let us ordinary folk see them new French plays,” said the Scottish fellow.
“Can’t see why not,” replied Willie. “They always let us in before.”
“But I hear there’s nae pit. Nae pit, nae groundlings, and ye ken they must charge a dear price to sit in a chair.”
“There’ll be a pit. Sure there’ll be a pit.”
“I hear the stage will be all up under the heavens.”
There was a brief pause as the listeners absorbed that, then Willie snorted. “Nonsense. You can’t have a play without a downstage.” A general murmur of agreement burbled about the table. Willie continued, “They’ll have to let us in. Without groundlings, nobody will watch the play. They’ll all be watching each other.”
That brought a laugh, for they all knew it was true.
Groundlings
. The hoi polloi. The unwashed masses who loved to spend their money on entertainment as much as did the nobles. They had less of it, but also there were more of them. They were willing to pay to stand where the rich folk wouldn’t care to sit.
A thought sparked in Suzanne’s head that actually made her blink. It surprised her, for the idea was outrageous and impossible, and she couldn’t yet see any of its defining characteristics. All she could see was the Globe Theatre. Nothing else, but the Globe as she’d seen it months before, rain-soaked and overrun with vermin. But still a theatre. One as they had been before the war. It made her heart race as she began to imagine how the return of sanctioned theatre could change everything. Not just the entertainment options of the rich, but it could change everything and everyone. For her, at any rate.
She said to the cluster of men, “So, what plays would you fellows care to see?”
“I want to see the bears and bulls.”
“Aye, ye said that already, Warren.”
“Seriously, tell me, all of you.” She leaned forward in herexcitement and held her drink in both hands. “What plays do you like best?”
“I likes the ones where everyone dies,” said Willie.
“
Hamlet
,” Suzanne nodded. “The Scottish play as well.”
“Oh aye, the Scottish play. But I also likes the ones as make me laugh. The one about the forest faerie in particular.”
“
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”
“Aye, that one.”
They all seemed to know the Shakespeare plays, but nobody knew any of what had been brought from the Continent.
She asked, “Would you pay to see those plays again?”
There was a general roar of approval at the table, and Willie added, “Sure enough, Suze. I always loved to see them stories. Hard, though, to find them during the past twenty years. I misses them, I does.”
“Anything you would see other than Shakespeare?”
“I suppose were I the king I would be pleased to be entertained by whatever means was at hand, but I do so miss the ones I know best. Maybe Marlowe a bit, but old Willie Shakespeare wrote all the ones I truly like.” The others murmured in agreement.
The idea that had popped into Suzanne’s head took root, and she could almost feel it grab hold behind her eyes. She sipped her ale and continued to question the fellows. Her heart pounded and breaths came hard, though she struggled to control herself and not let on how excited she was.
The next morning, at home, she spoke to Piers when he rose for breakfast. She hadn’t slept much that night, and in the small, quiet hours of the morning had risen to sit up next to a candle, thinking. When that candle had guttered, she continued to sit in the dark until dawn, when Sheila rose to poke the fire in the kitchen. The sun was well up when Pierscame for the breakfast Sheila had prepared. He walked through the ’tiring room on his way to the table without noticing her presence. When she spoke, he startled.
“Your hair is a disgrace,” she said.
He stopped to peer at her in her dark corner. “Oh. Mother.” He ran a hand through his hair and checked his collar to be certain the cravat he wore was straight, graceful,
“Can’t see why not,” replied Willie. “They always let us in before.”
“But I hear there’s nae pit. Nae pit, nae groundlings, and ye ken they must charge a dear price to sit in a chair.”
“There’ll be a pit. Sure there’ll be a pit.”
“I hear the stage will be all up under the heavens.”
There was a brief pause as the listeners absorbed that, then Willie snorted. “Nonsense. You can’t have a play without a downstage.” A general murmur of agreement burbled about the table. Willie continued, “They’ll have to let us in. Without groundlings, nobody will watch the play. They’ll all be watching each other.”
That brought a laugh, for they all knew it was true.
Groundlings
. The hoi polloi. The unwashed masses who loved to spend their money on entertainment as much as did the nobles. They had less of it, but also there were more of them. They were willing to pay to stand where the rich folk wouldn’t care to sit.
A thought sparked in Suzanne’s head that actually made her blink. It surprised her, for the idea was outrageous and impossible, and she couldn’t yet see any of its defining characteristics. All she could see was the Globe Theatre. Nothing else, but the Globe as she’d seen it months before, rain-soaked and overrun with vermin. But still a theatre. One as they had been before the war. It made her heart race as she began to imagine how the return of sanctioned theatre could change everything. Not just the entertainment options of the rich, but it could change everything and everyone. For her, at any rate.
She said to the cluster of men, “So, what plays would you fellows care to see?”
“I want to see the bears and bulls.”
“Aye, ye said that already, Warren.”
“Seriously, tell me, all of you.” She leaned forward in herexcitement and held her drink in both hands. “What plays do you like best?”
“I likes the ones where everyone dies,” said Willie.
“
Hamlet
,” Suzanne nodded. “The Scottish play as well.”
“Oh aye, the Scottish play. But I also likes the ones as make me laugh. The one about the forest faerie in particular.”
“
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”
“Aye, that one.”
They all seemed to know the Shakespeare plays, but nobody knew any of what had been brought from the Continent.
She asked, “Would you pay to see those plays again?”
There was a general roar of approval at the table, and Willie added, “Sure enough, Suze. I always loved to see them stories. Hard, though, to find them during the past twenty years. I misses them, I does.”
“Anything you would see other than Shakespeare?”
“I suppose were I the king I would be pleased to be entertained by whatever means was at hand, but I do so miss the ones I know best. Maybe Marlowe a bit, but old Willie Shakespeare wrote all the ones I truly like.” The others murmured in agreement.
The idea that had popped into Suzanne’s head took root, and she could almost feel it grab hold behind her eyes. She sipped her ale and continued to question the fellows. Her heart pounded and breaths came hard, though she struggled to control herself and not let on how excited she was.
The next morning, at home, she spoke to Piers when he rose for breakfast. She hadn’t slept much that night, and in the small, quiet hours of the morning had risen to sit up next to a candle, thinking. When that candle had guttered, she continued to sit in the dark until dawn, when Sheila rose to poke the fire in the kitchen. The sun was well up when Pierscame for the breakfast Sheila had prepared. He walked through the ’tiring room on his way to the table without noticing her presence. When she spoke, he startled.
“Your hair is a disgrace,” she said.
He stopped to peer at her in her dark corner. “Oh. Mother.” He ran a hand through his hair and checked his collar to be certain the cravat he wore was straight, graceful,
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