The cramp, which started in his fingers, had worked its way, via his wrist, up his arm, into his shoulder, and had come to rest across the back of his neck and into his other shoulder, a long ribbon of pain that threatened soon to reach upwards into his head. As if that were not enough, the lower part of his back was aching too, and his eyes were beginning to sting. Time, thought Will, to stop writing and take a few sips from the untouched cup of wine that stood by the inkwell, and maybe to put the papers aside for a rest. He tossed down the stilo and reached for the wine, leaning back on the chair as he did so.
It wasn’t easy to stop, despite the discomfort. The pen might be still, but the flocks of ideas still rushed through his brain. Words, like lost souls, cried out to be shepherded and safely penned into sentences, where they would chorus in symmetries of poetic meaning. What it was, Will thought, to be a poet and playwright, and hear this endless music in your head, begging to be released onto the page. Little did those unruly offspring of the Muse realise the drudgery they caused, the sheer physical labour of bringing them into the world on a sheet of paper.
On the right hand side of the table that Will was using as a work-desk, lay twenty pages of his latest play The History of King Henry the Fifth, and his Battel at Agincourt in France. It was going to be a winner, a puller of crowds, with kings and noblemen, fights, romance, and rousing speeches. It would be the premiere play of the season, and London would flock to the newly-built Globe Theatre to see it, possibly again and again. Henry’s speech before Harfleur would drive the audience wild: Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the walls up with our English dead…. Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George….Burbage would make the rafters shake with those words; and buzzing inside Will’s head was another speech, even more rousing, for Agincourt, but as yet not set down on paper.
But, for this afternoon, Will had written himself out, and he had to rest before he could continue. He stood up, and discovered as he did so that cramp had not only seeped into his arm and shoulders, but also his legs. He stretched his back and shook each leg independently. A walk, he thought, to the Sailmaker’s Tavern, would loosen at least the cramp in his limbs, and there might be a jug and even conversation at the end of it, to freshen his mood and rekindle his creative lights. From his lodgings it might take him ten minutes, and outside the day looked fine. His decision reached, he made a half-hearted effort at tidying his papers, and moved swiftly down the staircase and out into the street.
Down close to the river, the squalor of London’s busy streets seemed worse with the addition of a prevailing dampness, where the water had spread its influence even beyond the reach of the actual tide, underfoot a sea of mud, loose cobblestones, manure and household refuse thrown recklessly from doorways and upper windows. Through this, people and animals, mostly chickens, horses and dogs, picked their way about their business, with the occasional beggar or drunkard squatting in a doorway or at the corner of yet another blind alley. Will knew that on the other side of the river, the Globe Theatre stood, detached somewhat from the ramshackle buildings around it and already displaying playbills for the drama he had not yet completed, describing the company as the “Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”, lately seen before Her Majesty at Hampton Court. They had played Love’s Labours Lost before the Queen within the last fortnight, and been paid handsomely for it, since Elizabeth was very partial to a good play, especially comedies.
Will also knew that the Sailmaker’s Tavern, the resort of impoverished actors and other members of the theatrical profession, was not far away, and that here he might find not only cheap wine, but also possibly the company of folk that he knew. Crossing the bridge, he turned a corner and entered the tavern, to be hit by a wall of noise, a thick smell of drink and humanity unwashed, and a hovering cloud of Raylegh’s cursed tobacco smoke. Will made his way across the dimly-lit room, nodding to any face that he thought he recognised, and paid for a wooden goblet of a curious red fluid that passed for wine, which he took to an empty table. The table in question was in reality a thick timber board supported at each end by two large wooden barrels, as were most of the others in the room, and the seat was a three-legged wooden stool. Such simple furniture was less likely to succumb to expensive damage once the brawling started. Will peered into the goblet, where the red fluid lurked with small black strands floating in it. It was sure to give him a headache, but it would have to do. Will’s usual sharp observation was dulled by fatigue and the oppressive nature of the atmosphere in the room, so much so that he failed to notice the person who approached him from out of the crowd and greeted him with the words: “Good day to you, sir.”
Will looked up. There stood on the other side of the table a tall, thin fellow with a sparse beard, arched eyebrows and rather piercing eyes, perhaps a little sinister, dressed in a long, plain woolen coat. On his head was a large, floppy hat which was tilted back far enough to reveal those eyes and also that he still retained his own hair. He clasped in his hand a goblet of wine much the same as Will’s. As Will looked, he said, in a strong voice that might have served an actor well: “Pardon me, sir, but (might I ask?), are you by any chance Master William Shakespeare, of the new Globe Theatre and the Lord Chamberlain’s Men?”
Will hesitated before he answered. He was not new to unexpected introductions of this kind. They usually heralded the approach—either seeking employment at The Globe or recommendation elsewhere—of a penniless actor, or, even worse, a hopeful playwright clutching half-a-dozen dreary and pitiful dramas on many blotched and well-thumbed sheets. But this fellow carried no papers and was at the very least respectably dressed, so maybe he had other business to hand—a servant, perhaps, of a rich master, sent discreetly to seek out and hire the Company for a lucrative private performance.
“Yes,” said Will. “I am.”
“Then I would take it very kindly if I might converse with you here for a short while.” Will gestured towards another stool on the other side of the table.
“My name is Matthew Selby,” said the fellow, sitting down. “I see your cup is almost full, but I’ll gladly buy you another later.”
“Thank you,” said Will. “Now, may I ask, what is your business?”
“Not so far removed from yours,” replied Selby. “You are, are you not, an inventor of plays?”
“You could say that,” said Will. “What do you invent?”
“I invent……” said Selby, looking up to the ceiling as if in search of inspiration. “I invent…. useful devices, that simplify everyday problems…..”
“Really?” said Will.
“Do you have a dog, sir?” asked Selby, rather suddenly, giving Will a sharp look.
“Er…..no,” said Will. “But my friend Will Kempe has one. An ill-tempered beast.”
“Unruly dogs, Master Shakespeare, the devil’s own,” said Selby, shaking his head as if in despair. “Even those who do have masters are often out of control……” And he reached into his capacious pocket and pulled out a leather strap which, at one end, was partly wound round a spindle, while at the other was a metal clip clearly adapted from one with which a swordsman might attach a scabbard to his belt. He put these items on the table and pulled from another pocket a short leather belt or collar with a metal buckle. “Put this collar on the dog, attach the strap to the collar, and retain the unruly dog like this…..” and he pulled on the strap so that the spindle rotated and released further lengths. When he had extended it several feet, he flicked a lever on the side of the spindle (which Will had realised was hollow) and the strap wound itself back from whence it had come. “There’s a spring inside,” explained Selby. “By releasing and rewinding the strap, your dog may run, be pulled back, and be always under your control.”
“It looks very clever,” said Will, more than slightly amused, “although I suspect you have to be careful with your fingers.”
“One can get used to it,” said Selby.
“…..and it could be used equally with an unruly child,” Will remarked. “Now, what is it you want from me? Am I to have Will Kempe, in my next play, control his famous dog with one of those, so that all may see it, and wish to buy one from you?”
“I had no such idea,” said Selby, “but if you feel you could oblige….”
“Ah now, that’s a matter that might be discussed another time,” said Will, and turned to his goblet of wine.
The two men sat without speaking for some moments, and they were both more than halfway down their goblets before Selby apparently began to feel that he should say more to justify his presence at the table. “I hope that I do not impose upon you, Master Shakespeare,” he said. “I had a fancy to talk with you. You are, after all, Will Shakespeare.”
“Oh….think no more of it,” said Will, genially, “I’ve kept less agreeable company, you may be sure.”
“I’ve seen your plays,” said Selby. “I often come to the theatre. I liked the Dream, though I liked Romeo and Juliet more, but then I’m a sentimental fool. So sad that they died. Couldn’t you have made a happy ending?”
“There’s often many a handkerchief out before it’s over,” said Will, amused, “not all of them the fine ladies upstairs. In the weeping lies the money, Master Selby. They all enjoy it, and come back for more.” He lowered his voice and added “Even Her Gracious Majesty was seen to pipe her eye when we played it at Hampton Court.”
Selby took a long draught from his wooden goblet and sat back. He studied Will about the face carefully, and then asked: “How, then, did you come to write such plays, Master Shakespeare?”
“The company needed a fresh one, a year or two ago,” said Will. “We had been doing Tom Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy, and Kit Marlowe’s Faustus and Tamburlaine, but we wanted something new to bring the crowds back. So I set to and wrote my first Henry VI. It went down well, so I wrote some more.”
“You’re very modest,” said Selby. “You make it sound as if it were a trifle…..Oh, we needed a play so I dashed one off..….with no more effort than putting on a coat.”
“The effort, sir,” replied Will, flexing his tired fingers as he spoke, “is in the writing.”
“The writing?” Selby repeated, looking at Will’s hand. “By that you seem to mean the very words on the paper?”
“I do indeed,” said Will. “Page after page it takes to make a play, and the writing, although no burden to the soul, is a torture to the wrist. But there’s no avoiding it. What’s in your head, has to be on paper to be of any use. And only the playsmith can do it, for there’s no art that will make the Muse fly from one man’s mind to another, unspoken.”
Selby made no reply, but smiled to himself, sipped his wine, and glanced round the room. Will noticed his amusement, but waited a few moments before he said: “It seems to me that my words are no surprise to you.”
Selby looked up, still smiling. “Indeed not, sir,” he replied. “In fact, I believe that I could be of great assistance to you if you will hear me out. But,” he continued confidentially, “in doing so I must ask for your discretion, since it is a matter which I would wish to keep secret at this time.”
“If you would tell me,” said Will, his curiosity aroused, “my lips shall be sealed.”
Selby made as if to give the matter thought, but Will already knew that the conversation would not have turned this way if Selby had no intention of allowing it to continue. “I shall tell you,” said Selby, eventually. And he leaned forwards and paused a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. “What would you say if I told you, a playwright, that I have invented a machine that would write your plays for you?”
There was a pause, while Will reviewed this concept, then he gave a loud sniff, and began laughing. “You jest,” he said. “There can be no such thing. Machines don’t have minds. They create nothing. They work only at the bidding of men. The rest must be silence.”
Selby was this time entirely unruffled. He too laughed, at Will’s reply. “The mighty Shakespeare,” he declared, reaching over and clapping Will on the arm, “clasps the stick at the wrong end. I do not mean a machine that creates plays, otherwise you and all your fellows would be soon out of business, I mean a machine that will write your plays according to your bidding, and save you that labour which grieves you so much. In short, a writing machine.”
Will’s mind, which had been agreeably slowed down by the wine, was moving faster by the second, as his imagination stirred up its own heady brew of possibilities. “You mean,” he said, “that a man might create a play, shape it, shorten it, lengthen it, adorn it with all manner of characters and speeches, and, to bring it into the world, he has, in his own chamber, a machine that will commit all this to paper with no labour of his own?”
Selby nodded. “In a manner of speaking. Not, I fear, with no labour at all, but considerably less than might be necessary to achieve it with ink and a quill.”
“That’s a good deal more than a dog’s collar,” said Will “And how, for instance,” he asked, assuming a sceptical demeanour, partly in jest, “might I induct this machine to my play, so that I could swallow a noggin or two, or entertain a winsome wench, while it does my bidding?”
“I fear it’s not as easy as that,” said Selby. “You have to attend it all the time, but its demands on you are slight. And the fact that one skilled in its use can do so with both hands, effectively halves that labour.”
“Both hands?” said Will. “Who could divide his brain in two and set it about a play, with one half creating the beginning while the other half fashions the end…?” Then in a flash of inspiration he said: “Is this machine…..a lute, where the left hand figures and the right creates…..or….” (and here he tapped the table-top as ideas took shape) “….some kind of virginals, a keyboard where instead of plucking strings and sending forth touches of sweet harmony, the striking of certain keys with either hand, transcribes the words onto an empty page?”
“Why yes,” replied Selby. “What an excellent way to describe it. However, it’s not words, Will, but letters-–so that it can make words ad infinitum and in any combination.”
At this Will came to a decision. He drained his cup and rose abruptly to his feet. “Master Selby,” he asked. “Will you show me this machine? I assume that you have made one.”
“I have indeed,” said Selby. “But…..as I have said”—and here he glanced around on either side, to see if anyone might be listening—“….if I show it to you, you must tell nobody, for it is not yet truly ready. If word of it should spread abroad, there would be such a demand that I would be forced to produce untried, untested models….”
“Again,” replied Will. “I give you my word.”
At this Selby finished his own goblet and they both left the tavern.
Selby had a powerful stride and Will had some difficulty in keeping up with him as they moved through the busy streets, turning corner after corner. It was quickly apparent that the route they were taking was not the most direct to their destination, and that Selby was creating a maze so that Will would not remember where they had walked, or at least would have difficulty in finding the place again. Eventually they turned into a nondescript alley of cobblestones and stopped outside a large house with badly-constructed gables and oriel windows.
“My lodgings are on the ground floor,” said Selby, pushing the door open without having to unlock it, and leading Will inside. They entered a narrow passageway, badly lit, with doors along either side. “Down to the end,” said Selby, and Will approached another door further along, which was facing him. Selby brushed past and produced from a pocket a small metal ring with keys hung upon it. He selected what seemed to be the largest and thrust it into the keyhole in the door, then he turned it once to the right, with a loud click. To Will’s surprise, Selby did not then open the door, but pushed the key again so that it slid further into the lock. He then turned it to the left, producing another loud click, and the door swung open. “A small safeguard,” declared Selby, “against unwanted visitors. This key,” he continued, holding it up to the light, such as there was, “has two sets of wards mirrorwise, and the lock is two of the same lock, reversed head to head. It cannot be picked or activated without the key, because the first mechanism, until it is turned, covers the second, and any lockpicking friend can only get halfway in.” The shank of the key, Will observed, was longer than might be expected, and the wards a complex pattern of wide and narrow elements. “Of course,” observed Selby drily, “to fit a lock like that, you also need a mighty stout door.” By way of demonstration, he slapped the door panel with the palm of his hand then led Will inside the room.
There was more light inside than in the corridor, because of two large and expensive-looking windows over on the opposite side. The glass was not clear but had upon it a design in concentric circles so as to admit light from outside, but conceal and distort what lay within. It was clearly a workroom, with a faint miasma of cut wood and glue, and all manner of artefacts strewn about on a wide shelf to the rear of a large bench apparently made of oak. Will saw a curious construction with an upright wooden frame and a large wheel on either side, which looked like a model of a larger lifting device, and various other small constructs with wheels, cogs, levers and pulleys, while numerous books and printed papers lay among them. There was also a large glass cylinder about four feet tall and nearly two inches wide, marked with gradations from bottom to top and almost filled with transparent liquid which looked too viscous to be water. In it were suspended ten coloured orbs in a single column, three of which had sunk to the bottom while the rest floated to the top.
On the bench was a polished wooden box, nearly two feet wide and of similar depth, its height being seven or eight inches. It had been carefully polished and had a small brass lock on the front. All around it were carefully cut pieces of wood, small saws, pliers and chisels. Selby resorted again to his key-ring, selected a small key, and unlocked the box, this time with only a single turn. He swung the lid back on silent hinges to reveal the inside. “You will have noticed that most of the items in here are but models,” said Selby, “but this invention is of its proper size.”
Will immediately recognised a row of keys within the box along the front, stretching virtually all the way across from left to right, as would be those of a musical instrument, but here was also a shorter row, set above, slightly further back, and with spaces between. The keys on the longer, lower row, were clearly marked with the letters of the alphabet, except for a single blank key at either end, and the shorter row, when Will looked closer, bore a full stop, a question mark, an exclamation and the all-important semi-colon, while the comma and the apostrophe were distinguished high and low and on different keys.
“My writing machine,” said Selby, with some pride, extending his hands, palms upwards.
Will looked at the device with curiosity. The knowledge he had of the virginals and how such an instrument was played, made clear to him the thinking behind the mechanisms of Selby’s printer; but he could not at that moment see how such devices could be harnessed to a machine that would make words appear on paper.
Selby searched on the bench top and picked up several sheets of paper which he handed to Will, who looked at them with curiosity. It was as if the pages had come straight from the printing press, with letters and lines of words neatly rostered. Will quickly recognised his own work among the random sentences: Selby’s favourite play. but soft, what light from yonder window breaks? it is the east and juliet the sun.
“Your machine prints thus?” he asked. “Like a printing press?”
“Indeed so,” replied Selby. “It will print anything you wish. Your own verse, as you yourself would have it.”
“If this is so, then I will be glad to see how it works,” said Will.
Selby tossed his coat and hat on a nearby chair and searched among the items of bric-à-brac on the bench.
Eventually he picked up what at first looked like simple dice and curved strips of wood cut straight from the branch. He selected one of the wooden strips first. Will had already noticed that the slim pieces were all carved into the same shape, curved and about six inches in length, tapering towards the top while about a quarter of an inch thick at the bottom, neatly split and pierced there with a clean round hole. Selby took another piece, this time straight and with an equivalent hole at one end. He slipped this end into the split and pushed through a small wooden fastening bolt. He then held up the device so that the longer, curved portion became the top and the shorter the bottom.
“You will observe,” he declared, holding both ends, “that if I push the bottom portion down, thus, the hinge I have created with the little bolt, causes the top piece to fall backwards.” The device performed as he had described as Will watched. “And if I then release the bottom, the opposite motion occurs and the top falls forwards.”
“It does indeed,” remarked Will.
“Now,” Selby continued. “I take one of these…….” And he picked up a die and showed it to Will. The small, cuboid piece of wood had carved on one side, mirrorwise, a letter ‘d’ and in the face below the ‘d’ a small hole was drilled.
“And slip it on the top here…” And he fitted the end of the longer part of the wooden lever into the hole on the die.
“The motion of the hinged lever, aided by this little extra weight, will cause the die to fall forwards, as we have seen, and if it is suitably inked, it will print that letter ‘d’ the correct way round, on any surface it comes in contact with.” He paused briefly to allow Will to assimilate the information. “Now,” he said eventually, “if you will look at my machine, you will see that I have a series of these levers and dice, some can be curved leftwise for that side of the keyboard, and the others curved for the right, anchored to the letter keys so that I have all of the alphabet and certain other useful peripherals set up within the device. The pressing of a letter-key initiates the lever and the mechanism tips forwards and imprints the letter on…”—and at this point he took a blank sheet of paper and passed it under a roller which was set up on the machine behind the lettering mechanisms—“….this piece of paper. So.” And he pressed a key, a letter lever moved, the die descended upon the paper on the roller, and stopped. “I retrieve the lever,” said Selby, “by releasing the letter-key, so that the mechanism operates in reverse and falls back into its place.”
Will, who was rarely at a loss for words, suddenly found himself with nothing to say, so intrigued was he by Selby’s machine.
Selby again waited a few moments and then, to fill the silence and move on, for it was clear that this was not the first time he had demonstrated his remarkable invention, he said “And now, give me something to write for you.”
Watching over Selby’s shoulder, Will, now without hesitation, said: “Make it write This day is called the feast of Crispian.”
With his right middle finger, Selby pressed the key marked with letter ‘t’. As he had said, the key slipped down, and from among the nest of levers one moved up, the forked hinge tilted the curved wooden shank forwards, so that the letter-head struck the paper, and left a clear letter ‘t’, in a form and size very similar to those used by printers. Selby lifted his finger, and the mechanism slid back into its original position, bringing the letter-head die with it. Next he pressed the ‘h’, with the same result, but Will noticed that the cylinder round which the paper had been rolled seemed to move slightly to the left, apparently of its own accord. Without that, he realised, all the letters would be printed one atop the other, but now the ‘h’ stood beside the ‘t’, and with two more co-ordinated movements the ‘i’ and the ‘s’ took their place as well.
“There is a ratchet underneath the levers,” explained Selby, “to which the cylinder is attached. It is geared to move that whole mechanism to the left, as you have seen, and release it at the end of the line—or wherever you may wish. I’ll show you.”
And with that, he proceeded to make the remainder of the line, in a manner such as Will had never seen except from a performer on the virginals, where the music was released from the co-ordinated movement of both hands upon the keyboard. Selby’s left and right hand moved deftly and swiftly over the keys, the left hand apparently retained to create the vowels and the right the consonants, although occasionally the left did service in support of the right. The levers slid smoothly upwards, some passing between those in the upper row, the upper segments tilted forwards in a curved motion, the dice struck the letters upon the paper in the assigned places, and then the levers fell back again with a smooth click. At the end of each word, Selby touched one of the blank keys, a dummy lever moved up and slipped back, and the cylinder moved to create a space. The letters on the line, when it was completed, were not entirely straight, some were blotched and some (in this case the letters ‘i’ and ‘e’) were faint where more frequent use had taken away most of the ink, but the line was there, readable upon the page: this day is called the feast of crispian.
“That’s remarkable,” said Will. “What do you do if you make a mistake?”
“Alas,” said Selby, with mock seriousness. “This I have not yet conquered. You have to cross it through afterwards and correct it with a pen.”
At this point, Selby reached out and drew from an earthenware pot on the bench a paintbrush of width about an inch, its head covered with thick, black ink. “It’s best,” he said, as he crouched forwards and drew the brush evenly to and fro across the dice, “to use heavy ink such as printers use for this task. Thinner ink will forever make thinner marks on the paper, even though it dries more quickly.” He replaced the brush and sat up straight again. “Well then,” he said. “What is next?”
“The pentameter is complete and a new line begins,” said Will. “You must move down. How will you achieve that?”
“Simplicity itself,” replied Selby. “You recall the spring with which I restrain the dog? This is the same, but somewhat larger for its different purpose.” He reached out, and as he did so, Will noticed levers at both ends of the cylinder around which the paper was bound. Selby clicked both of them simultaneously, and the paper, propelled by the cylinder, moved upwards a small space. “So,” he said. “And thus we are ready for a new line….”
He glanced up at Will, but found him absorbed in contemplation of the marvellous machine. Noticing Selby looking at him, Will brought his thoughts back to the task in hand and said: “Oh— er —-yes. He that outlives this day and comes safe home….”
Selby muttered the words to himself and once again, like a musician, played Will’s verse upon his keyboard with the result that very soon two full lines stood proudly upon the paper.
“I am guessing,” said Selby, “that I may be privileged to read some fragments of your new play.”
“That could be so,” said Will. “But if I may go on, I need your secrecy as much as you need mine.”
“Of course,” said Selby.
“Good, good,” said Will. “Shall stand a tip-toe when this day is named (new line) And rouse him at the name of Crispian. ”
With a light clatter, and a click, the next two lines sprang to life across the page, the letters thinning out a little as the ink became sparser and needed renewing.
“Unbelievable…” muttered Will. “I’ve never seen the like.” He thought for a moment, and then, since the matter had concerned him from the beginning, he said: “But….Master Selby, forgive me…. this machine is so ingenious but…..there are no capital letters.”
Selby allowed himself to sigh heavily and nod his head. “True….” he said. “I haven’t yet solved that problem. I tried fitting another whole row of levers, operating the same way as the others, but it proved too complex, for there was not enough space for them between the two already set, and the tanglements that resulted made the machine impossible to use. And to make the keyboard twice as wide….” He shook his head. “That problem remains still to be solved.”
“Well then,” said Will, with a laugh. “Think of me not as just a spinner of words. I may perhaps solve your problem for you.”
He held up his two index fingers, a distance apart slightly wider than the width of the machine’s keyboard. “Another lever,” he said, “set across in front of the keys, with another underneath them on a hinge, so that they rest upon it, and it lifts them all when the lever is pressed down.” Will moved his fingers by way of demonstration. “Your dice you recut a different shape, taller, and with two letters, first the smaller, and the capital underneath. When you press the lever all the dice rise and when they fall on the paper, the lower letter makes the mark and the upper one remains clear of the roller. In this way you have two rows of letters where before there was only one, and the capitals, involving the more complex mechanism, will in any case be used less often. You could also put your comma and apostrophe on the same die.”
A profound silence settled upon the room, as Selby said nothing, but looked closely at his machine, clearly weighing up the possibility of Will’s suggestion. Will seated himself precariously on the edge of the bench, moving some wood fragments and pieces of paper to do so. “What do you think, Master Selby? A good idea, or merely a fantasy?”
“It could work,” said Selby slowly. “It would mean remaking the machine, but it could work, I’m sure of it.”
“Excellent,” said Will. “But may we finish this?”
Over the next fifteen minutes, Will dictated further lines from the speech he had composed for King Henry before Agincourt, ending with the flourish:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.
With a number of pauses to renew the ink on the dice, Selby faithfully transcribed the lines, innocent of capitals, onto the paper, then sat back as Will read them to himself, imagining Burbage onstage at The Globe and the audience mesmerised. “Yes……” said Will, with deep satisfaction enhanced by seeing his words on the page in neat print instead of his own untidy scrawl. “That will do, I think. Yes: that will do very nicely….”
Selby removed the paper sheet from the roller and handed it to Will, who held up his lines and looked at them keenly. “Even though the words are unadorned and homespun, as playbills and sermons are,” he said, “they seem to have a curious charm when set forth like this. I can see how it could all be very useful. I shall keep this page, and I thank you.” Then he looked directly at the inventor with a knowing smile. “And now, Master Selby,” he said. “Let’s not pretend any longer. This has been no casual meeting in a tavern. You sought me out deliberately with the intention of showing me this machine. Oh…..never fear, I am not offended. Quite the opposite. I am flattered to be thus chosen, even though your reasons are quite clear. Now tell me: what do you hope to gain from this?”
Selby nodded his assent to what Will had said. “I hope to gain your patronage and your recommendation,” he replied. “Despite being a man of the theatre, you are respected and famous, as are your colleagues…..Burbage and others. I offer you my machine, and my services in any suitable task you may think fit…..in a kind of secretarial role if you wish, while I modify and perfect this invention, in which task you have yourself assisted me. And when at last I feel I can put it before the public, I would hope that you could recommend it and say that it has been of great service to you in your work.”
Will thought of all the labour that Selby’s machine could save, at the Globe, and in the exhausting process of writing a play. “That sounds not unreasonable,” he said. “But I would have to discuss it with other sharers at The Globe, and they will undoubtedly wish to see a demonstration.”
“Easily arranged,” declared Selby.
“Very well then, it shall be so,” said Will, giving Selby a warm handshake. “I must say that whatever the outcome I wish you good fortune. I shall leave now and take this paper as a preliminary introduction.”
“One moment,” said Selby, raising his index finger. He reached across to another part of the desk almost behind his machine, and drew forth a small piece of white card, about two and a half inches wide and two inches deep. “Take this,” he said. “You may find it useful.” And he gave it to Will.
Will glanced at it and read, in neat print: matthew selby, inventor and purveyor of fine craftsmanship. find him at… and there followed an address which Will assumed was the one to which Selby had brought him. “Why thank you, Master Selby,” he said, slipping the card into a pocket in his jerkin.
He moved towards the door but paused before departing, turning back again to Selby who was still by the bench.
“One other matter before I go,” he said. “You seem to specialise in mechanical devices of all sorts and sizes…..”
“This is true,” replied Selby.
“Hmmm….” said Will, opening the door. “Come then in a day or two to The Globe and ask for me. You shall meet Dick Burbage, Will Kempe and others you have seen upon the stage, ahead of any arrangement we may have elsewhere. There may be work for you of a different sort, since I have a fancy for flying creatures in my next play.”
And he closed the door and left.
Among documents preserved from the period when the London theatres were at their peak, there remains a brief anonymous description of a performance of Shakespeare’s “The Tempest” at The Globe in which Ariel, played by one of the company’s boy actors, is said at his first entrance, in Act I Scene II, to have flown on a mechanism of wires and pulleys from the balcony down to the main stage, a spectacular effect which drew forth loud applause from the audience. Having delivered his lines, Ariel then made his exit by flying back up again supported by the same device. Since there are no other references to this anywhere in the writings of the period, it must be concluded that the effect was not widely used.
Very little was rescued from the catastrophic fire that destroyed completely the Globe Theatre in June of 1613. Among the items that did survive however were a ledger containing the theatre’s accounts for several years, and a miscellaneous collection of partial playscripts including fragments of Shakespeare’s “Henry V”, “Hamlet” and “The Tempest”, as well as plays by other authors, some unidentified. These are thought to be “sides”, or scripts given to actors containing their own part in the play, cues telling them when to make entrances, and other vital information, making it unnecessary to provide complete transcripts of the text for every player. These papers, somewhat charred but otherwise intact, are very unusual, in that they are printed and not handwritten. It would be surprising for any theatre company to go to the trouble of getting printing type set up for this purpose unless they had used in some way an inexpensive labour-saving device. Possibly relevant to this are the several entries in the account book which read “M. Selby—Sydes” and various sums of money ranging from 4 pence to 2 shillings, and dates up until very close to the fire itself. This is probably the same Matthew Selby whom Shakespeare invited, along with close friends from the theatre, to the wedding of his daughter Susannah to Dr John Hall in June 1607.
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