WHEN a few minutes later Gervase and Anne, as wholesome as the pump in
the courtyard could make them, were ushered by their new friend into
the breakfast parlor of the Crown, they learned without surprise that
his calling was that of a play-actor. Several of his colleagues were
seated at a long table that ran along the center of the room.
This man’s entrance with two nut-brown vagabonds, whose clothes were in
tatters and had the appearance of having been drawn through a hedge,
gave rise to not a little curiosity. And when he led them to a small
table spread for three persons that was set in an embrasure of the
window looking on to the street, and sat down to eat with them, covert
glances were stolen at so singular a spectacle by more than one member
of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company.
Still, even in that age there was a certain indulgence among the elect
for a man of acknowledged genius. And of such persons whom nature and
fortune had favored there was a number round the table in the center
of the room. At the foot of it, immediately opposite the vacant place
of his slightly eccentric co-manager, was Richard Burbage, who had
recently built the fine new playhouse on the Bankside in Southwark,
and who was held by all whose opinion was of weight to be the first
tragic actor of the time. Near to him was William Kemp, the famous
comedian, a burly, rubicund fellow, whose rolling, unctuous tones had
been nourished upon many an honest quart of sack. Farther along the
board were such excellent mimes as Taylor and Lowin and Heming and
Harrison, men highly accomplished in their calling, and of whom any
body of players had a right to be proud.
The Lord Chamberlain’s servants were on the floodside of success. At
this time they were going from strength to strength and outdistancing
all competitors. Even the Lord Admiral’s men had grown to envy
them. These were no unworthy rivals; men of wit and parts from the
universities were writing plays for them, but they had not the good
fortune to be inspired by a man of very brilliant and remarkable genius.
Richard Burbage’s co-director and part-proprietor of the new theater on
the Bankside was William Shakespeare, like all of these men an actor,
and perhaps a rather mediocre one. Yet wild horses would not have
dragged any such admission from his more accomplished brethren. For
these well knew that this man, whose air was so modest, so charming and
so friendly, was one whose own special gift was beyond all price. Times
and again, at the shortest notice, had he taken the lifeless corpse of
a forgotten play and with a few magic touches had made the dry bones
live.
More than once had Richard Burbage gone to him with a demand for
“something new for Twelfth Night.” And as sure as Burbage had done so
something new had been forthcoming; a piece such as to make the town
ring, and cause the Admiral’s men to bite their nails with envy. Plays
of all kinds, running through the whole gamut of the emotions, had
William Shakespeare devised. All sorts and conditions of men had been
enthralled by his remarkable talent.
“What new maggot has Will got in his brain?” inquired the famous Kemp
of the still more famous Burbage as he rolled a large and rather
bloodshot eye in the direction of the window.
“Nay,” said the tragedian, with an indulgent shake of the head, “I
know not, except that, as he would say, he is studying the great human
comedy.”
“Well, Dick,” said the comedian, “if you and I did not know that he had
rarer wit than any man alive we should think he was as mad as a March
hare.”
“It is a form of madness, friend William, that will never trouble you
and me,” said the tragedian, fetching a deep sigh in which there was
more than a suspicion of the idolater.
Richard Burbage in particular was sealed of the tribe. In those
reverent eyes the true prince had no peer. The tragedian was not only a
magnificent actor; he was also an uncommonly shrewd and practical man
of the world. He of all men was able to appraise the merit of William
Shakespeare. Burbage knew that his touch had an astonishing mastery.
He knew Shakespeare to be an incomparable craftsman who had already
furnished him with wonderful parts in which to display his own genius.
Moreover the tragedian firmly believed that this wonderful man carried
many another fine play as yet unborn in his brain.
It mattered not what the theme was. It might be as old as the moon or
it might be invented expressly for the Globe Theatre, but as soon as
William Shakespeare took the pen in his hand the realms of gold were
unlocked. An incommunicable thrill was given to the stale old plot; the
light that never was on sea or land glowed over it; every line acquired
a cadence, a fire, a magic that Richard Burbage, acknowledged monarch
of its interpreters, knew to be incomparable.
In the presence of the other members of the company, and particularly
in that of the younger ones, Burbage would often allude to the
playwright in terms of awe. His attitude of whimsical adoration was apt
to amuse his brethren not a little at times. Whenever the playwright
expressed an opinion on things and men--and an uncommonly shrewd one
it was as a rule--it could count invariably on the approval of Richard
Burbage. Furthermore all that he was moved to say or do had some high
sanction in the sight of the tragedian.
There might be those at that table less prone to idolatry. Some of
the younger men, having much to learn, were tempted to smile at the
spectacle of their chief sitting apart with a pair of nondescript
vagabonds, who to judge by their clothes were no more than a couple of
strolling Egyptians. But with Burbage and Kemp this was by no means an
occasion for levity. Their implicit faith in their colleague enabled
them to see method in his madness.
“Another of his discoveries, I trow, Dick,” said William Kemp, with a
sly glance in the direction of the window.
“You can lay your sweet life upon that,” said the tragedian, fixing
a stern eye upon a somewhat froward junior a little farther down the
table. “Do you mind how he found Edgcumbe and where he found him?”
“That I do, and Crosby too and Parflete also if it comes to that. There
is not a man in all England has such an eye for a youth of likelihood.”
Nor had this view to wait long for confirmation. Presently the
playwright rose from his seat by the window and came over to the long
table. There was an expression of keen pleasure upon his face. He laid
an affectionate hand upon Burbage’s shoulder. “Dick,” he said, “we are
in luck. I’ve found two of the prettiest boys I have seen this many
a moon. Well-mannered, gentle-spoke, right excellent in address. One
plays the flute in the manner of a musician; and the other is straight
and limber, soft-voiced and neat-legged. There is the making of such a
_Rosalind_ there as Parflete himself could not better. Give your old
nose one more dip i’ th’ tankard, Dickon, and then come over and pass
the time o’ the day with my dainty young Egyptians.”
The tragedian needed no second invitation, but with a
“There-what-did-I-tell-you!” expression of countenance accompanied
William Shakespeare to the table by the window.
“This is my friend Burbage,” said the playwright to the brown and
handsome Egyptians. “Not of much account as an actor, I am afraid, but
without a superior in the handling of a tankard with a toast in it or
in tossing off a cup of sack either before or after supper.”
Gervase and Anne rose from the table and bowed respectfully to the
tall, grave and dignified tragedian who yet had a subtle light of humor
in his eye.
Now the name of William Shakespeare was already familiar to Gervase. He
had heard his kinsman speak of him with high approval. Moreover Gervase
had sat on the stage at the theater and seen him perform in a number
of his own plays. To be sure he was nothing great as an actor, but
those who could judge of such things, his cousin Harry to wit, were of
opinion that he was without a peer as a deviser of plays.
But whatever the man was or whatever he was not, in the estimation
of Gervase he was undoubtedly a very agreeable follow. He had given
them a delightful breakfast. He had regaled them with free and lively
discourse. Also he had depicted the life of an actor--particularly of
one who had the good fortune to be taken into the Lord Chamberlain’s
Company--in most glowing colors. Nor had even this contented him. He
had ended by making them a formal offer to join that famous band.
They should have clothes of a good style and quality; their cheer
should be abundant; they should be comfortably housed and cared for;
and during the first year of their apprenticeship they should receive
a tester a day. The whole craft of the theater should be taught them;
they should tread the boards of the Globe; and, with due diligence,
upon a day they might hope to play before the Queen at Richmond or
Greenwich.
It was an alluring prospect that the actor had painted with a lively
and glowing fancy. And now that Burbage had seen these singularly
attractive youths and had learned that Shakespeare had set his heart
on securing them for the Lord Chamberlain’s Company, they had the
tragedian’s wiles of speech to combat.
Gervase was tempted sorely. The hard life of the road was growing
intolerable. Food was scarce, beds hard and often to seek; they were
continually exposed to the weather in all its inclemency; they were
haunted by a constant sense of peril. Should they exchange all this
discomfort for the happier prospect that was now dangled before them?
It was a grave problem and one that called for much hard thought.
“’Tis the finest profession in the world,” said the tragedian, with the
light of enthusiasm in his eyes, “and you, with your looks and address,
are bound to rise in it. Twenty years ago I was by trade a carpenter,
and as for Will here he was even less than that.”
It was not, however, the worldly advantages of a player’s calling that
were making their appeal to Gervase. No doubt they were considerable,
for both of these men had prosperity written upon them. It was not for
these things that he cared, however, nor overmuch for his own ease and
security. But for Anne, poor brave Anne who was already beginning to
fail from sheer fatigue, it would mean a far gentler way of life.
When, however, Gervase came to consider the alternative that was
offered he could not be blind to its perils. It was bound to mean a
life of publicity, in places moreover in which he was likely to be
known. No; the more thought he gave to the matter, the clearer his
conviction grew that it would add tenfold to their dangers if they
threw in their lot with the Lord Chamberlain’s men.
Gervase liked so well these honest, genial and courteous fellows and
the gay, free and pleasant life they offered that it went to his heart
that he could not answer in the way he would have chosen. What a boon
such a life would have been, what a relief from the hard road and the
open sky! Day by day their case was growing worse. But they must not
yield to these beguilements so long as they set any value on their
lives.
It was with much reluctance that in the end Gervase informed the
players that he and his companion could not throw in their lot with the
Lord Chamberlain’s servants. They were sensible of the liberal offer
that had been made to them; they expressed all proper gratitude for it,
but their business lay otherwhere.
The playwright in particular was much disappointed. Already he had
begun to count upon a couple of most promising recruits. The shy grace,
the light-flanked slenderness of the younger gypsy had especially
intrigued that perceiving eye. But it was in vain that Shakespeare
pointed out the advantages such a mode of life afforded over their
present one. It was in vain that he assembled all the glowing colors of
his fancy to depict it.
“I would, sir, that we might do as you wish,” said Gervase, with a deep
sigh.
The keen-witted player was quick to notice the wistful tone of the
voice, the look of pain in the eyes. All at once it came into his mind
that this young man was not what he appeared to be.
Surely he had seen this young man before. For the life of him he could
not then say when it was or where, but he had not the least doubt that
he had met him in very different circumstances. Yet his delicacy of
mind was such that the knowledge that he had come to the threshold of a
mystery made him less insistent than he would have been otherwise.
Presently with many sincere expressions of gratitude Anne and
Gervase took the road again. As Shakespeare watched them depart his
professional feelings got the better of him. “Dick,” he said to his
faithful henchman, “I am sore to see them go. No two such springalds as
those, so fair, sweet and likely, have I seen for a month o’ Sundays.”
“It may be so,” said Richard Burbage sagely.
“Still, things are not always what they seem, Dickon,” said the
playwright.
“How mean you, you old wiseacre?” The tragedian linked his arm
affectionately within that of his friend. “What new hare is started in
that wild demesne which you are pleased to call your mind?”
“I mean, dear shrew, that those are no more gypsies than Richard
Burbage is Emperor of Cathay.”
“Then who the plague be they?”
“Ha! you have me there. But I’ll wager there is far more in this matter
than meets the eye.”
“So be it, then,” said the tragedian, rolling his rich voice. “But
in the meantime let us see if a large cup of sack will sharpen your
recollection, you subtle-minded maker of plays.”