He smiled. “Just go through the door by the stage,” he said. “It’s easier.”
Backstage I stopped and looked at the program in my hand. The first page listed the dramatis personae:
Palio, Duke of Naples
Velasquo, his younger brother
Donado, a Cardinal
Sanguinetto, a Sicilian count
Orcanes } gentlemen: followers of Donado
Hamond }
Mura, a priest: attendant to Donado
Ursini } friends to Sanguinetto
Ferrando }
Elazar, a supposed doctor
Caropia, sister to Pallio and Velasquo
Leontia, wife to Donado, and sister to Orcanes
Carmen, servant to Caropia
Courtiers, Masquers, Officers and Guards, Pages, Seer.
Director: Eunice Bloomsman
The opposite page was almost filled by one of Bloomsman’s learned program notes:
The Guise is one of the four previously lost plays in the Aylesbury Collection, twenty-four plays and hundreds of miscellaneous papers discovered in 2052. The invaluable books and manuscripts, found at Aylesbury Manor near Oxford, had been locked in a storage trunk for over three hundred years.
The copy of The Guise in the Collection is a quarto volume, published in 1628 “by N.O. for Thomas Archer.” Stage directions have been added by an unknown 17th century hand.
The text is anonymous. It was presumed that the play was by John Webster, who mentioned a work of his by the same title in the dedication to The Devil’s Law Case (1623). But this has been questioned. Earlier references to a Guise play—variously spelled The Gwuisse, or The Guesse—indicate that there was probably more than one play so named. Most of these presumably concern the de Guise family, but the plot of our play was taken from an Italian novella, Il Travestimenro di Pallio.
Critics have made cases for the authorship of Middleton, Tourneur, and Massinger. The debates continue—even the authenticity of the entire Collection has been questioned recently. While this state of uncertainty remains, we at the Rose have thought it best not to attribute authorship.
This is the first Vancouver performance of The Guise.
It was less than I already knew from talking to Bloomsman. I had been one of many requesting a part; it had been worse than trying to get reservations to play Hamlet. Everyone who performed Jacobean drama had inquired, fascinated by the prospect of a new and unknown play. It had been a surprise when Bloomsman called and said, “You’ll be Pallio.”
I made my way through backstage corridors to the dressing room, found the cubicle with my name on it. My first costume—grey britches, white ruffled shirt-front, long blue coat—felt as familiar to me as my street clothes. The other costumes went on hooks. I sat down before the mirror, turned on its lights, and pulled my makeup kit from the bottom of the bag. My face was damp; the white powder stuck to it. I darkened my eyelids, exaggerated the curve of my upper lip. The sight of the stranger in the mirror, face white as a mask, quickened my pulse. I considered the many layers of his character, and played over his archaic language.
A small crystal perfume bottle rolled against my foot. I reached down, picked it up; still seated, I stuck my head around the partition separating me from the next cubicle. There was no one there. Dresses, white and scarlet and black, hung from the walls, making the cubicle seem smaller. Crystal bottles like the one in my hand reflected the blue light from the makeup mirror behind them.
Within the mirror there was movement. I turned my head and looked up at an auburn-haired actress, one I had never seen before. Her face was a narrow oval. Her eyes, grey as slate and flecked with black, surveyed me calmly. She looked into her cubicle and back, clearly framing her question. I lifted the bottle in explanation, and her mouth. which curved down sharply in repose, lifted as if propelled by the same motion, into a warm smile.
“Caropia?” I asked.
Her head turned aside. She walked past me into her cubicle without responding. A strand of her hair spiraled down; her slim back was splashed with tiny streaks of the powder that whitened her shoulders. I noticed that the grey eyes were still observing me from the mirror, and I quickly withdrew, Pallio’s face mocked me in my own glass. Remember where you are, he said… By and large, acting was as congenial an art form as any other; friends often performed plays together. But those of us who gravitated to the world of Jacobean tragedy were not a very communicative bunch. Strangers came in, played their parts, and went their separate ways into the city, remaining strangers to each other. The Hieronomo was one of us.
The stage set was large and uncluttered. The bedroom at the rear had wide black staircases bracketing it, and a narrow balcony above, so that it was deeply recessed, like a cave. I experienced the familiar wash of déjà vu as I viewed it; a false one, in that I had truly already seen the set, as part of the implanting. Real déjà vu would have been an uncanny feeling, I was sure; but in a world of memory implants it was as common as recollection itself. (Still, there were people addicted to the sensation. They would implant in their memory the remembrance of a world tour and then take that very tour, in a continuous stale of déjà vu, pulse high, adrenaline running in their arteries…)
In the large prop room directly behind the stage the director, Eunice Bloomsman, was holding the first and final cast meeting. Bloomsman was quite short, and very calm. Many of the players were ignoring her, expressing the common belief among them that directors were powerless lackeys, no more than the stage managers of old. But they were mistaken—directors programmed the information to be implanted in the players, and that gave them the chance to exert much subtle influence.
Bloomsman looked up at me, then continued. “All of you but one chose minimum text, so you’ll have to stay alert to keep up. I’ve made the cues two and sometimes three lines long, so you’ll have plenty of warning. In case you get lost there will be prompters in the usual places.
“This play has an extraordinary history, as you know, and there’s a large audience here to see us. so let’s try to do a good job. That means an absolute ban on interpolations—agreed?” There were nods from several. “Good. Now introduce yourselves so you’ll know who’s who.”
A tall man stood, dressed in the rich red robes of stage clergy. “I’m Cardinal Donado,” he said.
Two men then rose and introduced themselves as Hamond and Orcanes, followers of Donado. I had played with them before; they always performed together.
The actor next to them tugged at his black waistcoat and looked about the chamber. “Sanguinetto.” he said in a harsh, low voice. I had played with him before also. He always took the part of the most deranged villain the work had to offer, which in revenge tragedy was saying a great deal. I had watched him play lago with the most chilling bitterness; and in Edward II he had laughed his way through the ugly part of the murderer Lightborn. This actor took the backstage convention of silence to its limit, and never said anything but his lines. Between scenes be stood wordlessly near his next entrance. This was too much for some. Once a young actor had drawn me aside and asked me if I thought he was the Hieronomo—I had laughed. No, I told him, the Hieronomo always takes the part of the hero. Besides, he always returns with a different face, and I’ve seen this man before.