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seven men who between them had control of the Globe playhouse. Perhaps they had received news of some crisis. Underneath
the courtesy of visiting an ailing man was, of course, the unspoken desire to determine whether we needed to look about for a fresh patron now or whether this might be postponed for months or even
years.
    “But it means that we’re without a Thersites for the afternoon,” said WS, looking at Peter. “Only for this afternoon. We can make other arrangements before the next
rehearsal.”
    He said no more but let his words sink in.
    “Peter – play Thersites!”
    I couldn’t help myself. I spluttered loud enough for one or two near us to stop whatever they were doing. If there’s any one character in
Troilus and Cressida
who’d be
beyond the reach of my friend it was Thersites. My acquaintance with Shakespeare’s creations was by this time fairly extensive and, however brilliantly they were realized, you generally knew
where in the catalogue of men (or women) to place them: soldiers, sages, lovers, shrews, & cetera. But I’d never encountered anyone like Thersites before, either in real life or on the
stage.
    So I half laughed, half exclaimed, and Peter became a little indignant, at least in his looks.
    “Master Agate,” said WS ignoring my reaction, “I don’t know you, although you come with the recommendation of being Nicholas’s friend.”
    Peter hardly knew where to put himself. He actually blushed.
    “And you want to be a player?”
    Peter nodded.
    “You know what is the hardest part to play?”
    “Oneself,” said Peter.
    “Why yes,” said WS, the pleased pedagogue. “And the opposite is generally true too. That is, we find it easiest to play what we are not. And, believe me, when I ask you to read
–
read
not play – the part of Thersites, I’m asking you to be the very opposite of what is most likely your true self.”
    “Who is Thersites?” said Peter.
    “A deformed and scurrilous Greek,” said Shakespeare. “One who rails on the wars and satirizes his commanders. One to whom the whole world is a mass of fools. A nasty, cynical
fellow but a necessary one perhaps.”
    “Thomas Pope has the part,” I added, seeing the drift of WS’s words, “and he is not like that at all.”
    “Nor are you, Master Agate. Not a scurrilous, cynical fellow, I think. Are you?”
    What answer can you give to a question like that? Peter duly shrugged and reddened and looked abashed all over again.
    “So you are well suited to read the part of Thersites this afternoon, since that Greek gentleman is your opposite in every respect.”
    The playwright paused for an instant to allow Peter to disagree but my friend naturally said nothing.
    “That’s settled then.”
    WS clapped Peter on the shoulder and smiled. Peter smiled back. Shakespeare had got his way. He usually did get his way, and without stirring up resentment or a sense of grievance, even though
it was sometimes hard to see how the trick was done.
    “Nick,” he continued, “if you take Peter across to see Master Allison, he’ll supply this fledgling player here with his part. I’ll speak to Dick Burbage and make
the way smooth.”
    WS moved off to explain to Burbage that we now had a man to play Thersites for the afternoon. Peter gazed after him. I looked around for Geoffrey Allison and eventually spotted him ensconced
behind a table in a corner, with sheaves of paper and a mound of scrolls. I tapped Peter on the shoulder to get his attention – he was still staring, bemused, at Shakespeare who was now
talking in low tones to Dick Burbage – and we crossed the banqueting hall to see the book-keeper.
    Master Allison is the conscience of the Chamberlain’s, or perhaps our recording angel. He remembers our good actions and our bad ones, that is, the good and bad performances He keeps our
parts and doles them out, grudgingly. He remembers who we’ve played even after we ourselves have long forgotten our lines. No