The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ in London ten years ago. Rarely had the theaters been forced to close for more than a month at a time. The last time they had bolted their doors had been last summer—in July, when London had been choked with disease. The company had taken its productions on tour. Shakespeare remembered that travel had been exhausting. The country roads, often flooded, had been small or nonexistent, and the company’s accommodations had been cheap. Frequently they had passed the night in the stable with the horses, using only loose straw for a blanket. But, marry, the countryside had been in full blossom that year, a palette of color, the air scented sweeter than perfume.

      Shakespeare inhaled deeply, and a waft of dung assaulted his nostrils. A bear’s roar filled his ears. A devil it was to project the lines over the blast of animal noises. But the theater’s new location was amid a lot more traffic, and the more traffic, the more money.

      They reached the Unicorn. The theater was not yet completed, only half built, and preparations for the play seemed as chaotic as ever. The recent move from Shoreditch to Southwark was simply one more complication in a never-ending series of problems. Stagekeepers attempted to clean the standing pit and the galleries, sweeping away the remains of rotted food served during yesterday’s performance. Hired men wielded hammers and calipers, building scaffolds and fixing warped boards on the platform stage. A boy apprentice, gowned in full costume, raced back and forth, toting faggots of wood needed for repairs. Robin Hart paced furiously, the ’tire man shouting complaints to no one in specific about the condition of the players’ wardrobe. The clothes were being treated carelessly, and he was tired of mending unnecessary tears.

      William Dale grabbed Shakespeare as soon as he saw him enter, pulling him away from Cuthbert.

      “Where were you?” he asked. “Don’t you realize the time?”

      Shakespeare debated giving him an explanation but thought better of it. He shrugged helplessly.

      “We’ve a problem,” said the keeper of the books. “The Master of the Revels has taken umbrage to your Richard.”

      “Which Richard?”

      “The Third.”

      “What’s wrong with the book?” Shakespeare asked.

      “Willy,” shouted the ’tire man from afar. He was upstairs in the second gallery, holding a bundle of clothing. “Come get fitted.”

      “In a minute, Robin,” Shakespeare shouted back. He returned his attention to Dale. “What’s wrong with the play?”

      “Master Tilney objects to your portrayal of Richard. He claims you’ve made the Duke of Gloucester too human.”

      Shakespeare sighed. “Too human?”

      “The original book—which you’ve rewritten—showed Gloucester to be an evil, scheming—”

      “I’ve continued to write him with much evil—”

      “He has too much doubt, Will,” Dale said. “Aye, he does evil, but he anguishes about it.”

      “Without the anguish,” Shakespeare said, “he becomes a flat figure of a man with no thoughts other than those of the Devil. If I’d wanted to write a passion play, where good is named good, evil is named evil, chastity is a boy wearing white and gluttony a fat man with a pomaded beard, I would have done so without using the pretense of Richard.”

      “Will,” Dale explained patiently, “the Duke of Gloucester was usurper of the throne. The Queen will not be pleased if such a man is played for sympathy. The Tudors are claimants from the House of Lancaster.”

      “Harry the Eighth was more York than Lancaster,” Shakespeare countered.

      “Owen Tudor came from the House of Lancaster.”

      “Not a drop of true Lancaster blood had ever flowed in the Welshman’s veins—”

      “Let us not quibble with bloodline, Will, and address the problem in our hands,” said Dale. “Master Tilney feels the play is subversive, and we dare not displease Her Grace.” He gently pushed the book against Shakespeare’s chest. “Evil up old Richard. And quickly. We’d like to perform the book by the summer.”

      “Shakespeare!”

      Shakespeare turned around. That rich, booming baritone could only belong to one person. Richard Burbage was in fine form today—erect posture, as stately as nobility. His nose wasn’t nearly as swollen as it had been the last couple of weeks, and his complexion had returned once again to its rosy hue. His eyes, always dark and secretive, came alive differently with each character he portrayed. This morning they seemed to smolder.

      “I see my brother has managed to drag you in before the dinner hour,” he said. His voice was piqued.

      Shakespeare smiled. He said, “What do you think of my Richard the Third? You’re the one who’s to play him. Do you think he’s evil enough?”

      “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about that very book,” Burbage articulated. “I have concerns about Gloucester’s opening words.”

      “What kind of concerns?”

      “My entrance speech is much too short.”

      “It’s forty lines.”

      “Bah,” Burbage scoffed. “Hardly a word is out of my mouth before I’m interrupted by Clarence. I need to expound—set forth my plans, my wishes, my desires, my ruthlessness. Add at least another twenty lines.”

      “Twenty lines?”

      “Or even an addition of thirty would not be excessive.”

      Back to his desktop tonight, Shakespeare thought. “Do you like the book as written, Burbage?”

      “Aside from the opening speech?”

      “Aside from the opening speech.”

      “Richard’s part is too small.”

      “Do you think Richard is played too sympathetically?”

      “No,” Burbage said. “He just isn’t given enough opportunity to speak.” He smiled and added, “I like that touch you added about old Gloucester being a crookback. It shall play magnificently on stage. All eyes will be upon me.”

      The ’tire man shouted again. He was now up on the third level. “You must get fitted at once.”

      “Five more minutes, please, Robin,” Shakespeare screamed back.

      “By the way,” Robin yelled. “Your new sword just snapped in two. That’s what you get for ordering cheap!”

      Splendid, thought Shakespeare.

      “So you don’t think the play is treasonous?” Shakespeare asked Burbage.

      “Heavens, I’m in no position to judge such an accusation!” Burbage answered. “I’m a tragedian, not a censor.” He patted Shakespeare on the back. “Another forty lines, even fifty if it’s going well.” Without another word, Burbage walked away. Robin Hart came forward carrying some СКАЧАТЬ