Shakespeare's Scribe (26 page)

I might have managed to let even this pass had I been striving still to be the good prentice, but I was not. I was striving to be Helena. I took the time to put the final touches on my makeup—and to count to ten—and then I turned to face him. “I suspect,” I said evenly, “that your opinion of me acting ability is not nearly as low as you'd have me believe.”

“Oh?” said Sal Pavy, clearly taken aback a bit. I am sure he expected me to respond with anger to his goading.

“An you truly felt I was no match for you, you would never have gone to so much trouble to try to get rid of me. It's only because you ken how capable I am that you consider me a threat.”

“A threat?” He laughed, not entirely convincingly. “The only thing I've ever feared from you was that you would forget your lines and I would be forced to cover for you.”

“You're lying. They say that no one may spot a lie like another liar. Well, I've been a liar most of me life. It's only lately that I've given it up.”

“You may as well give up trying to compete with me as well, because you'll never win.”

“We should not be competing at all, you and I. Theatre is supposed to be a cooperative effort. Did they never teach you that at Blackfriars?”

For the first time his mask of superiority began to slip, giving me a glimpse of something darker and more vulnerable behind it. “No,” he said. “But they taught me many other things, and one of them was that if I ever managed to get free of them I would not go back. I would do anything to avoid going back.”

I nodded. I understood better than anyone the fierce determination he felt to keep his place within the company, at any cost. “I am certain that you want no advice of any sort from me, but I'll give ‘t to you all the same. An you truly wish to stay wi' the Chamberlain's Men, you'll never do ‘t through trickery and deceit; I ken that well, for I tried it meself. The only way you will ever belong is by being a hard and willing worker, and by being honest and loyal, so that you earn the trust and respect of the company.”

“Trust and respect?” Sal Pavy sounded as though he were unfamiliar with the terms.

“You don't mean to tell me,” I said, “that there was something you did not have at Blackfriars?”

Since he was the challenged party in the duel, Sal Pavy dictated the order in which we would perform. He chose to let me go first. As I stood by the curtain, waiting to go on, I felt unaccountably calm and confident. Mr. Heminges, who was playing the Countess to both our Helenas, came up next to me, adjusting his gown and wig. “Ready?”

I took a deep breath. “Aye.”

He nodded encouragingly. “I b-believe you are.”

Ordinarily when I made an entrance I was careful not to take much notice of the audience. It was easier for me to imagine, then, that I was living the scene, and not merely making a show of it. This time, though, I took a long look out into the hall. I was not playing to some mingle-mangle of strangers, come to lose themselves for a couple of hours in a world that was more interesting and exciting than their own. These were my fellow players, my friends.

An ordinary audience knew nothing about us actors, and cared less. Their only concern was for the fate of the characters in the play. But to these men—to Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Armin and Mr. Phillips and Will Sly and even to Jack—I was not merely a player; I was a person. It was not enough, then, for me just to give them Helena. I had to give them something more. I had to give them me.

Always before, when I got well into a part, my awareness of everything outside the boundaries of the stage faded away. The only thing real to me was the world of the play. It was like slipping into a two-hour dream.

This time was different. I felt more the way one feels when he is just on the threshold of waking. Although he is still within the imaginary world conjured up by his sleeping mind, sounds and such from the real world intrude and influence the course of the dream.

So it was that, when I as Helena spoke of my father, images of Jamie Redshaw came into my mind. When I as Helena told the Countess, “You are my mother, madam; would you were—” I thought for a moment of my own mother, whom I never had known and never would. And when Mr. Heminges as the Countess remarked upon the tears that filled my eyes, he did not have to imagine them; they were there.

At the conclusion of our scene, we received an enthusiastic round of applause from the company. Under cover of it, Mr. Heminges said to me, “Well done, Widge.” I could not help but agree.

Now that I had taken my shot, it was Sal Pavy's turn. I was not certain I wanted to watch. It would be like watching an opponent in a duel level his pistol at you, and wondering whether or not you would survive. In the end, I sat close behind the curtain and listened.

He made a strong beginning. His Helena was more forceful and vibrant than mine, who, though strong-willed, was soft-spoken. He was clearly determined to make my portrayal seem pale and anemic—and he seemed to be succeeding.

But a few minutes into the scene he lost momentum somehow. It was as though some part of his mind was occupied with something besides the role—perhaps with the conversation we had had not long before. Well, I had meant to give him something to think about, but not necessarily now. When he came to the line “My friends were poor but honest,” he seemed to falter and forget where to go.

Out of old habit, I threw him the next line, but he failed to take it. Thinking he had not heard, I repeated it, more loudly. Still there was only silence from the stage. I peered through the opening in the curtain. To my surprise, Sal Pavy was not facing his partner in the scene but had turned to look out at the members of the company who formed the audience. “The lines seem to have left my head,” he told them. His voice was steady; his head was held high. “I could do a bit of thribbling, but you would know. I prefer instead to concede.” He made a dignified bow, turned, and walked off the stage. A generous burst of applause followed him.

Suspecting that Sal Pavy would prefer to be alone, I ducked around the curtain and joined my friends, all of whom congratulated me warmly. Actually, Jack's comment could probably not be considered warm. What he said was, “I could never con that many lines in two days.” It was, I supposed, the best I could expect from him.

Mr. Shakespeare said, “With you as Helena, perhaps this will not be such a poor play after all.”

Mr. Armin gripped my hand almost painfully hard. “Don't think for a moment,” he said, “that you won only because Sal Pavy conceded
defeat. It was your performance and nothing else. It was astute, it was assured, it was affecting.”

I did not know what to say. Fortunately Mr. Armin covered for me. “You know,” he said, “when an actor truly shines in a role for the first time, we say that he's found himself. Well, it seems to me that you've found yourself. How does it feel?”

I thought of a line at last, one that would fit any situation. “Oh, Lord, sir,” I said.

Gary Blackwood
has written many novels for young readers, including the much-acclaimed first book about Widge,
The Shakespeare Stealer
, which was an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, an ALA Notable Book, a
School Library Journal
Best Book of the Year, and an NCSS/CBC Notable Children's Trade Book in the Field of Social Studies. Mr. Blackwood lives with his wife and two children on an acre of land surrounded by cow pastures outside Carthage, Missouri.