Edward Marston - The Malevolent Comedy

‘I never thought I’d ever be given a role to play,’ he said.

‘You are onstage for less than a minute,’ Dart noted.

‘It will seem like an hour to me, George. I’ll bask in its glow. And I’ll share my precious moment of fame with no less an actor than Master Firethorn. I’ll be in heaven.’

‘It was more like hell to me.’

An unwilling actor at the best of times, Dart had a fatal habit of forgetting his lines, dropping anything that he was carrying and bumping into scenery. Even though confined to tiny roles, he could be a menace. The part assigned to him in The Malevolent Comedy had filled him with his customary apprehension, until Nicholas Bracewell took pity on him and suggested that Hal Bridger might take his place. One man’s intense relief was another’s joy. Day after day, Bridger had rehearsed his single line with alacrity.

‘I will take anything from your fair hand,’ he declared.

‘What?’

‘That’s what I say to Mistress Malevole when I take the potion from her. I know that she is only Dick Honeydew in a wig and skirts, but she is the most convincing lady I ever saw.’

‘Dick is the best of our apprentices,’ said Dart, proudly. ‘He can play queens or country maids with equal skill. Wait until you see him as the Countess of Milan in one of our tragedies.’

Bridger was eager. ‘Will there be a part for me in that?’

‘Several. I played four the last time we performed it.’

‘I’ll buy one of them off you, George.’

‘You can have all four gratis .’

‘Thank you,’ said Bridger, striking a pose. ‘I will take anything from your fair hand.’

‘It will be a clout if Thomas catches you dawdling here,’ warned Nicholas Bracewell, coming up to them with an affectionate smile. ‘The spectators will begin to dribble in soon and the first scene is not set. About it straight.’

The pair of them gabbled their apologies and ran off. They had been talking in the tiring-house, the room at the rear of the stage that was used by the actors during a performance and filled with their costumes. Nicholas checked that all the hand properties were set out in the correct sequence on the table, and was pleased to see that Dart and Bridger had done that job well. He went through the curtain and onto the stage, making sure that they put the settle, chairs and small table in the right positions for the opening of the play. Hal Bridger broke off to stare up in wonder at the galleries.

‘Our patron will be up there this afternoon,’ said Nicholas.

Bridger was overawed. ‘Lord Westfield himself?’

‘He’s coming expressly to hear you, Hal,’ joked Dart.

‘But I only utter a single line.’

‘Make sure that it is loud and clear,’ said Nicholas. ‘That is all we require of you. Except that you do not knock anything over when you fall to the floor.’

‘As I’d be certain to do,’ admitted Dart.

‘Ah, yes,’ Nicholas went on, struck by an afterthought, ‘there is perhaps one thing more, Hal.’

‘What’s that?’

‘ Enjoy yourself.’

‘I will, I promise you!’

‘It’s more than I ever managed to do,’ confided Dart.

But his remark was drowned out by Hal Bridger’s happy laughter. The assistant stagekeeper was on the brink of one of the most thrilling experiences of his life and Nicholas was pleased for him. Like everyone else in the company, Hal Bridger could not wait to perform an exciting new play before its first audience. Heaven was at last at hand.

Spectators flocked to the Queen’s Head in droves, spurred on by the promise of novelty and by rumours that they would be present at a remarkable event. The galleries were soon crammed to capacity, the pit a seething mass of citizenry. Food and beer were served in large quantities, putting the watching public in the ideal frame of mind. Saul Hibbert wore a new suit of blue velvet for the occasion, looking more ostentatious than ever as he settled onto his cushion in the upper gallery. While the author of The Malevolent Comedy oozed a conviction that bordered on complacency, the cast was troubled by the doubts and fears that always afflicted them on such occasions.

Veteran actors knew the horrors that could attend first outings of a play. If the work did not find favour, they would be booed, jeered and even be hit by ripe fruit, hurled at them by disappointed spectators. More than one of the new plays they had performed in the past had sunk without trace beneath the wrath of their audience. In two cases, the actors had not even been allowed to finish the play, hounded from the stage by riotous behaviour. While they all had faith in the excellence of The Malevolent Comedy , their confidence was not unmixed with dread.

It was a situation in which Lawrence Firethorn came to the fore. If he had the slightest tremor, it did not show in his face or bearing. As he gathered his company around him in the tiring-house, he was the epitome of poise and assurance. Resplendent in his costume as Lord Loveless, he addressed his actors.

‘Friends,’ he said, solemnly, ‘we have been given an opportunity today that we must seize with both hands. Westfield’s Men have lost something of their lustre and we must repair that loss. Our rivals boast that they are now supreme but we have a new play that can restore all our fortunes. It was Edmund’s joyous comedies that helped to forge our reputation,’ he continued, indicating Hoode, who looked like more like a disconsolate sheep than the proud steward he was supposed to be playing, ‘and we must follow in the tradition that he set for us. I believe that, in Saul Hibbert, we have another Edmund Hoode. Let us show our new author how much we appreciate his work by playing it to the hilt.’ He drew an imaginary sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Onward, lads!’ he exhorted. ‘Onwards to certain victory!’

Buoyed up by their leader’s encouragement, the actors were keen to begin, looking in the mirror for the last time and making final adjustments to their costumes. Edmund Hoode remained forlorn. Wanting the play to succeed, he believed that it would mark the end of his own career as playwright. Nicholas Bracewell went across to slip a consoling arm around his shoulders.

‘There is only one Edmund Hoode,’ he told him.

‘Thank you, Nick.’

‘And we will soon be staging his next matchless comedy.’

‘In truth,’ said Hoode with a wan smile, ‘I’m in no mood to provide humour. My muse has deserted me. She is gone forever.’

Nicholas had no time to reassure his friend. With the play due to start, a signal had to be given to the musicians in the gallery above the stage. A flag was hoisted, a fanfare blared and Owen Elias stepped out in a black cloak to deliver the Prologue. Within a matter of seconds, he got the first titter from the audience. Firethorn glanced over his shoulder at the other actors and beamed regally.

‘Let’s make them laugh until their sides are fit to burst,’ he said.

The Malevolent Comedy secured a firm and immediate hold over the spectators. From a simple plot, Saul Hibbert had built up a complex series of comic effects. Lord Loveless, a wealthy nobleman, was looking for a wife who would marry him for love and not for his money. To that end, he enlisted the aid of Mistress Malevole, a white witch whose potions could achieve magical results. Loveless required her to make three separate women — unattainable beauties until now — swallow a potion that would make them fall instantly in love with him. By courting all three, Lord Loveless could decide which he would take as a wife.

What he did not know was that Mistress Malevole had a malevolent streak that made her give the three women the wrong potion. Secretly in love with Lord Loveless herself, she was not prepared to yield him up to another. One of her rivals was turned into a cat, another believed she was an owl and the third capered around the stage like a monkey. Barnaby Gill complicated matters even more with his clowning, stealing some of his mistress’s other potions to slip into the wine cups of the men.