appeared in the text, he filled them with such loquacious zest that only those familiar with the piece would have realised that memories had faltered. The more desperate the situation, the more immediate was his response. At one point, when someone missed an entrance for a vital scene, Firethorn covered his absence by delivering a soliloquy of such soulful magnificence that it wrung; the withers of all who heard it, even though it was culled on the instant from three totally different plays and stitched together for extempore use.
Lawrence Firethorn was superb in a role that fitted him like a glove. I thought he was renowned for his portrayal of wise emperors and warrior kings, and for his incomparable gallery of classical heroes, he could turn his hand to low comedy with devastating brilliance. He was now the gross figure of Justice Wildboare, who, thwarted in love, attempts to get his revenge on his young rival by setting a couple of devils on him. Once raised, however, the devils prove unready to obey their new master and it is Wildboare who becomes the victim of their merriment.
The central role enabled Firethorn to dominate the stage and wrest some meaning out of the shambles. He was a rock amid shifting sands, an oasis in a desert, a true professional among rank amateurs. His example fired others and they slowly rallied. Nerves steadied, memories improved, confidence oozed back. With Firethorn leading the way on stage, and with Nicholas Bracewell exerting his usual calming influence in the tiring-house, the play actually began to resemble the text in the prompt book. By the end of Act Five, the saviour of the hour had achieved the superhuman task of pointing the drama in the right direction once more and it was fitting that he should conclude it with a rhyming couplet.
‘Henceforth this Wildboare will renounce all evils
And ne'er again seek pacts with merry devils.’
The rest of the company were so relieved to have come safely through the ordeal that they gave their actor-manager a spontaneous round of applause. Relief swiftly turned to apprehension as Firethorn rounded on them with blazing eyes. George Dart quailed, Roper Blundell sobbed, Ned Rankin gulped, Caleb Smythe shivered, Richard Honeydew blushed, Martin Yeo backed away, Edmund Hoode sought invisibility and the other players braced themselves. Even the arrogant Barnaby Gill was fearful.
The comic bleating of Wildboare became the roar of a tiger.
'That, gentlemen,' said Firethorn, was a descent into Hell. I have known villainy before but not of such magnitude. I have tasted dregs before but not of such bitterness. Misery I have seen before but never in such hideous degree. Truly, I am ashamed to call you fellows in this enterprise. Were it not for my honesty and self- respect, I would turn my back on the whole pack of you and seek a place with Banbury's Men, vile and untutored though they be.'
The company winced beneath the insult. The Earl of Banbury's Men were their deadly rivals and Firethorn had nothing but contempt for them. It was a mark of his disillusion with his own players that he should even consider turning to the despised company of another patron. Before he could speak further, the noonday bell passed on its sonorous message. In two bare hours, The Merry Devils had to be fit for presentation before a paying audience. Practicalities intruded. Firethorn sheathed the sword of his anger and issued a peremptory command.
'Gentlemen, we have work to do. About it straight.'
There was a flurry of grateful activity.
*
Hunched over a cup of sack, Edmund Hoode stared balefully into the liquid as if it contained the dead bodies of his dearest hopes. He was sitting at a table in the taproom of tine Queen's Head and seemed unaware of the presence of his companion. Ralph Willoughby gave his friend an indulgent smile and emptied a pot of ale. The two men were the co-authors of The Merry Devils and they had burned a deal of midnight oil in the course of its composition. Both had invested heavily in its success. Hoode was mortified by the awesome failure of the rehearsal but Willoughby took a more sanguine view.
'The piece will redeem itself, Edmund,' he said blithely. 'Even in this mornings travesty, there was promise.'
'Of what?' returned Hoode sourly. 'Of complete disgrace?'
'Rehearsals often mislead.'
'We face ignominy, Ralph.
'It will not come to that.'
'Our work will be jeered off the stage.'
'Away with such thoughts!'
'Truly, I tell you, this life will be the death of me!'
It was strange to hear such a forlorn cry on the lips of Edmund Hoode. He loved the theatre. Tall, thin and clean-shaven, he had been with the company for some years now as its resident poet and a number of plays-thanks to the hectoring of Lawrence Firethorn-had flowed from his fertile pen. As an actor-sharer with Westfield's Men, he always took care to create a role for himself; ideally, something with a romantic strain though a wide range of character parts was within his compass. When The Merry Devils first began to take shape, he decided to appear as the hapless Droopwell, a lack- lustre wooer whose impotence was exploited for comic effect. Long before the play had been completed, however, and for a reason that was never explained, Hoode insisted on a change of role and now took the stage as Youngthrust, an ardent suitor whose virility was not in doubt. Armed with a codpiece the size of a flying buttress, he whisked away the heroine horn beneath the nose of Justice Wildboare.
There was no Youngthrust about him now. Slouched over the table, he reverted to Droopwell once more. He gazed into his sack as yet another corpse floated past and he heaved a sigh of dismay that was almost Marwoodian in its hopelessness.
Willoughby clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.
'Be of good cheer, Edmund!'
'To what end?' groaned the other.
'Heavens, man, our new piece is about to strut upon the stage. Is that not cause for joy and celebration?'
'Not if it be howled down by the rougher sort.'
'Throw aside such imaginings,' said Willoughby. 'The whole company is pledged to make amends for this morning. It will be a very different dish that is set before the audience. Nick Bracewell will marshal you behind the scenes and Lawrence will take you into battle at his accustomed gallop. All things proceed to consummation. Why this blackness?'
'It is my play, Ralph.'
'It is my play, too, friend, yet I am not so discomfited.'
'You are not trapped like a rat in the dramatis personae.’
'Indeed, no,' said Willoughby. 'My case is far worse.'
'How so?'
'Since I am to be a spectator of the action, I must endure every separate misadventure whereas you only see those in which Youngthrust is involved.'
'There!' said Hoode mournfully. You are resolved on humiliation.'
'I expect a triumph.'
'After that rehearsal?'
'Because of it, Edmund. Westfield's Men explored every last avenue of error. There are no mistakes left to be made.' His carefree laugh rang through the taproom. 'This afternoon will put our merry devils in the ascendant. It can be no other way'
Ralph Willoughby was shorter, darker and slightly younger than Hoode, with an air of educated decadence about him and a weakness for the gaudy apparel of a City gallant. His good humour was unwavering but his relentless optimism was only a mask for darker feelings that he kept to himself. Having abandoned his theological studies at Cambridge, he hurled himself into the whirlpool of London theatre and established a reputation as a gifted, albeit erratic, dramatist. The Merry Devils marked his first collaboration with Hoode and his debut with Westfield's Men. His jaunty confidence was gradually reviving his colleague.
'Dare we hope for success?' said Hoode tentatively. It is assured.
'And my portrayal as Youngthrust?'
'It will carry all before it.'
'Truly? This weighs heavily with me.'
'As actor and poet, your reputation will be advanced. I would wager fifty crowns on it-if someone would loan
