‘You are both right,’ he conceded, sadly. ‘You tell me
nothing that I didn’t know myself when I laboured on it.
How to Choose a Good Wife
is a case of
How to Write a Bad Play
. Barnaby was pleased with his role because I gave the Clown several scenes and let him dance in each one. All that he bothered to look at were the parts in which he appeared. You, on the other hand, read the whole play and saw how shapeless it was.’
‘That can be remedied,’ said Nicholas.
‘Not by me, Nick.’
‘You have a gift for construction.’
‘Then it’s left me,’ said Hoode. ‘I’m not the man I was. My wit no longer sparks, my pen no longer flows. The well of creation has dried up.’
‘How oft have we heard you say that?’
‘This time, I mean it.’
‘You meant it when you spoke the very same words about your last play,’ Nicholas reminded him, ‘and with some justice. When you were writing
A Way to Content All Women
, you were struck down with such a pernicious disease that you never thought to recover. Yet, when you did, you finished the play within a week and it turned out to be the sprightliest comedy of the season. Your well has not gone dry, Edmund. You simply have to lower the bucket a little further in it.’
‘Yes,’ said Firethorn, showing some sympathy at last. ‘We love you and respect your work, Edmund. It would be cruel to offer this new play under your name and undo all your credit. Nick speaks true.’ He inflated his chest. ‘
A Way to Content All Women
was a triumph for me – and
a sparkling comedy to boot. That was the
real
Edmund Hoode at work.’
‘I am merely his ghost,’ said the playwright with a sigh.
‘We put too much upon you,’ argued Nicholas. ‘You are not only obliged to provide us with a steady flow of new plays, but to keep old ones in repair, and to lend your guidance to novice authors. And if that were not enough, you also hold your own as an actor.’
‘My duties wore me down. I am posthumous.’
‘Drink up, man,’ said Firethorn. ‘Enough of this nonsense about the death of your art. All you need is a good rest. If your pen has molted, give it time to grow its feathers again.’
‘That’s sound advice,’ said Nicholas, sampling his wine.
‘Watch and pray.’
‘But what do we do meanwhile?’ asked Hoode, taking a welcome sip of his own drink. ‘Novelty is ever the life-blood of theatre. While our rivals can assuage the demand for new plays, our offerings are bent with age and covered with dust.’
‘I may have the answer to that,’ said Firethorn, reflectively.
‘Oh?’ Nicholas was very surprised. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Are you talking about a new play?’
‘A new playwright. Since we were in such straits, I took it upon myself to commission a comedy from him. Yes, yes,’ he went on, quickly, before Hoode could interrupt, ‘I know that I exceeded my powers. Before a new play is accepted, it must be read by you and Barnaby as well.’
‘And by Nick,’ said Hoode. ‘He may not be a sharer but
there’s no shrewder judge of a play in the whole company. Why did you not at least take him into your confidence?’
Nicholas was disconcerted. ‘I could ask the same thing,’ he said. ‘You made no mention of this new playwright before Edmund arrived.’
‘I wanted you both to hear the news together,’ claimed Firethorn. ‘And I look to one of you to pass it on to Barnaby because I know he’ll have a tantrum when he realises that he was kept in the dark.’
‘Like the rest of us.’
‘Do not censure me, Nick. Nobody is better placed than you to know what a parlous state our finances are in. To reduce our commitments, we had to part with three hired men last week and manage without them. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.’
‘So what have you done?’ asked Hoode with unaccustomed sarcasm. ‘Written a play yourself?’
‘No,’ returned Firethorn, ‘I relied on my instinct. I met a fellow, lately come to London with an ambition to be a dramatist. Most who entertain that dream will never have it fulfilled but Hibbert is different.’
‘Hibbert?’
‘That’s his name, Edmund. Mark it well. Saul Hibbert.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Nicholas.
‘You soon will,’ prophesied Firethorn, ‘and so will all of London. He has a rare talent and we must harness it. All that he was able to show me were three acts of his comedy but they were enough to make me offer him a contract. Saul Hibbert is our man.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He wrote to me and asked if we would consider his work.’
‘And we would have done so,’ said Hoode, peevishly, ‘had you had the grace to ask us. This is most irregular, Lawrence. We’ve always discussed new work before and not proceeded with a commission until all three of us – Nick, too, of course – were thoroughly satisfied.’
‘I think I can guarantee satisfaction in this case.’
‘Yet you only saw three acts of the play?’ said Nicholas, worried.
‘One was enough to tell me that he is a true dramatist.’
‘And when will his comedy be finished?’
‘By the end of next week,’ said Firethorn. ‘Why these long faces?’ he went on as the others exchanged an apprehensive glance. ‘You should be rejoicing with me. I’ve found a second Edmund Hoode.’
‘The first one has not departed yet!’ yelled Hoode, indignantly.
‘A moment ago, you were talking from the grave.’
‘I’ve climbed out again.’
‘Be still, Edmund,’ said Nicholas with a calming gesture. ‘These tidings may yet lead to our salvation. If this fellow can furnish us with a new play, we should bid him welcome to the company. He’s no threat to
your
position,’ he emphasised. ‘There’s only one Edmund Hoode.’
‘Lawrence would do well to remember that.’
‘It’s graven on my heart,’ said Firethorn, a hand on his chest.
‘I’ve a play or two left in me yet.’
‘A dozen, at least,’ said Nicholas, delighted to hear the pride in Hoode’s voice. ‘Rest awhile and the words will come teeming out of you. In the meantime,’ he added, turning to Firethorn, ‘it seems that we have to take Saul Hibbert on trust. What is his comedy called?’
Firethorn opened his mouth to reply but, before he could speak, there was a pounding on the front door that made all three of them look in the direction of it. The knocking continued until Margery opened the door. After a brief conversation, she ushered the visitor into the parlour.
‘This is Master Hibbert,’ she said, clearly impressed by the newcomer. ‘He claims that he has urgent business with you, Lawrence.’
Firethorn was on his feet. ‘Why, so he has!’ he confirmed. ‘Come in, Saul. Come in, come in.’
Though he gave a smile of thanks, Saul Hibbert preferred to stay framed in the doorway where he had struck a pose. Tall, slim and flamboyantly attired, he had a natural elegance that would make him stand out in a crowd. He also had an actor’s assurance and charm. Seeing that Margery wished to leave, he stood back and gave her an elaborate bow. With a little giggle, she went past him. Hibbert came into the room to be introduced to the others.
Hoode was slightly unnerved to see that the man who had been compared to him was ten years younger and twenty times more good-looking. Nicholas’s first impression was that Hibbert was too fond of outward show but he reserved his judgement on his character. Beaming at Firethorn, the newcomer thrust a sheaf of papers into his hand.
‘Finished at last!’ he boasted.
‘But your play was not due for another week,’ said Firethorn.
‘I was enjoying the act of creation so much that I could not break off. I’ve worked night and day to complete it.’
‘That’s heartening news!’
‘It is, indeed,’ said Nicholas. ‘Tell me, Master Hibbert, is this the first play you have written?’
‘No, Nick,’ replied the other, familiarly, ‘it’s the third. One was performed at Norwich and the second at Oxford.’
Hoode was suspicious. ‘Oxford. You’re a University man, then?’
‘I am, Edmund. I started my learning in the gutter and took my degree in the university of life. Oxford?’ he said with a sneer. ‘Why waste time in a cap and gown that could be better spent elsewhere?’
‘Quite so,’ said Firethorn, starting to read the first page.
‘I have enough Latin to get by and enough Greek to show that I have a gift for languages. On my travels, I’ve also picked up a tidy amount of German, French and Italian. The necessities of courtship, you might say.’ Firethorn let out a guffaw. ‘Ah, you’re reading the scene in the apothecary’s shop?’
‘Reading it and loving it,’ said Firethorn, turning to a new page.
‘Welcome to the company, Master Hibbert,’ said Nicholas.
‘We’re delighted to have you,’ added Hoode, guardedly.
‘You certainly need me,’ said Hibbert, tossing back
his long, wavy black hair. ‘When I saw you perform last week, I could not believe how much Westfield’s Men had declined since my last visit to London. The play was billed as a comedy but it did not raise a smile from me. Whoever thought that such a tame piece could be offered as entertainment?’
‘Which play did you see?’
‘
A Way to Content All Women
.’
Hoode gurgled as he realised that his own work was being vilified. His discomfort was intensified by another burst of laughter from Firethorn. While Hoode was being ridiculed, Hibbert was being lauded. Nicholas came to his friend’s defence.
‘You may not have smiled, Master Hibbert,’ he said, ‘but the rest of the audience was shaking with mirth for the whole two hours.’
‘It shows how easily pleased the fools were.’
‘Include me in their folly. I admire the play immensely.’
‘Thank you, Nick,’ said Hoode.
Firethorn waved the manuscript. ‘Wait until you read this,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘It’s the very essence of wit.’
‘I’ll leave you to relish it,’ decided Hibbert, putting his hat on at a rakish angle. ‘When you have read it through, I’ll hold you to your contract. Send my fee to the Queen’s Head. I lodge there at the moment.’ He gave another bow. ‘Gentlemen, it was a pleasure to meet you. Together, I am sure, we can lift Westfield’s Men above the mundane.’
He swept from the room and let himself out of the house.
‘Above the mundane!’ echoed Hoode, puce with anger.
‘Did you hear what he said about
A Way to Content All Women
? It was insulting.’
‘He’s entitled to his opinion,’ said Firethorn, tolerantly.
‘But not to express it so rudely before the author,’ said Nicholas.
‘Saul meant no harm.’
‘It was felt, nevertheless,’ said Hoode.
‘Read his play and you’ll forgive him everything.’
‘I doubt that, Lawrence. I found him boorish and arrogant.’
‘He has the confidence of his genius, that’s all.’
‘And what has that genius actually produced?’ asked Hoode, waspishly. ‘Does this hilarious new play of his have a name?’
‘Of course. It’s called
The Malevolent Comedy
.’
‘An apt title for such an author,’ observed Nicholas, drily.
Opinion about the company’s new playwright was sharply divided. When the actors adjourned to the taproom of the Queen’s Head after the first rehearsal of Saul Hibbert’s comedy, they had all reached a very firm conclusion about the author and his work. The taproom was filled with noise and tobacco smoke as Barnaby Gill joined Owen Elias and Francis Quilter at their table. Gill was a walking paradox, a morose, brooding, self-centred man offstage, he turned into a comic delight in front of an audience, genial, outgoing and full of energy. Some of that energy had been put to good use during the rehearsal.
‘It’s a fine play,’ he said, reaching for his Canary wine, ‘and it enables me to be at my finest. I’m grateful to Master Hibbert for that.’
‘He’ll not get my gratitude,’ warned Quilter. ‘I think that Saul Hibbert is an arrant popinjay and that his comedy, like
him, is neat and trimly dressed without any real essence. A hollow piece of work.’
‘I fill the void with my dances.’
‘They are mere distractions, Barnaby. Every time our author runs short of ideas, he brings the Clown on to perform a jig. You are simply there to conceal the fact that the play lacks substance.’
‘I disagree, Frank,’ said Elias, keen to take part in the argument. ‘
The Malevolent Comedy
is the best new offering we’ve had for months. Where I do side with you, however, is in the matter of Saul Hibbert’s character. I found the fellow haughty and irritating.’
‘I like him,’ said Gill.
‘I hate the jackanapes,’ asserted Quilter.
‘Saul has a sharp eye for talent.’
‘You only say that because he applauded you today.’
‘And you only decry him because he said your performance was too shallow and weak-willed. And I’m bound to confess,’ added Gill, waspishly, ‘that I felt the very same. You struggled badly, Frank.’
Quilter was hurt. ‘No, I did not!’
‘We were all floundering at a first rehearsal,’ said Elias, quaffing his ale. ‘I know that I was. Even Lawrence lost his footing in the role a few times. You were better than most, Frank.’
‘I was as good as the play allowed me to be, Owen.’
Quilter was a tall, lean, sharp-featured young man of considerable talent. Proud of belonging to Westfield’s Men, he was dedicated to the troupe. He was also fond
of reaping the benefits of appearing in major roles with such an important company, and was never short of female admirers. Elias realised that Quilter’s dislike of Saul Hibbert was partly based on jealousy. No sooner had the handsome playwright moved into the Queen’s Head than he began to capture the attention that formerly went to actors like Francis Quilter. Elias did not feel the threat in quite the same way. A stocky Welshman with a natural ebullience, he was inclined to take people on trust. Hibbert was an exception to the rule. From the moment that they met, Elias knew that he could never befriend the conceited newcomer.
‘He showed no respect for Edmund,’ he complained.
Gill was sour. ‘Edmund does not deserve any at the moment.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’
‘Truth is often painful.’
‘So is a punch on the nose,’ said Elias, roused by the insult to his friend, ‘and that is what you’ll get if you disparage Edmund Hoode. Have you so soon forgot all the wondrous plays that he has given us over the years? More than any of us, you have cause to get down on your knees to thank him. His comedies
made
you.’
‘I’ll bear witness to that,’ said Quilter. ‘Without Edmund, there would never have been a Barnaby Gill.’
‘Calumny!’ howled Gill.
‘Truth is often painful,’ goaded Elias.
‘My art is unique and irreplaceable, a jewel that would shine in any setting. I bow to no playwright. It is I who make
their
reputations by enhancing their work with my very presence.’
‘No wonder you like Saul Hibbert,’ said Quilter. ‘The two of you are blood-brothers to Narcissus. Each of you has fallen in love with his own image. You spend so much time courting a looking glass that you can no longer see anyone but yourselves.’
‘I recognise bad acting when I see it,’ replied Gill, loftily, ‘and that is what you inflicted on us today, Frank. Learn from my example. Study your part with more diligence and play it with more spirit.’
‘If the role were in any way worthy of me, I’d do so.’
‘Follow in my stead and rise above your role.’
‘You malign Frank unfairly,’ said Elias with truculence, ‘and you were equally unkind about Edmund. Who else will feel the lash of that wicked tongue of yours?’ He bunched a fist. ‘Take care, Barnaby. I’ll not suffer any of your reproaches. Carp and cavil at me and I’ll make that ugly face of yours even uglier.’
Gill was unruffled. ‘Why are the Welsh always so needlessly bellicose?’ he asked with a sigh.
‘Pour scorn on my nation and you’ll answer for it!’
‘Leave off, Owen,’ advised Quilter. ‘Unless he is boasting about himself, Barnaby is ever full of slights and slurs. The wonder is that he has such words of praise for Saul Hibbert.’
‘He has written an excellent play,’ said Gill.
‘Yet when you first caught wind of
The Malevolent Comedy
, you shrieked like a turkey with a butcher’s hand around its neck.’
‘With good cause. Lawrence chose the play entirely
on his own, in direct violation of our policy. Neither Edmund nor I was asked for an opinion.’
‘Nor was Nick Bracewell.’
‘An even more serious omission,’ Elias put in.
‘Nick is only a hired man with the company,’ said Gill, petulantly, ‘and not a sharer like us. His approval does not count.’
‘It does with me.’
‘The point is that Lawrence – not for the first time – exceeded his authority. He went over our heads and I rightly chastised him for doing so, especially as there was another instance of his tyrannical behaviour. He rejected Edmund’s new comedy without even raising the possibility with me. The one person in whom he did confide on that occasion,’ he went on, bitterly, ‘was our book holder.’
‘I have no quibble with that,’ affirmed Elias.
‘Nor me,’ said Quilter. ‘Nick Bracewell can see the defects in a play more acutely than any of us.’
‘You value his judgement, then?’ asked Gill.
‘Above that of anyone else in the company.’
‘Then you’ve surely betrayed him. Where you censure
The Malevolent Comedy
, Nicholas commends it highly. So do I, won over by its biting wit and merriment. Everyone admires it save Frank Quilter.’
‘I told you, Barnaby. I find the play empty.’
‘Not as empty as Edmund’s
How to Choose a Good Wife
. That was so full of cavities that we were in danger of falling through them.’
‘Yet you liked it at first,’ challenged Elias. ‘I remember
you telling us so. You said that it gave you the chance to dominate the stage.’
‘
Every
play does that,’ said Gill, grandly. ‘Were I to take on the humblest role in any drama, I would still steal all the glory. And, yes, I did smile upon Edmund’s new comedy but only out of friendship. In all honesty, it really is a barren construction. Place it beside
The Malevolent Comedy
and it pales into invisibility.’
‘Edmund Hoode is still the better playwright,’ said Elias, loyally.
‘And a truly loveable man,’ said Quilter.
‘You talk of the past but I look only to the future. Edmund was supreme at one time, I grant you,’ conceded Gill, ‘but that time is gone. His star is in decline. We have been carrying him this last year.’
‘That’s unjust,’ protested Elias.
‘Mark my words, Owen. The days when Edmund Hoode wore the laurel wreath are behind us. Westfield’s Men need a sparkling new talent. I believe that we have it in Saul Hibbert.’
‘God forbid!’ cried Quilter.
‘He’s a proven master of comedy.’
‘But that’s not what we crave, Barnaby. Comedy will cheer the ignorant in the pit, and spread some cheap laughter among the gallants, but it will not stir their souls. Only tragedy can do that yet we have abjured it and are set to dwindle into mere comedians. Look to the Curtain,’ urged Quilter. ‘See what great success Banbury’s Men have had with
Lamberto
. Nick Bracewell says that it outweighed
anything that we have presented this year. Tragedy is in demand and we should strive to provide it.’
‘Not when we have something as priceless as
The Malevolent Comedy
. It will be the envy of our rivals. Saul Hibbert is not just a playwright of rare promise,’ insisted Gill, wagging a finger, ‘he is a saviour in our hour of need.’ The others exchanged a sceptical glance. ‘Laudable as his achievements have been, talk no more of Edmund Hoode. He will soon fade into oblivion. The man we should toast,’ he said, raising his cup of wine, ‘is our redeemer – Saul Hibbert.’
Saul Hibbert stood in the middle of the empty inn yard and gazed at the makeshift stage that was being dismantled. What he saw in his mind’s eye were actors, strutting to and fro in his play, provoking laughter at every turn and winning spontaneous applause. After the modest success of his plays in Norwich and in Oxford, he was ready to test his mettle in the more demanding arena of the capital. Hibbert had no fear of failure. Convinced of his prodigious abilities, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he conquered London audiences. When he closed his eyes, he could hear an ovation filling the dusty inn yard where Westfield’s Men performed. Saul Hibbert’s name was on everyone’s lips.
‘Master Hibbert! Master Hibbert!’
It was also on the thin, down-turned, ulcerous lips of Alexander Marwood, the landlord of the Queen’s Head, a gaunt, wasted man of middle years with sparse hair and a nervous twitch that animated his face. The twitch was currently located at the tip of his nose.
‘Master Hibbert – a word with you, sir!’
Hibbert came out of his reverie to find that he was looking at the unsightly visage of the landlord, nose twitching violently as if not quite sure in which direction to settle. Alexander Marwood loathed actors, detested plays and despised those who wrote them. Though he regarded Westfield’s Men as a form of pestilence, he relied on the income that they brought in. As a consequence, he felt as if he were being crushed between the millstones of revulsion and need. In his codex, theatre was an abomination. Saul Hibbert was as disreputable and unwelcome as the rest of the company. Marwood was characteristically blunt.
‘You are slippery, sir,’ he said with open resentment. ‘Every time I try to speak with you, you wriggle out of my grasp like a fish.’
Hibbert was dismissive. ‘We have nothing to say to each other,’ he replied, flicking a wrist. ‘I am a guest here. You are at my beck and call.’
‘Guests are expected to pay for their rooms.’
‘Did I not give you money on account?’
‘Ten days ago. More rent is now due.’
‘In time, in time.’
‘Now,’ said Marwood, firmly. ‘If you want the best room that the Queen’s Head can offer, you must render up fair payment.’
‘Best room!’ echoed Hibbert with disgust. ‘If that is the finest you have, I would hate to see the others. My chamber is too small, too dirty and too poorly furnished. The linen is soiled and the place stinks almost as much as its disagreeable landlord.’
‘I’ll not hear any complaint against my inn.’
‘Then put your fingers in those hairy ears of yours or I’ll give you a whole catalogue of complaints. The room is unfit for human habitation.’
‘That should not trouble a rutting animal like you.’
Hibbert rounded on him. ‘Do you dare to abuse me?’
‘I state the facts,’ said Marwood, taking a precautionary step backwards. ‘If the room is dirty, then you have brought in the filth, for it is cleaned from top to bottom every day. As for the linen being soiled,’ he added, knowingly, ‘you and your visitors are responsible for that.’
‘Away with you!’
‘Not until I get my money.’
‘You’ll feel the point of my sword up your scrawny arse.’
‘Then I’ll send for officers to arrest you.’
‘I dignify the Queen’s Head by staying here.’
‘You’ve done nothing but drag it down to your own base level.’
‘I’ll not haggle with a mere underling like you,’ said Hibbert as he saw Nicholas Bracewell approaching them. ‘Talk to this fellow instead. He’ll vouch for me.’ He raised his voice. ‘Is that not so, Nick?’
‘What say you?’ asked Nicholas.
‘This cringing knave has the effrontery to demand money from me. Tell him that my credit is good. Rescue me from this hideous face of his.’
‘The landlord is entitled to be paid,’ said Nicholas, reasonably.
‘There!’ shouted Marwood. ‘There’s one honest man among you.’
‘Then you can discuss the matter honestly with him,’ decided Hibbert with a supercilious smile. ‘I’ll not speak another word to you. Nick,’ he said with a lordly gesture, ‘see to this rogue, will you?’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Get the whoreson dog off my back.’
‘This sounds like a matter between you and the landlord.’
‘Resolve it, man. That’s what you’re here for, is it not?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, stoutly.
‘You’re a book holder, paid to fetch and carry for the rest of us. So let’s have no more hesitation. Do as I tell you or there’ll be trouble.’
‘I take no orders from you, Master Hibbert.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Marwood, emboldened by the presence of Nicholas. ‘Settle your bill or I must ask you to quit your room.’
‘I’d have more comfort in a pig sty,’ returned Hibbert with a sneer. ‘Now keep out of my way, you apparition, or you’ll live to regret it.’ He pointed to Nicholas. ‘Badger this fellow in my stead. He’ll tell you who and what I am. Nick will solve this petty business in a trice.’
‘Why should I do that?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Because I
tell
you.’
Saul Hibbert turned on his heel and strode off towards the door to the taproom. Nicholas contained his anger. Upset by the playwright’s cavalier attitude towards him, he resolved to take it up with Hibbert at a latter date. Meanwhile, he had to placate Alexander Marwood, a task he had been forced to undertake many times on behalf of the company.