by Simon Hawke
“You know, you may be right, Bruce. Doubtless, I would not prevail ‘gainst you all,” said Dickens, in an even tone, “but I could do for you right proper. If your lads so much as take one step toward either me or Tuck here, St. Paul ’s Boys will have themselves a new soprano for their choir.”
Darnley looked as if he were about to speak, but before he could say or do anything, Smythe reached out and spun him by the shoulder, then seized him from behind with his left arm around his neck and his right hand behind his head. When Darnley tried to struggle, he simply tightened his grip and, with a choking sound, the apprentice gave up all resistance. Smythe turned him around to face the other apprentices, who had been confident of their superiority and were now all taken by surprise at how quickly the tables had been turned.
“Be so good as to throw your clubs and dirks down in the street,” said Smythe. “And then walk away. You can return to pick them up again after we have gone.”
When the boys hesitated, Smythe once more tightened his grip.
“Do as he says!” croaked Darnley.
The clubs and knives fell to the cobbles with a clatter.
“Right. Off you go then,” Smythe said.
Slowly, truculently, the apprentices moved off.
Dickens then released McEnery. “You can go and join them, Bruce,” he said. “But mark me well now, for I give you fair warning… you come after us and I shall run you through ahead of all the others. Now run along, like a good lad.”
He waved him away and McEnery shot him a venemous look, then trotted off after his companions.
“You can go with him,” Smythe said, releasing Darnley and giving him a shove that almost sent him sprawling. Darnley stumbled, then regained his footing and turned back to gaze at Smythe with a look of intense hatred.
He inhaled raggedly and rubbed his throat. “I shan’t forget this,” he said, his voice rasping slightly. “We shall finish this another time, when you shall not have the advantage of surprise.”
“Indeed?” said Smythe. “S’trewth, I could have sworn ‘twas you who had the advantage of surprise… and numbers, come to think of it.”
Darnley spat on the street, then turned and walked away.
“I fear that you have made an enemy on my account,” said Dickens.
“ ‘Twasn’t on your account,” said Smythe. “I never liked him from the start. Not him nor his sneering shadow.”
“Well, you are a stout enough fellow, to be sure,” said Dickens, “but just the same… watch your back. Jack Darnley is not one to forget a slight, and you embarrassed him in front of all his boys. He shall do much more than merely look to even up the score. He shall want your guts for garters.”
“He shall have to come and try to take them, then,” said Smythe.
“Try he shall, you may count on it,” Dickens replied. He handed Smythe’s knife back to him. “My thanks. It served me well, as it turns out. Let us hope it serves you equally. Keep it close by.”
“I always do,” said Smythe.
“And if you do not scorn my counsel, I would consider strapping on a rapier,” Dickens added. “The Steady Boys were never great believers in fair fighting. Under Jack’s leadership, I should think they are much less so now.”
Smythe sighed. “You are not the first to give me that good counsel, Ben. And for the life of me, I cannot say why ‘tis so difficult to follow. I simply cannot seem to get into the habit of wearing a sword everywhere I go. I am likely to trip over it, although I must admit, there have been a few times when the habit of carrying a rapier would have served me well.”
“Then I do earnestly beseech you to cultivate it,” Dickens said.
5
THE REHEARSAL BURBAGE HAD CALLED for that afternoon mustered somewhat less than half the normal full complement of the Queen’s Men. A number of their hired men who had been fortunate enough to find other employment in these trying times had already left the company, while others were still out looking for work and it was anybody’s guess as to whether or not they would return when the theatre reopened. That they would reopen was not really in question; plague seasons had seen the closing of the city’s playhouses before and would doubtless do so again. They always reopened once again when the worst of it was over. This time, however, Smythe knew, as they all did, that the question was not whether or not they would reopen, but whether or not they would be capable of mounting a production that anyone would wish to see.
They had lost nearly half the members of their company, including Alleyn. In retrospect, Smythe realized that Alleyn must have seen the writing on the wall. The time was right for him to leave not only because the opportunity was ripe, but because the company was going stale. Their beloved comedian, Dick Tarleton, was dead and Will Kemp, who had long dreamed of the chance to take his place as lead clown for the company, had fallen prey to the worst condition that could befall a comic actor… he had missed his timing.
Kemp was past it, although he would be the last one to admit it. He had never bothered much about memorizing lines, trusting instead to his ability to improvise or else caper his way out of an awkward situation with a pratfall. Now, he simply could not memorize his lines, even if he wanted. He absolutely refused to admit it, insisting that memorizing lines was not the way he worked, but the truth, as everyone could plainly see, was that his memory was going and with it, his once brilliant ability at improvisation, a talent that required quickness of thought, which was a skill that Kemp no longer had at his command. Quite aside from that, even if he could still play the Kemp of old, the audiences had outgrown him.
Gone were the days when audiences howled with laughter at simple physical highjinks on the stage, at jigs and pratfalls, clever comments broadly spoken to the crowd with broad leers and expansive gestures, song and dance routines interspersed with juggling and a cartwheel thrown in here and there. The fashion now was for much more realistic fare, involving strong characters and a cohesive story. The juggling, the tumbling, the clowning and the morris dancing could now be found on any street corner and in every marketplace. The fashions of the stage were moving on, but Will Kemp was not moving with them.
As for the other players, John Fleming was getting on in years, and while Bobby Speed was still as clever a performer as he ever was, more and more he seemed to need the fuel of drink to pull it off, and if there was one thing that all performers knew, it was that playing in one’s cups rarely produced one’s best performances and was, at best, a rather dicey proposition. Discussing it with Speed, however, seemed completely hopeless. He would either laugh it off as of no consequence, or else promise to do better next time. The trouble was, there always was a next time, and a time after that, and after that, and after that. And each time, the influence of drink became more telling.
Will was of more value to the company as a poet than an actor. He knew full well his shortcomings in that regard, and although he was reasonably competent as a player, he knew he lacked the gifts to be inspiring, and an inspired actor was the one thing that the Queen’s Men desperately needed. Dick Burbage, though young, had good potential, but he was still no Edward Alleyn, and while all of his performances were good, none was truly memorable, as Alleyn’s were. As for the rest, himself included, Smythe knew that they were merely an agglomeration of young men with little talent or experience, not one among them capable of dazzling an audience and leaving them breathless to come back for more.
To make matters even worse, the Burbage Theatre was dilapidated and much in need of repair. The thatch was old; the galleries were creaking and there were more than a few cracked and splintered boards among the seats up in the boxes. The stage was in a state of disrepair and needed rotten boards replaced and hangings mended. Even the penants drooped with all the list-lessness of an old beggar woman’s breasts. The Burbage Theatre was a tired and weary old maiden, and merely slapping on some paint would not cover up all of the wrinkles and the blemishes of age.
Nevertheless, it was still their the
atre, and to all of them who remained, it was much more their home than where they ate and slept. And as their decimated company gathered for rehearsal, despite all of their ill fortune and dim prospects, there was nevertheless a strong sense of cameraderie and joi de vivre. This was where they truly came alive, a sentiment that Shakespeare had expressed to Smythe quite often.
“Aye, this is where it matters, Tuck,” he had said again, moments after he came up to greet them. As he stood beside them just inside the entrance, he looked out with them over the yard, up at the stage, then back round to the galleries. “This is where their laughing faces fill our hearts with joy or where their catcalls plunge us all into despair. This is where the smell of unwashed bodies and fresh rushes mingles with the smells of greasepaint and the vendors’ offerings to create a heady perfume that intoxicates each player’s soul. This is where we stage our plays and play the dramas of our lives, where shadow becomes substance and substance masquerades as shadow. This…” he held out his hands, palms up, as if presenting some great work, “… this is our world. And you, prodigal Ben Dickens, are welcome to it once again.”
Dickens grinned. “It feels somewhat strange to be back again after all this time,” he said. “And yet, despite that, it also feels most welcome and familiar. It has been only a few years, and yet so much seems to have happened in that time. Can it have been so long since last I trod the boards in women’s clothing, declaiming in my high and squeaky, boyish voice the lines that I had worked so hard to drill into my memory, dreaming of the day when I could at last cast off my girlish gowns and walk out like a young knight in doubtlet, cape and hose, and carrying a sword?”
“That day has come,” said Shakespeare.
“Aye,” said Smythe, with a chuckle, “and a good thing, too, for you would make a most unnatural woman now with that deep voice, those broad shoulders, and that beard.”
“Well, we could shave off the beard,” said Shakespeare, as if contemplating the idea. “The face would look comely enough with a bit of paint upon it, but there would be no hiding that breadth of arm or depth of chest. S’trewth, Tuck, he is a strapping youth, indeed, almost as big as you.”
“We could always cast him as a horse,” said Smythe.
“Soft now, keep your voice down, else Kemp may hear and wish to ride him,” Shakespeare replied, with a wink.
“Ben!” Fleming called out, as he spied him from the stage. He threw his arms out as if to hug him from up there. “Welcome! Welcome! Well met and welcome once again! Look, everyone, look! Ben has come! Ben Dickens has come back to join us!”
They all gathered round to greet him, Speed and Fleming, Burbage, Flemings, Pope and Phillips, Kemp and Bryan… all a motley looking crew, but still a happy lot, despite their tribulations. And as he saw them all together, Smythe thought of Liam Bailey’s admonitions against wasting his time amongst the players and realized that for all his good intentions, Liam Bailey simply did not understand. How could he?
They were a family, much more of a family than he had ever known. Symington Smythe had never truly been a father to him in anything save name, for all that they had shared that name. That patronymic bond was one of the reasons he now preferred to be called Tuck. That grasping woman that his father married, whom Tuck did not even care to think of as his stepmother, had never wanted to be bothered with having a child underfoot, so to appease her and free his father of a burdensome responsibility at the same time, he had been packed off to his uncle’s. And much as he would always love his uncle, Thomas Smythe was a quiet man by nature and by disposition, reserved and not given to boistrous demonstrations of his thoughts and feelings. Uncle Thomas gave him what he could, and did as well by him as he knew how, but Tuck had always felt that there was something missing. Now he knew that he had found it.
These simple players wore their hearts upon their sleeves and everything they did was boistrous and demonstrative, done not only with feeling, but frequently with an overabundance of it. Smythe found it impossible to be around them without his spirits soon being raised. They gave an honest, open boon companionship that was worth more to him than all the money he could make working as a journeyman in Liam Bailey’s shop or elsewhere.
It was something that his father had never understood, nor did Smythe hope to ever make him understand it. The world his father lived in now seemed as far removed from him as the life that he had left behind. And good riddance, too, he thought. He had walked away from it without a backward glance the day that he had started on the road to London. What did chasing dreams of wealth, social position, and respectability ever do for his father? He had managed, with diligence and perseverence-and more than a little bribery-to make himself a gentleman at last, and to give him his due, it was an achievement of no small scope for a man of his beginnings. Nevertheless, it proved not to be enough. No sooner had he hung up his newly won escutcheon than he began to covet spurs. And where had it all left him? In debt, and nearly penniless, dependent on his brother’s charity to help keep him out of prison. Surely, there was a lesson to be learned in that.
Meanwhile, Tuck had come to London without anything at all save the clothes upon his back and a friend that he had made upon his journey, and now, for all that times were difficult, he felt richer by far than he had ever been. He had a place to live, where many shivered on the streets at night. He had work that helped to feed and clothe him, where many went hungry every day. He had a trade, of sorts, that admitedly he was not much good at, but it gave him pleasure and he felt that he was learning how to be a better player every day… or at the very least, he tried his best to learn. While his father, who had accused him of being a wastrel, had wasted his own life, Tuck had built a life in which not one moment felt wasted. The thought of losing this life and these friends was more than he could bear. Somehow, despite their difficulties, he felt certain they would manage. Somehow, he knew that they would see it through.
They began rehearsing one of their old standards, The Wastrel and the Maid, a comedy about a rogue who sought to woo and bed a virtuous maiden, and it seemed only natural for Ben to play the rogue, because he was by far the most handsome among them and the most suited to the part. Burbage took the demanding part of the young maiden’s much beleagured father, once played to great acclaim by Edward Alleyn, and Kemp took the part he always played, that of the rogue’s hapless, comic henchman. George Bryan, as the youngest and the slightest of them, was assigned to play the maiden. Sadly, they had lost both their juveniles, one of whom had sickened and died at the beginning of the plague season and the other, doubtless frightened by the fate which had befallen his young companion, ran away to parts unknown. They had not yet managed to find suitable replacements, but for that matter, they had not looked very hard, either. Any juvenile apprentices that the company took on would have to be housed and fed by the players, and without being certain where their own next meals were coming from, none of them wished to take on such an additional expense.
The play was old enough that Dickens was able to remember some of it, having played the part of the maiden when he was a boy. Needless to say, he did not have any of the same lines, some of which had been changed in the intervening years in any case, but it all came to him quickly, the way a familiar task comes to one who has not practiced it in a while, but has never entirely forgotten. They all worked with prompting from Will Shakespeare, who as book holder gave them their lines if they could not remember-Kemp, of course, being the chief offender save for Dickens, who had to learn almost everything anew-and if some line or bit of business did not seem quite right, they experimented with changes on the spot.
They all knew that they had a great deal of work to do in order to be ready for their reopening, especially with the strength of their company reduced. Most of them would have to play several parts, which would involve rapid costume changes, but then that was nothing they had not done before. There would simply be more of them doing it this time, crowding the tiring room with rapid changes, necessitating
careful planning as to who would stand exactly where and how in order to avoid confusion backstage. This did not concern them greatly; they had dealt with worse. Many times, while on the road, their stage had been nothing more than planks hammered together and placed across barrels and their tiring rooms nothing more than narrow curtains hung from poles. A player had to learn to improvise amidst adversity. One way or another, the show always went on.
This would be only the first of the plays they would rehearse in preparation for reopening, for staging just one play would never do. One of the things that had both surprised and dismayed Smythe after he had joined the Queen’s Men was the discovery that no company ever staged the same play two days in a row, unless a particular production became unusually popular and there was great demand for it, though that was rare. Audiences were easily jaded and they demanded variety. Generally, the selection of the plays was somewhat random, and it was not at all uncommon for a player to arrive for a performance only to discover that, at the last minute, there had been a change and a different play was being staged. Thus, one of the requirements of the actor’s trade was the ability to “con” or learn a new play very quickly, something Smythe could never do, for which reason he was always relegated to to playing nonspeaking parts or else to roles which had only one or two lines, at most. Ben Dickens, on the other hand, proved every bit up to the challenge of conning a new role quickly.
Dickens required at most a little bit of stage direction and a quick reading of the line that he was to deliver before playing the scene and doing it almost flawlessly. Shakespeare would make a small correction here, a helpful prompt there, and Dickens would seem to absorb it all like a sponge and just continue on.