Shakespeare's Scribe Read Free Page A

meaning to put as much distance between myself and the sailor as I possibly could. As I swam against the incoming tide of playgoers, I collided with Sander, who carried a paper cone filled with roasted hazelnuts. “Why did you notsave our spot, Widge?” he asked. “It would have given us a good view of the stage.”
    â€œToo close,” I muttered. “The players’ spittle rains down upon you when they say their
t
‘s and
p
‘s. Let’s move back.” Before he could protest, I struggled on to the very last row of benches and plopped down. “This is good,” I said. “An there’s a fire, we’ll be the first ones out.” Agreeable as always, Sander took a seat next to me.
    The play was a fairly challenging one—Jonson’s satire
The Poetaster
—and the Children of the Chapel, who ranged in age from about ten to fourteen or fifteen, were sadly inadequate to the challenge. Though they tried hard to please, mugging and gesturing in an effort to coax laughs from the audience, the whole thing was more in the nature of a pageant than a performance, all surface and no depth.
    I leaned over to Sander, meaning to say that I had seen enough. Then the boy who played Horace strode out upon the stage and sang,
    â€œSwell me a bowl with lusty wine,
    Till I may see the plump Lyaeus swim
    Above the brim:
    I drink, as I would write,
    In flowing measure, filled with flame, and spright.”
    I sat up in surprise. Could it be that there was a real performer among them? The newcomer was tall and thin, with a head of blond curls that would have let him play any of our young ladies’ parts without benefit of a wig. Though he was likely a year or two younger than Sander or me, he had the assurance of an adult actor. His voice was not mature, and it had a rough edge to it, as though he was straining a bit to be heard. Yet he spoke his lines with such authority, such conviction, as to give the feeling not only that he understood them, but that he
meant
them.
    When the boy took his bow, the applause and cheers were not quite as raucous as they had been for Mr. Armin, but they were enough to make me envious. As we left the theatre, Sander said, “Was the blond fellow truly that good, or did he only seem so put up against the others?”
    â€œâ€˜A was truly that good,” I replied. “I’m glad ‘a’s wi’ the Chapel Children and not the Chamberlain’s Men.”
    Sander gave me a look of surprise. “Why?”
    â€œBecause, an ‘a were wi’ our company, ‘a’d have all the meaty parts, and you and I would ha’ to be content wi’ scraps.”
    Sander laughed. “Don’t price yourself so cheaply, Widge. You’re as capable an actor as he is.”
    â€œLiar,” I said, but I couldn’t help feeling grateful for his loyalty. I said nothing about the sailor and his talk of the plague, for I was tryinghard not to think about it. Instead, I said, “Did not the fellow who played Tibullus put you in mind of our old friend Nick?”
    Sander considered this. “Now that you say it, he did bear a certain resemblance, though I think that Nick, for all his faults, was a better actor. I wonder what’s become of him?”
    â€œâ€˜A’s drunk himself to death, most like, or been gutted by someone in a duel.”
    Sander nodded soberly. “It would scarcely surprise me. I never knew anyone so determined to make himself miserable.”
    â€œNot to mention those around him.”
    Sander clucked his tongue. “We shouldn’t speak so uncharitably of him. Perhaps he’s learned the error of his ways.”
    â€œOh, aye,” I replied, “and perhaps a dunghill can learn not to stink.”
    The look of disapproval Sander gave me was severely undermined by the snort of laughter that escaped him. We would not have been so quick to laugh had we known how near the mark our