Free The Pale Companion by Philip Gooden Page B

plunged in.
    “I think that Master Shakespeare is showing us that it is human to chop and change in love, so that we sometimes love a Hermia and the next day, the very next hour perhaps, love a Helena instead. And that love can even make us descend to love a Bottom or an ass . . .”
    “Go on,” said Elcombe, putting up a good pretence of being interested in a poor player’s views.
    “But because we are sometimes unhappy at our inconstancy . . . [
God help me, what was I talking about?
] . . . in order to, er, keep our consciences clear we have to imagine the potions which cause us to be inconstant. And then after that we must conjure up the fairies and sprites who will make us take them – all so as to compel us to do what we would do anyway.”
    I halted like a man reaching the end of a race, then added, “If you see what I mean.”
    Lord Elcombe looked thoughtful. I wasn’t surprised. I probably looked thoughtful myself, trying to work out what I’d meant. Sometimes you don’t know what’s in your mind until you say it out loud.
    “So you think love is stronger than will?” he said. “That it may operate against what we truly want or intend to do? Hm?”
    “To be sure, sir.”
    “Come, Master Revill. That’s a fiction, and fiction is all very well for poets and for plays like this one which you have in hand. But tell me the truth now. You have been swept away by love, have you, and rendered powerless?”
    “Well . . .”
    “You have been pierced by Cupid’s dart, hm?”
    I had been indeed – once. So I wanted to answer: yes, when I was eight I fell hard for a cottager’s daughter who was a year or two older. But fear of sounding ridiculous prevented me.
    “Well, er,” I mammered, “not exactly if you put it like that . . .”
    What had I done to deserve this scrutiny? All the facility of a moment ago had deserted me. I felt myself growing a little warm about the face.
    “You will have to talk to my son,” said Elcombe.
    “Is he a . . . er . . . philosopher?”
    (I’d been about to say ‘lover’ but stopped myself at the last moment. In any case, which son was he referring to?)
    “No, but he would be a player – if he were not already a gentleman.”
    I glanced across to where the relatively sleek Cuthbert was laughing and discoursing with my fellows. Ah yes. Suspicion confirmed.
    “You know the play, my lord?” I said, mostly to change the subject.
    “Well enough to think that it would be a fitting garland for my older son’s wedding, Master Revill.”
    And with that and a slight inclination of the head, he withdrew his cool blue gaze and moved off to chat with some of my fellows. While the above dialogue was going forward they had been glancing at me curiously from time to time.
    I felt relieved to see the back of Elcombe. But at the same time obscurely pleased to have been singled out for conversation in this way.
    I had to face some questioning over our dinner, and some jokes about rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty. But it was only for form’s sake. In truth, we of the Chamberlain’s were used to aristocratic company. In fact, on this country occasion we were privileged to be joined by the high and mighty on stage. The mystery of who was to play my love-rival Demetrius was soon solved. I’d half-guessed that Cuthbert, Elcombe’s younger son, was more than merely whiling away the time in our practice room. Sure enough, he was soon introduced to me as the newest – albeit temporary – member of the Chamberlain’s. Since we were to share several scenes, Cuthbert was put in the experienced hands of Uncle Nicholas.
    Now, I’ve no quarrel with the aristocracy dressing up and spouting lines as long as they don’t tread on our toes or take away our custom. And, in truth, we weren’t in a position to refuse this young man. That Cuthbert should play the part of Demetrius in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
had obviously been settled between the Elcombe family and our seniors