Perhaps it would not all come down to this, he thought. Even if he failed at this task of doctoring the play, there could yet be other opportunities to prove himself, though he did not know when or even if those opportunities would arise. The iron was, perhaps, not yet glowing hot, but it was warm, and it was up to him to strike just right, and in the proper time. He could not afford to dwell upon the play’s deficiencies and bemoan Greene’s clumsy unoriginality. To keep thinking about such things would make the task weigh even more heavily upon him, and he would start to work more and more slowly, taking more and more frequent breaks, and before he knew it, all momentum would be lost entirely. He needed to think of the play merely as a framework, a scaffolding upon which he would build a more solid and finished edifice. It was not the sort of beginning he had hoped for, but it was the beginning he would get… if he could properly begin it.

By the time midday was approaching, he had mapped out all the changes he would make to the whole play and finished the first and second stages. In all, there would be five stages of gradual changes to the play, each one adding new lines and new scenes for every part, and dropping others, until by the time the third stage was completed, it would be a play that was significantly different from the original version-or to be more precise, Greene’s rewrite of whatever the original version may have been-and by the time the fifth version had been staged, it was a completely different play entirely. This way, Shakespeare thought, the actors would not be overwhelmed by having to learn too many different lines and scenes and cues, and the audience would have an unusual opportunity to see a work in progress, a play being performed even as it was being rewritten. It struck him as a novel experience, and anything new could only help the Queen’s Men at this point. They certainly needed help of some sort after that last performance.

Now all that remained was to get the play to Burbage and, unless it was deemed completely unacceptable, a frenzy of activity would begin down at the Theatre. It would be necessary to make a clean and legible “fair copy” of the play for submission to the Master of the Revels, for which purpose a scribe was usually employed. Poets… or playwrights, as some thought poets who wrote plays should be called, though this made it seem more like a craft rather than an art… were not generally known for their calligraphic skills. Their first drafts were usually covered with ink blottings and crossed-out lines and changes written in the margins and between the lines and, not infrequently, food and ale or wine stains. Hence, the term “foul papers” for the manuscript initially submitted.

The company scribe who made the fair copy was often the bookkeeper, and he needed to be especially trustworthy, for no acting company wanted to see any of its plays fall out of their hands or, worse yet, be published. That would mean that rival acting companies could get their hands on them and thereby stage rival productions. Of course, there was really nothing to prevent a rival company from sending people in to mingle with the audience at a popular play staged by the competition and thus try to copy down the lines, but this was a rather more difficult and time consuming enterprise, not to mention potentially risky if the offending copyist was caught in the act.

In this case, Shakespeare knew that there would not be time enough to produce a fair copy of the play before the next performance, which entailed several potential problems. The first order of business would have to be producing new scrolls for each actor, detailing the alterations in each part. Fortunately, his handwriting was reasonably legible, for given that only a few hours remained until the next performance, everyone in the company would be enlisted in this task, which was usually the province of the bookkeeper. The remainder of the time would be spent in learning the new lines and blocking out any necessary changes in the action on the stage. It would not be easy, but Shakespeare had anticipated this and allowed for it by the expedient device of altering the play in stages. And that was both a solution to the problem and a potential problem in itself.

The fair copy that would be produced would most likely be of the finished fifth stage of the rewritten play. In the meantime, the actors would participate in having their individual changes written out. Under ordinary circumstances, this would be the province of the bookkeeper, who would take the edited and marked-up manuscript that came back from the Office of the Revels and write out each part separately on scrolls, which would then be handed out to the actors who would play each part. Except that in this case, there would be no time to submit a fair copy to the Office of the Revels, and consequently, no time to have it reviewed and stamped.

The role of the Master of the Revels, to whom every new play had to be submitted for review, was to scrutinize each manuscript and look for any criticism, real or implied, of government policies or of the Church of England. If any such offending lines or scenes were found, the Master of the Revels would then strike them out, or else demand that the company strike out the seditious or offending lines or scenes before the play could be produced. Once that was done, the play would then officially be stamped for approval, at which point it could be staged. Except that with the next performance only hours away, there would be no time for that.

This could, thought Shakespeare, involve a certain element of risk. As the play stood when he first came to it, it had already been approved. But by the time the fifth stage of changes was completed, it would be in essence a completely different play. At that point, obviously, a fair copy could easily be submitted to the Master of the Revels and there would be ample time for it to go through the approval process. The question was, what about the earlier changes?

It was not at all unusual for actors to make ongoing changes to a play as it was being performed without the Office of the Revels demanding that each and every little change require a separate stamp of approval. But at what point would the Master of the Revels feel that The Honorable Gentleman had become a brand new play?

Shakespeare felt reasonably certain that they could get away with at least the first and second sets of changes, and possibly the third, especially if they did not change the title. But by the time the fourth set of changes was incorporated, it would really be a different play. By then, he reasoned, they would be ready to submit the fair copy for review. There would have been more than enough time for it to be prepared, and in the meantime, the company could easily stage other plays in its repertoire. But would the very next performance be safe from censure?

In all likelihood, he thought, it would. It was, however, up to the company to make that determination, because the Master of the Revels could not only fine a company for violations, he could stop a performance, close down the playhouse if he chose, or even send the author and the members of the company to prison. Still, the chance of anything like that occurring would be very slim, thought Shakespeare, considering that his rewrite of the play was aimed solely at making it more amusing, without including any controversial content of either a political or religious nature. He had no axe to grind, after all; he merely wanted to prove his ability so he could get a better job.

The final step, which would take place just prior to the performance, would be the hanging of the “plot,” a large sheet of paper pasted on wood or cardboard that the bookkeeper would write out and hang upon a nail in the tiring room. Here would be written out the cast, the props, the cues for entrances and exits, what sound effects were needed and when, and other incidental stage business. This would be consulted throughout the performance to ensure that things ran smoothly. And if all went well, thought Shakespeare, there should be time enough… perhaps just barely… for everything to come together for the next performance.