London - Edward Rutherfurd [355]
Alone in the Lords’ Room Orlando stared. He saw them all and understood them; but he did not let them shame him.
He had paid sixpence to enter the Lords’ Room, more than any of them. He supposed he was a richer man, quite probably, than anyone in that theatre. He had paid, hoping in his heart to see himself as a hero.
There was no doubt that he was the central character of this play. As soon as he arrived, he saw the audience pointing at him, heard the whispers and the buzz with a feeling of satisfaction. The first scene he saw confirmed this view. The Blackamoor of this play was captain of a ship and evidently a man of some importance. Only kings and heroes, he supposed, had plays written about them. But if, he thought, I am to preside here over this play about myself, I will lean forward, and let them know me and see my face.
By the second act he understood better and by the third act he was certain. He had seen very few plays, but this Blackamoor was clearly a villain. As the fourth act unravelled, he started to feel indignation, then fury. Had this fake buccaneer ever heard the cannons’ roar, known the force of a gale, faced death or a mutinous crew? Could he have brought a ship through a storm where the waves came over you like solid thunder, or killed a man in cold blood because he had to, or even guessed what it was to come from six weeks at sea into the arms of a warm and sultry beauty in an Afric port? And, just because he was untutored, only he, the Moorish mariner, in all this audience truly saw, in its entirety, the vulgarity of Meredith’s poor play.
Then he remembered, once more, what Meredith had said. “I can make you into a hero, or a villain; a wise man or a fool.” So this was the power of the young popinjay’s pen. He thought he had the power, in this wooden circle, to make him not only a villain, but to make him worthless.
His face still showed nothing. He felt for his knife.
The audience had at last had enough. With the fifth act, they could take no more. The play might be terrible, but at least they could have a little fun. As the Blackamoor, attempting his greatest and most terrible crime, was foiled and caught, to be followed by his inevitable trial and execution, they gazed at the actors, considering how best to begin.
Seeing the villains on stage, and the strange, mask-like face of the black man staring out so incongruously from the Lords’ Room above him, someone in the pit saw the joke.
“Hang the devil,” he cried out. “And the other one too!”
It was a good joke. The audience took to it at once. Here was something of interest. A player pretends to be a blackamoor while a real blackamoor, like a presiding spirit, hovers behind him.
The next lines were cheerfully obvious. “Spare the actor. Hang the blackamoor!”
“Someone must hang for this play!”
“They’re partners. Hang both!”
If the pit saw a broad joke, the gallery saw subtler implications. “Spare the blackamoor. Hang the playwright. The play’s the crime.”
“No,” a gallant explained to the audience. “The play’s not dull. ’Tis a true report. And behold,” he pointed to Orlando Barnikel, “the real villain.”
The audience could not contain itself. It rocked with laughter. For a moment the actors could not proceed.
Black Barnikel did not move. His face was still a mask.
It was then that they started throwing things. They meant no harm. Nothing dangerous was thrown. Small nuts, cheese rind, a few early apple cores, one or two cherries. It was all good-hearted. Indeed, wishing to spare the actors, and even the young playwright, too much ignominy, they tossed their missiles