Mask of Night (17 page)

NR
: Gullibility?

HF
: Being open-minded.

NR
: That’s kind of you, Doctor Fern, to put it like that. I’m sorry to have troubled you.

HF
: No, no, you’ve taken my mind off all this. I also remember now that your father was a parson, you said, and did not approve of casting horoscopes.

NR
: He didn’t. But I cannot see much harm in it.

HF
: Doctors may be worse employed, believe me. Much worse employed. What’s that sound?

NR
: The trumpet which announces the beginning of the performance.

HF
: Now?

NR
: Imminently.

HF
: Oh dear, I was afraid it was. You wouldn’t think that I was eager to play yesterday, even this morning. But now . . .

NR
: I am always frightened before I go on stage.

HF
: That is heartening to know. If an experienced player can feel that . . .

NR
: The most experienced feel it most of all, I’m told. And I’m on soon. I will let you alone to have a final look at your lines, sir.

So I left Doctor Fern to scan his part in peace. Even as I was positioning myself backstage (or rather joining my fellows where they were clustered to the rear of the platform in the yard) I heard the Chorus declaiming the opening lines of our tragedy.

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean . . .

The buzzing from the audience subsided. By the time the Chorus had reached the end of the prologue there was absolute quiet in the yard.

“It’s a good audience,” whispered Abel Glaze.

“It’s a good play,” I said.

I looked around for the author of this good play but there was no sign of him.

Things rolled smoothly from that point on. We had the street-fight (where the Montagues meet the Capulets), we had the ball (where Romeo meets Juliet), we had the first appearance of Friar Laurence. Hugh Fern entered through one of the curtained booths, carrying the basket in which he was gathering herbs and simples from the fields around Verona. I noticed that he’d changed his bright, buckled shoes for footwear that was altogether plainer and more friar-like. He started speaking too soon and too quickly – as inexperienced players often do – but any tremor in his voice was covered by the little burst of applause which greeted his appearance. Either some of the spectators recognized him under his grey habit or perhaps they were already aware that a local doctor was substituting for one of the regular players. Anyway, the clapping demonstrated his popularity.

As Mercutio I had two big scenes in particular. There is my speech about Queen Mab, which shows me up as a man of dreams and imagination, and then there is my fight with Tybalt, which reveals me as a man of action. The fight is a key moment in the story since it comes after the marriage of Romeo and Juliet but before that marriage can be consummated. In between marriage and consummation, Romeo will kill the man who has killed his friend and so earn himself the sentence of exile.

I was a bit nervous about the fight. My sessions with Jack Wilson had helped to polish the moves but I still didn’t quite trust myself with a foil. And I wanted to die well since this was (obviously!) my final appearance. I would not be coming on again during the afternoon as a ghost or as another character in a different guise.

Laurence Savage, who was playing Benvolio, and I strolled on to the stage of the Golden Cross Inn, making pretend that this was a public place in Verona with the sun beating down on our capped heads. Even as Laurence was talking about “these hot days” I felt the first spot of rain on my sword-hand. The sky sagged above us. Still, I sensed that the audience was rapt enough. They knew that trouble was brewing.

Sure enough, Tybalt and a clutch of other Capulets soon swagger on and then Romeo enters, all bright and fresh (although not yet satisfied) from his union with Juliet. Tybalt challenges him to a fight but Romeo, softened by love, has no wish to take up arms against a man who is now related to him by marriage. Once again, I marvelled at the subtlety of Dick Burbage, of how he was able to suggest the conflict between love and honour within young Romeo – even though Burbage would never see the near side of thirty again and must be struggling to remember what youthful love was like. Why, I could hardly remember what it was like myself.

Now Mercutio steps forward. Unaware of Romeo’s secret marriage, he can’t bear to see his friend turn the other cheek under Tybalt’s goading. So Mercutio will fight on his behalf.

And so we go to it.
Stocatta
,
imbrocatta
,
punta riversa
and all that Italian cut and thrust. Swords flashing, we caper about the platform stage, Jack Wilson and I. The boards quiver under our buskins. The audience ignores the gathering rain, and oohs and aahs in sympathy.

Then: catastrophe for Mercutio (and for me).

Romeo intervenes in the fight, trying to part the duellists. He does it for the best of reasons, he wants to save his old friend just as he wants no harm to come to a member of Juliet’s family. He steps between us and, under his arm, Tybalt thrusts up hard with his foil – maybe using that
stocatta
stroke – and gives me the fatal scratch. Perhaps sensing the damage he’s done Tybalt quickly exits with his followers.

What happened next was entirely my fault. I wanted to die well, like I said. So I twisted away sharp from the touch of Tybalt’s blade, burst the little bladder of sheep’s blood which was snugged under my armpit and stood staring at Jack Wilson in full retreat. Then I looked down at the red stain spreading across my shirt, as if suddenly conscious of my true condition. Grasped what had occurred, fully grasped it. The fatal scratch. Staggered half-way across the stage, which by this time was fairly sprinkled with rain. So next thing I knew I was slipping in the wet and landing with a heavier thud than intended. My left foot doubled up under my body. I lay gazing out across the gaping faces of the audience, no doubt with genuine pain written all over my own face. From a horizontal position I delivered myself of my next line –
I am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses
– and ordered my servant to obtain a surgeon. Then I tried to get up, almost managed it and fell over once more.

The audience thought this was real (that is, they thought it was all a matter of play) but for me there was a touch of earnestness in the business as well. Nevertheless, I gave my dry and witty farewell, with its talk of grave men and worm’s meat, before being helped off-stage by Laurence Savage. The other players stood by, expressing shock at the turn events had taken. Laurence ushered me into one of the booths, waited for his cue to reappear then dashed on to announce my sudden death. Meantime I hobbled down the rickety steps to the yard. A couple of my fellow players, seeing that I was in difficulties, helped me to the bench. I sank down, leaned against the rough whitewashed wall and felt my foot throbbing.

Well, at least I hadn’t fallen off the stage like I had that time at the Globe. I hadn’t disgraced myself by disrupting the flow of the action or producing unintended comedy. Gingerly, I twisted my foot around.

“Let me look, Nicholas.”

It was Hugh Fern. I hadn’t been aware of his presence. He was still dressed in his Franciscan costume since he had much to do in the rest of the action. He made to reach for my bloodstained shirt.

“That is only pretend, where I was stabbed by Tybalt,” I said. “But the injury to my foot is real enough. Real enough as a mark of my carelessness.”

“Fallen again?”

I grimaced, the foolish player owning up. He felt my foot and ankle. His touch was comforting. The throb subsided slightly. All would be well.

“How did it go?” I asked. “Was it better than you expected, performing in public? I see you have changed your shoes.”

“Thank you for the advice about footwear, Nicholas. As for the playing, it’s something I could get a taste for. Though I would need to get my own costume, not use William’s. He’s about my height or a bit more but this is a little tight around the girth.”

“Then it’s more fitting for a friar, perhaps,” I said. “They shouldn’t be thin. They’re too jolly for that.”

Fern finished palping my foot.

“Nothing broken.”

“My pride can only take so much, though.”

“I will make up a poultice later.”

“Are you speaking as Friar Laurence or as a physician?”

“There’s not much difference between the two in this case.”

“Thank you, whichever one you are,” I said, warming to this kind, reassuring individual.

From the stage I could hear the thunderous denunciation of Escalus, the Prince of Verona, when he condemns Romeo to exile and, pointing to Tybalt’s body, concludes:

let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last.
Bear hence this body and attend our will:
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

A break in the action was scheduled at this point.

The audience was left with these questions to ponder: would the marriage of Romeo and Juliet be consummated? How would Romeo evade exile or, if he was caught in Verona, the sentence of death? What would happen to the lovers in the end?

At the Globe we would most likely have played the action straight through without interruption but staging plays at an inn imposes different conditions (not unrelated to the selling of extra liquor to the audience in the rest period). So now there was applause and a resurgence of buzzing from the audience. The rain hadn’t dampened their interest.

My friends trooped down the steps from the platform and several came over to see how I was – since they alone perhaps were capable of judging how hard and unintended my fall had been. Some came in a spirit of amusement, but two or three with real concern. Both were welcome in their different ways but I almost preferred those who mocked.

Members of the audience were also strolling about backstage and under the gallery, to get out of the drizzly air. Drawers and pot-boys darted around taking and delivering orders of drink. Susan Constant and her cousin Sarah had been as good as their word. I saw them, in company with Mistress Root, at a little distance. Hugh Fern approached the group. The white of Sarah’s countenance contrasted with the ruddiness of Nurse Root’s. They looked in my direction and I gave a cheerful wave – to show that I had got over my injury – but all four were preoccupied in conversation. No doubt they were talking about the play.

The feeling between the two neighbouring inns, the Golden Cross and the Tavern, evidently wasn’t so strong that it precluded Jack Davenant from attending a play in his rival’s yard, for I noticed him walking about on the far side of the Constant cousins. He looked characteristically gloomy, his head swinging from side to side as if he was searching the crowd. Perhaps he was reckoning up how much business he was losing.

Luckily I was out of the action now. Mercutio was dead. I didn’t think I would be able to take part in the jig which would end
Romeo and Juliet
but otherwise nothing was lost. In the capable hands of Hugh Fern I would soon recover to fight and fall another day.

I looked around for the good Doctor and caught a glimpse of his grey cloak and balding head slipping into one of the store-rooms further along the covered passage. I heard the door shut fast. I didn’t think this strange at the time.

Everyone else in the Chamberlain’s had slipped away by now, to make little adjustments to their costumes or touch up their face-paint or sink another pint or piss away the last one in a neglected corner. I was left alone.

The trumpet tooted to announce the commencement of the second half of the play.

I leaned my head back against the dirty white wall. I heard voices from the stage, clear but seeming to come from a distance on account of the backcloth. My eyes closed involuntarily and remained closed until I became conscious of the pain in my foot. I opened my eyes to see William Shakespeare standing over me. There was someone else behind him. He spoke in a breathless voice, aware that we were only yards from the stage.

“Where is the Doctor?”

“Who?”

“Hugh Fern. Have you seen him?”

“What? No . . . yes, I have, he went down there a few minutes ago.”

I jerked my thumb in the direction of the store-rooms. Shakespeare moved away to reveal the identity of the other person. I was surprised to see that it was Mrs Davenant, but not that surprised. I smiled lamely, not knowing what else to do and being confused about what was happening. I noticed her looking at my bloody shirt and quickly concluding that it was fake.

Something was wrong. Shakespeare almost ran down the covered passage – and this was a man who did almost everything at an unhurried pace – and peered into each of the tiny chambers. He rattled at the door of the one at the far end and then sped back to me.

“That one’s locked,” he said. “Is he in there?”

I was about to comment on the foolish nature of the question – because if Hugh Fern was in the room then he would have heard the fuss outside and answered it, wouldn’t he? And anyway why should he have shut himself inside? – but something set and serious in WS’s expression prevented me.

“He’s due to appear in minutes,” said WS. “This is my fault.”

“He was eager to play,” I said.

“I didn’t mean that,” said WS, almost snappishly.

I got up from the bench and went to look for myself, careful about putting my full weight on my left foot. There were, to be precise, half a dozen little chambers opening off the right-hand side of the passage. I thought that Hugh Fern had gone into the last of these and, sure enough, the door was locked, although I couldn’t imagine why it should be. The doors to the others were ajar or completely open. Inside were unused costumes and effects, together with the detritus of the inn. There were small grilled openings, more for ventilation than anything else, to each room. These openings were slightly above head height. I stood up on tiptoe and tried to peer into the locked room but it was too dim on the interior for anything to be clearly visible and my position was too uncomfortable to hold for long.