Master Skylark: A Story of Shakspere's Time by John Bennett (reading list .TXT) 📗
- Author: John Bennett
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“But, sir,” broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to Hey wood’s arm, “ye said that I should go!”
“Said!” cried the master-player, with a bitter smile; “why, Nick, I’d say ten times more in one little minute just to hear thee sing than I would stand to in a month of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. I’ll feed thee full and dress thee well and treat thee true—all for that song of thine.”
“But, sir, my mother—”
“Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” cried the writer of comedies.
“Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried the master-player, with quivering lips. “Ye will make me out no man, or else a fiend. I cannot let the fellow go—I will not let him go.” His hands were twitching, and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly. “And, Tom, there’s that within me will not abide even thy pestering. So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour over soon!”
So they came on gloomily past the bear-houses and the Queen’s kennels. The river-wind was full of the wild smell of the bears; but what were bears to poor Nick, whose last faint hope that the master-player meant to keep his word and send him home again was gone?
They passed the Paris Garden and the tall round play-house that Francis Langley had just built. A blood-red banner flaunted overhead, with a large white swan painted thereon; but Nick saw neither the play-house nor the swan; he saw only, deep in his heart, a little gable-roof among old elms, with blue smoke curling softly up among the rippling leaves; an open door with tall pink hollyhocks beside it; and in the door, watching for him till he came again, his own mother’s face. He began to cry silently.
“Nay, Nick, my lad, don’t cry,” said Heywood, gently; “’twill only make bad matters worse. Never is a weary while; but the longest lane will turn at last: some day thou’lt find thine home again all in the twinkling of an eye. Why, Nick, ’tis England still, and thou an Englishman. Come, give the world as good as it can send.”
Nick raised his head again, and, throwing the hair back from his eyes, walked stoutly along, though the tears still trickled down his cheeks.
“Sing thou my songs,” said Heywood, heartily, “and I will be thy friend—let this be thine earnest.” As he spoke he slipped upon the boy’s finger a gold ring with a green stone in it cut with a tall tree: this was his seal.
They had now come through the garden to the Rose Theatre, where the Lord Admiral’s company played; and Carew was himself again. “Come, Nicholas,” said he, half jestingly, “be done with thy doleful dumps—care killed a cat, they say, lad. Why, if thy hateful looks could stab, I’d be a dead man forty times. Come, cheer up, lad, that I may know thou lovest me.”
“But I do na love thee!” cried Nick, indignantly.
“Tut! Do not be so dour. Thou’lt soon be envied by ten thousand men. Come, don’t make a face at thy good fortune as though it were a tripe fried in tar. Come, lad, be pleased; thou’lt be the pet of every high-born dame in London town.”
“I’d rather be my mother’s boy,” Nick answered simply.
THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE
The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building of oak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Two outside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-red English tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a little turret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on the stave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flag on which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one that Nick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few short days before.
Under the stairway was a narrow door marked “For the Playeres Onelie”; and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writing upon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills at his side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and then prodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek, and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was no expert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays.
He looked up as they came to the step.
“A poor trip, Carew,” said he, running his finger down the column of figures he was adding. “The play was hardly worth the candle—cleared but five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fip to bring the stuff down from the City, ’twas lost in the river from the barge at Paul’s wharf! A good two pound.”
“Hard luck!” said Carew.
“Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, ’tis very stones for luck, and the whole road rocky! Here’s Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha’ rebuilt Blackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?”
Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere had married his mother’s own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he had often heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her own good friend when they were young.
“He and Jonson be thick as thieves,” said Henslowe; “and Chettle says that Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn—a master fine thing!—‘Romulus and Juliana,’ or something of that Italian sort, to follow Ben Jonson’s comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool about Ben’s comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the money out of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day—and here, while ye were gone, I ha’ played my Lord of Pembroke’s men in your ‘Robin Hood,’ Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!”
Heywood flushed.
“Nay, Tom, don’t be nettled; ’tis not the fault of thy play. There’s naught will serve. We’ve tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele, Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do—’tis Shakspere, Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha’ nothing but Shakspere!”
Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody in London town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smoke which hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in that terrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could find one man.
“I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there’s some magic in the fellow, or my name’s not Henslowe!” cried the manager. “His very words bewitch one’s wits as nothing else can do. Why, I’ve tried them with ‘Pierce Penniless,’ ‘Groat’s Worth of Wit,’ ‘Friar Bacon,’ ‘Orlando,’ and the ‘Battle of Alcazar.’ Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I’ve put Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into a peach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for ‘Volteger’; and what? Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumes yet—sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shakspere too!—but I wish we had him back again. We’d make their old Blackfriars sick!” He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that rose above the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river.
Nick stared. That the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages? Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick could only find him, he would not let the son of his wife’s own cousin be stolen away!
Nick looked around quickly.
The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. There was a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream with some men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens and trees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. It was not far, and there were places where one could get a boat every fifty yards or so at the Bankside.
But—“Come in, come in,” said Henslowe. “Growling never fed a dog; and we must be doing.”
“Go ahead, Nick,” said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they all went in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowest gallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man was tuning up a viol as they came in.
“I want you to hear this boy sing,” said Carew to Henslowe. “’Tis the best thing ye ever lent ear to.”
“Oh, this is the boy?” said the manager, staring at Nick. “Why, Alleyn told me he was a country gawk!”
“He lied, then,” said Carew, very shortly. “’Twas cheaper than the truth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place—we have business.”
Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to tremble as he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamental columns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautiful blue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steady himself he found they were only painted wood.
There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of the building, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see them across the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, but there were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on around the gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open space in the center of the building. The stage was already set up on the trestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it on copper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle of the play-house was open to the sky.
The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece, although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for the galleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of the stairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at the entrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and were beating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing the thief, and those near enough kicked and struck him.
Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-room behind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down the steps. The man in the red cloak looked up. “Go back there,” said he, sharply; “there’s enough down here now.” Nick went on around the gallery.
At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and between them hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Over these doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes for gentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl, wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked down at Nick instead. “What a pretty boy!” she said, and tossed him a flower that one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick’s feet. He started back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap and bowed; but the men looked sour.
At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets and a pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nick saw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he came down to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly; it seemed so near!
“Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside—dost hear?” said the bandy-legged man.
“Ay,” said Nick, and turned back.
There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went up softly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on the side next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward it slowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head.
“NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK.”
There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set it under the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabbling noise. He was afraid some one would hear him; but the apprentices in the pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen’s pages were wrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to the general riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were
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