188: Blackfriars

A sea of glistering robes and bejewelled hands swarm up the stone staircase and into the theatre, oddly placed on the second floor of the building. The hubbub of the audience buzzes in my ears and the faint smell of freshly baked pork pies preoccupies my senses as I ascend the stairs, swept along by the fray. Odd to think that this used to be a monastery; the most sacred of places, turned to the most unholy.

The theatre is dimly lit by candlelight — candles that are to be cut free of wax and relit in the break between acts. There is a rumour that Cymbeline, this night, is to be played by the beautiful Richard Robinson: the ingenious youth known for his expert portrayal of Shakespeare's heroines. Indeed, it is said that he can dress better than forty of the 'very ladies' that deign to visit the theatre — that I could believe. I imagine how the youthful Robinson will out-perform these minstrels, with their powdered faces and their spindly fingers, weighed down by rings of gold and silver, when he speaks the lines of the bard, lit from below by the warm, inviting light.

From the aisle I spy the latticed boxes flanking the stage — yes, latticed. Apparently their inhabitants cannot bear to be seen by members of the public — even in the dimly lit playhouse. This grates on my nerves more than I like to admit, and I wonder if I can get a better view through the lattice from a spot nearer the front. Moving along with the bolder members of the crowd, I try to see through to the box's interior from the front row, but to no avail. Mildly put out, I search for a different spot from which to view it — and then I spot the stools: four in total, two on each side of the stage.

Climbing up the steps stage-left, I make a beeline for the stool diagonal to the box. Squinting, I think I can make out the undulating fabric of a white ruff through the lattice. A local vicar? Surely not. Perhaps a choirboy, coming to see Robinson perform. I sit down, trying to angle my head lower to glimpse more of the figure, but a sudden hush comes over the audience. I freeze — am I making a spectacle of myself? Then I realize that the music undercutting the babble until now has come to a halt. Two gentlemen — clearly actors — traipse onstage. The play has begun.

---

Written by: Millie Bysh

Instagram: @leoninepixie

---

Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.