Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘A plague on this weather!’ growled Lawrence Firethorn, sinking down on a bench. ‘It will be the death of me, Nick.’

Nicholas Bracewell waited until the next scene in the play was firmly under way before he glanced up from the prompt book. They were in the tiring house at the Queen’s Head, the site of their inn yard theatre, during a performance in front of a packed audience. Nicholas could see that Firethorn was in some distress. His eyes were dull, his breathing heavy, his sturdy frame slack from exhaustion. Playing the title role in Hannibal on a hot summer’s afternoon was proving to be a sustained ordeal. The famous Carthaginian general had just led his army across the frozen Alps, urging them on through a blizzard that existed only in the imagination. While Firethorn and his soldiers pretended to shiver onstage, the sun beat down mercilessly and mocked their snow-covered blank verse. Clad in body armour and helmet, Firethorn felt as if he were being baked alive.

‘Who chose this damnable play?’ he complained.

‘You did,’ said Nicholas with a quiet smile.

‘I must have been mad. August calls for rustic comedies, where we can feast and frolic. Not for martial tragedies that require me to fight a battle every five minutes, and roar down the walls of the enemy’s fortresses.’

‘All goes well,’ noted Nicholas, keeping one eye on the performance.

‘Not with me,’ said Firethorn, removing his helmet to wipe the perspiration from his brow with a forearm. ‘Look at me, Nick! I’m being roasted like a pig on a spit. Sweat comes gushing out of me from every pore. My face is a burning waterfall, my armpits are stagnant pools. There’s a steaming swamp between my thighs and my pizzle lies in the middle of it like a dead lily. God’s tits! How can I duel with Scipio when I’ve no strength to lift a sword?’

‘Owen feels the heat just as much as you.’

‘Which of us will expire from it first?’

‘Stand by for your entrance.’

‘ Already? ’ groaned Firethorn.

Nicholas raised a hand. ‘Wait but a moment.’

‘Shame on you, Nick! You’re a cruel Nebuchadnezzar, sending me back into the fiery furnace.’ Hannibal put the gleaming helmet on again. ‘I’m supposed to commit suicide at the end of the play, not every time I step out into that flaming cauldron.’

‘Enter!’ said Nicholas, lowering his hand.

Accompanied by four soldiers, Firethorn went storming back onstage to stamp his authority on one more scene. A small miracle occurred. Close to fatigue only a second before, the actor-manager drew on hidden reserves of energy to berate his troops and to instil fresh confidence in them for the conflict that lay ahead. Firethorn strutted with all of his usual arrogance, his voice stronger than ever. The audience responded to his entry with a buzz of expectation. Everyone crammed into the galleries, or standing shoulder to shoulder in the pit, knew that they were in the presence of the finest actor in London. In the part of Hannibal, he had a role that allowed him to display all his gifts and he did so with magisterial control. Whatever his discomfort, Firethorn did not let the spectators get the tiniest glimpse of it. Proud, fearless and peremptory, he looked completely at ease in his armour, ignoring the mischievous rivulets that ran beneath it all over his body.

Nicholas Bracewell paid scant attention to Hannibal. He could rely on Firethorn to surge powerfully on, regardless of the weather. The actor had performed during howling gales, sudden downpours and even a swirling snowstorm in the past. He would not be defeated by the hot embrace of summer. Where he led, others followed. In the guise of Scipio, the ebullient Welsh actor, Owen Elias, was also suffering but nobody would have guessed it from his appearance. Nor did Barnaby Gill, the acknowledged clown of the company, seem troubled in any way, capering nimbly around the stage in one of his celebrated jigs as he lightened the heavy drama with comic interludes. Edward Hoode too, the company’s actor-playwright, appeared to be in his element. Westfield’s Men blossomed in the sun. When they came onstage, they actually seemed to be enjoying the sweltering heat.

There was a single exception and it was he whom Nicholas studied with concern. Francis Quilter was faltering badly. In the important role of Hannibal’s military advisor, he stumbled over lines and forgot crucial moves. At one point, he almost blundered into the mighty general. Nicholas had great sympathy for the young actor. He knew that Quilter was not merely upset by the scorching weather. The latter was distracted by private grief. Something had been gnawing away at him for weeks and he could no longer contain it. His performance suffered as a consequence.

Lawrence Firethorn had no compassion for the actor. He expected sterling support from his company. When he came offstage again, he was in a towering rage.

‘Did you hear that idiot, Nick?’ he cried, dripping with perspiration. ‘Did you see what he almost did out there?’

‘Frank is in difficulties,’ said Nicholas tolerantly. ‘Bear with him.’

‘I’ll do more than that if he bumps into me again. I swear that I’ll run the rogue through with my sword. He’s a walking liability. What ails the fellow?’

‘He has something on his mind.’

‘He should have Hannibal on his mind, for that is the play we perform today. Does he expect to be paid for this afternoon’s mistakes? Even that dolt, George Dart, has given a better account of himself. Heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘Frank Quilter is supposed to be my chief advisor in these wars. I’d sooner take counsel from a one-eyed baboon. The creature would be sure to remember more of his lines than Frank.’

‘Be patient with him,’ urged Nicholas.

‘My patience has run dry.’

‘He’ll rally yet.’

‘If he values his life, he will.’

‘Frank is a talented actor.’

‘Then where has his talent fled?’

It was a rhetorical question because Firethorn had to enter the fray once more, and Nicholas had to give other members of the company their cue. The play rolled on with gathering force. Acutely aware of his earlier failures, Quilter made an effort to atone for them. His lines were spoken with more confidence, his movements became more controlled and his general deportment was more appropriate to his role. Instead of garnering unintended laughs, he now earned the respect of the audience. Of more significance to him was the fact that he also retrieved a grudging approval from Firethorn. Instead of staring into eyes that blazed with accusation, Quilter saw a faint gleam of gratitude. Hannibal was impressed by the way that his colleague had markedly improved his performance. The errors vanished. As the tragedy moved into its final act, Quilter was showing his true mettle as an actor.

Nicholas watched it all from his position behind the scenes. He did not envy the actors. Discomfited by the heat himself, he could imagine how much worse it was for the others as they stepped out into the bright sunlight. There was an additional problem for them. Nicholas only caught the faintest whiff of it but the company would have to endure the full impact. Pressed closely upon each other in the pit, hundreds of sweat-sodden, unwashed bodies gave off a fearsome stink, intensified by the bad breath of the standees, and mingling with the odour of fresh manure that came from the stables. Seated in his familiar position in the gallery, Lord Westfield, the troupe’s patron, was holding a pomander to his nostrils, and many of the spectators in the upper levels were sniffing nosegays or pomanders to ward off the stench from below.