“Actually, I told but one person.”
He nodded knowingly. “Sam, I’ve no doubt.”
“Nay. I told your daughter.”
Mr. Shakespeare’s expression changed from merely knowing to truly understanding. “Ah. I see. And now that you’ve told her, she insists upon reading it.”
“Aye.”
“Is there anything for her to read?”
I grimaced. “Oh, Lord, sir.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Does a title count?”
“Well, it’s a start. In fact, it’s more than I ordinarily have to work with. What is it?”
“In truth,” I said, “I’ve quite a number of them.”
“Oh. Do you have a story or a premise of any sort in mind?”
“I’ve a number of those, too, all of them equally … what was the word you used? Putrid, that’s it.”
Mr. Shakespeare twisted his earring between his fingers. “Well, you know, Widge, if all you really need is something to show Judith, I have approximately two-fifths of a play I’d be happy to give you, just to be rid of it.”
“You mean … the play wi’out a name?”
“Yes. The Roman play, that is. Not this one.” He picked up the pages he’d been working on, and waved them. “This one has no name yet, either.”
“You’d truly be willing to let me ha’ what you’ve written?”
He shrugged. “I’m certain I’ll never finish it. Perhaps you will, eh? Besides …” He leaned toward me again and said, sotto voce, “We men must stick together and help one another, else the ladies will always have the advantage of us.” Mr. Shakespeare plucked the abandoned script from its compartment. “There you are. Do with it what you will.” Before I could even thank him, he went on. “By the by, Ben Jonson informs me that he’s finished censoring Sejanus, and will have it to us in a day or two. I’d like you to make a clean draft of it and write out the sides for the actors. I’m sure Sal and Sam can manage without your help for a few mornings.”
“Aye, all right. That reminds me—I came to ask for the key to the property room so I might get started on’t.”
Mr. Shakespeare looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Widge. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until someone is here to oversee you. You mustn’t think that I mistrust you. It’s just that …”
I nodded. “I ken. It’s the rule.”
“Yes. Unfortunately.” He took a ring of keys from his wallet. “I would like you to have a key to this room, though, so you have a place to work on Mr. Jonson’s script.” He gave me the key, and a conspiratorial smile. “And your own, of course. I wouldn’t show it to Judith in its present form; she would recognize my abominable hand at once.”
“Will she not recognize your words as well?”
“I doubt it. It’s hardly my best writing. She’ll probably just think you’re imitating me.”
18
All through the morning and the afternoon I was so occupied with the usual round of tasks that I had no chance to begin disguising Mr. Shakespeare’s words as my own. It hardly mattered, though. Judith did not appear until dinner, and then she was too busy being the center of everyone’s attention to say much to me, let alone inquire about my play.
Sam was one of the few members of the company who did not seem to care much what Judith had been up to all day. He was more interested in conversing with Mr. Garrett. I was concentrating on Judith and did not hear much of what Mr. Garrett was saying. Whatever it was, it held Sam spellbound. As we reluctantly followed Mr. Armin upstairs for scriming practice, I said, “What were you and Mr. Garrett going on about?”
“He was telling me more of his adventures in France, and Holland, and elsewhere.”
“‘A’s certainly been a lot of places. Was’ a a soldier, do you wis?”
“No, I don’t think so. He was just traveling about, having adventures, I guess.” Sam caught me by the sleeve and whispered eagerly, “He says that perhaps one day, if he returns to the Continent, he’ll take me with him.”
I stared at him. “You’d truly be willing to give up the theatre?”
“Wouldn’t you, if it meant a chance to see the world?”
I considered this for all of several seconds. “Nay,” I said. “This is world enough for me.”
Mr. Garrett continued to join us regularly for meals and card-playing. But, though he contributed much to the conversation, it was always information of a general sort; he seldom revealed anything of any consequence about himself. Aside from his own past, the one topic he carefully avoided was religion. When Ned Shakespeare asked his opinon on the question of whether Walter Ralegh, once the queen’s favorite, was an atheist or merely a skeptic, Mr. Garrett replied, “My opinion, sir, is that gentlemen should not discuss matters of theology.”
Though the man’s tone was perfectly cordial, Ned reacted as though he’d been rebuked. “And it is my opinion, sir, that a gentleman should not be afraid to speak his mind on any matter, unless he has something to conceal.”
Mr. Garrett seemed unperturbed. “Do you not suppose that everyone at this table—perhaps everyone everywhere—has some topic he would just as soon not touch upon?” He regarded Ned steadily with those unnerving coal-black eyes. “You, for example. Is there not some part of your life that you would prefer to keep to yourself?”
Ned could not meet the man’s gaze. “That is not your business.”
Mr. Garrett turned his palms upward as though to say he had proven his point. “You’re quite right. As I believe your brother put it, a gentleman’s business is his own.”
Later, as the troupe was dispersing, each man to his own task, Judith approached me and Sam. “Master Pavy has graciously offered to show me the city this Sunday, after church services. I was hoping you two would come along. We could have a fine time, the four of us.”
“It sounds good to me,” said Sam.
It did not to me. It sounded like the worst idea I had ever heard. Though I wanted to protest that we could have a far finer time if there were but two of us, I kept sullenly silent.
“Widge?” said Judith. “You’ll come with us, will you not?”
As an actor, I had learned that if you cannot play the leading role, the next best thing is to be a martyr—some character who faces his or her tragic fate with such dignity as to wring a tear from the audience’s eye. “I’m sorry,” I replied, in my most dignified voice, “I must work on my play, you know.” The artist who suffers for his art—there was a role guaranteed to win her sympathy. I had even remembered to say “my” and “know,” and thus avoided sounding quaint.
My speech did not have quite the effect I had intended. Judith pressed her petal-like lips together in a look of exasperation. “I might have known.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” She turned to Sam, suddenly smiling again. “We’re meeting outside St. Olave’s as soon as services are over.”
As we headed upstairs, Sam said to me, “Don’t think I don’t know why you’re not coming.”
“I explained why.”
“Much! That’s not the reason. The reason is, you’d rather have her all to yourself. Am I right?”
“Nay! It’s as I said—I need the time to work on me play.”
“Well, even if that’s true, I don’t believe I’d have told her so.”
“Why not?”
“Because, you noddy, I’ll wager she’s heard that very excuse from her father a hundred times, at least.”
Though I longed to return to Judith’s good graces, I knew I would never accomplish it by tramping about London with her in the company of Sam and Sal Pavy. I did not need Madame La Voisin to predict what would happen. I would be sulky and resentful, and then Sam would poke fun at me, and then I would grow angry. Though playing the martyr had not worked so well, it was better than playing the fool.
I made up my mind then that I would show them. I would make good on what had, until now, been no more than an
empty boast: I would write a play, and it would be good, and it would be produced, and profitable, and praised, and then let them dare to make fun of me.
It should not be such a difficult task. After all, I had two-fifths of the script written already, and I hadn’t even begun. As far as I knew, there were no ghosts or lepers in it, or even lovers, but it did have folk ranting about their money problems, and that surely was something everyone could relate to. So fierce was my resolve that if I could have, I would have set to work at once. But of course there was scriming practice, and then singing practice, and then a performance.
By the time I reached my room that night, after playing with the boys, tucking Tetty in, and reporting to Mr. Pope, my eagerness to work on the play had faded considerably. Nevertheless, I forced myself to the table and not the bed. I unrolled the script, set various objects upon it to keep it flat, and began to copy it in my own hand on a clean sheet of paper.
ACT I
Scene I: Rome. A Hall in Timon’s House
Well, that was no good. Setting the play in Italy was like sending an engraved invitation to the queen’s Privy Council, begging to be investigated. I crossed out Rome and, after a moment’s thought, wrote in Athens. That was innocuous enough. The Greeks didn’t even have a God, let alone a pope. I would have to find replacements for all those Roman-sounding names as well, but that could wait.
The first scene was a bit slow compared to Hamlet, which starts right out with a ghost. But there were several speeches that were worthy of Mr. Shakespeare, particularly those of Apemantus, a sarcastic, unpleasant wight who rather put me in mind of Sal Pavy. Well, I’d have to see to it that he was given the role. Buoyed by a wave of optimism, I transcribed the entire first scene. I changed almost nothing, aside from substituting Athenian wherever it said Roman.
When I reached Scene Two, however, my heart sank. I didn’t know what acting company Mr. Shakespeare had in mind, but it must have been one considerably larger than the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. There were at least eight Roman nobles—make that Athenian nobles—in the scene, each with several attendants. As though that wasn’t impossible enough, an actor playing Cupid came on, accompanied by “a masque of Ladies as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing.” Of course, we often met the demands of a large cast by playing several roles apiece—but generally not all at the same time.
I sighed wearily. Obviously I would have to do more with this scene than just copy it out. It would have to wait, however, until I could hold my eyes open.
In the morning, I set to work afresh and managed to dispense with about half the original cast before Sam called for me. “You look as though you’ve hardly slept a wink,” he said. “I’ve heard that’s a common plight among those tormented by love.”
“It was the Muse that tormented me,” I replied haughtily.
“Mews?” said Sam, feigning puzzlement. “Has Mr. Pope begun taking in orphaned cats as well?”
I gave him a disdainful look. “I would not expect you to understand. You have never experienced the throes of poetic creation.”
“You’re right. And if it turns a person into a total goosecap, I hope I never do.” I pretended to ignore his unkind remark. After a while he said casually, “So, is there a good role for me in this play of yours?”
“Oh, aye. In fact, I’ve written a part especially for you.”
“Really? What sort of part is it?”
“Cupid.”
He stared at me incredulously. “Cupid?”
“Well, I thought it only fitting,” I said, “as you seem to ken so much about love.”
When we entered the courtyard of the Cross Keys, I caught sight of an unsavory-looking man in a dirty, seam-rent tunic standing outside the dark parlor with his face pressed to the window. Despite the cold, he wore no cloak, only a woolen scarf wrapped about his neck. All the talk I had heard of late about theft and spying had made me uneasy, and my hand went to the handle of my dagger. “Do you ken that wight?” I whispered to Sam.
“No. And I don’t think I care to.”
The stranger did not appear to be armed, which gave me the courage to call sternly to him, “You, there!”
He whirled about, a startled scowl upon his face. One hand reached inside his tunic, as though to retrieve a weapon. Then, apparently seeing no threat in us, he relaxed and his manner changed abruptly from menacing to ingratiating. “Good morning to you, young sirs. Might you by any chance be associated with the folk that put on the plays here?” His lower-class London accent was so thick that I understood only about half the words, but it was enough to catch his meaning.
“Ha’ you some sort of business wi’ them?”
“I do. Could you tell me where to find the gentleman in charge?”
Still wary, I replied, “I can carry a message to him, and ask whether or not ’a wishes to see you.”
The man’s friendly facade slipped a little. “Oh, he’ll wish to, right enough. Tell him …” The stranger paused and, eyes narrowed, searched my face carefully. “Here, I know you. You’re the lad that was so thick with Julia, ain’t you?”
For a moment I was struck speechless by this unexpected reference to my old friend. “You—you ken Julia?”
He grinned, revealing a row of rotten teeth. “I should think I do,” he said. “I’m her da.”
19
Julia had mentioned her father a time or two, in rather contemptuous terms, but until now I had not set eyes upon the man. I saw no hint of a family resemblance. Though Julia had been gone more than a year, I could picture her perfectly. She was tall for a girl, with auburn hair, brown eyes, and the ruddy coloring common to folk of a sanguine humor. This fellow looked more like the choleric sort, with his sallow, yellowish skin and his blue eyes, so pale as to be nearly colorless. His hair and beard, had they been washed, might have proven to be a light brown. He was short of stature, and his frame was as slight as mine.
“Is she well, do you ken?” I asked. “I haven’t heard from her in some time.”
“Oh, she’s healthy enough, if that’s what you mean. But she’s in a bit of a whipper just now.”
“A whipper?“ said Sam.
“You know, a plight. A tight spot. That’s what I’ve come to see your masters about.”
“What sort’ of plight?” I asked anxiously.
“Well, now, why don’t you just take me to whoever’s in charge here, eh? That way I won’t have to say it all twice.”
“Aye, all right. Sam, go ahead and start on the tiring-room.”
“I want to hear about Julia’s whipper,” he protested.
“I’ll gi’ you all the details later.” As I led Julia’s father up the outer stairs, I said, “How is ’t that you kenned who I was?”
“I seen you and her together. I never said nothing. She didn’t fancy me coming ‘round the theatre, or talking to any of her actor friends. She wouldn’t want me coming here even now, I expect. She’s always hated asking anybody for aught.” He gave me that rotten grin again. “I don’t know where she gets that. It’s never bothered me.”
“No, I suppose not.” From what Julia had told me, he certainly did not hesitate to accept anything from anyone—usually without their knowledge or permission. Both Mr. Heminges and Mr. Shakespeare were in the office, one setting down columns of figures, the other lines of dialogue. “Excuse me, sir,” I said softly to Mr. Heminges. “There’s a wight here to see you.”
“ Oh? Wh-what sort of wight?”
“Julia’s father, actually.”
Mr. Heminges rose to greet the stranger. “I d-don’t believe we’ve m-met, sir. John Heminges, the c-company manager.”
Julia’s father ignored the hand that Mr. Heminges offered. He pulled his scarf up under his chin, even though the room was warm, and looked about rather furtively; obviously he was not used to such surroundings, modest though they were. His manner was a curious mixture of sullen and obsequious, as though he recognized that he was not on the same so
cial level as these men, but at the same time resented it.
“And your n-name, sir?” Mr. Heminges prompted him.
“It’s Cogan. Tom Cogan.”
“Of c-course. W-would you like to sit down?”
“No. This won’t take much time. The long and short of it is, the girl’s in trouble over there in France, and needs money to get home.”
“Tr-trouble? N-nothing serious, I hope?”
Cogan drew a worn leather pouch from his grimy tunic and fished from it a sheet of paper folded into a small square. “Here’s what she sent. I had a fellow read it to me, but I don’t recollect it all.” As he passed the paper to Mr. Heminges, he held the scarf in place with his other hand, as though afraid of catching a chill. “Read it for yourself.”
“Aloud, if you will,” said Mr. Shakespeare.
Mr. Heminges unfolded the paper and read its contents in the same way he spoke upon the stage—with no trace of a stutter. “She writes, ‘Father. You will no doubt be astonished to hear anything of any sort from me, least of all a plea for help. However, I have no one else to turn to, and whatever our feelings toward each other, we are bound together by blood. For reasons I cannot go into here, I have had to leave Monsieur Lefèvre’s acting company, and quit my lodgings as well.
“‘I have found a shabby sleeping room that costs only a few francs, and is worth far less, but I have been unable to find any sort of work that is respectable, and the little money I have saved is quickly disappearing.
“‘I know that it is unfair of me, after having nothing to do with you for so long, to ask you now for aid, but if there is any way you can send me three pounds to pay my passage home, I would be most grateful. If you cannot … Well, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, I honestly do not know what will become of me.’ “ Mr. Heminges returned the paper to Cogan. “I assume th-that you intend to send her the m-money?”
“O’ course I do! What do you take me for?”
“I m-meant no insult. Three p-pounds is a substantial sum, though. How m-much have you r-raised?”
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