The Malevolent Comedy

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.

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.’

‘Theft! Plagiarism! Iniquity!’

Firethorn stormed around the room as if he were Pompey the Great on receipt of bad news about a battle. He roared, cursed and made violent gestures. Pompey was one of his favourite roles. Too possessive to let anyone else take it on, he was appalled by the notion that Randolph would usurp him. It was insupportable. Stopping beside the wooden table, he thumped it so hard with a fist that the manuscript lying on it was tossed inches in the air. The sight of the fluttering pages took all the rage out of him. It was replaced by cold despair.

‘A pox on it!’ he cried, picking up the manuscript. ‘They have this wondrous
Lamberto
with a new-minted tragedy to follow it and what can we set against them?’ He flung the sheaf of papers down. ‘This dull and feeble comedy about a lovesick milkmaid. Pah!’

‘
How to Choose a Good Wife
has its merits,’ said Nicholas, defensively.

‘Enough to put before a paying audience?’

‘Edmund has written better plays, it’s true.’

‘Answer my question, Nick.’

‘Barnaby liked it.’

‘Barnaby Gill likes any play that allows him to pull faces at the audience and dance those tedious jigs of his. And what does
he
know about choosing a good wife?’ he added, raising a meaningful eyebrow. ‘Unless the wife in question is a pretty boy with sweet lips and a compliant body. Don’t fob me off with Barnaby’s opinion,’ he warned. ‘Give me your own. Is this play fit for performance?’

Nicholas took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

‘Not ever. It’s the worst thing that Edmund has ever penned.’

‘It needs a little work, that’s all.’

‘What it needs is another plot, another set of characters and another title. Most of all, Nick,’ he insisted, ‘it needs what every comedy needs and that is comic substance. There’s not a decent laugh in it from start to finish. Worse still – there’s not an
indecent
laugh.’

‘That’s too harsh an opinion.’

‘It’s the one that Edmund will hear when he arrives, and he’s due here any moment. I’m in no mood to spare his feelings. He’s contracted to supply us with plays of quality – not with this base, brown paper stuff.’ He gave a snort. ‘Edmund Hoode may know how to choose a wife but he’s forgotten how to write a comedy. I’ll tell him so to his face.’

Right on cue, there was a knock at the front door and they heard Firethorn’s wife, Margery, going to answer it. Nicholas glanced down at the fateful manuscript. Edmund Hoode was a close friend of his and he wanted to protect him from the actor-manager’s scorn. A man who had provided so many good plays for the company over the years deserved due consideration. Nicholas stepped forward.

‘Let
me
speak to him,’ he volunteered.

‘I commissioned the play,’ said Firethorn. ‘I’ll hurl it back at him.’

‘That’s what you did to Master Vavasor.’

Sobered by the reminder, the actor retreated into a sullen silence. When his wife conducted Edmund Hoode into the room, Firethorn spared him no more than a curt nod. Nicholas, by contrast, gave him a warm greeting. Margery looked on with a hospitable smile. She was a handsome woman in her thirties, still vivacious and blossoming in male company. The tall, pale, moon-faced, ever-anxious Hoode always aroused her maternal instincts. She touched his arm.

‘Can I get you anything, Edmund?’ she enquired.

‘You can get us all something strong to drink,’ said Firethorn. ‘I have a feeling that we’ll need it.’

‘Yes, Lawrence.’

‘Open that bottle of Canary wine.’

‘I will.’

Margery lifted the hem of her dress and tripped out of the room. Hoode’s eye went straight to the play that lay on the table. Before Firethorn could speak, Nicholas interrupted him.

‘Why don’t we all sit down?’ he suggested, lowering himself into a chair. The others sat opposite him. ‘How are you, Edmund?’

‘Keen to hear your opinion of the play,’ replied Hoode. ‘I know that you went to the Curtain today. How did
Lamberto
fare?’

‘Very well indeed.’

‘Enough of this turgid tragedy!’ protested Firethorn. ‘I’ll not have Banbury’s Men praised under my roof. The only play that concerns me is the one that lies on that table.’

‘That’s what I came to discuss,’ said Hoode. ‘I worked long and hard on
How to Choose a Good Wife
. When will it go into rehearsal?’

‘Never!’

‘What Lawrence means,’ said Nicholas, trying to soften the blow, ‘is that the play is not yet entirely ready to be put before an audience. It lacks your usual deft touch, Edmund.’

‘It lacks anything that might commend it,’ announced Firethorn.

Hoode was distressed. ‘You thought it that poor?’

‘Poverty itself.’

‘But not without its finer points,’ said Nicholas, keen
to offer his friend some solace. ‘Barnaby was delighted with his role and I believe the scene at the fair was a small masterpiece. Taken as a whole, however, the piece does not hang together.’

‘Then it is
rejected
?’ said Hoode, shaken to the core.

‘For the time being, perhaps.’

‘That’s all eternity in my book,’ declared Firethorn. ‘I’d not dare to feed an audience on such a half-baked matter as that. It would stick in their throats.’ Margery came into the room with a tray. ‘This is the way to choose a good wife,’ he went on, cheerfully. ‘Follow my example. Pick a comely creature who knows when and how to satisfy your appetites.’ He patted Margery on the rump. ‘Thank you, my love.’

‘We’ve company,’ she scolded, gently. ‘Behave yourself, Lawrence.’

‘Why? Nick and Edmund know how much I adore you.’

‘Tell me about your adoration at a more seemly time.’

After handing each man a cup of wine, she went back to the kitchen. Firethorn took a long sip of his drink while Nicholas set his cup down on the table. Hoode stared bleakly into his own wine as if seeing the dregs of his career as a playwright. A pessimist at the best of times, he now sank into complete despondency. Seeing his gloom, Firethorn repented of his bluntness and felt sorry for him. Nicholas, for once, was unable to find words of comfort for his friend. It was Hoode who finally broke the awkward silence.