Page 23 of The Two Wills

As my lessons progressed, Augustine told me to pay special attention to Burbage and Alexander in their roles.

“Watch them closely,” Augustine told me. “Burbage makes meaning with every movement and each syllable.”

Studying the best players, he said, was the best way to fill one’s tool kit. At first, I balked, being that I still disliked Burbage. But, as in everything, Augustine was right. Burbage was breathtaking in his ability to transform himself. And Alexander Cooke, while not as gifted as Burbage, was certainly the best of all the apprentices. I tried to absorb the cadence of his voice and all his movements, so I might commit them to memory. The next day at training I attempted to present Alex’s portrayal of Queen Anne, which was met with Augustine’s derision.

“Don’t mimic him completely, lad!” he yelled.

“But you said I should watch and learn from Alex.”

“Yes, I did. And it’s fine to steal the gestures and tricks you feel you can make your own, but remember to allow the Poet’s words to form you into the Queen Anne they want you to be. Trust the words! Allow yourself to be surprised.”

I thought my mimicry was the secret I had been looking for. Feeling a failure, I began to whine and whimper, “But what if the ‘surprise’ is I will never be as good as Alex? What if I confuse my words again? What if I trip on my costume and fall? What if—”

“I pray you, cease!” Master Augustine threw up his hands as his eyes pinched angrily shut. “Save that pathetic performance for the stage! I will not be second-guessed by my apprentices. Do you or do you not trust me as your master, Hughes?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my face gone white with fear. “I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

“Then you will accept that I have deemed you to have the ability to play this part. You may or may not be as good as Alex, but I believe you have the soul and temperament to become a fine actor. Perhaps it will not be in this role, but you will find a role that is the perfect fit, and it will astound everyone. And when the time comes for you to go on as Queen Anne, you will play it as only you can play it. And if you make an error, just keep moving. That’s what acting is, the ability to stay on the story and keep moving.” His eyes and voice softened. “That, my dear boy, is also the trick to living as long as I: Just stay on your story and no matter what, keep moving.”

TenChildren of the Chapel

Wherein Willy Hughes hears a most tragical story as told by his dearest friend Little Goat.

Hamlet: Do [the adult playing companies] hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?

Rosencrantz: No, indeed they are not.

Hamlet: How comes it? Do they grow rusty?

Rosencrantz: Nay, their endeavor keeps in the wonted pace. But there is, sir, an aery of children, little eyases that cry out on the top of questions, and are most tyrannically clapped for ’t: these are now the fashion.

—Hamlet, re: the popularity of children’s acting companies

Inspired by my master Augustine’s words, I threw myself even more deeply into memorization, with Little Goat and Sam’s help. Unfortunately, my fear, sometimes caused me to misspeak certain words, replacing Duke for Duchess or “murder” for “mutter.” Twice I switched the names of the murdered Kings with the murdering plotters. My panic escalated. What if I confuse my words during a performance? Not only will cabbages be tossed, but the entire history of England will be thrown into a muddle because of my fumbles!

“Take it after Suffolk’s line,” Little Goat said. “Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.”

“Right,” I said, attempting to squeeze the Poet’s words from my brain. “I’ve got it … Say, Earl of Suffolk, what ransom must I pay—”

“No,” Little Goat interrupted. “It’s ‘Say, Earl of Suffolk—if thy name be so—’ Then you say, ‘What ransom must I pay—’ ”

“Right, right,” I said. “I got it now.” I continued. “Say, Earl of Suffolk—if thy name be so—Wilt thou accept of ransom? Yea, or no?”

“Devil take him!” Sam groaned, looking at me peevishly. “You have a back-and-forth first, you biscuit-brained rag.” He turned to Little Goat. “He’s hopeless. I’m off to bleed my pigeon. Keep at him until I’m back.”

As soon as Sam left, I collapsed upon the ground, distraught.

“Cheer up, Hughes,” Little Goat said, speaking kindly and sitting by me. “You’ll get it eventually. It’s always hardest before it’s easy. You need to believe in yourself. Stop telling your brain it’s impossible.”

“What if it is impossible?” I asked. “What if I am biscuit-brained?”

“Now just stop that,” he said. “Sam didn’t mean it. He’s just tired like all of us.”

“Oi, what if I have to go on for one of the bigger roles, and I go utterly blank?”

“As we keep saying, you’ll just whisper for the keeper of the book to call out your line to you. He’s waiting right there in the tiring house—”

“But what if I forget he’s there? What if I become mush-headed and forget where I even am while hundreds—perhaps thousands—of eyes stare at me? What if Will and Augustine look at me the way Sam just did, muttering about my ‘biscuit brain’?”