Edward Marston
The Malevolent Comedy
Chapter One
Nicholas Bracewell had worked in the theatre for many years but he had never known a silence so complete and reverential. The hush that fell on the audience that Sunday afternoon was extraordinary. Those standing in the pit stopped munching their apples or shuffling their feet, spectators in the galleries ceased fidgeting, and pickpockets who operated in every part of the playhouse abandoned their craft momentarily lest the noise of a purse being lifted should cause a disturbance. Some people did not even dare to breathe.
A searing tragedy had reached its climax with the death of its eponymous hero, Lamberto, an Italian potentate. The silence that followed seemed to reach out beyond the walls of the theatre to embrace the whole of Shoreditch. For a full minute, the world itself stood still. Then the final speech took Lamberto to its poignant conclusion.
Our ruler brought great joy unto the state,
A single fault, enough to seal his fate.
His tragedy so stark, unkind and grim,
To love his people more than they loved him.
Before the rhyming couplets ended the play and released the audience from the unbearable tension of the closing scene, tears were flowing freely on all sides. A profoundly moving drama had touched the hearts of all who watched it. Having devoted himself to the care of his subjects, Lamberto, a benevolent monarch, betrayed by some of the very people he had served so well, sacrificed his life for his country. His nobility had been an example to all. To the sound of solemn music, he was borne away by his stricken subjects.
After such a stirring performance, it was almost sacrilegious to break the mood by resorting to something as banal as clapping and there was a collective reluctance to do so. When the first pair of hands did eventually meet in gratitude, however, others soon followed then the torrent burst forth. Everyone in the galleries rose to acclaim a triumph and Nicholas Bracewell was among them. Nobody clapped harder or with more enthusiasm. He had seen a fine play, cleverly staged and beautifully acted. Book holder for Westfield’s Men, one of London’s leading theatre companies, Nicholas was a keen judge of drama and he acknowledged without hesitation that Lamberto was unquestionably the best thing he had seen on a stage all season. It had one glaring defect.
It did not belong to Westfield’s Men, but to their deadly rivals.
‘You went to see Banbury’s Men?’ said Lawrence Firethorn with disgust. ‘How could you, Nick? Nothing on God’s earth would make me sit through a performance by that crew of mountebanks.’
‘London takes a very different view of their work. What I saw this afternoon was the ninth successive staging of Lamberto. Like today, the other performances filled the Curtain till it was fit to burst.’
‘I care not if it was the hundredth time the piece was aired. I’d sooner be stretched on the rack, and have my eyes pecked out by ravens, than watch Giles Randolph strut upon the boards. He and his company are pigmies beside Westfield’s Men.’
‘They were more than a match for us today.’
Firethorn’s anger flared. ‘What!’ he exclaimed with a voice like a wounded buffalo. ‘You dare to compare those ranting buffoons with us? You have the gall to mention the name of that vile toad, Randolph, alongside my own? Shame on you, Nick!’
‘I speak as I find,’ said Nicholas, firmly. ‘It’s folly to be blinded by naked prejudice. Giles Randolph will never eclipse you as an actor but Banbury’s Men have nevertheless put us in the shade this past week. While our audiences have dwindled, they have unleashed this new tragedy on the capital and won golden opinions from everyone.’
‘Including you, it seems.’
‘I went merely to see if reports of its excellence were true.’
‘Have you no better way of spending the Sabbath?’
‘Yes,’ retorted Nicholas, ‘the best way of all is to be on our stage at the Queen’s Head, competing with our rivals. That’s where I’d love to spend my Sunday afternoons. But we’re kept idle by edicts that prevent us playing on the Lord’s Day because we are within the city limits.’
‘A rank injustice,’ agreed Firethorn. ‘While we sit on our hands, Giles Randolph and his miserable actors can ply their trade out here in Shoreditch, free from city restraints. Both playhouses — the Curtain and the Theatre — flourish at our expense. It’s monstrous, Nick, all the more so for me, living cheek by jowl with our rivals. There’s no more devilish sound for an actor’s ears than that of thunderous applause for others.’
They were in the parlour of Firethorn’s house in Old Street, only minutes away from the theatre where Lamberto had been performed. It was impossible for the actor not to hear the lengthy ovation that it had earned. Each second had been a separate dagger through his heart. He sat down heavily in a chair and turned a melancholy eye on his visitor.
‘Did the play really deserve its plaudits?’ he asked.
‘Every one of them,’ replied Nicholas, honestly.
‘What of Randolph?’
‘Inspired. The best I’ve seen from him.’
‘That’s not saying much,’ growled Firethorn, stung by the praise of the one actor in London who could threaten his primacy. ‘The fellow is a raw beginner, still green and untried. It were an achievement for him simply to stand upright and remember his lines.’
Nicholas Bracewell showed his usual tact. His friend had suffered enough. It would be cruel to point out that Giles Randolph had given a towering performance in a remarkable new play. And the actor-manager of Westfield’s Men needed no reminding that his company had hit a difficult patch. Takings were down, audiences cool, morale among the actors low. Unable to offer a new play for several weeks, the troupe had fallen back on its stock of old dramas, many of which now looked tired and stale. Westfield’s Men were no longer leading the way in the theatre. Their supremacy was fading and Firethorn knew it only too well. His head sank to his chest.
‘Who wrote this tragedy of theirs?’ he muttered.
‘John Vavasor and Cyrus Hame.’
‘Why did they not bring it to us first?’
‘Because of the way you dealt with Master Vavasor,’ explained Nicholas. ‘When he offered you his History of Edmund Ironside, you told him your children had written better things on their slates.’
‘And so they had!’
‘That was untrue and ungenerous. The play had faults, and many of them, but there was great promise locked away inside it. Had you seen fit to encourage that promise, instead of condemning it outright, Master Vavasor’s loyalty would have been bought. Instead,’ said Nicholas, pointedly, ‘he found a co-author in Master Hame, who has lifted his art to new heights. On his own, John Vavasor was lacking but, with Cyrus Hame beside him, he’s transformed.’
Firethorn was dismissive. ‘This success of theirs is like a beam of sunlight,’ he said with contempt. ‘It dazzles for a while then vanishes forever behind the clouds. We’ll not hear of Vavasor and Hame again.’
‘Assuredly, we will.’
‘Why so, Nick?’
‘The rumour is that they have already finished a second play,’ said Nicholas, trying to break the news gently, ‘and it goes into rehearsal soon. It’s a tragedy about Pompey the Great.’
‘Never!’ howled Firethorn, leaping to his feet. ‘I am Pompey the Great. It is one of my finest achievements. I’ll not let that vulture, Giles Randolph, pick the bones of my role. I am a greater Pompey the Great than he could ever be. Send for my lawyers, Nick. This must be stopped.’
‘There’s no law to stop an author writing about Ancient Rome,’ said Nicholas, reasonably. ‘The play in which you shone was masterly, I grant you, but there have been others on the same subject. Master Vavasor and Master Hame clearly believe they can conjure a new shape out of this old material.’