If Music Be The Food of Love

1581, London, Richard Burbage

I close the door as gently as possible, it’s wooden slats create a muffled thud as it meets the frame. An involuntary shiver runs through my body as I am assaulted by the deceptively brisk morning air, it is nearing spring, but winter's touch still lingers. He is persistent. It is barely sunrise and the fresh morning dew adorns every surface, as gems on the decorated decolletage of a rich maid. I debate, but for a brief second, risking returning to the house to add another layer. Deciding it is not worth the risk I begin my short venture.

The Theatre stands as a beacon of joy and merriment. It’s upper white walls reflect the morning's amber sun such as freshly fallen snow, lower down the white is cemented with a rapidly drying crust of mud. The black beams, I notice, are showing wear, little rivets and little chips reveal the wooden interior and expose the brown beneath. I look around slowly, to ensure I am not being enquired after. Few people trod the streets at this hour. A spatling of merchants busy themselves but nobody is, understandably, throwing any interest my way.

I remove the weighty, rusted key that had been stowed in a pouch at my waist and jam it into the main door of The Theatre. This key had been purloined from a great ring of keys hanging, temptingly, from my father’s discarded belt and it made for easy pickings in the dead of night. I was certain my father knew I had taken the key from him, for I had done it a hundred times, but he never said nought of it. 

I slid through the door, opening it to barely a crack. I can’t push the door open: for one I lack the strength and for two I do not dare to disturb the serene stillness within The Theatre’s majestic shell. I stand, staring for just a moment. Then, on light feet I make my way toward the stage. As I trudge through the groundling pit the dried mud crumbles and cracks under my feet, I kick up little clouds of dust as I make my path and it disperses and muffles the clear air, hazing the warm glow of a newly risen sun. It’s magical. With practised effort I hoist myself up onto the stage, as I sit there in the centre of The Theatre I close my eyes and meditate on the early day. The dry dust invades my nostrils and the crude. Cakey. Earthy smell is all at once comforting, nostalgic and distasteful. The air in The Theatre is perfectly motionless and eternally calming.

I am unaware for how long I sit there for. The odd call or the creak of wheels or the dull plod of hooves penetrate the thick walls from the preoccupied outside world and I am content, sitting in my bubble of perfect abstracted isolation. 

With a slow sigh, I pull my feet up onto the stage and clamber to stand. I follow an invisible calling and slip through the back curtain. It is brisk and glowing with warm light, the dusky haze continues into this room. Costumes hang, mended and prepared, props stand to attention on the rickety table by the stage left entrance. I wander to the staircase leading up to the stage balcony and begin my thoughtless ascent, the stairs groan and moan under my insignificant weight and click and crack their bones as I step onto the balcony. I lean onto the railing. Although my toes and fingers tingle at the dizzying height, I look out across the cylindrical, encompassing majesty of The Theatre and it fills me with pride. This is going to be my Theatre one day. 

Behind the curtain, backstage again, the musicians' instruments sit in a silent communion. Observing the tableau I look across the instruments: the recorders, cornetts and sackbut sit tall and proud, leaning their weary heads on makeshift stands. The bells and drums sit in an arranged pile, but as if a fairy had set her that way, the lute lay clumsily on her curves, discarded and in danger of being crushed under the unseeing grown hoof of a musician. I hesitantly picked her up; going to grasp her frail, unbending neck. I stop myself, I opt sensibly to scoop her up by her rounded back. I cradle her as I bring her back onto the stage balcony, exposing her to fresh light and air to flex her vocal prowess. 

I pluck a string, it catches painfully on my nail and the vibration dulls to a rhythmic throb in my finger tip. I barely notice. She sings. Her vocal cord shudders and deep within the cavity of her chest rings a note of pure, reverberating music. 

The monotonal melody sweeps across the curved walls and cascades, tumbling inwards, a wave of invisible, quivering brilliance; alike to pouring water into a bucket the sound crashes inwards, sloshing and eventually settling again to solemn, still silence. I smile slowly. She relaxes into my grip, her trembling body, stills and returns to its peaceful, ready state. 

I try two strings; the same as before, followed closely by another. The second sets chase and they dance, in tandem around The Theatre, their dissonant voices clashing and obscuring each other's solo ventures. The sound isn’t pleasurable, but fascinating. 

I try over and over and she sings at my will. Until finally, I strum two strings a string apart and it is like in that moment the heaven opens. In my arms, she resonates and from within a beautiful matrimonial sound erupts. Like swans on a lake, necks curved in a lovers dance. Like songbirds producing intertwining melodies from the confines of a cage. Like a babe’s sweet laughter. A glowing sunrise. A perfect fruit. A beautiful lady. The sound is euphoric. It’s perfect and I know only, in this moment, my desire to recreate this majesty. At this moment it is my sole purpose. My only want and my greatest need.