behind candles, rushes, torches.
Backstage, actors hustling, yacking.
A soldier outside pisses:
Curtain rises.
Henley Street
October 3, ’15
Evening – late
| W |
e players, playing in the provinces, walked all day to reach our destination, our horse cart lumbering behind us, stacked with costumes and gear. Sun blazed. Rains soaked. Chewets followed us. We walked from inn to inn, town to town. At two o’clock we played Tambourlaine, and the soft verse of Marlowe. Then, packed again, we walked until another two o’clock, somewhere along the way. Our comradeship on the road, sleeping in the same rooms, sleeping on the floor as often as not, eating at the same table—those were our bonds! Burbage, Alleyn, Kempe... I could name a dozen. Week by week, we played our plays, our Lord Chamberlain’s Men, banished by edict and plague, protected from jail by contract, cheered by the Puritans! We worried over money, badgered, confronted, schemed. We placated the constabulary and loved the annuncios—the children!