Free The Pale Companion by Philip Gooden

Ascray), to give him his family name. Some offspring seem to be a rough draft of a mother or father, as if paradoxically the child had come first; some appear as a more refined version of either parent. But this one looked like a pale shadow of both. As tall and pinch-faced as his parents, I guessed he was about my age; but hoped that I would never have to carry around such a haunted look. His complexion was a chalky white and the dark rings under his eyes testified to sleepless nights. The other son, Cuthbert, might have been drawn from an entirely different source. He appeared healthy and well-fed, and though not plump in the face he lacked the drawn look of the others.
    This quartet of father, mother and sons looked on as the lamentable saga of Pyramus and Thisbe drew to a close, with Pyramus stabbing himself in the (mistaken) belief that his Thisbe had been mauled by a hungry lion, and Thisbe stabbing
herself
because her Pyramus has stabbed himself in the (mistaken) belief that . . . Well, you get the picture. It is a tragic tale of young love confounded by accident, mischance and parental opposition. By the end of the interlude, we of the Chamberlain’s had to wipe our eyes. To clear away the tears of laughter. No matter how many times we’ve watched this scene in rehearsal or even participated in it, we’ve always been overcome by the skill of Messrs Savage and Smith and the other “mechanicals” – and the skill of the writing. I will go further. It is the brilliancy – yes, there is no other word – the brilliancy of Master W.S. to seize on the idea that the language of love is separated from the language of absurdity by a wall considerably thinner than that which divides the two would-be lovers. In fact, sometimes they’re the same thing. The lover drools and dotes, and is a sport to his friends.
    What I’m saying, is that this is a
comic
scene.
    Laughter is appropriate.
    Naturally, those of us who weren’t engaged in spouting our lines at this moment were casting surreptitious glances at Lord and Lady Elcombe and their sons, to see how our playing was being received. We’re in for a rough ride at Instede, I thought, if this is the regular mood of our patrons. The only one who seemed to be appreciating our efforts was Cuthbert. He was almost slapping his thighs. He even seemed to be mouthing some of the lines along with Laurence and the rest. He knows the play well, I thought. And just at this point a little suspicion crept into my head.
    To itemize the rest of Elcombe clan: a small smile had incised itself on Lord Elcombe’s small mouth, as if he acknowledged our efforts but did not want to betray himself by any excessive mark of approbation. His wife looked fairly straight-faced and strait-laced. While, as for Harry their son . . . I’ve seen people bored by comedy, I’ve seen people scarcely able to hold their water for being convulsed by it, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone brought to the edge of tears (real tears, not those of laughter) by the absurdity of two lovers played by a weaver and a bellows-mender. Yet this is how the young man seemed to be affected. Standing slightly behind his parents and brother, he raised his hand to his eyes and wiped at them several times as Pyramus or Thisbe launched into some lament for their perished partner or into a tirade against the malevolence of fate.
    It’s a comedy, for God’s sake, I wanted to tell him.
    When Pyramus and Thisbe had done their dying, with much last-gasping and writhing around, they stood up again and took their bow. Lord Elcombe clapped politely, while his Lady did nothing much and their elder son looked as though he was about to run out the door at any moment. Cuthbert was the only one to show a full appreciation. Give me an audience full of Cuthberts, I thought (though I didn’t know his name at that point). The seniors Thomas Pope and Richard Sincklo went forward to present themselves to our patron. I was pleased to see