I told her of Hermia and Lysander, the Athenian lass and lad in ancient times, who are in love with each other. I told her that I played Lysander while young Michael Donegrace took the part of Hermia. All would be well were it not for Egeus, Hermia’s hard-hearted father, who is compelling his daughter to marry another man, one Demetrius. I told her how this same Demetrius is already loved by another woman, Helena. Of the elopement of Hermia and Lysander (Done-grace and Revill) to a neighbouring forest; of the pursuit of them by Demetrius and Helena. Oh, the love-tangle that ensues! For in this charmed wood wander Oberon and Titania, no mortal man and wife but king and queen of the fairies, and they too are engaged in a love-dispute, just as the mortals are.
“It’s not easy to follow,” said Nell.
“It’s not meant to be,” I said, although I considered that my outline had been quite lucid, all things considered. “It is a love-tangle. Unless you have confusion you can never arrive at clarity.”
Nell slipped out of bed, and I assumed she intended to use the jordan in the corner. Instead of the expected tinkling, however, I heard her rummaging about on the small table where my few effects were untidily piled. I gazed at the lumpy ceiling through drowsy eyes. In a few moments she slipped back in beside me. She waved something white before my face.
“Write it down.”
“What?”
I opened my eyes wider. She was clutching a piece of paper and a stub of pencil.
“It will be easier for me to understand, Nick, if you write it down.”
“But you can’t read.”
“I am not altogether unlettered,” she said, with a touch of indignation. “There is someone teaching me.”
This was news to me. I was wide awake by now.
“Someone?”
“One of . . . the sisters.”
She meant one of her co-labourers in the field of flesh that was Holland’s Leaguer. God save us, a pedagogue-whore, I thought, and then banished the description as unworthy.
“I could have taught you,” I said. “I have offered.”
“But you prefer me as I am.”
“Of course I do.”
“Ignorant and unlettered?”
“Well not exactly . . . not at all, if you put it like that.”
“Then you would have me different?”
“A little, I suppose.”
“See,” Nell said triumphantly. “Now write down the names of the people from your Nightmare.”
I wasn’t even sure what argument we’d been engaging in here but it was apparent she considered herself the winner, while I was tangled among the toils of her logic. To avoid further discussion, I sat upright in bed and scribbled down the names of the characters, firing off miniature arrows like a demented Cupid or looping them with little hearts to show who went with or after whom. Then, to make it complete, I added some of the others parts as well, the rude mechanicals &c.
When I’d finished, she snatched the paper and pored over it.
“There. Ell . . . why . . . ess – Lysander. That’s your part. And you have drawn a heart which encloses aitch . . . eee . . . arr – Hermia! So that’s who you love. And here is Dee . . . mee . . . trius and, er, Helena. And the arrow shows that she is chasing Demetrius. And, Nick!, what is this word? Is it what I think it is?”
She could hardly speak for laughing. I looked at where her finger was jabbing at the page.
“Nell, you would be safer to learn from an absey book than one of your sisters of the flesh. You’ll find no rude words in a child’s primer. No, that’s Puck, not what you think it is.”
“Oh,” she sounded faintly disappointed. “Who’s Puck?”
So I explained about Robin Goodfellow, and that part of the lesson was done. And then we had a joke or two about Bottom before concluding our business together.
Post-Puck, I saw her on her way along Dead Man’s Place. It was still light on this fine June evening. I did not like to walk too many paces with Nell through the public streets, particularly when, as now, she was dressed in what might be termed the colours of her guild (viz, red). This was partly because I had a strange reluctance to be taken for one of her customers and partly because I felt that I might be impeding her trade. If I wasn’t entitled to block a whore’s business in the playhouse, I certainly had no right to obstruct her traffic in the street.
Nevertheless, she seemed in an unusually fond and clinging mood as we parted. Probably because we wouldn’t see each other again until I returned from Wiltshire. It was the first time I had been right out of London since my arrival in the spring of 1599. Nell too was country-born. Like me, she had come to seek her fortune in the great city. It was one of the things which had brought us together.
“I have your paper,” she said, pecking me on the cheek several times.
It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about.
“When I want to be reminded of what you’re doing I shall look and see that you are chasing that boy called Hermia.”
“You’ll not learn to read much from that,” I said.
“Have a good Dream,” she said, departing. “You see, I have remembered your title.”
In the event, Nightmare would have been more apt.
The image of Nell as she walked down Dead Man’s Place, her taffeta dress flickering like a fiery candle on that summer evening, recurred to me as I sat on the side of the practice chamber in Instede House. The sun poured through the high windows and glittered on the polished oak of the floor. In the centre of the room, Thomas Pope was exchanging a few words with Laurence Savage and the others playing the “rude mechanicals”, Nick Bottom the weaver, Snug the joiner et al. At this moment Pope was discussing with Laurence and the rest the exact turn or flavour to give to the closing scene, even if they had been through it a dozen times before. Thomas wasn’t at all as grave a senior as Richard Sincklo, indeed he was someone who usually spoke his mind without reserve. He had a deserved reputation as a comic player (and now took the part of Puck, jester to Oberon and all-round mischief-maker). For all that, there was an authority in his words, and he had the knack of providing suggestions and even criticism without giving offence. This made him especially useful in his role of “guider” for our Dream.
We’d reached the point when the clowns come forward to play out the tragic tale of Pyramus and Thisbe for the diversion of the Athenian Court, of which I as Lysander was an insignificant part. They are such poor journeymen players, these clowns, that they make a mockery of what is serious in love, and at the same time give unintended instruction in how not to play. Any fool can play badly, and usually does. But to play badly well . . . ah, there’s an art to that.
Laurence crouched down to peep through the parted fingers of Sam Smith, who (in the Dream) was playing the part of Tom Snout the tinker, who (in the Pyramus and Thisbe diversion) was playing the part of Wall, lying flat on the floor with his arm and hand awkwardly crooked up in the air. Never have lime and rough-cast been so funny. But not on this occasion.
Usually, Laurence would have levered himself down with cumbersome comicality to the low “chink” provided by Sam’s splayed fingers. But before he could begin this movement his attention was arrested by a group which had just entered the room. I saw him straighten up. Over his broad, undemonstrative features there passed a shadow, like the cloud which crosses a summer field. I remembered that later.
I turned to look at the door. Four figures, three men and a woman, were standing just inside the entrance. The whole of the players’ company had paused. Those of us who didn’t already know these people for who they were guessed their identity.
“Please continue,” said Lord Elcombe.
So the clownish interlude went on, with Laurence Savage peeping through Sam Smith’s digits and lamenting that he could not see his Thisbe. A number of us, however, rather than watch an already familiar scene, took the occasion to examine our hosts. I had plenty of opportunities in the days to come to grow familiar enough with Lord E
lcombe, and his family too. But I’ll describe them here more or less as they first struck me.
Elcombe was a tall, thin man of middle years, soberly dressed in dark clothes which, though rich in their working, lacked any ostentation. His face was narrow with close-set eyes and a hooked nose jutting out over a small mouth. He was clean-shaven. His wife beside him – or she whom I supposed his wife – was near as tall as her husband. There was a kind of drawn beauty in her face, and though she shared her companion’s courtly bearing her features were softer than his, the lips fuller, the nose less imperious.
To one side stood two younger men whom I took to be their sons. I presumed that the one who looked less young, or maybe just more careworn, was the groom. This was Elcombe’s first son and heir, Lord Harry Ascre (pronounced Ascray), to give him his family name. Some offspring seem to be a rough draft of a mother or father, as if paradoxically the child had come first; some appear as a more refined version of either parent. But this one looked like a pale shadow of both. As tall and pinch-faced as his parents, I guessed he was about my age; but hoped that I would never have to carry around such a haunted look. His complexion was a chalky white and the dark rings under his eyes testified to sleepless nights. The other son, Cuthbert, might have been drawn from an entirely different source. He appeared healthy and well-fed, and though not plump in the face he lacked the drawn look of the others.
This quartet of father, mother and sons looked on as the lamentable saga of Pyramus and Thisbe drew to a close, with Pyramus stabbing himself in the (mistaken) belief that his Thisbe had been mauled by a hungry lion, and Thisbe stabbing herself because her Pyramus has stabbed himself in the (mistaken) belief that . . . Well, you get the picture. It is a tragic tale of young love confounded by accident, mischance and parental opposition. By the end of the interlude, we of the Chamberlain’s had to wipe our eyes. To clear away the tears of laughter. No matter how many times we’ve watched this scene in rehearsal or even participated in it, we’ve always been overcome by the skill of Messrs Savage and Smith and the other “mechanicals” – and the skill of the writing. I will go further. It is the brilliancy – yes, there is no other word – the brilliancy of Master W.S. to seize on the idea that the language of love is separated from the language of absurdity by a wall considerably thinner than that which divides the two would-be lovers. In fact, sometimes they’re the same thing. The lover drools and dotes, and is a sport to his friends.
What I’m saying, is that this is a comic scene.
Laughter is appropriate.
Naturally, those of us who weren’t engaged in spouting our lines at this moment were casting surreptitious glances at Lord and Lady Elcombe and their sons, to see how our playing was being received. We’re in for a rough ride at Instede, I thought, if this is the regular mood of our patrons. The only one who seemed to be appreciating our efforts was Cuthbert. He was almost slapping his thighs. He even seemed to be mouthing some of the lines along with Laurence and the rest. He knows the play well, I thought. And just at this point a little suspicion crept into my head.
To itemize the rest of Elcombe clan: a small smile had incised itself on Lord Elcombe’s small mouth, as if he acknowledged our efforts but did not want to betray himself by any excessive mark of approbation. His wife looked fairly straight-faced and strait-laced. While, as for Harry their son . . . I’ve seen people bored by comedy, I’ve seen people scarcely able to hold their water for being convulsed by it, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone brought to the edge of tears (real tears, not those of laughter) by the absurdity of two lovers played by a weaver and a bellows-mender. Yet this is how the young man seemed to be affected. Standing slightly behind his parents and brother, he raised his hand to his eyes and wiped at them several times as Pyramus or Thisbe launched into some lament for their perished partner or into a tirade against the malevolence of fate.
It’s a comedy, for God’s sake, I wanted to tell him.
When Pyramus and Thisbe had done their dying, with much last-gasping and writhing around, they stood up again and took their bow. Lord Elcombe clapped politely, while his Lady did nothing much and their elder son looked as though he was about to run out the door at any moment. Cuthbert was the only one to show a full appreciation. Give me an audience full of Cuthberts, I thought (though I didn’t know his name at that point). The seniors Thomas Pope and Richard Sincklo went forward to present themselves to our patron. I was pleased to see some smiles break out at this point, otherwise I’d have begun to wonder what we were doing in this place. An altogether warmer mood stole over the group, and after a moment Lord Elcombe himself stepped forward and, with a curious circular motion of his arm in the air to draw our attention, he spoke to us.
“Gentlemen all, you are welcome at Instede. You must forgive us if we are somewhat distracted with preparations for our son’s nuptials and do not give to the players the honour that is their due. But we are sensible of the honour that you do us by your presence. One or two of you are familiar to me from the old days but I see that there are many fresh faces in the Company. To you in particular a hearty welcome.”
It was difficult to imagine this gentleman being hearty about anything but he nevertheless came to join us, to shake hands with some and exchange pleasantries with others. Lady Elcombe remained talking with Richard Sincklo and Thomas Pope. Their gloomy-looking son had disappeared while the more cheerful Cuthbert was mixing gladly with the players.
I was standing next to Laurence Savage and, referring to Elcombe, said, “There, you can hardly say that this is ungracious behaviour.”
“You do not know him.”
The shadow that had earlier passed across his face now reappeared.
“And you do?”
I was curious to know what it was about Elcombe that Savage didn’t like.
“I do not know him in the sense that you mean, Nicholas. He is not my drinking companion or my friend. How can a mere player aspire to that? But know him in other ways, I do.”
I waited but he was obviously disinclined to say more. Before Elcombe had reached the part of the chamber where we were standing, Laurence shifted to avoid having to speak to the nobleman.
I turned to look through the window. Outside was a glorious summer morning. I turned back and found myself face to face with our host. Someone close by, possibly Jack Horner, said in the way of introduction, “Nicholas Revill, my lord”, and I made the gesture of a bow.
“Your servant, Master Revill.”
“My lord.”
“You’re new to the Company, are you not?”
“Since last autumn, my lord. My first acting part was in Master Shakespeare’s Hamlet.”
“And what did you enact, hm?” said Elcombe. He had clear blue eyes which, because of their colour or their close-settedness or both, somehow gave the lie to his warm questions. Or perhaps it was that I’d been listening too closely to Laurence Savage.
“Small parts. A poisoner, an ambassador.”
“But you are grown to greater things in this midsummer dream?”
“Lysander. One of the lovers.”
“One among many,” he said with a sideways movement of the lips which could have been read as a smile.
“Willing and unwilling,” I said.
“What do you mean by that, hm?” said Elcombe.
I’d meant nothing, or next to nothing, but was now forced to lay some foundation under my words.
“The play is full of lovers both voluntary and compelled,” I said, seeing the owner of Instede House staring hard at me, no trace of a smile now. “Like . . . like Titania and Bottom. The Queen of the Fairies doesn’t choose to fall in love with an ass. Or – to take the case of my own Lysander – watch how mischievous Puck squeezes magic juice over my eyelids. So that when I wake I shall fall in love with the first person that I see. That is what I meant by involuntary love.”
“Caused by a juice or a potion, hm.”
He had an odd, interrogatory trick of ending his w
ords with a “hm”. Maybe it was that which provoked me to go on.
“Ah, my lord, I think that –”
“Yes?”
I hesitated because I’d been about to say what I thought Master Shakespeare meant by this business of juices and potions, when the notion of explaining the playwright to someone else (and that someone a lord of the realm) suddenly struck me as presumptuous. However, thought is free and W.S. wasn’t here to contradict me – so I plunged in.
“I think that Master Shakespeare is showing us that it is human to chop and change in love, so that we sometimes love a Hermia and the next day, the very next hour perhaps, love a Helena instead. And that love can even make us descend to love a Bottom or an ass . . .”
“Go on,” said Elcombe, putting up a good pretence of being interested in a poor player’s views.
“But because we are sometimes unhappy at our inconstancy . . . [God help me, what was I talking about?] . . . in order to, er, keep our consciences clear we have to imagine the potions which cause us to be inconstant. And then after that we must conjure up the fairies and sprites who will make us take them – all so as to compel us to do what we would do anyway.”
I halted like a man reaching the end of a race, then added, “If you see what I mean.”
Lord Elcombe looked thoughtful. I wasn’t surprised. I probably looked thoughtful myself, trying to work out what I’d meant. Sometimes you don’t know what’s in your mind until you say it out loud.
“So you think love is stronger than will?” he said. “That it may operate against what we truly want or intend to do? Hm?”
“To be sure, sir.”
“Come, Master Revill. That’s a fiction, and fiction is all very well for poets and for plays like this one which you have in hand. But tell me the truth now. You have been swept away by love, have you, and rendered powerless?”
“Well . . .”
“You have been pierced by Cupid’s dart, hm?”
The Pale Companion Page 6
