. If a player was not already attached to some company, there was usually a reason. Perhaps he drank too much, or was a thief, or was at that awkward age when his voice could not decide between treble and bass. The situation put a strain on Mr. Shakespeare especially. He could hardly tailor a play to suit the players when the players changed from week to week or day to day.
The only member of the company I heard complain, though, was Sam, and he was not being quarrelous so much as just speaking his mind—something that, as with the lines he spoke on the stage, he did with little or no prompting. Though he lodged with Mr. Phillips, Sam often dined at Mr. Pope’s, where Sander and I lived, along with a small troupe of young orphans Mr. Pope had generously taken in. Over dinner one evening, Sam said, “I hope we never hire that Thomas fellow again. He’s got two left feet, or perhaps three. Did you see him step on the hem of my gown?”
“Nay, but I heard it,” I said, and imitated the ripping sound.
“Is that what it was?” said Mr. Pope innocently. “I thought it was Sam passing wind.”
“Very funny,” Sam said. “In fact, the gown is in stitches over it.”
“Well, we will not be likely to use him again,” Mr. Pope said, “unless we’re desperate. He tore his lines up rather badly, too, I noticed. It’s fortunate you two are so adept at thribbling.”
I couldn’t help feeling pleased, for thribbling—that is, improvising when another player falters—was something I’d only lately learned to do with any degree of skill. But Sam was in no mood for compliments.
“Why do we put up with such ninnies?” he asked. “Why does the company not take on more prentices or hired men?”
Mr. Pope stroked his beard thoughtfully, looking not as though he was unsure of the answer but as though he was unwilling to divulge it. “There are … a number of reasons,” he said finally. We waited, but he did not seem inclined to tell us what those reasons were.
We were not long in finding out.
When we arrived at the Globe in the morning, we found a notice tacked to the rear door announcing that, beginning Monday next, all public performances would be banned, by order of the Queen’s physicians. A familiar thrill of dread went through me. “Oh, gis,” I murmured. “It’s the plague.”
Sander stared at the paper incredulously. “No, surely that can’t be it. The rule has always been that they close the theatres when the weekly death toll reaches thirty.” He turned to Mr. Pope. “It’s been nowhere near that, has it?”
Mr. Pope pulled the notice from the door and carefully rolled it up. He did not seem particularly upset over finding it there. He looked, in fact, as though he’d expected it. “That has been the rule in the past,” he said. “But the Queen has a new chief physician, a Dr. Gilbert, and from what Mr. Tilney, the Master of Revels, tells us, this Dr. Gilbert has advised Her Majesty to ban all public gatherings before the plague becomes a problem.”
“Oh, what does he know?” said Sam. “I’ve heard he also claims that the earth is a giant magnet.”
“Anyway,” put in Sander, “what makes him think there’ll be a problem at all? There can’t be more than a dozen cases a month. That’s fewer than the number of murders.”
Mr. Pope spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Apparently this doctor of hers is predicting a bad year for the plague, based on certain signs and portents.”
Sam sniffed skeptically. “What, the alignment of the planets, I suppose? Or has a comet been spied?”
“No, he’s no astrologer.” Mr. Pope unrolled the paper and, holding it at arm’s length, peered at the print. “Judging from this, he’s more concerned with conditions closer to home, such as … quote, ‘the unusually warm and rainy weather, the abundance of fog and vapors, the prevailing southerly winds, the great number of worms, frogs, flies, and other creatures engendered of putrefaction, rats and moles running rampant in the streets, birds falling from the skies, et cetera, et cetera.”’
“Birds falling from the skies?” Sam echoed. “When was the last time you saw birds falling from the skies?” He pointed up in the air and exclaimed in a comical old man’s voice, “God’s blood, Maude, look—it’s raining pigeons!”
No one laughed. “What does this mean for us, then?” I said glumly.
Mr. Pope carefully rolled up the paper again. “That remains to be seen. We’ve been expecting this; that’s why we’ve not taken on any new prentices or hired men. But we haven’t yet decided what to do about it.”
They decided that very morning. The sharers gathered in the dining room of the theatre, behind closed doors, to discuss the matter while the prentices and hired men sat about, silent and gloomy, like prisoners waiting to be sentenced.
Mercifully, we had not long to wait. After no more than half an hour Mr. Heminges called us in. “G-good news. We’ve decided to g-go on performing.”
I stared at him, not certain I’d heard him properly. “Truly?” I said eagerly. “But—how can we do that?”
“By turning gypsy,” said Mr. Shakespeare.
“Traveling, you mean?” asked Sander.
“Exactly. We’ve done it before, eight or nine years ago, when the plague last hit London in earnest. It was …” He paused and, toying thoughtfully with his earring, glanced about at the other sharers with a curious, almost amused expression. “How shall I describe it, gentlemen?”
“Unconventional?” suggested Mr. Armin.
“Uncomfortable,” said Mr. Pope.
“Unprofitable,” said Mr. Burbage.
Mr. Heminges gave them all a disapproving look. “It was n-not so bad.”
Of course not, I thought optimistically. How bad could it be, a summer spent traveling from town to town in the company of my friends
and fellow players, bringing the magic of theatre to poor country wights starved for entertainment?
“Now n-naturally,” Mr. Heminges went on, “the smaller the t-troupe, the m-more economically we can travel. So, you see, n-not everyone in the company will be able to g-go.”
The hope that had risen in me at the prospect of a reprieve abruptly subsided.
“Mr. P-Pope has begged off, on the g-grounds that his orphan b-boys need him—also on the g-grounds that he’s getting t-too old to go g-gadding all over the country. Mr. B-Burbage will stay in London as well, t-to see to his many b-business affairs.”
I could not bring myself to ask the question that was uppermost in my mind: What would become of us prentices? But as we were on our way home, Sam asked it for me. “What about us?”
“Us?” said Mr. Pope.
“Us prentices. Are we to stay or go?”
Mr. Pope gave him a look of reproach, which I took to mean that we were foolish to imagine there would be room for us in a company that was pared down to the core. My heart felt as heavy as barley bread. “Boys, boys,” said Mr. Pope. “How could the Chamberlain’s Men ever hope to manage without its bevy of beauteous ladies?”
His answer so filled me with relief that I was able to ignore for the moment all the other unanswered questions: How would we ever put on a play with only nine or ten actors? What would we do for properties and costumes? Where would we perform? Where would we lodge? How would we get from town to town? I told myself that I would find it all out in due time.
One thing I did learn was how long we were likely to lead the gypsy life. In past plague years, Mr. Heminges said, the theatres had been allowed to reopen in late September or early October, for the coming of cold weather, it seemed, reduced drastically the number of deaths.
That meant we would be on the road perhaps four months at most. I suspected I would not miss London overmuch. After all, I had lived most of my life in small country towns. What I would miss, though, were the things I had at Mr. Pope’s: Goody Willingson’s savory meals and kind heart, Mr. Pope’s endless stock of theatre tales, the antics and affection of the orphan boys who boarded with us.
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