well done. “Thy name, lad?” asked one.
“Richard, sir,” I said firmly. It had occurred to me that spilling mylast name might not be wise if anyone was looking for me. My first name was safe enough—one could hardly throw a rock in London without hitting a Richard. To my relief, the questioner let it pass.
“Have you parent or guardian?”
“None, sir.”
“Well then.” I saw a pot of ink upon the board, a hand with a pen coming down to scrawl my name upon a sheet of curled paper. “You may begin.”
I drew a long breath, and began. “The quality of mercy …”
A calm approach seemed best suited, so I did not stride or pace or leap forward as some of the other boys had done. My arms stayed bent and my palms rose slowly, pleading but not groveling for mercy to a poor orphan without hope or prospect. As I spoke I began to hear my mother reading from Scripture: “For thy mercy is everlasting … Thou dost not regard us as our sins deserve, nor punish us according to our iniquities …” And as I spoke, I know not how, my voice became hers, rounded to her pauses and inflections. No one ever read the Word with more depth of feeling. She might have been holding my hand, so smoothly did I walk through that speech. I thought, when all was done, that it had not gone so badly.
One or two heads nodded. All looked thoughtful, and after a brief spell of silence they launched into a comparison of the seven of us and our merits. I felt suddenly faint and heard little of it. So earnest was the discussion that no one noticed I had remained in place, until one of the actors glanced up and made a little start.
“I'll vow,” he said, as frankly as if I were deaf, “see how he stares! If wishes could build kingdoms, this boy would be emperor of us all!”
His resounding voice sent a shiver down my spine. I blushed, and bowed, and returned to my seat, noticing how intently Master Condell was watching me. “True enough, Richard,” he said (not to me). “A lean and hungry look, if ever I saw one.”
“I like his manner,” said the scribe of the company, who had spoken little thus far. His eyes were the kind that seem to pierce through the styles and habits one may assume, and into the soul of a man. “‘Tis plain, but eloquent. He speaks from the heart.”
“As thou dost, Will.” Another player affectionately thumped the said Will on the back. “The boy shows promise. I vote for a trial. What say you, gentles?”
Through a haze I perceived that the Lord Chamberlain's Men voted to take me in on trial. Henry Condell alone appeared to hesitate, and no wonder: my abrupt change of heart about the theater must have aroused his suspicions. Yet after I was elected with two other boys—Richard Worthing and Adrian Ball—Master Condell was the one who offered to board me in his household. He may have wished to keep a curious eye upon me, but I cared not for the reason at that moment. My state was one of exhilaration and terror. God help me now, I thought, barely attending as these men settled my future among them.
“He'll be pretty enough once he scrubs up,” said the man called Richard, with a jerk of his head toward me. “I'll give him that.”
And this was a revelation. With my wide eyes, broad jaw, and short chin, I have always thought I possessed the face of a rabbit.
Starling almost squealed when Master Condell brought me into the great room of his house. He sent her to fetch another shirt and hose for me, and upon her return, she whispered, “I knew you would be back.” I made no reply; she had been right too often already.
The master led me up two flights of stairs to a short hallway with a door on either side. Here he opened the right-hand door to reveal a youth about my age, sprawled on a low bed and covered with small boys. “Thomas! Ned! Cole!” scolded their father. “Get to bed. You know Robin has to study.”
“I have my part, sir,” the youth offered. “The boys were only plaguing me,
“Richard, sir,” I said firmly. It had occurred to me that spilling mylast name might not be wise if anyone was looking for me. My first name was safe enough—one could hardly throw a rock in London without hitting a Richard. To my relief, the questioner let it pass.
“Have you parent or guardian?”
“None, sir.”
“Well then.” I saw a pot of ink upon the board, a hand with a pen coming down to scrawl my name upon a sheet of curled paper. “You may begin.”
I drew a long breath, and began. “The quality of mercy …”
A calm approach seemed best suited, so I did not stride or pace or leap forward as some of the other boys had done. My arms stayed bent and my palms rose slowly, pleading but not groveling for mercy to a poor orphan without hope or prospect. As I spoke I began to hear my mother reading from Scripture: “For thy mercy is everlasting … Thou dost not regard us as our sins deserve, nor punish us according to our iniquities …” And as I spoke, I know not how, my voice became hers, rounded to her pauses and inflections. No one ever read the Word with more depth of feeling. She might have been holding my hand, so smoothly did I walk through that speech. I thought, when all was done, that it had not gone so badly.
One or two heads nodded. All looked thoughtful, and after a brief spell of silence they launched into a comparison of the seven of us and our merits. I felt suddenly faint and heard little of it. So earnest was the discussion that no one noticed I had remained in place, until one of the actors glanced up and made a little start.
“I'll vow,” he said, as frankly as if I were deaf, “see how he stares! If wishes could build kingdoms, this boy would be emperor of us all!”
His resounding voice sent a shiver down my spine. I blushed, and bowed, and returned to my seat, noticing how intently Master Condell was watching me. “True enough, Richard,” he said (not to me). “A lean and hungry look, if ever I saw one.”
“I like his manner,” said the scribe of the company, who had spoken little thus far. His eyes were the kind that seem to pierce through the styles and habits one may assume, and into the soul of a man. “‘Tis plain, but eloquent. He speaks from the heart.”
“As thou dost, Will.” Another player affectionately thumped the said Will on the back. “The boy shows promise. I vote for a trial. What say you, gentles?”
Through a haze I perceived that the Lord Chamberlain's Men voted to take me in on trial. Henry Condell alone appeared to hesitate, and no wonder: my abrupt change of heart about the theater must have aroused his suspicions. Yet after I was elected with two other boys—Richard Worthing and Adrian Ball—Master Condell was the one who offered to board me in his household. He may have wished to keep a curious eye upon me, but I cared not for the reason at that moment. My state was one of exhilaration and terror. God help me now, I thought, barely attending as these men settled my future among them.
“He'll be pretty enough once he scrubs up,” said the man called Richard, with a jerk of his head toward me. “I'll give him that.”
And this was a revelation. With my wide eyes, broad jaw, and short chin, I have always thought I possessed the face of a rabbit.
Starling almost squealed when Master Condell brought me into the great room of his house. He sent her to fetch another shirt and hose for me, and upon her return, she whispered, “I knew you would be back.” I made no reply; she had been right too often already.
The master led me up two flights of stairs to a short hallway with a door on either side. Here he opened the right-hand door to reveal a youth about my age, sprawled on a low bed and covered with small boys. “Thomas! Ned! Cole!” scolded their father. “Get to bed. You know Robin has to study.”
“I have my part, sir,” the youth offered. “The boys were only plaguing me,
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