The True Prince Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: J.B. Cheaney
the laughter of the groundlings gave me no satisfaction. This was the same crowd Kit had so often swayed to tears and outrage now mocking him, and all I felt was pity. Envy, rage, even irritation are enlivening emotions, but pity just makes one tired.
“Oh good, here's the cloak,” Gregory remarked. “Go to it, Kit. Die like a man—silently.” 29
Instead Kit spoke his lines to the last gasp, as though forcing the audience to take him at his word:
“O cloak most black, consume me into dust;
The pale smoke of honor to the gods I trust.”
That last line was done rather well, I thought, but my opinion was not shared. “Here's a smack from sweet Silvia, to hurry it up!” sang a voice from the floor, and a rotten apple bounced off Kit's shoulder, followed by a hail of nutshells.
Most of our performances, whether comical or tragical, end with selected players capering out on stage to perform a jig or Morris dance. But the author of
The House of Maximus
had requested that the work not be trivialized in this manner. So it was allowed to stand on its own—meaning that it fell with a thud. After throwing the remains of their noonday meals, the audience left in a foul humor.
Gregory and I descended into a scene as dramatic as anything on the stage. Kit was literally throwing off his clothes, starting with the jewel-hilted sword and gold-studded belt. One or two of the actors made consoling noises, but he was having none of it—he tore at his costly doublet so savagely that a button flew off, and the tiring master cried out in protest.
“Calm yourself, boy!” Richard Burbage commanded sharply. “You bear your own share of blame for this play.” I heard the warning tone in his voice as I bent to pick up the belt, but had little time to wonder about it before somethingcaught my eye—a folded square of paper falling from Kit's silk shirt as he pulled it off. Robin approached, as pale as an egg, offering a warm towel for Kit to wipe the paint off his face. “They're fools,” said he, with a jerk of his head toward the house. “Knaves. Tomorrow they'll be eating out of your—”
Kit silenced him with a truly vile suggestion and stalked into the far reaches of the tiring room to retrieve his clothes. Some of the men sighed and shook their heads.
“It's just his humor,” Robin whispered. “He's never been laughed at.”
Overcome by curiosity, I drew aside and opened the paper Kit had kept tucked away in his costume. In an elegant slanted hand—the new Italian script that had taken hold amongst the gentry at court—the writer wished Kit well on this most auspicious occasion: “As I trust all my effort on your behalf will be rewarded, so you too may expect your reward by serving my words this day. Your true friend—” The note was signed with a curious flourish that might have been a C, E, or T.
Well! thought I, putting the message together with Burbage's remark about bearing some blame for the play. If nothing else, Kit knew the author—
Hearing footsteps, I guiltily threw down the note and started up the stairs to the upper room, stealing a glance behind me. Kit reappeared, still buttoning his doublet, his face like a thundercloud as he scanned the floor, thenscooped up the note and stuffed it out of sight. He passed on through the tiring room and out the door. No one bothered to remind him that he would bear a heavy fine for missing a rehearsal. At that moment he clearly cared not if the Theater collapsed about our ears and buried us all.
Villainous Company
he next morning Robin and I were barely up and dressed when a great pounding broke out on the front door below. We glanced at each other, then gathered up our shoes and hurried down the two flights of stairs to see what was afoot. John Heminges had arrived, which in itself was not unusual, for he lived in the same neighborhood and walked to the Theater with us almost every morning. Today he appeared early—but Kit, who boarded with him, was nowhere
“Oh good, here's the cloak,” Gregory remarked. “Go to it, Kit. Die like a man—silently.” 29
Instead Kit spoke his lines to the last gasp, as though forcing the audience to take him at his word:
“O cloak most black, consume me into dust;
The pale smoke of honor to the gods I trust.”
That last line was done rather well, I thought, but my opinion was not shared. “Here's a smack from sweet Silvia, to hurry it up!” sang a voice from the floor, and a rotten apple bounced off Kit's shoulder, followed by a hail of nutshells.
Most of our performances, whether comical or tragical, end with selected players capering out on stage to perform a jig or Morris dance. But the author of
The House of Maximus
had requested that the work not be trivialized in this manner. So it was allowed to stand on its own—meaning that it fell with a thud. After throwing the remains of their noonday meals, the audience left in a foul humor.
Gregory and I descended into a scene as dramatic as anything on the stage. Kit was literally throwing off his clothes, starting with the jewel-hilted sword and gold-studded belt. One or two of the actors made consoling noises, but he was having none of it—he tore at his costly doublet so savagely that a button flew off, and the tiring master cried out in protest.
“Calm yourself, boy!” Richard Burbage commanded sharply. “You bear your own share of blame for this play.” I heard the warning tone in his voice as I bent to pick up the belt, but had little time to wonder about it before somethingcaught my eye—a folded square of paper falling from Kit's silk shirt as he pulled it off. Robin approached, as pale as an egg, offering a warm towel for Kit to wipe the paint off his face. “They're fools,” said he, with a jerk of his head toward the house. “Knaves. Tomorrow they'll be eating out of your—”
Kit silenced him with a truly vile suggestion and stalked into the far reaches of the tiring room to retrieve his clothes. Some of the men sighed and shook their heads.
“It's just his humor,” Robin whispered. “He's never been laughed at.”
Overcome by curiosity, I drew aside and opened the paper Kit had kept tucked away in his costume. In an elegant slanted hand—the new Italian script that had taken hold amongst the gentry at court—the writer wished Kit well on this most auspicious occasion: “As I trust all my effort on your behalf will be rewarded, so you too may expect your reward by serving my words this day. Your true friend—” The note was signed with a curious flourish that might have been a C, E, or T.
Well! thought I, putting the message together with Burbage's remark about bearing some blame for the play. If nothing else, Kit knew the author—
Hearing footsteps, I guiltily threw down the note and started up the stairs to the upper room, stealing a glance behind me. Kit reappeared, still buttoning his doublet, his face like a thundercloud as he scanned the floor, thenscooped up the note and stuffed it out of sight. He passed on through the tiring room and out the door. No one bothered to remind him that he would bear a heavy fine for missing a rehearsal. At that moment he clearly cared not if the Theater collapsed about our ears and buried us all.
Villainous Company
he next morning Robin and I were barely up and dressed when a great pounding broke out on the front door below. We glanced at each other, then gathered up our shoes and hurried down the two flights of stairs to see what was afoot. John Heminges had arrived, which in itself was not unusual, for he lived in the same neighborhood and walked to the Theater with us almost every morning. Today he appeared early—but Kit, who boarded with him, was nowhere