The Pale Companion (8 page)

Laurence crouched down to peep through the parted fingers of Sam Smith, who (in the
Dream)
was playing the part of Tom Snout the tinker, who (in the Pyramus and Thisbe diversion) was playing the part of Wall, lying flat on the floor with his arm and hand awkwardly crooked up in the air. Never have lime and rough-cast been so funny. But not on this occasion.

Usually, Laurence would have levered himself down with cumbersome comicality to the low “chink” provided by Sam’s splayed fingers. But before he could begin this movement his attention was arrested by a group which had just entered the room. I saw him straighten up. Over his broad, undemonstrative features there passed a shadow, like the cloud which crosses a summer field. I remembered that later.

I turned to look at the door. Four figures, three men and a woman, were standing just inside the entrance. The whole of the players’ company had paused. Those of us who didn’t already know these people for who they were guessed their identity.

“Please continue,” said Lord Elcombe.

So the clownish interlude went on, with Laurence Savage peeping through Sam Smith’s digits and lamenting that he could not see his Thisbe. A number of us, however, rather than watch an already familiar scene, took the occasion to examine our hosts. I had plenty of opportunities in the days to come to grow familiar enough with Lord Elcombe, and his family too. But I’ll describe them here more or less as they first struck me.

Elcombe was a tall, thin man of middle years, soberly dressed in dark clothes which, though rich in their working, lacked any ostentation. His face was narrow with close-set eyes and a hooked nose jutting out over a small mouth. He was clean-shaven. His wife beside him – or she whom I supposed his wife – was near as tall as her husband. There was a kind of drawn beauty in her face, and though she shared her companion’s courtly bearing her features were softer than his, the lips fuller, the nose less imperious.

To one side stood two younger men whom I took to be their sons. I presumed that the one who looked less young, or maybe just more careworn, was the groom. This was Elcombe’s first son and heir, Lord Harry Ascre (pronounced Ascray), to give him his family name. Some offspring seem to be a rough draft of a mother or father, as if paradoxically the child had come first; some appear as a more refined version of either parent. But this one looked like a pale shadow of both. As tall and pinch-faced as his parents, I guessed he was about my age; but hoped that I would never have to carry around such a haunted look. His complexion was a chalky white and the dark rings under his eyes testified to sleepless nights. The other son, Cuthbert, might have been drawn from an entirely different source. He appeared healthy and well-fed, and though not plump in the face he lacked the drawn look of the others.

This quartet of father, mother and sons looked on as the lamentable saga of Pyramus and Thisbe drew to a close, with Pyramus stabbing himself in the (mistaken) belief that his Thisbe had been mauled by a hungry lion, and Thisbe stabbing
herself
because her Pyramus has stabbed himself in the (mistaken) belief that . . . Well, you get the picture. It is a tragic tale of young love confounded by accident, mischance and parental opposition. By the end of the interlude, we of the Chamberlain’s had to wipe our eyes. To clear away the tears of laughter. No matter how many times we’ve watched this scene in rehearsal or even participated in it, we’ve always been overcome by the skill of Messrs Savage and Smith and the other “mechanicals” – and the skill of the writing. I will go further. It is the brilliancy – yes, there is no other word – the brilliancy of Master W.S. to seize on the idea that the language of love is separated from the language of absurdity by a wall considerably thinner than that which divides the two would-be lovers. In fact, sometimes they’re the same thing. The lover drools and dotes, and is a sport to his friends.

What I’m saying, is that this is a
comic
scene.

Laughter is appropriate.

Naturally, those of us who weren’t engaged in spouting our lines at this moment were casting surreptitious glances at Lord and Lady Elcombe and their sons, to see how our playing was being received. We’re in for a rough ride at Instede, I thought, if this is the regular mood of our patrons. The only one who seemed to be appreciating our efforts was Cuthbert. He was almost slapping his thighs. He even seemed to be mouthing some of the lines along with Laurence and the rest. He knows the play well, I thought. And just at this point a little suspicion crept into my head.

To itemize the rest of Elcombe clan: a small smile had incised itself on Lord Elcombe’s small mouth, as if he acknowledged our efforts but did not want to betray himself by any excessive mark of approbation. His wife looked fairly straight-faced and strait-laced. While, as for Harry their son . . . I’ve seen people bored by comedy, I’ve seen people scarcely able to hold their water for being convulsed by it, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone brought to the edge of tears (real tears, not those of laughter) by the absurdity of two lovers played by a weaver and a bellows-mender. Yet this is how the young man seemed to be affected. Standing slightly behind his parents and brother, he raised his hand to his eyes and wiped at them several times as Pyramus or Thisbe launched into some lament for their perished partner or into a tirade against the malevolence of fate.

It’s a comedy, for God’s sake, I wanted to tell him.

When Pyramus and Thisbe had done their dying, with much last-gasping and writhing around, they stood up again and took their bow. Lord Elcombe clapped politely, while his Lady did nothing much and their elder son looked as though he was about to run out the door at any moment. Cuthbert was the only one to show a full appreciation. Give me an audience full of Cuthberts, I thought (though I didn’t know his name at that point). The seniors Thomas Pope and Richard Sincklo went forward to present themselves to our patron. I was pleased to see some smiles break out at this point, otherwise I’d have begun to wonder what we were doing in this place. An altogether warmer mood stole over the group, and after a moment Lord Elcombe himself stepped forward and, with a curious circular motion of his arm in the air to draw our attention, he spoke to us.

“Gentlemen all, you are welcome at Instede. You must forgive us if we are somewhat distracted with preparations for our son’s nuptials and do not give to the players the honour that is their due. But we are sensible of the honour that you do
us
by your presence. One or two of you are familiar to me from the old days but I see that there are many fresh faces in the Company. To you in particular a hearty welcome.”

It was difficult to imagine this gentleman being hearty about anything but he nevertheless came to join us, to shake hands with some and exchange pleasantries with others. Lady Elcombe remained talking with Richard Sincklo and Thomas Pope. Their gloomy-looking son had disappeared while the more cheerful Cuthbert was mixing gladly with the players.

I was standing next to Laurence Savage and, referring to Elcombe, said, “There, you can hardly say that this is ungracious behaviour.”

“You do not know him.”

The shadow that had earlier passed across his face now reappeared.

“And you do?”

I was curious to know what it was about Elcombe that Savage didn’t like.

“I do not know him in the sense that you mean, Nicholas. He is not my drinking companion or my friend. How can a mere player aspire to that? But know him in other ways, I do.”

I waited but he was obviously disinclined to say more. Before Elcombe had reached the part of the chamber where we were standing, Laurence shifted to avoid having to speak to the nobleman.

I turned to look through the window. Outside was a glorious summer morning. I turned back and found myself face to face with our host. Someone close by, possibly Jack Horner, said in the way of introduction, “Nicholas Revill, my lord”, and I made the gesture of a bow.

“Your servant, Master Revill.”

“My lord.”

“You’re new to the Company, are you not?”

“Since last autumn, my lord. My first acting part was in Master Shakespeare’s
Hamlet.
”

“And what did you enact, hm?” said Elcombe. He had clear blue eyes which, because of their colour or their close-settedness or both, somehow gave the lie to his warm questions. Or perhaps it was that I’d been listening too closely to Laurence Savage.

“Small parts. A poisoner, an ambassador.”

“But you are grown to greater things in this midsummer dream?”

“Lysander. One of the lovers.”

“One among many,” he said with a sideways movement of the lips which could have been read as a smile.

“Willing and unwilling,” I said.

“What do you mean by that, hm?” said Elcombe.

I’d meant nothing, or next to nothing, but was now forced to lay some foundation under my words.

“The play is full of lovers both voluntary and compelled,” I said, seeing the owner of Instede House staring hard at me, no trace of a smile now. “Like . . . like Titania and Bottom. The Queen of the Fairies doesn’t
choose
to fall in love with an ass. Or – to take the case of my own Lysander – watch how mischievous Puck squeezes magic juice over my eyelids. So that when I wake I shall fall in love with the first person that I see. That is what I meant by involuntary love.”

“Caused by a juice or a potion, hm.”

He had an odd, interrogatory trick of ending his words with a “hm”. Maybe it was that which provoked me to go on.

“Ah, my lord, I think that –”

“Yes?”

I hesitated because I’d been about to say what I thought Master Shakespeare meant by this business of juices and potions, when the notion of explaining the playwright to someone else (and that someone a lord of the realm) suddenly struck me as presumptuous. However, thought is free and W.S. wasn’t here to contradict me – so I plunged in.

“I think that Master Shakespeare is showing us that it is human to chop and change in love, so that we sometimes love a Hermia and the next day, the very next hour perhaps, love a Helena instead. And that love can even make us descend to love a Bottom or an ass . . .”

“Go on,” said Elcombe, putting up a good pretence of being interested in a poor player’s views.

“But because we are sometimes unhappy at our inconstancy . . . [
God help me, what was I talking about?
] . . . in order to, er, keep our consciences clear we have to imagine the potions which cause us to be inconstant. And then after that we must conjure up the fairies and sprites who will make us take them – all so as to compel us to do what we would do anyway.”

I halted like a man reaching the end of a race, then added, “If you see what I mean.”

Lord Elcombe looked thoughtful. I wasn’t surprised. I probably looked thoughtful myself, trying to work out what I’d meant. Sometimes you don’t know what’s in your mind until you say it out loud.

“So you think love is stronger than will?” he said. “That it may operate against what we truly want or intend to do? Hm?”

“To be sure, sir.”

“Come, Master Revill. That’s a fiction, and fiction is all very well for poets and for plays like this one which you have in hand. But tell me the truth now. You have been swept away by love, have you, and rendered powerless?”

“Well . . .”

“You have been pierced by Cupid’s dart, hm?”

I had been indeed – once. So I wanted to answer: yes, when I was eight I fell hard for a cottager’s daughter who was a year or two older. But fear of sounding ridiculous prevented me.

“Well, er,” I mammered, “not exactly if you put it like that . . .”

What had I done to deserve this scrutiny? All the facility of a moment ago had deserted me. I felt myself growing a little warm about the face.

“You will have to talk to my son,” said Elcombe.

“Is he a . . . er . . . philosopher?”

(I’d been about to say ‘lover’ but stopped myself at the last moment. In any case, which son was he referring to?)

“No, but he would be a player – if he were not already a gentleman.”

I glanced across to where the relatively sleek Cuthbert was laughing and discoursing with my fellows. Ah yes. Suspicion confirmed.

“You know the play, my lord?” I said, mostly to change the subject.

“Well enough to think that it would be a fitting garland for my older son’s wedding, Master Revill.”

And with that and a slight inclination of the head, he withdrew his cool blue gaze and moved off to chat with some of my fellows. While the above dialogue was going forward they had been glancing at me curiously from time to time.

I felt relieved to see the back of Elcombe. But at the same time obscurely pleased to have been singled out for conversation in this way.

I had to face some questioning over our dinner, and some jokes about rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty. But it was only for form’s sake. In truth, we of the Chamberlain’s were used to aristocratic company. In fact, on this country occasion we were privileged to be joined by the high and mighty on stage. The mystery of who was to play my love-rival Demetrius was soon solved. I’d half-guessed that Cuthbert, Elcombe’s younger son, was more than merely whiling away the time in our practice room. Sure enough, he was soon introduced to me as the newest – albeit temporary – member of the Chamberlain’s. Since we were to share several scenes, Cuthbert was put in the experienced hands of Uncle Nicholas.

Now, I’ve no quarrel with the aristocracy dressing up and spouting lines as long as they don’t tread on our toes or take away our custom. And, in truth, we weren’t in a position to refuse this young man. That Cuthbert should play the part of Demetrius in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
had obviously been settled between the Elcombe family and our seniors before we left London. My first impressions were favourable enough. Though the son of a nobleman, and therefore never likely to be in the position of having to scrape a living (and certainly not in the ungentlemanly business of the playhouse), Cuthbert seemed modest enough as well as responsive to instruction. He was the humblest of apprentices. Actually, he appeared to believe that players were hung about with clouds of mystery, that their jokes were funnier, their thoughts more elevated and their farts more perfumed than ordinary men’s.