The Merry Devils

There was a ground swell of agreement among the listening throng. Isaac Pollard developed his argument with righteous zeal.

'Nay!' he said. 'Are not these playhouses the devourers of maidenly virginity and chastity? For proof whereof, mark the running to The Theatre and The Curtain and other like houses of sin, to see plays and interludes, where such wanton gestures, such foul speeches, such laughing and leering, such winking and glancing of wanton eyes is used, as is shameful to behold. The playhouse is a threat to Virtue and a celebration of Vice!'

Pollard was really into his stride now, his single eyebrow rising and falling like a creature in torment. He pointed to the heavens, he pummelled the pulpit, he smashed one fist into the palm of his other hand. In launching his attack on the theatre, he was not averse to using a few theatrical tricks.

'But yesterday,' he continued, 'but yesterday, good sirs, I went to view this profanity for myself. Not up in Shoreditch, I say, not yet down in Bankside but within our own city boundaries, at the sign of the Queens Head in Gracechurch Street. There I beheld such idleness, such wickedness and such blasphemy that I might have been a visitor to Babylon. Men and women buy this depravity for the price of one penny and our city authorities do nought to stop them. Yet upon that stage--I call it a scaffold of Hell, rather--I saw the visible apparition of devils as they capered for amusement. That is no playhouse, sirs, it is the high road to perpetual damnation!'

The more vociferous elements gave him a rousing cheer.

'The theatres of London,' said Pollard with booming certainty, 'are the disgrace and downfall of the city. Among their many sinful acts, there be three chief abominations. First, plays are a special cause of corrupting our youth, containing nothing but unchaste matters, lascivious devices, shifts of cozenage and other ungodly practices.'

Support was even more audible now. A woman in the crowd clutched her two children to her bosom, as if fearing that they would go straight off to the nearest playhouse to lose their innocence.

'Second, theatres are the ordinary places for vagrant persons, thieves, beggars, horse-stealers, whoremongers, coney-catchers and other dangerous fellows to meet together and make their matches to the great displeasure of God Almighty.'

Pollard drew himself up to his full height and his shadow fell across those who listened down below. Both arms were outstretched for effect as he came to his final indictment.

'Third, plays draw apprentices and other servants from their work, they pluck all sorts of people from resort unto sermons and Christian practices, and they bind them to the worship of the Devil. Playhouses mock our religion. Destroy this canker in our midst, say I. Perish all plays and players!'

There was a deathly hush as his imprecations hung upon the wind, then a derisive laugh was heard from the rear of the congregation. Isaac Pollard turned eyes of hatred upon a personable figure in doublet, hose and feathered hat. The man had the look of a gallant but the air of a scholar.

It was Ralph Willoughby.

*

The house in Shoreditch was not large and yet it served Lawrence Firethorn and his wife, their children, their servants, the four young apprentices with Westfield's Men and sundry other members of the company who needed shelter from time to time. It fell to Margery Firethorn to make sure that people did not keep bumping into each other in the limited space and she presided over her duties with a ruthless vigilance. A handsome woman of ample proportions, she had an independent mind and an aggressive charm. Firethorn could be fearsome when roused but he had married his match in her. Pound for pound, Margery was redder meat and she was the only person alive who could rout him in argument. He might be the captain of the domestic ship but it was his wife's hot breath which filled the sails.

'The room is ready, Lawrence,' she said.

'Thank you, my dove.'

'Refreshment has been set out.'

'Good. We deal with weighty matters.'

'Nobody will dare to interrupt!'

Her raised voice was a threat which could be heard in every coiner of the house. She glided off to the kitchen and Firethorn was left to conduct his two visitors into the main room. Barnaby Gill puffed at his pipe and took a seat at the table while Edmund Hoode curled up on the settle in a corner. Firethorn remained on his feet so that he could the more easily assert his ascendancy.

It was a business meeting. All three of them were sharers with Westfield's Men, ranked players whose names were listed in the royal patent for the company. They took the leading parts in the plays and had a share in any profits that were made. There were four other sharers but most of the decisions were made by Firethorn, Gill and Hoode, a trio who combined wisdom with experience and who represented a balance of opinion. That, at least, was the theory. In practice, their discussions often degenerated into acrimonious bickering.

Barnaby Gill elected to strike the first blow this time.

'I oppose the notion with every sinew of my being!'

'No less was expected of you,' said Firethorn.

'The idea beggars belief.'

'Remember who suggested it, Barnaby.'

'Tell Lord Westfield that it is out of the question.'

'I have told him that we accede to his request.'

'You might, Lawrence,' said the other testily, but I will never do so, and I speak for the whole company.'

Barnaby Gill was a short, plump, round-faced man who tried to hold middle age at bay by the judicious use of cosmetics. Disaffected and irascible offstage, he became the soul of wit the moment he stepped upon it and his comic routines were legendary. Tobacco and boys were his only sources of private pleasure and he usually required both before he would shed his surliness.

Lawrence Firethorn grasped the nettle of resistance.

'What is the nature of your objection, Barnaby?'

'Fear, sir. Naked, unashamed fear.'

'Of another apparition?'

'Of what else! I am an actor, not a sorcerer. I'll not meddle with the supernatural again. It puts me quite out of countenance.'

'But we survived,' said Firethorn reasonably. 'The devil came and went but we live to boast of our ordeal.'

It might not be so again, Lawrence.'

'Indeed not. The creature might decline to visit us next time.'

'He'll get no invitation from me, that I vow!'

Firethorn reached for the flagon on the table and poured three cups of ale, handing one each to the two men. He quaffed his own drink ruminatively then turned to Edmund Hoode.

You have heard both sides, sir. Which do you choose?'

'Something of each, Lawrence, said the playwright.

'You talk in riddles.'

'I think that The Merry Devils should be seen again.'

'Excellent wretch!'

'An act of madness!' protested Gill.

'Hold still, Barnaby,' said Hoode. 'I agree with you that we must not run the risk of bringing back that real devil.'