"The best one is the Globe, which is just across the Thames from
London, in the Bankside edge of Southwark, near the bridge. It was
built by some merchants and by an actor from Stratford-up-on-Avon, who
also writes their plays. It's three stories high and circular, with
high balconies. And there's a covered stage at one side, where the
players perform."
"Do the women in these plays dance, like our _devadasis_?"
"Actually the players are all men. Sometimes they take the roles of
women, but I've never seen them dance all that much. There are plays
about famous English kings, and sometimes there are stories of thwarted
love, usually set in Italy. Plays are a new thing in England, and
there's nothing like them anywhere else."
Shirin settled against a boulder and watched the shadows cast by the
rising sun stretch out across the valley. She sat thoughtfully for a
moment and then she laughed. "What would you say if I told you India
had dramas about kings and thwarted love over a thousand years ago?
They were in Sanskrit, and they were written by men named Bhavabhuti
and Bhasa and Kalidasa, whose lives are legends now. A pandit, that's
the title Hindus give their scholars, once told me about a play called
The Clay Cart. It was about a poor king who fell in love with a rich
courtesan. But there are no plays here now, unless you count the dance
dramas they have in the south. Sanskrit is a dead language, and Muslims
don't really care for plays."
"I'll wager you'd like the plays in London. They're exciting, and
sometimes the poetry can be very moving."
"What's it like to go to see one?"
"First, on the day a play is performed they fly a big white banner of
silk from a staff atop the Globe, and you can see it all over London.
The admission is only a penny for old plays and two pence for new ones.
That's all you ever have to pay if you're willing to stand in the pit.
If you want to pay a little more, you can get a seat in the galleries
around the side, up out of the dust and chips, and for a little extra
you can get a cushion for the seat. Or for sixpence you can enter
directly through the stage door and sit in a stall at the side of the
stage. Just before the play begins there's a trumpet fanfare-- like
Arangbar has when he enters the _Diwan-i-Am_--and the doorkeepers pass
through the galleries to collect the money."
"What do they do with it?"
"They put it into a locked box," Hawksworth grinned, "which wags have
taken to calling the box office, because they're so officious about it.
But the money's perfectly safe. Plays are in the afternoon, while
there's daylight."
"But aren't they performed inside this building?" Shirin seemed to be
only half listening.
"The Globe has an open roof except over the stage. But if it gets too
dull on winter afternoons, they light the stage with torches of burning
pitch or tar."
"Who exactly goes to these playhouses?"
"Everyone. Except maybe the Puritans. Anybody can afford a penny. And
the Globe is not that far from the Southwark bear gardens, so a lot of
people come after they've been to see bearbaiting. The pit is usually
full of rowdy tradesmen, who stand around the stage and turn the air
blue with tobacco smoke."
"So high-caste women and women from good families wouldn't go."
"Of course women go." Hawksworth tried unsuccessfully to suppress a
smile. "There are gallants in London who'll tell you the Globe is the
perfect place to spot a comely wench, or even a woman of fashion
looking for some sport while her husband's drunk at a gaming house."
"I don't believe such things happen."
"Well that's the way it is in England." Hawksworth settled against the
boulder. "You have to understand women there don't let themselves be
locked up and hidden behind veils. So if a cavalier spies a comely
woman at the Globe, he'll find a way to praise her dress, or her
figure, and then he'll offer to sit next to her, you know, just to make
sure some rude fellow doesn't trod on the hem of her petticoats with
muddy boots, and no chips fall in her lap. Then after the play begins,
he'll buy her a bag of roasted chestnuts, or maybe some oranges from
one of the orange-wenches walking through the galleries. And if she
carries on with him a bit, he'll offer to squire her home."
"I suppose you've done just that?" She examined him in dismay.