The role of the Master of the Revels, to whom every new play had to be submitted for review, was to scrutinize each manuscript and look for any criticism, real or implied, of government policies or of the Church of England. If any such offending lines or scenes were found, the Master of the Revels would then strike them out, or else demand that the company strike out the seditious or offending lines or scenes before the play could be produced. Once that was done, the play would then officially be stamped for approval, at which point it could be staged. Except that with the next performance only hours away, there would be no time for that.
This could, thought Shakespeare, involve a certain element of risk. As the play stood when he first came to it, it had already been approved. But by the time the fifth stage of changes was completed, it would be in essence a completely different play. At that point, obviously, a fair copy could easily be submitted to the Master of the Revels and there would be ample time for it to go through the approval process. The question was, what about the earlier changes?
It was not at all unusual for actors to make ongoing changes to a play as it was being performed without the Office of the Revels demanding that each and every little change require a separate stamp of approval. But at what point would the Master of the Revels feel that The Honorable Gentleman had become a brand new play?
Shakespeare felt reasonably certain that they could get away with at least the first and second sets of changes, and possibly the third, especially if they did not change the title. But by the time the fourth set of changes was incorporated, it would really be a different play. By then, he reasoned, they would be ready to submit the fair copy for review. There would have been more than enough time for it to be prepared, and in the meantime, the company could easily stage other plays in its repertoire. But would the very next performance be safe from censure?
In all likelihood, he thought, it would. It was, however, up to the company to make that determination, because the Master of the Revels could not only fine a company for violations, he could stop a performance, close down the playhouse if he chose, or even send the author and the members of the company to prison. Still, the chance of anything like that occurring would be very slim, thought Shakespeare, considering that his rewrite of the play was aimed solely at making it more amusing, without including any controversial content of either a political or religious nature. He had no axe to grind, after all; he merely wanted to prove his ability so he could get a better job.
The final step, which would take place just prior to the performance, would be the hanging of the “plot,” a large sheet of paper pasted on wood or cardboard that the bookkeeper would write out and hang upon a nail in the tiring room. Here would be written out the cast, the props, the cues for entrances and exits, what sound effects were needed and when, and other incidental stage business. This would be consulted throughout the performance to ensure that things ran smoothly. And if all went well, thought Shakespeare, there should be time enough… perhaps just barely… for everything to come together for the next performance.
He sat back, rubbed his eyes wearily and stretched his stiff muscles. He had done the best job he could, considering what they gave him, but he had managed to improve it, and that improvement would be evident with the very next performance. He took a sip of wine, then pushed back his bench and rose to gather up the manuscript. At the same moment, someone started frantically knocking at the door.
“Never fear, Burbage, I have finished it!” he called, going to the door and opening it. He blinked. Instead of Richard Burbage, a beautiful young woman stood there, clasping her hands and gazing at him anxiously.
“Mr. Smythe,” she said, looking past him into the room. “I must speak with Mr. Smythe at once!”
9
SMYTHE HAD NOT INTENDED TO spend most of the day at Green Oaks, but Sir William was a genial and gracious host who had seemed genuinely pleased to have his company. And after a few hours with him, Smythe began to understand why. Sir William’s success had introduced him into elegant society, and eventually, into a life at court. He had risen from the most humble beginnings to become one of the wealthiest men in the country, one who could even claim the queen as an acquaintance. He was the living embodiment of the new age in England, where a man could rise above the station of his birth through industry and perseverance-and a little luck-and through success in trade achieve entry into the upper ranks of society. Even, possibly, attain a peerage and become a member of the aristocracy.
It was, Smythe realized, precisely what his father’s dream had been, only his father had overreached himself. Like Icarus, whose wings had melted from the sun, his father had tried to fly too high too quickly and his hopes had melted as his dreams came crashing down around him. Now he was a bitter old man, confronting the specter of his own mortality and fallibility, and Smythe found it impossible even to speak with him. It was a source of some discomfort to him, even a little shame, for he felt he owed his father more than that, but he could not give more than would be accepted. And his father, at least for the present, could not bring himself to accept anything from him. Not even his sympathy.
By contrast, Sir William had achieved success far beyond what Symington Smythe the elder could have dreamed, but while he outwardly seemed to enjoy the fruits of it, inwardly, he was frustrated and displeased. The society in which he moved now had its own rewards and privileges, and they were not inconsequential, but in many ways, it was a society that felt alien to him. These were not people like himself, who had pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps, but people who had been born to wealth and privilege-”born to the blood,” as the saying went-and he did not feel any kinship with them. He found them indolent and decadent, sycophantic and fawning, especially toward the queen and the members of her inner circle, and most of all, he found them detestably superficial.
“In the queen’s court,” he had said, sarcastically, “a ‘friend’ is one who stabs you in the chest. I know them all, every last one of
the treacherous leeches, and there is not a one who has not, at one time or another, asked a favor of me-most of which I granted-and to be fair, on occasion, I have asked favors in return. Yet, for all that, I would still not turn my back on any of them.”
“Not even the queen?” Smythe had asked.
“Oh, especially not the queen. But in her case-and I suppose Walsingham’s, as well-that is understandable. They do not live by the same rules as all the rest of us. They cannot afford to. Those two are England, and they must think of England first and foremost, above all else. The true statesman cannot afford a conscience. And if the queen has one, she has hidden it well away and has shown it to no one. I neither think ill of her for that nor fault her in any way. She is, after all, Henry’s daughter, and she has seen firsthand what the caprices of statesmanship and the vicissitudes of politics can do. And Walsingham, her chief minister- some would say her headsman-is merely a creature spawned by such a world, a man who stands forthrightly at her side even as he moves among the shadows like a ghost. Every monarch needs a Walsingham, and every country could benefit from a monarch like our queen. But as for all the rest of them…”
His voice had trailed off in disgust and he simply shook his head. And so, as Smythe rode home at an easy pace, he thought he understood Sir William, perhaps better than any of his elegant friends at court could ever understand him. He knew now not only why Sir William pursued a secret life as a brigand called Black Billy, but why he was a patron to a man like Marlowe, an immoral young rooster of a poet who seemed to thrive on danger and sensual overindulgence. It explained why, instead of eagerly attending the masques and balls at court, which he felt forced to do upon occasion, he much preferred the raucous company of a rowdy Cheapside tavern. And why, instead of sitting stultified with boredom while some court musician played effetely on the virginals, he preferred a lusty, bawdy songfest at a roadside inn where no one knew his name. Sir William was a charming and rakish eccentric, to be sure, but more than that, he was a man out of his element and that often made him feel lonely.
The forge at the smithy on his estate was first rate, as could be expected, and more than large enough for any project. It did not receive much use and Sir William had said that he could help himself to it anytime he pleased.
“I shall hold you to that debt that you incurred. I want to see what you can do,” he had said. “And if your skill with forging steel is anywhere near that of your uncle, then you could have a brilliant future as a swordsmith and forget all about this acting nonsense.”
“But ‘tis what I yearn most of all to do, milord,” Smythe had replied.
“Well, then by all means, go and do it. Perhaps you will work it out of your system. But if you ask me, a life as a player is no fit occupation for man. Still, if acting is your dream, then you should certainly pursue it. Far be it from me to tell a man what he should or should not do, for as much as I have done that which I should, I have done even more that I should not, and have enjoyed the latter far more greatly than the former.”
“I thank you for your sentiment, milord, and for your hospitality. But I fear that I may no longer have a job when I return, for it is getting late and now I shall never make it back in time for the next performance.”
“Never fear,” Sir William said. “I am not without some influence, you know. I shall write out a message to James Burbage, the owner of the Theatre, that you were doing me a service at my bidding and should therefore be excused your absence. Your job shall be safe when you return.”
Smythe had thanked him and departed, feeling in a curious way that he had made a friend, and yet, he knew that true friends truly needed to be equal, and he could never be the equal of Sir William. And perhaps that was what he needed to remember most of all about his fascinating new acquaintance. He could be on equal terms with a brigand, but never with a knight.
As he entered London, his thoughts turned toward his roommate. He knew that Will had worked all night, trying to rewrite the play, and he hoped that he had been successful. But it had seemed to him a monumental task. Almost impossible. How could an entire play be thoroughly rewritten in one night? Burbage had been monstrously unfair in laying such a task on Shakespeare. But then again, Smythe remembered, Shakespeare had volunteered for it himself. It took nerve, but he had been desperate to show what he could do and he had struck when he saw his opportunity. The question was, had he struck too soon?
Another chance might have arisen later, but now, if he failed at this task, a second chance might never come. It was a risky wager and Shakespeare was betting all upon himself. It took considerable faith in one’s own abilities to gamble in this way, but Will had dutifully and purposefully applied himself to the rather daunting task.
Though the poet had tried hard not to disturb him, before he went to sleep, Smythe had heard him mumbling and muttering to himself as he sat hunched over at the table, holding his quill in a gloved hand. On occasion, Will had moaned over some clumsily rendered line, and once, he had straightened on his bench, arching his neck back and gazing at the ceiling, groaning from either muscles sorely tested or sorely tested wits. And he was still hunched over the table and working feverishly when Smythe had left for Green Oaks early in the morning, saying nothing so as not to disturb his concentration.
By now, he thought, all would have been decided, one way or another. It was late in the afternoon and drawing into evening. The performance had long since started and by the time Smythe reached their lodgings, it would have been nearly finished. Had Will managed to deliver the doctored play in time? And had there been time enough for the actors to prepare it, incorporating whatever changes he had made? Or else had Shakespeare failed in his task or, worse yet, finished only to learn that the result had been found wanting? Smythe knew that he would not have very long to wait before he would find out. The company would repair to the tavern downstairs immediately after the performance and he would meet them there.
In the meantime, he would shake the dust out of his clothes, and use the washbasin, and perhaps lie down for a short while to mull over the remarkable events of the day. But when he opened the door to their room, there was yet another remarkable event confronting him. The bed was occupied by a young woman.