CHAPTER XIX
THE ROSE PLAY-HOUSE
The play-house was an eight-sided, three-storied, tower-like building ofoak and plastered lath, upon a low foundation of yellow brick. Twooutside stairways ran around the wall, and the roof was of bright-redEnglish tiles with a blue lead gutter at the eaves. There was a littleturret, from the top of which a tall ash stave went up; and on thestave, whenever there was to be a play, there floated a great white flagon which was a crimson rose with a golden heart, just like the one thatNick with such delight had seen come up the Oxford road a few shortdays before.
Under the stairway was a narrow door marked "For the Playeres Onelie";and in the doorway stood a shrewd-faced, common-looking man, writingupon a tablet which he held in his hand. There was a case of quills athis side, with one of which he was scratching busily, now and thenprodding the ink-horn at his girdle. He held his tongue in his cheek,and moved his head about as the pen formed the letters: he was noexpert penman, this Phil Henslowe, the stager of plays.
He looked up as they came to the step.
"A poor trip, Carew," said he, running his finger down the column offigures he was adding. "The play was hardly worth the candle--clearedbut five pound; and then, after I had paid the carman three shilling fipto bring the stuff down from the City, 'twas lost in the river from thebarge at Paul's wharf! A good two pound."
"Hard luck!" said Carew.
"Hard? Adamantine, I say! Why, 'tis very stones for luck, and the wholeroad rocky! Here's Burbage, Condell, and Will Shakspere ha' rebuiltBlackfriars play-house in famous shape; and, marry, where are we?"
Nick started. An idea came creeping into his head. Will Shakspere hadmarried his mother's own cousin, Anne Hathaway of Shottery; and he hadoften heard his mother say that Master Shakspere had ever been her owngood friend when they were young.
"He and Jonson be thick as thieves," said Henslowe; "and Chettle saysthat Will hath near done the book of a new play for the autumn--a masterfine thing!--'Romulus and Juliana,' or something of that Italian sort,to follow Ben Jonson's comedy. Ned Alleyn played a sweet fool aboutBen's comedy. Called it monstrous bad; and now it has taken the moneyout of our mouths to the tune of nine pound six the day--and here, whileye were gone, I ha' played my Lord of Pembroke's men in your 'RobinHood,' Heywood, to scant twelve shilling in the house!"
Heywood flushed.
"Nay, Tom, don't be nettled; 'tis not the fault of thy play. There'snaught will serve. We've tried old Marlowe and Robin Greene, Peele,Nash, and all the rest; but, what! they will not do--'tis Shakspere,Shakspere; our City flat-caps will ha' nothing but Shakspere!"
Nick listened eagerly. Master Will Shakspere must indeed be somebody inLondon town! He stared across into the drifting cloud of mist and smokewhich hid the city like a pall, and wondered how and where, in thatterrible hive of more than a hundred thousand men, he could findone man.
"I tell thee, Tom Heywood, there's some magic in the fellow, or myname's not Henslowe!" cried the manager. "His very words bewitch one'swits as nothing else can do. Why, I've tried them with 'PiercePenniless,' 'Groat's Worth of Wit,' 'Friar Bacon,' 'Orlando,' and the'Battle of Alcazar.' Why, tush! they will not even listen! And here I'veput Martin Gosset into purple and gold, and Jemmy Donstall into apeach-colored gown laid down with silver-gilt, for 'Volteger'; and what?Why, we play to empty stools; and the rascals owe me for those costumesyet--sixty shillings full! A murrain on Burbage and Will Shaksperetoo!--but I wish we had him back again. We'd make their old Blackfriarssick!" He shook his fist at a great gray pile of buildings that roseabove the rest out of the fog by the landing-place beyond the river.
Nick stared. _That_ the play-house of Master Shakspere and the Burbages?Will Shakspere playing there, just across the river? Oh, if Nick couldonly find him, he would not let the son of his wife's own cousin bestolen away!
Nick looked around quickly.
The play-house stood a bowshot from the river, in the open fields. Therewas a moated manor-house near by, and beyond it a little stream withsome men fishing. Between the play-house and the Thames were gardens andtrees, and a thin fringe of buildings along the bank by the landings. Itwas not far, and there were places where one could get a boat everyfifty yards or so at the Bankside.
But--"Come in, come in," said Henslowe. "Growling never fed a dog; andwe must be doing."
"Go ahead, Nick," said Carew, pushing him by the shoulder, and they allwent in. The door opened on a flight of stairs leading to the lowestgallery at the right of the stage, where the orchestra sat. A man wastuning up a viol as they came in.
"I want you to hear this boy sing," said Carew to Henslowe. "'Tis thebest thing ye ever lent ear to."
"Oh, this is the boy?" said the manager, staring at Nick. "Why, Alleyntold me he was a country gawk!"
"He lied, then," said Carew, very shortly. "'Twas cheaper than thetruth at my price. There, Nick, go look about the place--we havebusiness."
Nick went slowly along the gallery. His hands were beginning to trembleas he put them out touching the stools. Along the rail were ornamentalcolumns which supported the upper galleries and looked like beautifulblue-veined white marble; but when he took hold of them to steadyhimself he found they were only painted wood.
There were two galleries above. They ran all around the inside of thebuilding, like the porches of the inn at Coventry, and he could see themacross the house. There were no windows in the gallery where he was, butthere were some in the second one. They looked high. He went on aroundthe gallery until he came to some steps going down into the open spacein the center of the building. The stage was already set up on thetrestles, and the carpenters were putting a shelter-roof over it oncopper-gilt pillars; for it was beginning to drizzle, and the middle ofthe play-house was open to the sky.
The spectators were already coming into the pit at a penny apiece,although the play would not begin until early evening. Those for thegalleries paid another penny to a man in a red cloak at the foot of thestairs where Nick was standing. There was a great uproar at theentrance. Some apprentices had caught a cutpurse in the crowd, and werebeating him unmercifully. Every one pushed and shoved about, cursing thethief, and those near enough kicked and struck him.
Nick looked back. Carew and the manager had gone into the tiring-roombehind the stage. He took hold of the side-rail and started down thesteps. The man in the red cloak looked up. "Go back there," said he,sharply; "there's enough down here now." Nick went on aroundthe gallery.
At the back of the stage were two doors for the players, and betweenthem hung a painted cloth or arras behind which the prompter stood. Overthese doors were two plastered rooms, twopenny private boxes forgentlefolk. In one of them were three young men and a beautiful girl,wonderfully dressed. The men were speaking to her, but she looked downat Nick instead. "What a pretty boy!" she said, and tossed him a flowerthat one of the men had just given her. It fell at Nick's feet. Hestarted back, looking up. The girl smiled, so he took off his cap andbowed; but the men looked sour.
At the side of the stage was a screen with long leather fire-buckets anda pole-ax hanging upon it, and behind it was a door through which Nicksaw the river and the gray walls of the old Dominican friary. As he camedown to it, some one thrust out a staff and barred the way. It was thebandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear, Nick looked out longingly;it seemed so near!
"Master Carew saith thou art not to stir outside--dost hear?" said thebandy-legged man.
"Ay," said Nick, and turned back.
There was a narrow stairway leading to the second gallery. He went upsoftly. There was no one in the gallery, and there was a window on theside next to the river; he had seen it from below. He went toward itslowly that he might not arouse suspicion. It was above his head.
"NICK PUT ONE LEG OVER THE SILL AND LOOKED BACK."]
There were stools for hire standing near. He brought one and set itunder the window. It stood unevenly upon the floor, and made a wabblingnoise. He was afraid some one would hear
him; but the apprentices inthe pit were rattling dice, and two or three gentlemen's pages werewrangling for the best places on the platform; while, to add to thegeneral riot, two young gallants had brought gamecocks and were fightingthem in one corner, amid such a whooping and swashing that one couldhardly have heard the skies fall.
A printer's man was bawling, "Will ye buy a new book?" and thefruit-sellers, too, were raising such a cry of "Apples, cherries, cakes,and ale!" that the little noise Nick might make would be lost in thewild confusion.
Master Carew and the manager had not come out of the tiring-room. Nickgot up on the stool and looked out. It was not very far to theground--not so far as from the top of the big haycock in Master JohnCombe's field from which he had often jumped.
The sill was just breast-high when he stood upon the stool. Putting hishands upon it, he gave a little spring, and balanced on his arms amoment. Then he put one leg over the window-sill and looked back. No onewas paying the slightest attention to him. Over all the noise he couldhear the man tuning the viol. Swinging himself out slowly and silently,with his toes against the wall to steady him, he hung down as far as hecould, gave a little push away from the house with his feet, caught aquick breath, and dropped.