Authors: Philip Gooden
These tales of extra demons on stage during performances of
Faustus
were well known in the theatre world. This was the first time, though, that I’d met anyone who’d
experienced it. There was something impressive about the steady tone of Chesser’s narrative. It was cold in the morning air but I grew colder still.
“After a little pause,” he continued, “we requested the people to pardon us, since we could go no further with this matter. Those people knew well what we were about, and every
man hastened to be the first out of doors. We players broke up in confusion and spent the night in reading and prayer.”
“After that you turned your back on the stage?”
“My fortunes faltered. My eyes were opened, Master Revill. I pray that yours may be.”
“I have need of being in others’ prayers at the moment, Master Chesser,” I said, glancing up at the Cross which stood overhead. “I thank you.”
He gripped my arm even tighter. I was surprised that an old man should have such an iron grasp.
“Avoid the fate of your friend.”
“What do you know about Peter’s death?”
“Avoid the foul fiend.”
I finally broke away from the pale-faced man and sped off across the Yard. When I looked back, Chesser was gazing after me, his arm half held out, in warning, in entreaty.
It was harder to shake off Chesser’s unsettling words than it was to rid myself of his person. WS’s Trojan drama of
Troilus and Cressida
was in my mind and the ex-player
seemed like some combination of the doom-laden Cassandra and the bitter Thersites. Nevertheless his words had this little conscience-niggling effect. Passing Master Nicholson’s shop among the
tightly packed row of booksellers, I went in to reassure that tolerant tradesman that I would pay him as soon as possible. He was standing there, puffing at his pipe and looking benevolent. He
added to my guilt by casually waving aside my little debts as if they were so much pipe-smoke, and made me feel that the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, despite its Gallys and
Chessers and its cold coroners and unknown murderers.
Since I was on Nicholson’s premises, I also asked about Richard Milford’s play,
The World’s Diseas’d
, mentioning that I’d just seen the playwright and his
pretty wife. I was curious to know how generous a patron Lord Robert was; whether he was paying to have this immortal work bound in vellum or leather, or even gold-clasped. Perhaps it depended on
the degree of gratitude and fawning in Richard’s dedication to his ‘only begetter’. But Master Nicholson merely confirmed that the work was in preparation. It was no more than a
commission to him. If I’d expected a little laughter at Richard’s expense – or Lord Bumpkin’s – I was disappointed in my meanness (and deserved to be). I walked off,
discontented and dissatisfied with myself.
In this current mood I wished to see my friend Nell, not entirely for the obvious reason but also to receive some words of comfort from her. Did she know that her old bed-companion was suspected
of murder? Probably. Everyone else seemed to know. Southwark was a small place.
I made my way towards the Bridge but, once on the other side, my resolution faltered. Suppose she was not happy to see me? Suppose she was entertaining one of her clients or even her clever
lawyer friend? Instead of progressing towards Holland’s Leaguer, I turned in at my own door. I passed rapidly through the lobby where I’d found Peter’s body. It was a place of
blood and shadows. I crept up to my room and shut the door. But I could not shut out my troubling thoughts.
My suspicions about Tom Gally and his trouble-making propensities were confirmed the next afternoon. As I’ve indicated, we were continuing to play at our home, the Globe
playhouse, despite the foggy season and the fact that we had other legal fish to fry at Middle Temple in a few days’ time and even bigger royal fish at Whitehall later in the winter –
if the Queen was still living and inclined to watch a play. But the Globe was our daily bread, our commons.
I was approaching the playhouse in order to prepare for that afternoon’s performance of
Love’s Diversion
, in which I played – what else? – a young lover. The fog
had returned though not so thickly as earlier in the month, and at first I didn’t notice anything odd about the crowd gathered in front of the main entrance. It was just a blurred, shifting
mass making a deal of noise for such a dank day. We are lucky I thought, to have such loyal followers.
But closer to, the shoving and the shouting were not so good-humoured.
“Let’s hear you, then.”
“Out with it, Lowlander.”
“Pipe up, Dutch! Give it voice!”
From the raucous tones, as much as from the comments I guessed what was happening. I’d seen it often enough before. A crowd of apprentices had discovered a foreigner presumably a Dutchman,
and were giving him a London welcome. That is, they were jostling and jeering at him for the crime of being foreign or, more precisely, for the crime of not being English. If this had been
occurring anywhere else in town I’d have walked quietly on, hoping to go undetected by the apprentices. But their presence on the doorstep of our theatre made such an evasion harder, although
still possible. I might have slipped unobtrusively round the back. The players used a rear entrance, which gave on to the offices and tire-house behind the stage, while the audience came in
together through the main door and into a lobby. (Once inside they were separated sheep-and-goat fashion into the pit-dwellers and the gallery-climbers.)
“Give us a taste of your Dutch tongue.”
“Double Dutch.”
“Else give us a taste of your Dutch wife.”
“Just a lick.”
“Your Dutch widow.”
I now saw that there was a circle of these lewd young men and, in the centre, a man and woman who were their sport. From the couple’s dress they were not English; from their looks they
were frightened and bewildered. I guessed they were on their way to see
Love’s Diversion.
We had occasional visitors from overseas to watch our productions, and were proud to count
ourselves among the sights and attractions of the town. The treatment of this foreign couple was a slight on the Chamberlain’s Company, on the honour and good name of the Globe. I looked
around for assistance but could see not a single one of my co-players. No one else was about. If we had a prospective audience for that afternoon’s play they’d surely be put off by this
stir outside the playhouse entrance. There was a gatherer or money-collector in the lobby, but Sam was old and lame and could hardly be expected to sally forth and defend our customers from the
rude natives.
No, it looked as though Revill was going to have to do his bit, do his best. I sighed, for you’d be a fool to take on the apprentices single-handed. I was likely to receive a few blows and
thwacks in recompense. Still, what was that to a man who might, any day, be arrested, tried and executed for a murder he didn’t commit . . .?
“
Veni
,
vidi
,
vici
,” I called out through the foggy air. Julius Caesar’s claim of ‘I came, I saw, I conquered’, not really apt for the occasion
but the only thing I could think of. I can project my voice (it’s an actor’s trick, you know). I called out the same words once more, adding, “You wanted to hear some Dutch,
masters? There it is.”
The group of apprentices surrounding the couple pulled back a little and peered through the mist to discern where this new diversion was coming from. There were perhaps eight or nine of them.
They had cropped hair and plain almost severe clothing. They turned their badges of rank to a threatening kind of advantage. Something flickered in the corner of my eye. I turned quickly, hoping
that a passer-by or a fellow from my company might be coming to our aid Through the murky air I saw Tom Gally, he of the pointy finger and hair like a sheep’s-fleece. I wondered what he was
doing there and had my suspicions. Gally receded into the mist, apparently reluctant to interfere.
By this time two of the apprentices had moved to stand directly opposite me. They were evidently the leaders. Their breath was garlicky. One had ginger hair which was no more than a thin pile on
his scalp.
“If you’re a Hollander, I’m a Dutchman,” said this ginger-head.
“’e’s not from the Low Countries,” said the other. “I’ve seen ’im in ’ere.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the playhouse.
It’s gratifying to be recognized – most of the time.
“I hope you enjoyed the performance,” I said. “I am always pleased to meet a playgoer, whatever the circumstances.”
“Oh, a gentleman,” said Ginger-head, “from his voice.”
“If ’e’s a player, which ’e is,” said the other apprentice, the one who went to plays, “then ’e’s a gen’leman
o’ the back door
.
They all are. I know.”
“Wherever I may come from, it’s easy enough to tell your origins,” I said.
“Good English stock,” said Ginger-head. “You would not dare to say otherwise.”
“Not so, for you are in fact from the Low Countries, that is, from Hole-land,” I said, pleased at my wit in this emergency.
“I’ll give you a ’ole,” said the playgoing apprentice, “to add to those you ’ave already.”
“Another hole in your netherlands,” said Ginger-head, developing his friend’s idea.
So might we have continued through the live-long day exchanging witty insults until we descended to unwitty blows. I saw the other apprentices drawing nearer. The only good result of all this
was that the Dutch couple would have had the chance to make their escape, either into the playhouse or off down the street. I hoped they’d taken it. Being distracted, I couldn’t see
them. Perhaps they’d acknowledge what they owed me by coming to my funeral.
The two apprentices advanced even closer. I was enveloped by their garlicky breath. It was the moment to fight or run.
“Keep up your bright words, gentlemen, or the fog will rust them.”
I recognized the voice and the outline which had suddenly appeared by my side, and was surprised as well as pleased – and not a little relieved.
The two apprentices turned their attention to William Shakespeare. He looked his usual self, largely at ease with the world and most of its occupants.
“Shog off, won’t you,” said Ginger-head, but a little uncertainly.
“’e’s another of ’em back-door gen’lemen,” said my playgoing friend, once more flinging his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve seen ’im there
too.”
“Yes, I’ve trodden the boards from time to time, I’ll own up,” said WS. “But I also write the lines that players speak.”
WS mimed writing in the air. There was a pause then he said, “Now, since you know my trade, tell me what yours are.”
He spoke with what seemed to be a genuine curiosity.
“Carpenter,” said Ginger-head mechanically. Perhaps he was too taken aback by the question to produce an abusive reply.
Shakespeare looked at the other apprentice.
“Cobbler,” he said.
Though I was mightily relieved that WS had turned up on the scene, I was half afraid that he was now going to try to amuse these two apprentices with some punning diversions connected with their
trades, probably along the lines of living according to ‘line and rule’ or attending to the ‘mending of souls’. That would be typical of him. I’d been in this
situation before, seen that trick played once on a threatening boatman. It had worked then – but twice?
“And you are a playgoer too, my friend?” said WS.
“I ’ave attended now and then, yeah.”
Ginger-head nodded, as if he didn’t want to be left out of the reckoning. The half-dozen or so of their companions had stopped closing in on us and were listening to the exchange, seemingly
more interested now than intimidating.
“Whatever your day-trades, I can see that you’re word-smiths, like me,” said William Shakespeare. “With all that talk of the netherlands and Hole-lands. That’s
good. Also a touch bawdy, a thing which is very natural and proper in young men. I will make a note of it and perhaps use it one day.”
He patted his upper garments slightly more showily than was strictly necessary.
“Alas, I have forgotten my notebook. But I am sure my good friend Nicholas here will remember the jest so that I may write it down later on.”
I nodded. I did not point out that it was I who had first made the joke about Hole-land.
“And then, my friends, you will perhaps hear your own jests coming back at you from the stage of the Globe playhouse.”
Ginger-head scratched his bonce. I almost expected the pile on his skull to come off like rust. The other apprentice wore an expression somewhere between pleasure and surprise.
“Now, if you’ll forgive us, gentlemen,” said WS, “we have business, playing business, to attend to.”
The playwright grasped me firmly by the upper arm and we moved away from the apprentices. The fire had gone out of the gang or been doused. As we were leaving, WS stopped and said, “You
are very welcome to attend our performance of
Love’s Diversion
this afternoon. We require quick-witted spectators. Simply bring your brains – and your pennies.”
He ushered me round the side of the Globe towards the players’entrance. (There is an innocent sense in which we are all of us
gentlemen of the back door
.) I thanked WS and rapidly
explained how this confrontation with the apprentices had come about. I didn’t want him to think that I went around provoking trouble. I mentioned that I’d seen Henslowe’s man,
Tom Gally, hanging about earlier and voiced my suspicion that he might have been stirring up the apprentices so as to damage our business. WS said nothing and I couldn’t be sure whether he
credited this. With his generosity, he tended to think the best of people. I then expressed the hope that the Dutch man and woman had made their escape.
“They are safe inside the playhouse. By chance I was in the lobby when they entered. The Hollanders indicated what was happening by the entrance so I came out.”
By now we too were safe inside the playhouse. We loitered in the passageway by the tire-house.