Authors: Philip Gooden
As it happened, the play we were going to stage, William Shakespeare’s
Troilus and Cressida
, contained all this and more. To wit – wit (of a sour sort), love, lust, argument,
filth, battles, treachery, and sulking in tents. As a backdrop, there’s a war, the one between the Greeks and the Trojans. It may even be the original war, for all I know, the very first to
darken the face of the earth. It certainly goes on for a long time, all of ten years. And then there’s the cause of that war the seizing of Helen, wife of Menelaus the Greek, by Paris, the son
of King Priam of Troy. But the story of Troilus is not really to do with
them
– and I should know since this was my part.
Yes, Nicholas Revill was playing Troilus, the love-sick young Trojan prince who, like Paris, was a son of King Priam. It was the first time, incidentally, that I had appeared in the title to a
play.
I am a warrior and in love with the beautiful Cressida, daughter of Calchas the priest. Calchas is a Trojan blessed or cursed with second sight. Forseeing his city’s ruin, he has abandoned
Troy for the Greek camp outside the walls but somehow forgotten to take his daughter with him. Comes a time, during which Troilus after a long and laborious wooing is enjoying his Cressida, when
Calchas arranges for his daughter to be brought to him in an exchange of prisoners. The young lovers must part, although not before they have sworn eternal fidelity. Do they keep that faith? You
shall see (even though you already know the answer).
Meantime – in the foggy by-ways of London rather than on the sun-kissed plains of Troy – Peter Agate and I groped towards our destination beyond Temple Stairs. I knew the area just
to the west of here for it was the site of Essex House, the London palace of Robert Devereux, the now disgraced Earl, and a place which I had twice visited at some peril to my life. In the shadow
of Temple Bar we entered the jumbled precincts of the Inner and Middle Temples. It was only about two in the afternoon but it seemed as though evening was already approaching. I identified
ourselves to a gatekeeper as members of the Chamberlain’s – adding “the players” in case he pretended ignorance – and Peter and I were directed round several corners
and through several courts. Dark-gowned figures were flitting about in these spaces, like crows, and adding to the general cheerfulness of the scene. I supposed they were Benchers or juniors. A
grand red-bricked tower and entrance, crested with the lamb and flag symbol of the Temple, loomed up in the murk. We climbed a few steps. Pushing through a weighty oak door, we left the damp fog
and entered a great hall with an elaborately beamed ceiling and candles massed in sconces along the walls. The tables and benches which had been shifted to one side indicated that when this room
wasn’t being used for playing its real purpose was for dining, probably of a grand sort.
Inside this hall were my fellows and that air of bustle and excitement which I’ve long associated with a play in its real beginnings – any play, it doesn’t matter what. The
run-through that morning in the Globe tire-house had been a bare affair and now we were going to clothe that skeleton with action, expression and gesture. I pointed out to Peter the area at the end
of the room, telling him that this was the very spot where the law students mounted their own performances and where our own
Troilus and Cressida
was to be staged. I enjoyed playing the
expert.
First, though, I had to gain approval for Peter’s presence here. I looked about for a likely senior, that is, one who wouldn’t raise objections. Fortunately the playwright himself
was in attendance. He hadn’t been with us at the earlier chamber practice. Now he was standing, as he often did, a little to one side, regarding. His acting days weren’t quite over but
he was always more prominent backstage than on the boards.
WS looked up and nodded slightly at my approach. He seemed preoccupied but greeted me courteously enough.
“This is Peter Agate, a friend of mine arrived from the country,” I said. “He has come to see how we do things.”
“He is welcome.”
“Peter, here is our playwright – and senior – and share-holder – and sometime player – Master Shakespeare.”
Peter looked abashed – he knew who it was standing opposite him for WS’s fame had spread quite far among the lettered classes. No words came out of his slightly open mouth but he
stuck out his hand in response to WS’s own I took some pleasure in seeing an old friend shake hands with a man I greatly admired and liked. And I took a more covert pleasure in the thought
that now Peter knew that
I
knew a man like WS. Reflected glory.
“Peter wishes to become a player.”
“He is doubly welcome then,” said Shakespeare, sounding as though he meant it.
Peter looked even more abashed, as though I shouldn’t have revealed this ambition. WS’s warmth contrasted with my own coolness back in the Goat & Monkey, and I regretted having
been discouraging to my friend, even briefly. I wondered whether to amuse WS by telling him of the tavern encounter with the chalky-faced old man and of our rescue by the boatmen. But there were
other more serious matters running through the author’s head.
“You can read, Master Agate? I mean, read with feeling rather than by rote?”
“I hope so, sir,” said Peter, seeming unsurprised by the question.
“We have a sudden gap in our ranks, Nicholas.”
“Somebody’s late?” I said hopefully, wanting Burbage’s waspishness directed elsewhere.
“Not late now – but I fear that our patron will be shortly.”
Deliberately or not, Shakespeare had misunderstood me. We were all aware that our patron Lord Hunsdon – who had succeeded his father to the post of Lord Chamberlain only a few years
earlier – was sick, too sick to attend the Privy Council. This meant that the Chamberlain’s Company was without a voice at court or in the highest circles of the land. I had glimpsed
this great man on a handful of occasions but knew nothing of him except that he had a great fondness for music. What I knew besides was that every company needed a patron and protector. During any
sickness of Lord Hunsdon, we might have looked to the Queen to be our guardian but rumour whispered that the royal decline, hitherto slow, was gathering pace.
“Thomas Pope has gone off on a visit at Hunsdon House,” said WS. “It is a delicate business. He left for Hertfordshire this very afternoon.”
I nodded. It must have been an urgent departure if Thomas Pope was compelled to travel in this weather. He’d been present at the morning practice. I noticed that Peter Agate looked both
interested and baffled, as well he might. I was a bit baffled myself.
“We want a first-hand account of our patron’s health,” said Shakespeare. “And our obligation to Hunsdon demands that a senior visit him.”
This was surely a sudden decision on the part of the shareholders, the seven men who between them had control of the Globe playhouse. Perhaps they had received news of some crisis. Underneath
the courtesy of visiting an ailing man was, of course, the unspoken desire to determine whether we needed to look about for a fresh patron now or whether this might be postponed for months or even
years.
“But it means that we’re without a Thersites for the afternoon,” said WS, looking at Peter. “Only for this afternoon. We can make other arrangements before the next
rehearsal.”
He said no more but let his words sink in.
“Peter – play Thersites!”
I couldn’t help myself. I spluttered loud enough for one or two near us to stop whatever they were doing. If there’s any one character in
Troilus and Cressida
who’d be
beyond the reach of my friend it was Thersites. My acquaintance with Shakespeare’s creations was by this time fairly extensive and, however brilliantly they were realized, you generally knew
where in the catalogue of men (or women) to place them: soldiers, sages, lovers, shrews, & cetera. But I’d never encountered anyone like Thersites before, either in real life or on the
stage.
So I half laughed, half exclaimed, and Peter became a little indignant, at least in his looks.
“Master Agate,” said WS ignoring my reaction, “I don’t know you, although you come with the recommendation of being Nicholas’s friend.”
Peter hardly knew where to put himself. He actually blushed.
“And you want to be a player?”
Peter nodded.
“You know what is the hardest part to play?”
“Oneself,” said Peter.
“Why yes,” said WS, the pleased pedagogue. “And the opposite is generally true too. That is, we find it easiest to play what we are not. And, believe me, when I ask you to read
–
read
not play – the part of Thersites, I’m asking you to be the very opposite of what is most likely your true self.”
“Who is Thersites?” said Peter.
“A deformed and scurrilous Greek,” said Shakespeare. “One who rails on the wars and satirizes his commanders. One to whom the whole world is a mass of fools. A nasty, cynical
fellow but a necessary one perhaps.”
“Thomas Pope has the part,” I added, seeing the drift of WS’s words, “and he is not like that at all.”
“Nor are you, Master Agate. Not a scurrilous, cynical fellow, I think. Are you?”
What answer can you give to a question like that? Peter duly shrugged and reddened and looked abashed all over again.
“So you are well suited to read the part of Thersites this afternoon, since that Greek gentleman is your opposite in every respect.”
The playwright paused for an instant to allow Peter to disagree but my friend naturally said nothing.
“That’s settled then.”
WS clapped Peter on the shoulder and smiled. Peter smiled back. Shakespeare had got his way. He usually did get his way, and without stirring up resentment or a sense of grievance, even though
it was sometimes hard to see how the trick was done.
“Nick,” he continued, “if you take Peter across to see Master Allison, he’ll supply this fledgling player here with his part. I’ll speak to Dick Burbage and make
the way smooth.”
WS moved off to explain to Burbage that we now had a man to play Thersites for the afternoon. Peter gazed after him. I looked around for Geoffrey Allison and eventually spotted him ensconced
behind a table in a corner, with sheaves of paper and a mound of scrolls. I tapped Peter on the shoulder to get his attention – he was still staring, bemused, at Shakespeare who was now
talking in low tones to Dick Burbage – and we crossed the banqueting hall to see the book-keeper.
Master Allison is the conscience of the Chamberlain’s, or perhaps our recording angel. He remembers our good actions and our bad ones, that is, the good and bad performances He keeps our
parts and doles them out, grudgingly. He remembers who we’ve played even after we ourselves have long forgotten our lines. No one, not even Dick Burbage or William Shakespeare, knows as much
as Allison does about the playing history of the Company.
I introduced Peter to him, informing him that this ‘fledgling player’ was to assume Thomas Pope’s part of Thersites for the afternoon session, by order of WS. Master Allison
paused from his note-making to scrabble among the mound of scrolls on the table and, selecting one more by instinct than inspection, held it out to Peter but without letting go of it. He cast his
eyes up and down my friend.
“Fledgling player, eh. Well, here is a feather or two will help you fly.”
He waggled the scroll but didn’t release it into Peter’s outstretched hand.
“Mind you return it straight after the practice is over.”
“I will.”
“You have an honest enough face,” said Allison, and it occurred to me that Peter might be growing weary of being complimented on his honesty. Still reluctant to part with the
rolled-up paper, the book-keeper continued, “Understand that these parts are like gold, young man, but more valuable since they are mined, not from the earth . . .”
“Mined?”
“ . . . but rather from the
mind
of our author – as you might say.”
Fortunately my friend smiled at the pun. And only then did Geoffrey Allison allow Peter to take the scroll. Then, dismissing us with a wave of the hand, he resumed his note-making.
Without any signal being given, the rest of the company was moving towards the hall-screen. It was in front of this partitioned-off area that we’d be practising and later performing
Troilus and Cressida
since, with its double entrances and gallery above, it was the nearest thing to the layout of the stage at the Globe. As we ambled across to join our fellows, I said to
Peter, “Well, you can never have thought that within a few hours of arriving in my lodgings you’d be reading with the Chamberlain’s Company.”
“I’m speechless, Nick.”
“Not for a couple of hours, I hope.”
“So when do I come on?”
“It’s all down there on the scroll. The lines immediately before your entrances. But Burbage’ll cue you anyway. You’re only reading. This isn’t your part, after
all. You’re not Thersites.”
I said this to soothe his nerves or rather to temper his growing excitement. But something inside me also wanted to put my old friend in his place. I had been many months in London before
achieving even a hearing from the Chamberlain’s. I didn’t want Peter Agate to believe that theatrical success came too quick and easy. It wouldn’t be good for him. (It
wouldn’t be good for me either.)
After all this, I expect that you expect to read how Peter gave a brilliant reading as Thersites, the Greek with the foul mouth and fouler mind. Or how he was execrably bad in the part. The
truth is that he was neither. When he got into the part and saw what he was dealing with, he gave a solid account of the character, sneering and fleering with the best of them. But every so often
glimpses of good, honest Peter shone through, so that lines and sentiments like ‘I am a bastard’ were quite decorously delivered, rousing the wrong kind of laughter.
Still, all went well. Well enough for it to be arranged that, if Thomas Pope hadn’t returned from his visit to Hertfordshire and Lord Hunsdon by the next
Troilus
rehearsal in a
couple of days’ time, then Peter would once again speak for Thersites. I noticed that Shakespeare went out of his way to say something to my friend. By his look and gesture it was
complimentary. But then WS was always complimentary, I consoled myself. Almost always.