ABSTRACT
In the summer of 1997 at the reconstructed Globe theatre in London, I was part of an audience that shaped and was shaped by a performance of Henry V. We were groundlings huddled up against the front of the stage. It was cold and raining in the yard when Henry (Mark Rylance) addressed his troops. He looked up into the rain and then into our eyes as his words addressed themselves to both the imaginary army we represented and the “real” shivering spectators we actually were: “Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, / But he'll remember with advantages / What feats he did that day” (Henry V; 4.3.49–51). And we have remembered what we did that day—no doubt with advantages. We were in three places at once. We were watching an imaginative play; we were part of that play—Henry's troops in France; and finally we were in the yard at the Globe, just across the river from St. Paul's, gawking at both the real and painted heavens, negotiating with a mobile crowd, and having a conversation with Mark Rylance about how great we were going to feel tomorrow.
