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Title: Shakespeare and His Love: A Play in Four Acts and an Epilogue
Author: Harris, Frank
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Shakespeare and His Love: A Play in Four Acts and an Epilogue" ***
LOVE ***
SHAKESPEARE
AND HIS LOVE
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
_THE MAN SHAKESPEARE and His
Tragic Life Story. Demy 8vo., 7s. 6d. net._
_THE ELDER CONKLIN and other Stories.
Demy 8vo, 5s. net._
_MONTES THE MATADOR and other
Stories. Demy 8vo, 5s. net._
_THE BOMB: A Novel. Crown 8vo, 6s._
_THE WOMEN OF SHAKESPEARE._
_In the Press._
SHAKESPEARE
AND HIS LOVE
_A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
AND AN EPILOGUE_
BY
FRANK HARRIS
(_Author of “The Man Shakespeare,”
“The Women of Shakespeare,” etc._).
[Illustration]
LONDON:
FRANK PALMER,
RED LION COURT, E.C.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FIRST PUBLISHED NOVEMBER, 1910.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
_Copyrighted in the United States of America_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
THE National Shakespeare Memorial Committee, it is announced, is about
to produce a new play by Mr. Bernard Shaw entitled “The Dark Lady of the
Sonnets.” Fourteen years ago, provoked by the nonsense Mr. Shaw was then
writing about Shakespeare in _The Saturday Review_, I wrote some
articles on Shakespeare in the same paper, in which I showed in especial
that Hamlet was a good portrait of Shakespeare, for the master had
unconsciously pictured Hamlet over again as Macbeth and Jaques, Angelo,
Orsino, Lear, Posthumus, Prospero and other heroes. With admirable
quickness Mr. Bernard Shaw proceeded to annex as much of this theory of
mine as he thought important; in preface after preface to his plays,
notably in the preface to “Man and Superman,” he took my discovery and
used it as if it were his. For instance, he wrote:—
“He (Shakespeare) must be judged by those characters into which
he puts what he knows of himself, his Hamlets and Macbeths and
Lears and Prosperos.”
And again:—
“All Shakespeare’s projections of the deepest humanity he knew
have the same defect”—and so forth and so on.
In the preface to “Three Plays for Puritans” Mr. Shaw gave me a casual
mention, just sufficient to afford him a fig-leaf, so to speak, of
covering if the charge of plagiarism were brought against him: “His
(Shakespeare’s) genuine critics,” he wrote, “from Ben Jonson to Mr.
Frank Harris, have always kept as far on this side idolatry as I.”
Six or seven years ago I wrote a play called “Shakespeare and his Love,”
which was accepted by Mr. Beerbohm Tree. As Mr. Tree did not produce the
play at the time agreed upon, I withdrew it. Some time afterwards, on
the advice of a friend, I sent it to the Vedrenne-Barker management.
They read it; but Mr. Barker, I was told, did not like the part of
Shakespeare. I wrote, therefore, asking for the return of the play. Mr.
Vedrenne, in reply, told me that he admired the play greatly, and still
hoped to induce Mr. Barker to play it. He asked me, therefore, to leave
it with him. A little while later I met Mr. Shaw in the street; he told
me that he, too, had read my play which I had sent to the Court
managers, and added, “you have represented Shakespeare as sadder than he
was, I think; but you have shown his genius, which everyone else has
omitted to do....”
Last year I published a book entitled _The_ _Man Shakespeare_, which was
in essence an amplification of my articles in _The Saturday Review_. A
considerable portion of this book had been in print ten years. The work
had a certain success in England and America. This year I have published
in _The English Review_ a series of articles on _The Women of
Shakespeare_, which one of the first of living writers has declared
marks an epoch in English criticism.
Now Mr. Shaw has written a play on the subject, which I have been
working on for these fifteen years, and from what he has said thereon in
_The Observer_ it looks as if he had annexed my theory bodily so far as
he can understand it, and the characters to boot. After talking about
his play and Shakespeare’s passion, and using words of mine again and
again as if they were his own, he acknowledges his indebtedness to me in
this high-minded and generous way:
“The only English writer who has really grasped this part of
Shakespeare’s story is Frank Harris; but Frank sympathises with
Shakespeare. It is like seeing Semele reduced to ashes and sympathising
with Jupiter.”
This is equivalent to saying that all the other parts of Shakespeare’s
story have been grasped by someone else, presumably by Mr. Shaw himself,
and not by me. It is as if Mr. Cook had said, “the only American who
really knows anything about Polar exploration is Captain Peary, though
he uses his knowledge quite stupidly.” One can imagine that such
testimony from such an authority would have been very grateful to
Captain Peary.
This precious utterance of Mr. Shaw shows further that in his version of
the story he is going to take the side of Mary Fitton against
Shakespeare; he will therefore defend or at least explain her various
marriages and her illegitimate children by different fathers, none of
whom happened to be married to her.
Mr. Shaw’s sole contribution to our knowledge of Shakespeare is the
coupling of him with Dickens, which is very much the same thing as if
one tried to explain Titian by coupling him with Hogarth. This, in my
opinion, is Mr. Shaw’s only original observation on the subject, and its
perfect originality I should be the last to deny.
I have not yet read or seen Mr. Shaw’s play: I only wish here to draw
attention to the fact that he has already annexed a good deal of my work
and put it forth as his own, giving me only the most casual and grudging
mention. From the larger acknowledgment in _The Observer_, I naturally
infer that in this new play he has taken from me even more than he could
hope to pass off as his own.
All this in the England of to-day is looked upon as honourable and
customary. If Mr. Shaw can annex my work it only shows that he is
stronger than I am or abler, and this fact in itself would be generally
held to absolve and justify him: _vae victis_ is the noble English motto
in such cases. But if it turns out in the long struggle that Mr. Shaw is
only more successful for the moment than I am, if my books and writings
on Shakespeare have come to stay, then I can safely leave the task of
judging Mr. Shaw to the future.
In any case I can console myself. It amused me years ago to see Mr. Shaw
using scraps of my garments to cover his nakedness; he now struts about
wearing my livery unashamed. I am delighted that so little of it makes
him a complete suit. My wardrobe is still growing in spite of his
predatory instincts, and he is welcome to as much of it as I have cast
off and he can cut to fit.
But is this the best that Mr. Shaw can do with his astonishing quickness
and his admirable gift of lucid, vigorous speech? Will he, who is not
poor, always be under our tables for the crumbs? Why should he not share
the feast, or, better still, make a feast of his own? Why does he not
take himself in hand, and crush the virtue out of himself and distil it
into some noble draught? The quintessence of Shaw would be worth having.
I can afford on this matter to be wholly frank and ingenuous, and admit
that I am gratified by the ability of my first disciples. Any writer
might be proud of having convinced men of original minds like Mr. Arnold
Bennett, Mr. Richard Middleton, and Mr. Bernard Shaw of the truth of a
theory so contrary to tradition as mine is and so contemptuous of
authority: Shakespeare himself would have been proud of such admirers.
And if Mr. Bernard Shaw has done his best to share in the honour of the
discovery, one must attribute his excess of zeal to the intensity of his
admiration, and to the fact that he was perhaps even a little quicker
than the others to appreciate the new view, or perhaps a little vainer
even than most able men. In any case, Mr. Shaw’s method of dealing with
a new master must be contrasted with that of the professor who also
annexed as much as he could of my early articles, and coolly asserted
that he had had my ideas ten years before, leaving it to be inferred
that he had concealed them carefully.
After all, the chief thing is, here is my play, and Mr. Shaw’s will
shortly make its appearance, and in time a true deliverance and judgment
on the respective merits of them will be forthcoming.
A few words about this play of mine may be allowed me. It suffers from
an extraordinary, and perhaps extravagant, piety: I did not set out to
write a great play on the subject. I wanted to give a dramatic picture
of Shakespeare and his time; but above all a true picture. It seemed to
me that no one had the right to treat the life-story, the soul-tragedy
of a Shakespeare as the mere stuff of a play. Within the limits of the
truth, however, I did my best. The play, therefore, as a play is full of
faults: it is as loosely put together as one of Shakespeare’s own
history plays, and the worst fault of it is not poverty of plot and
weakness of construction; it is also academic and literary in tone. Much
of this is due to my love of the master. I have hardly put a word in
Shakespeare’s mouth which I could not justify out of his plays or
sonnets. My excessive love of the man has been a hindrance to me as a
playwright.
I daresay—in fact, I am sure—that it would be possible to write a great
play on the subject, and tell even more of the truth than I have here
told; but that could only be done if one knew that the play would be
played and had leisure and encouragement to do one’s best. The evil of
our present civilisation, from the artist’s point of view, is that he is
compelled by the conditions to give of his second best, and be thankful
if even this is lucky enough to earn him a living wage.
My book on Shakespeare was many years in type before it found a
publisher; my Shakespeare play was printed six years ago and has not yet
been acted.
FRANK HARRIS.
_London, 15th November, 1910._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY
ROBERT CECIL, LORD BURGHLEY
THE EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON
LORD WILLIAM HERBERT (afterwards Earl of Pembroke).
KINGSTON LACY, EARL OF LINCOLN, an Euphuist
SIR JOHN STANLEY
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
“ FRANCIS BACON
“ BEN JONSON
“ FLETCHER
“ RICHARD BURBAGE
“ MARSTON
“ CHETTLE, the prototype of Falstaff.
“ DEKKER
“ WILLIE HUGHES
“ SELDEN
DR. HALL, Shakespeare’s son-in-law
MASTER FRY, the Host of the “Mitre”
QUEEN ELIZABETH
LADY RUTLAND, Sidney’s sister
LADY JANE WROTH
LADY CYNTHIA DARREL
LADY JOAN NEVIL
MISTRESS MARY FITTON, Shakespeare’s Love
“ VIOLET VERNON
“ QUINEY }
“ HALL, } Shakespeare’s daughters
COURTIERS AND SERVANTS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SHAKESPEARE AND HIS LOVE
ACT I
SCENES I-VII _The Stage of the Globe
Theatre._
“ VIII-X _The Antechamber at Court_
ACT II
SCENES I-II _In the “Mermaid”_
“ III-VI _In the Gardens of St. James’s
Palace by moonlight_
ACT
III
SCENES I-IV _In the “Mitre” Tavern_
“ V-VI _A Room in Lord William
Herbert’s Lodgings_
ACT IV
SCENES I-IV _In the “Mitre” Tavern_
“ V-VI _The Throne Room at Court_
THE
EPILOGUE
SCENES I-II _A Bedchamber in_
SHAKESPEARE’S _House at
Stratford_
_Time_
_Acts I, II, III and IV take
place in the summer of 1598
The Epilogue in April, 1616_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT I
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SCENE I.
_The tiring-room behind the stage of the Globe theatre after a
performance of “The Merchant of Venice.”_
[_As the curtain goes up an attendant is discovered listening at door_
L. _There is a noise to be heard as of persons leaving the theatre: as
the door is thrown open the attendant moves aside. The Earl of
Southampton, Lord Lacy, Sir John Stanley, Chapman, Dekker, Marston,
Fletcher, John Selden and Burbage enter._]
SIR JOHN STANLEY:
[_Flinging in._] What a foolish play! And what a spendthrift merchant!
CHAPMAN:
Trivial, I found it. Trivial and silly.
LACY:
[_With graceful gesture._] Most excellent in invention, liberal in
conceit. The Jew a gem, a gem, I say—a balass ruby of rich Orient blood!
DEKKER:
Pretty, perhaps, but tedious! Tedious—as a rival’s praise, eh, Chapman?
SOUTHAMPTON:
Ah, Master Burbage, you outdid yourself as Shylock. When you sharpened
the knife, we all shivered.
BURBAGE:
I’m much beholden to your lordship.
FLETCHER:
[_To Lord Lacy_] The scene between the lovers in the moonlight was not
ill-conceived. That Lorenzo had something of Shakespeare in him.
LACY:
And Jessica! The name’s a perfume. A flower, Jessica, of most rare
depicture, dear to fancy, responsive to a breath!
DEKKER:
[_Aside to Fletcher._] Has the gull any meaning?
SELDEN:
His words, Dekker, are like his dress: too choice for ease, too rich for
service: but he’s of great place, and friend to Essex.
FLETCHER:
[_To Southampton._] The end’s weak, and the merchant too much the saint.
DEKKER:
Saints are always tiresome unless they’re martyred.
SOUTHAMPTON:
And detractors, unless they’re witty.
LACY:
[_Reproachfully._] A cannon-ball as a retort! Fie, fie, my lord
Southampton. A little salve of soft disdain obliterates the sting, and
no one shoots at midges.
[_Enter Shakespeare, who takes a seat apart._]
SOUTHAMPTON:
[_Moving aside, with Lacy, waves his hand to Shakespeare._] Good! good!
SIR JOHN STANLEY:
Give me an English play. Why can’t we have a play where we thrash the
Spaniards? Curse Venice! What’s Venice to me! [_Exit, accompanied by
Marston and Dekker; Fletcher and Chapman follow._]
SCENE II.
CHETTLE:
[_To Shakespeare._] Did ye hear that?
SHAKESPEARE:
No! What?
CHETTLE:
The truth, Will—the truth in the mouth of a suckling! They all want an
English play and Falstaff. Without him, my lad, the spirit’s out of the
sack—all stale and flat.
SHAKESPEARE:
Would you have onions with every dish, Chettle, even with the sweets?
CHETTLE:
In faith ’tis a seasoning and healthy weed—and provokes thirst, go to!
But why can’t you be gay, lad, gay as you used to be and write us
another comedy with Falstaff and his atomy page?
SHAKESPEARE:
Laughter and youth go together, Chettle, and I am too old for comedies.
CHETTLE:
It makes my flesh creep to hear you; but I’ll not be sad: I’ll not think
of age and the end, I’ll not—. Ah, lad, you’ll never be popular without
Falstaff.
SHAKESPEARE:
And why not?
CHETTLE:
’Tis his wit pleases the many.
SHAKESPEARE:
Wit!—when wit buys popularity, honesty shall win fortune, and constancy
love: the golden days are long past, I fear. [_Turns from Chettle, who
goes out, taking Burbage and Selden with him._]
SCENE III.
SOUTHAMPTON:
The play was excellent.
LACY:
A carcanet of diverse colours—of absolute favour.
SOUTHAMPTON:
But the playwrights are not your friends.
SHAKESPEARE:
I have befriended most of them.
LACY:
A double reason for repugnance—ingratitude the point, envy the barb!
SOUTHAMPTON:
[_To Shakespeare._] A fine play, Shakespeare, but you seem cast down. Is
all well with you in your home?
SHAKESPEARE:
Thanks to you: more than well. My father’s debts all paid; the best
house in the village bought for my mother——
SOUTHAMPTON:
Come, then, throw off this melancholy—’tis but a humour.
LACY:
And let the wit play like lightning against the clouds. Or, better
still, exhort him, my lord, to seek a new love; ’tis love that lifts to
melody and song, and gives the birds their music.
SOUTHAMPTON:
You are often with Herbert, are you not?
SHAKESPEARE:
Yes.
SOUTHAMPTON:
Don’t build too much on him! You’ll be deceived.
SHAKESPEARE:
To me he’s perfect. In beauty a paragon, in wit unfellow’d.
SOUTHAMPTON:
I would not trust him; he’s selfish.
LACY:
Most insensitive-hard.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Turns to Lacy._] Youth, youth, my lord! We do not blame the unripe
fruit for hardness; a few sunny days will mellow it, and turn the bitter
to juicy sweet.
SOUTHAMPTON:
What a friend you are, Shakespeare! You find excuses for everyone.
LACY:
But those who trust too much are like the rathe flowers, frost-blighted.
SOUTHAMPTON:
Here comes Mistress Violet—we’ll take leave of you. I was telling
Shakespeare, lady, how fair you are.
SCENE IV.
VIOLET:
[_Curtseying._] I thank you humbly, my lord.
[_Exit Southampton and Lacy bowing low._]
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Smiling._] At last, Violet.
VIOLET:
[_Moving to him and giving her mouth._] Am I so late? Did I wrong to
come?
SHAKESPEARE:
No, no!
VIOLET:
There was such a crowd I did not dare to come at first, and yet I could
not stay away; I could not. I wanted to tell you how wonderful it all
was.
SHAKESPEARE:
I am glad it pleased you.
VIOLET:
“Pleased me!” What poor, cold words. The play was entrancing; but you
were the Merchant, were you not? And so sad. Why are you always sad now?
SHAKESPEARE:
I know not. As youth passes we see things as they are, and our high
dreams of what might be become impossible.
VIOLET:
Never impossible, or we could not dream them.
SHAKESPEARE:
I hoped so once; but now I doubt. How golden-fair you are!
VIOLET:
You are always kind; but it’s not kindness I want. I’d rather you were
unkind and jealous. But you are never jealous, never unkind.
SHAKESPEARE:
You’d rather I were jealous—unkind?
VIOLET:
Much rather. ’Twould prove you care!
SHAKESPEARE:
Why do you shiver?
VIOLET:
We women feel the winter before it comes, like the birds.
SHAKESPEARE:
Women! You sensitive child.
VIOLET:
Not a child when I think of you. I used to look at myself and imagine
that some day a man would kiss me and play with me and make a toy of me,
and I wondered whether I should like it; but I never dreamed that I
would ever want to touch a man. But now, I love to be near you; my King,
how good it is to be with you. But the winter’s coming. [_Shivers._]
SHAKESPEARE:
You must not think that, Violet, nor say it. It’s your love breeds those
fears.
VIOLET:
[_Pouting._] Why did you not put me in this play?
SHAKESPEARE:
I did: you know I did. You were Jessica, happy, loving Jessica, and I,
Lorenzo, ran away with you and talked of music and the stars by
moonlight in front of Portia’s house.
VIOLET:
How kind you are! What a pity you don’t love me! But then love is always
one-sided, they say. Ah, some day—— Who’s Portia?
SHAKESPEARE:
Portia?
VIOLET:
[_Rouses herself._] Yes, Portia. Who were you thinking of when you
described Portia? She’s one of your new friends, I suppose, one of the
great Court ladies. H’m! They’re no better than we are. Some of them
were at the play but now talking with Kempe, the clown. Ladies, indeed!
trulls would behave better.
SHAKESPEARE:
My gentle Violet, in a rage.
VIOLET:
Oh, they make me angry. Why can’t they be noble? I mean pure and sweet
and gentle, instead of laughing loud and using coarse words like those
women did to-day. Was Portia one of them?
SHAKESPEARE:
No, Violet, no. I meant Portia to be a great lady. Her carriage and
manner I took from someone I once saw at a distance—a passing glance:
but the wit and spirit I had no model for, none.
VIOLET:
You will love one of them, I know. Perhaps, by speaking of it, I put the
thought into your head, and bring the danger nearer; but I cannot help
it.
SHAKESPEARE:
Love is its torment.
VIOLET:
Oh, dear, dear! You will not leave me altogether, will you? Even if you
love her, you will let me see you sometimes. No one will ever love you
as I do. I only love myself because you like me, and when you leave me,
I’ll fall out of conceit with my face, and hate it. Hateful face, that
could not please my lord.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Puts his hand on her shoulder._] Vain torment! In this frail hooped
breast love flutters and bruises herself like a bird in a cage.
VIOLET:
When you are near, the pain turns to joy.
SHAKESPEARE:
I know; I know, so well. I’m making you the heroine of the new play I
told you of—“Twelfth Night”; your name, too, shall be hers, Viola; but
now you must go: I hear them coming.
VIOLET:
Farewell, Farewell. If I could only be a dozen women to please you, so
that you might not think of Portia, hateful Portia! [_Exit Violet._]
SCENE V.
BURBAGE:
[_Entering hurriedly._] Farce and tragedy and escape. A play within a
play.
FLETCHER:
[_Enters just behind him, followed by Dekker, Marston, Chettle and
Hughes._] A great scene! The revolt of the groundlings. Didn’t you hear
them shouting, Shakespeare?
SHAKESPEARE:
I heard nothing.
FLETCHER:
Self-absorbed as ever.
DEKKER:
[_Sneeringly._] Lost on Parnassus!
SHAKESPEARE:
What was it, Fletcher?
FLETCHER:
A scene for Dekker. The orange-girls have been pelting the ladies in
their rooms. The ladies gibed at them, and they replied with rotten
fruit. The ladies shrieked, and hid themselves; all but one, who stood
in front and outfaced the furies—a queen!
SHAKESPEARE:
Are they safe? Where are they now?
BURBAGE:
The lords Southampton and Lacy are bringing them: here they come.
[_Enter three ladies, masked, and Lords Southampton and Lacy, followed
by Selden._]
SCENE VI.
LACY:
At length Beauty’s piloted to the safety of the stage. And without
straining extolment I proclaim that never did lady [_bowing to the
tallest_] show more innocence of fear, more exornation of composure.
MISS FITTON:
Why should one fear an orange or an angry slut! Is this part of the
stage? [_Looking round._]
LACY:
The veritable and singular stage of the renowned Globe, where actors,
playwrights, poets fleet the hours with rich discourse and jewelled
melodies.
MISS FITTON:
And naughty stories, I’ll be sworn.
SOUTHAMPTON:
If you’ll unhood, ladies, we’ll present new courtiers to you, Princes of
this realm. [The ladies hesitate.]
MISS FITTON:
[_Stands out and swings back her hood._] That’s soon done! Ouf! [_Lets
her eyes range._]
LADY JANE WROTH:
’Tis easy for you, Mary, but I’m all in a twitter, and red like a cit’s
wife.
LADY RUTLAND:
Mary’s right: if you’re going into the water you may as well jump in.
[_Throws back her hood._] But how they stare!
LACY:
Pray, my lord, officiate.
SOUTHAMPTON:
As Master o’ Ceremonies, then, I make it known to all that Lady Rutland
and Lady Jane Wroth, and Mistress Mary Fitton, the youngest and bravest
of the Queen’s maids of honour, are new come to the Globe. Ladies, this
is Master Burbage, who counterfeits kings with such nobility, and lovers
with such reverence, that ladies lend him their lips in either part. And
this is gentle Shakespeare, the wittiest of poets, whose sugared verses
make all in love with sweets. And this is Master Chettle, playwright and
Prince of Laughter. Here, too, is grave young Selden, and Masters
Fletcher, Dekker, Marston, the glories of our stage.
LACY:
And now, gentlemen, with what most cunning art or inviolate mystery will
you charm the visiting fair? Thrones, there, thrones, the ladies will
sit.
MISS FITTON:
[_As they sit down._] But where is Master Kempe, the clown? I want to
see him dance. I swear when he takes the floor in the _Coranto_ and
mimics dignity, I could die of laughing. He did not come with us! Oh,
what a lack: we might have seen him jig.
LACY:
Shall we seduce your ears with vocal harmonies, fair lady, or chant in
the round to lute or viol?
SOUTHAMPTON:
Will you, Shakespeare, sing first? [_Shakespeare, as if speechless, with
a gesture of the hand, draws back, still gazing at Miss Fitton.
Southampton turns to Miss Fitton._] Shall it be a song of love or war?
MISS FITTON:
I prefer fighting or laughing to languishing.
LADY JANE WROTH:
[_Affectedly_] And I love—women were made for love.
LADY RUTLAND:
Any song for a single voice.
MARSTON:
[_To Fletcher._] A song, Fletcher!
FLETCHER:
Most willingly; here’s a song: but young Hughes must sing it or Selden:
my voice is rough.
[_Young Hughes takes up the viol, and sings._]
CHETTLE:
[_After the first verse._] And now, ladies, what will ye drink—canary or
sack?
LADY JANE WROTH:
I’ll take Charnikoe, I think; the wine of Bourdeaux, you know: ’tis all
the fashion now.
MISS FITTON:
I ought to have been born a man and not a girl, for I like sack, it’s
strong and sweet!
[_Lady Rutland waives off the wine._]
CHETTLE:
Oh, she’s a rare one; what say you, Will, riggish, eh?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_To Chettle._] Hush! Hush!
MISS FITTON:
[_Calls Hughes to her._] Here, boy, Lady Jane says you’re pretty and
your voice sweet. [_Aside._] Prove to her that your lips are as soft as
her cheek.
[_Hughes kisses Lady Jane Wroth. All laugh._]
LADY WROTH:
[_Affectedly._] No, no, I prithee! [_She yields to the kiss, and then to
Miss Fitton._] I don’t know, Mary, how you dare. At your age I’d have
died of shame to speak of lips and cheeks to a man.
MISS FITTON:
But you’d have thought all the more, eh, Jane? And thoughts leap to act
without the aid of speech. Have I touched you there? Ha! ha! [_Hughes
sings another verse._]
[_Loud applause. Hughes comes across to Miss Fitton._]
MISS FITTON:
Be bold, boy; be bold always! If I had been a man I’d have kissed every
woman that took my fancy, maid or matron. Even when they don’t love you,
they’re proud of the tribute. [_Hughes bends suddenly, and kisses her on
the lips. Disengaging herself._] By my faith, an apt pupil. [_Rising._]
But I fear we must be going. [_To Southampton and Lacy._] We’ll come
again, my lords, if we may.
BURBAGE:
Won’t you look at the other rooms, ladies, before you go? You should see
everything!
MISS FITTON:
[_Looking at the others._] We shall be late, I fear; but a few
minutes——[_Ladies follow Burbage._]
SOUTHAMPTON:
Why so silent, Shakespeare? Why would you not sing? You seem lost.
SHAKESPEARE:
Lost in finding Portia——
SOUTHAMPTON:
Portia? What do you mean? Do you come with us?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Shakes his head._] No, No! I’ll wait here.
[_Southampton and others exeunt after the ladies: Shakespeare alone._]
SCENE VII.
HERBERT:
[_Comes in hastily._] How was the end received? A success—I’m sure.
SHAKESPEARE:
A babel, Herbert, as usual. Not enough clowning, Chettle says, and the
general echo him.
HERBERT:
The dull clods have no eyes for beauty, no ears for poetry. I had to go
before the end; you forgive me? The play was splendid, one line a
miracle—“How all the other passions fleet to air”—[_putting his hand on
Shakespeare’s shoulder_]—but now I must be off to Court to persuade the
old harpy to “order” the performance of the “Merry Wives.” But you’re
not listening.
SHAKESPEARE:
Thinking. You might do something else for me at Court.
HERBERT:
Anything, at Court or in Hades, ’tis only another name for the same
place.
SHAKESPEARE:
There was here but now a Maid-of-Honour, Mistress Mary Fitton; do you
know her?
HERBERT:
A Maid-of-Honour, here! Alone? [_Laughs._]
SHAKESPEARE:
No, Lady Rutland, Sidney’s sister, and Lady Jane Wroth were with her.
HERBERT:
She must be new, I don’t know her. Was she dark or fair? Tall or short?
SHAKESPEARE:
Eye to eye with me. Dark as night, and as night mysterious, wonderful.
HERBERT:
This at first sight! But what can I do?
SHAKESPEARE:
Speak for me to her. Say what you can: that motley is not my proper
wear, that I’m not all an actor lost to shame and dignity, that—but you
will find a thousand better words. Had I to plead for you in such a
cause, the unsentient and inconstant air should ache for love of you.
HERBERT:
I’ll do my best. Had Southampton any news?
SHAKESPEARE:
That Raleigh still inflames the Queen against the Irish.
HERBERT:
We’ll make short work of him; he’s staled with use. The Queen laughs at
him. I want her to hear your play, and to give you a place with the Lord
Chamberlain as Master of the Revels—Judge accredited of plays and
players! Leave it to me, my friend! I’ll kiss her lips and praise her
legs till she does all we want. Our star is climbing up—up!
SHAKESPEARE:
Your old loving thought for me—but who climbs should go light, and not
be burdened with another’s weight.
HERBERT:
You’re easily carried! I’ll bring you tidings later, if I encounter with
your gipsy—Ha! Ha!—Farewell. [_Turns at the door and comes back._] But
why should you not plead your own cause?
SHAKESPEARE:
How? Where? This stage is far from Court.
HERBERT:
That’s nothing; desire will bridge the broadest river. There’s to be a
masque at Court to-morrow afternoon. Come, then, and meet your fair.
SHAKESPEARE:
Without right—or command?
HERBERT:
The Lord Chamberlain will send an invitation to any friend of mine: I
need not name you.
SHAKESPEARE:
But if by chance it becomes known——
HERBERT:
’Twill not be known. Half the guests will be masked; some of the girls,
I hear, will be dressed as pages, foresters; I know not what. You will
not be noted. Now I must be gone. Farewell, masker, may you have merry
hours. [_Exit Herbert._]
[_Enter, crossing stage from_ L. _to_ C., _the ladies, still accompanied
by Southampton, Lacy and Burbage_.]
SOUTHAMPTON:
[_While the ladies are cloaking at the door._] What think you of our
Court ladies, Shakespeare?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Gazing at Mistress Fitton._] What pride and—
SOUTHAMPTON:
You mean the tall, dark girl? Mary Fitton; a rare wench. Do you think
her beautiful? Some say she’s too dark.
SHAKESPEARE:
She is all the beauty extant!
SCENE VIII.
_The Antechamber at Court. Two girls, dressed as gentleman and
page—Mistress Mary Fitton and Lady Cynthia Darrel—are talking together
at one end of the room_, L. _Sir Walter Raleigh as Captain of the Guard
is standing by the great door_, R.
HERBERT:
[_Enters_, R.C.] Nothing yet, Captain?
RALEIGH:
Nothing, my lord.
HERBERT:
[_Impatiently._] Hum! [_Goes on down the room and bows to Miss Fitton._]
I’ve not seen you before, lady, and yet I swear I know you.
LADY CYNTHIA DARREL:
That were difficult; my friend’s new come to Court.
HERBERT:
And yet I’d wager it is Mistress Mary Fitton. [_Bows to her and half
whispers._] And yester even with Lady Rutland—[_louder_] shall I say
where?
MISS FITTON:
You may, my lord; the place is innocent. ’Tis the intent makes guilt.
HERBERT:
You were where my friend saw you, and lost his heart. If you found it,
guard it well: he’s worthier than his place.
MISS FITTON:
Men only praise what they wish to part with, or think beneath them.
HERBERT:
You’re witty, lady!
MISS FITTON:
Wit’s the Christian name for sense, at Court.
HERBERT:
May not one praise his friend?
MISS FITTON:
Never to a woman!
HERBERT:
Why not?
MISS FITTON:
Who praise the friend, dispraise the woman.
HERBERT:
You’re too persuaded to be changed. Lady Cynthia, the Mistress of the
Robes has sent me for you; may I give you conduct to her? [_To Miss
Fitton, bowing._] Would you be seated lady? [_Pointing to a seat._] Your
page will be returned before you’ve missed her. [_Bows low. They go
off_, R.C.]
SCENE IX.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Enters_, L., _with a mask in his hand, and stops on catching sight of
Miss Fitton_.] Ah!
MISS FITTON:
[_Looking at him over her shoulder._] Oh, the poet! Well, Master
Shakespeare, what think you of my dress?
SHAKESPEARE:
Yesterday, lady, you were lovely; to-day, bewitching.
MISS FITTON:
There is more of the man than the woman in me, I think: yet I would this
cloak were somewhat longer. [_She tries to draw it round her to cover
her legs; failing in this she stands up and swings it about her._]
There, I am at ease now. Does it set me off?
SHAKESPEARE:
As envious cloud that veils the beauty of Night’s Queen.
MISS FITTON:
[_Seating herself and drawing the cloak about her._] I don’t like
poetry: it’s not true—sincere. You poets are too much in love with
phrases to be honest.
SHAKESPEARE:
When the heart is full we unpack it in song, like the birds.
MISS FITTON:
But when the bird really feels—rage or fear, he shrieks or twitters and
forgets his song.
SHAKESPEARE:
He still sings his love.
MISS FITTON:
I’d not give a cross [_Snaps her fingers_] for love that keeps time.
What’s formal and composed’s a pleasure—not a passion. I want prose and
truth.
SHAKESPEARE:
Yet they say that men love truth—and women, honeyed flatteries!
MISS FITTON:
[_Scornfully._] They say! Men say that; but it is worse than false. No
sooner is a man in love than he lies, wheedles, pretends, shows off—for
all the world like the peacock in the garden yonder, that sidles round
with tail outspread, in stately sweepings. But when we women fall to
love, we are too honest to be vain—too fond for make-believe.
SHAKESPEARE:
Those are the signs of love in man, as in woman. But who made you wise,
so young?
MISS FITTON:
Mother Eve, I suppose. The greenest girl knows more about love than your
graybeard.
SHAKESPEARE:
True.
MISS FITTON:
[_Settling herself, and pointing to the seat._] You may liken me to
night if it please you. We dark women are out of favour now: red hair is
the Queen’s colour, and Beauty’s ensign: bleached locks, even, are
preferred to brown or black.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Taking the chair, and leaning towards her._] I must have been born
red, then, to love your great dark eyes, and the coils and tresses of
your hair.
MISS FITTON:
[_Pouting._] Do you believe people must like their opposites in colour
and height and——
SHAKESPEARE:
Such a difference is only one strand in the tie; and in a true marriage
the mind, I think, is more than the body.
MISS FITTON:
Of course the mind and character have something to do with it—the sauce
to the sweet: but the body’s the sweet.
SHAKESPEARE:
When I am with you, I think so too. I cannot reason now, I can only
feel. I saw you yesterday for the first time, a few poor minutes; and
now you are with me again and time is fleeting. Oh, I want fifty eyes to
take in your beauties, fifty ears to catch the music of your voice,
fifty hands to touch you, fifty lives to show you how I love——
MISS FITTON:
[_Draws up._] Love! love is not so sudden-mad—But hush! [_She takes up a
mirror to hide her face; Shakespeare masks; a page crosses stage rapidly
from_ L. _to_ R.]
MISS FITTON:
[_Putting down the mirror._] And so you love me—madly—in an hour?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Taking off the mask._] Ah, lady, Time is love’s plaything—now he
presses years into one look, one touch; and now a moment’s kiss swoons
out of count—will you not yield to love’s magic?
MISS FITTON:
I don’t think I love easily. But why do you love me?
SHAKESPEARE:
Your beauty, grace, courage, wit—a thousand reasons; but deeper than all
reason and higher is love’s throne.
MISS FITTON:
We have a saying in my country, “quick flame soon cold.”
SHAKESPEARE:
Ah, that’s not true in love; proverbs are never true; they are all made
by dullards for the dull, but tell me how shall I win you? Teach me.
Like a timid scholar I’ve forgotten all I knew. Will love win love?
MISS FITTON:
Love will keep us when won; I have no philtre for the winning.
SHAKESPEARE:
One thing you must believe: this love is all my life.
MISS FITTON:
I’ll believe it sooner than I confess I do; for I love to hear you say
it. A constant lover, you know, touches every woman’s heart.
SHAKESPEARE:
Then I shall win you, sweet!
MISS FITTON:
Perhaps: all women want to love and be loved. Men desire beauty, wealth,
power, honours; we want nothing but love, love only: love is our
religion. You see the doublet and hose have not changed my disposition.
But Lady Cynthia will be here soon—— [_Rises._]
SHAKESPEARE:
When am I to see you again and where? I only live for the hope of seeing
you, and now I’ve been with you and said nothing—nothing!
MISS FITTON:
Hist! [_Moves behind the spinet again: Shakespeare follows. Lady Jane
Wroth and Lady Rutland cross stage from_ L.C. _to_ L.]
LADY JANE WROTH:
Oh, Lord Herbert is wonderful. As he came from the Queen he met me at
the door of the antechamber: I stopped to let him pass: he drew me to
him and kissed me on the lips. I could not help it. Do you think he
means anything?
LADY RUTLAND:
Not he. Herbert! He means you are a girl and pretty. Take care, Jane;
broken hearts come from such kissings.
LADY JANE WROTH:
But why should he want to kiss me if he does not love me?
LADY RUTLAND:
Men love to kiss, dear, and we kiss because we love—that’s the
difference.
LADY JANE WROTH:
I wish I were a man, for I love the kiss, too.
LADY RUTLAND:
Hush, dear, hush! you must not say that: if you were overheard—[_Glances
round nervously: they go off_ L.]
MISS FITTON:
The silly women! [_To Shakespeare._] But why do you love so madly? ’Tis
not wise.
SHAKESPEARE:
Wisdom and love, sweet, are sworn enemies.
MISS FITTON:
[_Rising._] I have many faults: if you knew them all, you might not love
me.
SHAKESPEARE:
Faults! you have no faults!
MISS FITTON:
[_Gravely._] I’m too tall, and I look twenty-five though I’m only
seventeen. Then my nose is not quite straight—do you see? [_Holds up her
face._] Besides, I’m very proud and hot-tempered—vain! No: I’m not vain,
ever.
SHAKESPEARE:
Delightful wretch! [_Puts his hands on her shoulders._] Now girlish-gay
and now so witty-wise; but always adorable.
MISS FITTON:
[_Holding his hands away by the wrists._] I’m very proud, you know, and
want the truth always. I’d never forgive you if you deceived me.
SHAKESPEARE:
Who could deceive you? Give me your love and I’ll be true as hand to
heart. [_She puts her hand on his shoulder: he lays his hand on her
outstretched arm and gazes in her eyes._] Your beauty comes upon my soul
like music ravishing the sense. How I adore you. [_Kneels._] You make me
humble: I seem a thing of naught and you a Queen—divine—[_She stoops and
kisses his forehead; in a sort of exaltation he cries_:] Now life begins
anew for me; this hour is consecrate——
MISS FITTON:
[_Putting her finger to her lips and glancing at the canopy._] You must
go and so must I. Hush! Farewell. [_Goes off_, L.C. _Shakespeare looks
after her, takes a step as if to follow her, and then goes off
hurriedly_ L.]
SCENE X.
HERBERT:
[_Enters_, R.; _walks to Raleigh_.] Was my name taken to the Queen,
Captain?
RALEIGH:
[_Very courteously._] Yes, my lord, some time since, when first you
entered.
HERBERT:
An hour agone, surely!
RALEIGH:
[_Laughing._] Not half, my lord. Time lags when we wait.
HERBERT:
Time! Time is for slaves: an hour for this, an hour for that. Curse
time, a slut that lends herself to every basest use. [_Throws himself
into a seat. Insolently._] What was the answer?
RALEIGH:
Answer! my lord!
HERBERT:
[_Insolently._] Yes, when my name went in.
RALEIGH:
There was no answer. [_Long pause, while Herbert beats his leg with his
glove._]
HERBERT:
[_Rising._] Prithee send in again, Captain, to say I wait. I’ve ridden
fast to be in time, and now—I’m chilled.
RALEIGH:
The Queen’s in Council, my lord, with Lord Burghley and the Spanish
ambassador; I dare not interrupt her!
HERBERT:
Dare is for a servant, not for a Raleigh.
RALEIGH:
A Raleigh is proud to serve his Queen.
HERBERT:
A very proper spirit in him. But prithee, send in my name again—I like
not waiting.
RALEIGH:
I pray you not to ask that.
HERBERT:
[_Rising._] But I do ask it, man, I do. I’m sick of waiting. On me be
all the blame. I’ll bear you out in it.
RALEIGH:
I’m on duty here, my lord, and may not yield my office to another!
HERBERT:
[_Going to him._] Don’t lesson me, but do your office.
RALEIGH:
You may be sure I shall.
HERBERT:
[_Making as if to push past him._] Then remove, remove, or go in.
RALEIGH:
[_Bars the way._] I’m here to protect the Queen’s privacy, not to annoy
her.
HERBERT:
Servants should obey, not talk.
RALEIGH:
To be pert is a boy’s privilege.
HERBERT:
Damn your privilege. [_Strikes him. Raleigh’s sword flashes out: Herbert
draws too. At this moment the door opens and discovers the Queen._]
QUEEN ELIZABETH:
Fighting! Here! [_Raleigh bows composedly, and steps back. Herbert
flings his sword on the ground and throws himself on one knee before
her._]
HERBERT:
What better thing on earth to fight for, than a sight of you, my Queen!
[_Queen lifts him, smiling as the curtain falls._]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT II
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SCENE I.
_At the Mermaid. Ben Jonson is standing at the end of the room_,
L., _Fletcher and Lord Lacy near him. Marston and Dekker are
with Chapman in the middle. Chettle is seated_, R., _facing
Jonson. Shakespeare enters behind Chettle, door_ R.
JONSON:
[_Stretching._] It’s good to be free—free to feast, and not feed like a
dog—free! That prison was killing me. [_Calling out as Shakespeare
enters._] Ho, Will! here’s your chair, yawning till you come.
CHETTLE:
Here’s one with jaws as thirsty-wide, my lad, and dry to boot. Will you
fill ’em?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Passing Chettle with a smile._] The stranger first, Chettle, then the
drink. I’ve not seen Ben for months and months. [_Goes to Jonson and
takes both his hands._]
BEN JONSON:
[_Pushing a chair towards Shakespeare._] And now little poet, what will
you drink? Canary or sack. [_Claps his hands._] Here, Drawer!
SHAKESPEARE:
I’m ill with thirst, and for that disease there’s no medicine like small
beer.
JONSON:
[_To drawer._] Bring beer.
CHETTLE:
Have sack, Shakespeare, sack’s the drink: when sack goes in, wit comes
out. Beer’s cold and thin, fit for young girls, who quake to think of
lovers; but sack’s rich and generous, breeds courage and self-content;
equals the poor man to kings, and kings to gods.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_To Jonson._] A little more, and he’d rise into measure.
JONSON:
Out of measure, you mean; the verse is my part. Curious how abstinence
breeds desire, and desire song. Try prison for six months, Will, and
your mouth will drip with longing for wine, women and good company. Ah,
the leaden hours!
CHETTLE:
Ho! ho! my lad of the mountain. No prison needed by the godly. Without
provocation or incitement I want women often, good company always, wine
perpetually. It’s very strange: I’ve often had too much sack, often; but
enough, never. Read me that riddle, Shakespeare!
SHAKESPEARE:
That desire, Chettle, still outlives performance, is no riddle.
[_Turning to Jonson._] Your punishment punished all of us, Ben.
DEKKER:
And all for killing an actor.
SELDEN:
In fair duello, too: allowed since the Norman time.
LACY:
[_With gestures._] Was it a punto, Ben, or a reverso, an imbrocato or a
montanto that reached the throne of life?
DEKKER:
[_Half maliciously._] Or did a mere _downright_ passada thrust poor
Spencer from the stage?
JONSON:
[_Menacingly._] ’Twas a cudgel Downright used on Bobadill: don’t forget
that, Cobbler!
DEKKER:
’Tis as good a trade as bricklaying, and gives more time for thought.
MARSTON:
Was it a Toledo, Ben, or a _long_ Fleming gave the mortal wound?
[_Jonson rises, crying_ “You dog!” _Lord Lacy on one side, and
Shakespeare on the other, hold him back, and constrain him to sit._]
LACY:
Amity, friends, amity!
SHAKESPEARE:
Every man in his humour, Ben; who should know that better than you?
JONSON:
[_Sits again, grumbling._] The curs, who bark and run.
LACY:
Let’s have a hanap, friends, to cool the embers of strife.
CHETTLE:
One cup of sack, Shakespeare, to chase your melancholy and start your
wit.
SHAKESPEARE:
Not one. Sweet wine on bitter beer would make me Chettle. [_Turns to
Jonson._] So you became a Catholic in prison, Ben. Was it the
loneliness, or fasting?
JONSON:
Loneliness, perhaps: in solitude one listens to the heart.
MARSTON [_Interrupting._]
That’s weak, Jonson, childish-weak. Solitude breeds religion as the dark
breeds devils—out of fear.
DEKKER:
Religion’s a trade to the priest, an intrigue to women, to men a
laughing-stock.
CHETTLE:
Don’t say that, don’t blaspheme, don’t attack the Faith, mad lads! I
always mean to repent, but put off the evil day of reformation so long
as health lasts. Conscience and sack struggle in me for the mastery, and
the conflict makes me thirsty and so sack wins. But no scorners or
blasphemers, say I.
SHAKESPEARE:
We’re all godly at heart; eh, Chettle? We all wish other men virtuous,
so that there’ll be more frolic for us.
CHETTLE:
Ha! Ha! You’re right, lad! [_To the drawer._] Another cup, you bodkin,
you radish, you—Ah, we are all sinners, Will, villainous sinners! [_He
drinks._]
SELDEN:
I incline to the new faith. These puritans are much in earnest, though
they go too far. One of them told me of late that actors should be
outlawed, for they were not mentioned in the Bible. [_Laughs._]
CHETTLE:
[_Interrupting._] Why didn’t you reply that tailors weren’t mentioned
there, either, and so the crophead knave himself should go naked.
MARSTON:
Wonder of wonders! Chettle is learned in the Scriptures.
LACY:
Our catechist in pious phrases, man, our doctor of divinity.
DEKKER:
He knows more of tavern reckonings! He! He!
CHETTLE:
Why not, lad, why not? The animal man must keep a balance.
SELDEN:
Religion is like the fashion; one man wears his doublet slashed, another
laced, another plain, but every man has a doublet and a religion.
CHAPMAN:
[_Pompously._] ’Tis easy to mock at things sacred; but without religion
there’d be no society. Be Protestant or Catholic, as you will; but
without either we’d fall into anarchia.
JONSON:
Hum! I don’t know—What do you say, Shakespeare?
SHAKESPEARE:
If all our rushlights went out, the sun would still be shining.
LACY:
Oh, Shakespeare! What a blessed union of wit and poetry like virtue and
beauty in a maid or a Toledo blade hafted to one Chrysolite.
CHETTLE:
I have a story, Ben, my bully boy, that you’ve not heard yet, a story of
Will Shakespeare. Dick Burbage knows it. Ha! Ha!
MARSTON:
If new, let’s hear it.
DEKKER:
If old, it’s better than Chapman’s mouthing.
CHETTLE:
The pretty mercer’s wife, who often has a room to see the play, made a
meeting with King Richard III, Dick Burbage, there. Quiet Will overheard
the appointment, and after the play followed the lady. Poor Dick, having
to change his robes, came late, and knocked. “Who’s there?” asked Will,
from the inside. “Richard III,” whispered Dick. “Ah,” quoth Will,
“Richard III comes after William the Conqueror.” Ho! ho! ho!
SELDEN:
So the sportive blood of youth beflecks the dignity of manhood!
DEKKER:
’Tis too pat to be true.
FLETCHER:
We poets are all given to Venus.
CHAPMAN:
How true that Venus story is, and how beautiful. We shall never equal
the Greeks; never; they were our masters in everything.
CHETTLE:
Masters indeed! Here’s Shakespeare would put down any of them in
anything.
JONSON:
I’m not sure of that, Chettle. The Agamemnon’s a great play.
CHETTLE:
Ay, but what say you to Henry IV.! That’s the play for me. I warrant the
Greeks had nothing like Falstaff. What d’ye say, Shakespeare? Stand for
your own, my boy!
JONSON:
He lacks the language, the window through which the Greeks must be
studied.
CHETTLE:
It’s wit, man, ye want, not knowledge. Come, Will. Put the Briton above
the Greek: I’ll tarre you on.
SHAKESPEARE:
I think the Greeks are over praised. Fancy making Love an inferior
goddess, born of salt water. [“Ho! Ho!” _laughs Chettle_.] Love’s born
of summer air and light; flowers are her footprints and the stars sing
to her coming: Venus, not Jupiter, reigns in Heaven and Earth.
JONSON:
[_Interrupting._] Good, old Knowell, good! But let’s have a toast, or
you’ll talk us all to death. Here’s to the ever-sacred memory of our
great Queen, who lets players and playwrights live in spite of Puritans
and preachers.
FLETCHER:
To the Virgin who beat the Spaniards, and made Britain mistress of the
seas.
DEKKER:
In the same way the dog made the dinner, for he looked on, while men
feasted.
SELDEN:
Hush, hush! No disloyalty!
CHETTLE:
[_Puts down the empty pot._] I’ll drink to no virgin, my roaring boys,
not even in name. Obstruction’s twin brother to Destruction—I’ll none of
it. Long live life! Here’s to the Queen’s great father, Henry VIII.
There’s a man for you: could eat like a man, and drink like a man, and
love like a man. He was a king, if you like. Here’s to his memory!
JONSON:
You can have him all to yourself, Chettle, your many-wived hero.
CHETTLE:
Tut, man, he was the eighth Harry, and had a right to eight wives. ’Tis
the Scripture. [_Drinks._]
DEKKER:
Chettle’s drunk.
SHAKESPEARE:
Chettle’s right: here’s to the memory of Henry VIII, who gave wine to
the laity, and women to the clergy.
[_All drink, laughing. Messenger enters, and speaks to Jonson, who rises
hastily._]
JONSON:
Here’s my friend, Francis Bacon, come to see us.
CHETTLE:
Bring him in, lad: Shakespeare here’ll [_Exit Jonson_] teach him what he
can’t find in law-books.
[_Jonson meets Bacon at the door._]
SCENE II.
BACON:
[_To Jonson, with hand outstretched._] Hearing of your discharge, I
hastened to find you and share your joy, though alack! I was too weak to
obtain your release.
JONSON:
That’s kind of you. Let me present my friends. This is young Fletcher,
the poet, and Burbage whom you know, and Master Shakespeare, the best
playwright of us all. And this, gentlemen, is Master Francis Bacon, the
great philosopher.
SHAKESPEARE:
And friend to my lord of Essex.
BACON:
[_Turning to Shakespeare._] Yes: do you know the Earl?
SHAKESPEARE:
By the kindness of Lord Southampton, so far as a poor poet may.
JONSON:
He’ll win Lord Burghley’s place or fall to ruin. But I fear his violence
and wild courses.
BACON:
When Lord Essex comes to power, he will act more soberly. Great men are
like the heavenly bodies; they move violently to their places, and
calmly in their places.
SHAKESPEARE:
True, true! His violence is all of quick feeling: at heart he is most
generous-kind.
BACON:
You do not overpraise him; yet on troubled sea, small sails of will and
temper are the safest.
SHAKESPEARE:
Lord Essex is too great to think of safety; he dreams of noble deeds,
and does them.
BACON:
[_After pausing._] Your praise does you credit; it shall be reported to
the Earl. But I came to greet Jonson, and hear his new song: I must soon
be on my way.
SELDEN:
[_To Fletcher._] Curious, the two masters can neither wrestle nor
embrace: Bacon’s on earth, Shakespeare in the clouds.
FLETCHER:
[_Not listening._] Let us go into the inner room: we shall hear the
music better. [_All go inside save Shakespeare and Jonson. Music is
heard through the open door._]
JONSON:
[_Turning to Shakespeare._] So you are in love, I hear. Oh, that urchin,
Cupid! But beware, Will, beware; his darts are all poisoned.
[_Takes Shakespeare’s arm, and draws him towards the inner room._]
SHAKESPEARE:
What sweet poison!
SCENE III.
_In the grounds of St. James’s Palace by moonlight. A marquee in centre
of stage with throne. Miss Fitton moves about in garden_, L., _as if
looking for something till Shakespeare enters_, L.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Taking both her hands._] At last! at last, I see and hold you,
[_Holding both her hands to his heart._] and all is well again; the pain
is gone.
MISS FITTON:
Pain?
SHAKESPEARE:
Intense pain—the misery of doubt and fear; the agony of
disappointment—all vanished now, lost in a sea of pure delight. Ah, what
a life ecstatic after death——
MISS FITTON:
Death!
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Gravely._] Worse. On Monday you were to be at Lady Rutland’s; you had
promised; I went; you were not there; I fell into the abysm of despair.
Why, my queen, why?
MISS FITTON:
[_Smiling and seating herself._] “Affairs of state” would sound well for
a queen; but I prefer the truth. [_Solemnly._] A three-piled ruff, the
newest thing in neckgear, made me forget your coming. You see your queen
is very woman. [_He kisses her hand and she pushes his head up gently._]
One of Eve’s unnumbered daughters.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Kneeling._] The wittiest of all, the most adored, the fairest! Your
hand [_lifting it in his_] is warm ivory, so firm and smooth [_looks up
at her_]—the eyes like wells o’erhung with shadow—and oh, the rubious
lips. [_Puts up his hand and draws down her head; she bends and kisses
him; then rises._]
MISS FITTON:
You must rise; we might be seen: we have only half an hour; be careful;
someone might come.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Rising._] What a fate is mine! I see you but for a moment and then
lose you. It is a week since we met and now I may not kiss you. I long
for you night and day; my flesh aches for you; I am parched with fever
and may not quench my thirst.
MISS FITTON:
Those high fevers have no long continuance; I prefer enduring
affection—tenderness——
SHAKESPEARE:
Still the fever and you will find the tenderness. Each time I meet you I
have to win you anew, and that exasperates desire; but give yourself
freely to me, and I will love you better than you love yourself.
MISS FITTON:
Violent desire soon burns itself out.
SHAKESPEARE:
When I am burnt out and dead—not before. Do not distrust desire, sweet;
’tis the spring of life, the wing that lifts the clay [_Takes her in his
arms and kisses her. She draws herself free._]
SHAKESPEARE:
Again you move away.
MISS FITTON:
Men and women love differently, I think. You would kiss and kiss while I
draw back half shrinking, half because I would taste this new joy sweet
by sweet. There! You make me say too much.
SHAKESPEARE:
Never too much, you great heart! You unveil your soul, and the beauty of
it fills me with reverence. [_Takes her in his arms._]
MISS FITTON:
You do love me, then? You are sure?
SHAKESPEARE:
Very sure.
MISS FITTON:
You will love me always?
SHAKESPEARE:
Always. I loved you before we met, always, through dateless ages. I
never loved before, shall never love again. You were made for me. I love
your courage, truth, pride, and most of all I love you when you yield.
[_They kiss._]
MISS FITTON:
Ah, love is easy when one can trust. I must tell you something, though I
hate to: I’m very jealous.
SHAKESPEARE:
You, jealous!
MISS FITTON:
[_Nods her head._] Jane Wroth told us of the dance at the Globe Theatre,
and I was angry; that’s why I did not go to Lady Rutland’s to meet you.
I was jealous, mad!
SHAKESPEARE:
You had no reason. I was not at the dance. I came past you here and
wandered in Chelsea meadows.
MISS FITTON:
In truth? How strange!
SHAKESPEARE:
I have always loved to be alone. In unfrequented woods I used to build
myself a world of dreams and hold a court of fancied creatures. But now
the dreams have changed to memories; you come to me and I recall your
words and looks and beauties; kiss your hands and eyes and lips. Oh, my
thought-world is paradise with you as goddess-queen.
MISS FITTON:
You must never make me jealous. Heal that at once as you would heal a
pain of mine. It makes some women love more, I think; it would kill all
love in me. I am too proud to endure its sting.
SHAKESPEARE:
I will never give you cause, sweet, for jealousy, never! I love your
pride too well.
MISS FITTON:
[_Rising and going to the spinet._] You promised me a song. Did you
forget?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Following her._] Could I forget a promise to you! [_He puts the roll
on the spinet before her._]
MISS FITTON:
I cannot sing it, you know. I have none of women’s little graces.
SHAKESPEARE:
Being grace itself, you can forego graces. But I have Hughes without, if
you will hear him.
MISS FITTON:
Willingly; but he must not stay long. [_While Shakespeare goes away_,
L., _she reads the words aloud._] “I am my own fever, my own fever and
pain.”
[_Shakespeare returns with Hughes, who bows to Miss Fitton. Miss Fitton
nods negligently, and leaves the spinet, taking a seat_, L.C.
_Shakespeare stands at her side, facing the audience, while Hughes
sings._]
HUGHES [_Sings._)
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain;
No more now, no more now, fond heart, with
pride should we swell,
Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raise
forces enough to rebel.
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
MISS FITTON:
[_After the first verse._] So you would rebel if you could. Hm. [_Nods
her head._]
SHAKESPEARE:
Like all rebels in order to taste the sweets of sovereignty.
HUGHES [SINGS THE SECOND VERSE.]
“For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate,
To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin,
And love those that hate.
I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
[_As Hughes finishes Miss Fitton rises. Hughes, bowing, goes out._]
MISS FITTON:
[_Seats herself at the spinet._] Why did you write that—“to make us seek
ruin and love those that hate”?
SHAKESPEARE
I fear you don’t love me as I love you; sometimes, even——
MISS FITTON:
I don’t hate you, or I shouldn’t be here, should I?
[_Hums the words, “fever and pain,” playing the tune._]
SHAKESPEARE:
How I envy even the dead things about you; the dress your body warms,
the bracelets that clip your wrists; even the jacks that leap to kiss
the tender inward of your hand.
MISS FITTON:
[_Stops, and holds it to him._] You may kiss it, too.
[_He kisses her palm, then draws her to him and kisses her lips. She
rises._] But now you must go: they’ll be coming.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Rising._] And when am I to see you again—when? [_Watching her face._]
To-day? [_She shakes her head._] To-morrow? Next day? When? These hours
of absence make me hunger for you till I faint. Be pitiful, sweet. The
touch of your hand gives me life. When you go, my heart shrinks and lies
here aching-cold till I see you again.
MISS FITTON:
[_Listening._] I’m afraid they’ll come in and——
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Imploringly._] You have not told me when I may see you again.
MISS FITTON:
To-morrow I’m busy. Thursday? Yes, Thursday, at Lady Rutland’s. She’ll
be in waiting here.
[_Gives her hand, which Shakespeare holds against his heart._]
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Taking out some tables in ivory._] I’ve brought you tables to mark our
meetings in. Will you use them?
MISS FITTON:
How pretty, and here’s a posy too in golden letters:
[_Reads._]
“Doubt that the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”
That’s because I doubted your sudden-deep affection.
SHAKESPEARE:
Write down the day we are to meet, will you? now; and all the time
between shall die and be a void.
MISS FITTON:
[_Archly._] Suppose I said to-night—here?
SHAKESPEARE:
What wine of life you pour! My blood’s aflame and shaken into blinding
colours. To-night and night is here! I feel the minutes throbbing past.
To-night, my night of nights. O Sweet, make me atone this ecstasy,
or—To-night, you Queen of Night—You heart of joy!
MISS FITTON:
I shall be late, you know. It will be midnight——
SHAKESPEARE:
Midnight!
MISS FITTON:
[_Listening._] Hush.
SHAKESPEARE:
To-night, at mid of night. Ah, now I know that men are richer than the
gods. Midnight!
MISS FITTON:
Hark! They are coming! Quick! [_Shakespeare kisses her hand and hurries
up the stage_, L. _A bevy of girls enter_, C., _talking, accompanied by
gallants and preceded by Lacy._]
SCENE IV.
LACY:
[_As Shakespeare passes._] Ho, Ho! Master Shakespeare doth fly from yon
miracle of Nature, as from a dire portent. Methought her most brave
strain of wit, and peremptory grace, would have charmed your nice
fastidity.
SHAKESPEARE:
One may admire stars, my lord, at a distance.
LACY:
Do we adorate because of the distance? Ha! Ha! [_Bows with gesture.
Shakespeare bows and goes out. Lacy turns to Miss Fitton._] So the Queen
of gipsies has enslaved the player-poet, and violet eyes will lose their
blue with weeping.
MISS FITTON:
Violet eyes?
LACY:
Violet eyes and honey-coloured hair—a nymph of the morning!
MISS FITTON:
Whom are you talking about?
LACY:
Is it a secret? The dark lady, then, has her rival in the fair maid, and
courage and wit on the one side contend with downcast eyes and shrinking
modesty on the other.
MISS FITTON:
Do you jest, or am I to believe you? Who is she—a lady?
LACY:
Her name—Violet. Her rank—youth and beauty. I know no more; put the
culprit to the question.
MISS FITTON:
Where did you see them?—When?
LACY:
At the playhouse, one afternoon.
MISS FITTON:
Ha, ha! Now, if I had believed a man’s oaths how I should hate myself.
But, thank Heaven! I was not befooled by his vows and protestations. The
player may go to his trull, some orange-girl, I suppose, and brag; but,
thank God! I am not his dupe. Violet, indeed! [_Laughs._]
LACY:
Do not be hasty-rash: I know nothing; she may be but his friend and
genteelly propagated: I only saw them together once.
MISS FITTON:
You would have me a credulous fool: a laughing-stock for the player and
his patch. No, no! I am schooled in time. Who stoops, suffers: the man
who would win me, must have no Violet.
LACY:
It is nobler to trust too much than too little.
MISS FITTON:
I do wrong to be angry. Let us join the others, my lord, and take my
thanks for your warning. [_Walking towards the others._] Violet is a
pretty name!
SCENE V.
HERBERT:
[_Enters; the ladies flock together and giggle; he goes to them._] Well,
Lady Cynthia, what’s the story?
LADY CYNTHIA:
Story?
HERBERT:
The story that made you all laugh as I came in.
LADY CYNTHIA:
There was no story.
HERBERT:
It was truth, you mean. [_Lady Cynthia curtsies._] Something pointed at
me. What was it?
LADY CYNTHIA:
Why should you think it was about you?
HERBERT:
What was it, then? You silly girl, if you don’t tell, the others will.
LADY CYNTHIA:
[_Turning to them in appeal._] You won’t, will you, girls?
MISS FITTON:
Of course they will; women always tell of each other, so I’ll save them
the trouble. Lady Cynthia said, she’d rather be the Queen you knelt to,
than the Captain you struck.
LADY CYNTHIA:
Oh, I didn’t, I didn’t. I’ll never forgive you, Mary Fitton, never!
MISS FITTON:
Well, if you didn’t say it, I do, so protest’s useless.
HERBERT:
And would you be the Queen, lady?
MISS FITTON:
Perhaps; for women can win, though conquered.
HERBERT:
Then conquest does not frighten you?
MISS FITTON:
Nothing frightens us but indifference. We women are fortresses, only
sure of our valour when we’re attacked: only convinced of our strength
when we’re taken, and as proud of being won as men are of winning.
HERBERT:
If the fortress is as strong as your tongue is sharp, ’Twould need a
Paladin to attempt it.
MISS FITTON:
Only cowards fear the strength of their opposites, and you, my lord, are
no coward.
HERBERT:
[_Laughing, as if flattered._] How do you know that, lady?
MISS FITTON:
By double proof, my lord.
HERBERT:
Double proof?
MISS FITTON:
Yes: you strike a Captain of thirty, and kiss a Queen of sixty. Give you
good e’en, my lord!
[_Curtsies, and turns to go._]
HERBERT:
You shan’t escape like that! [_Catches her by the waist._] You must pay
for your impertinence. Come, give me your lips, beauty.
MISS FITTON:
[_Holding her head away._] That were to turn play into earnest.
HERBERT:
So much the better. [_Their eyes meet._] I can be earnest, too. [_He
kisses her; she draws away._]
LACY:
If I intrude, I flex the knee: I’m sage-green with jealousy; or shall I
scent the lambent air with flowered gratulation?
HERBERT:
[_Irritably._] I wish you’d talk naturally, like a man, and not like a
popinjay.
LACY:
In verity I belong to the brutish, bearded sex, as you may prove, my
lord, when the occasion pleases you. [_Bows to Herbert._] But
“naturally” offends my sense, ’tis a gross and vulgar birth. Prithee, my
lord, do you dress “naturally”? or eat “naturally”? or house
“naturally”? And if to be natural in all these is savage-vile, why
should a man talk “naturally,” like a lewd barbarian?
HERBERT:
I mean why be singular in speech—fanciful, peculiar?
LACY:
The first man who made a girdle of skins instead of the fig-leaf was so
admonished, and with equal consistency. Why wear a slashed doublet, my
lord—most “fanciful-peculiar”?
HERBERT:
It becomes my place.
LACY:
And so my speech is more ornate than peasants use.
HERBERT:
But my doublet isn’t tagged with silly, useless ornaments, like your
“scent the air,” and “sage-green with jealousy”! Green is good enough.
LACY:
Green means nothing; but sage-green paints the bilious tinge of soured
vanity; still, a dispute about the shade concedes the principle.
HERBERT:
No, I think the common speech better, stronger.
LACY:
No! No! Ten thousand negatives! I abhor your common fustian speech.
Words, like coins, grow lighter in the using; so I mint a new word to
charm the ear, as a jeweller sets a gem to catch the eye. [_Turning to
Miss Fitton._] But I’ve tired you, most divine fair, with peevish
argument, instead of pleasing with example. I entreat forgiveness: am
carmined with confusion. [_A bevy of girls come up: the first cries_—]
“We are allowed to dance”: [_the second_—] “How shall we begin, with the
galliard or the Coranto?” [_They speak chiefly to Lord Herbert and
Mistress Fitton, because Lord Lacy is staring at one of their number,
Lady Joan Nevil. Lacy, turning again to Herbert._] What heavenly
pulchritude! casting light, not shadow, upon earth. Who is the wonder,
nymph or angel? My eyes are blinded by her celestial radiance.
HERBERT:
[_Stepping forward._] Lady Joan, let me present Lord Lacy here, who
professes himself your admirer.
LACY:
[_Bowing to the ground._] Admirer [_with a reproachful glance at
Herbert_], worshipper of your most angelic loveliness! Lady, my senses
are all your slaves.
LADY JOAN:
I free them at once, my lord. I would not slavish service.
LACY:
O voice most tuneful and beyond music harmonious!
LADY JOAN:
Praise, my lord, should keep a measure; sweets are quick to surfeit.
LACY:
Lady, if I cannot win your favour, I am like to die of grief.
LADY JOAN:
Live, my lord, live, and now if it please you let us join the dancers.
[_They turn off together; the dancing goes on with directions changing
the galliard to the Coranto._]
MISS FITTON:
[_Looking after Lacy._] A curious jay.
HERBERT:
A soldier, scholar, traveller, all masked with this extravagance.
MISS FITTON:
Lady Joan may cure his distemper.
HERBERT:
Perhaps; but why did you refuse my kiss? Am I so hateful to you?
MISS FITTON:
No, no.
HERBERT:
Why then withhold so small and usual a favour?
MISS FITTON:
One sometimes fears to give—not from penury; but——
HERBERT:
You dear! How did you know I love you?
MISS FITTON:
I do not know it, my lord. Shall we dance?
[_They pass, and Sir John Stanley and Lady Jane Wroth come in their turn
to the centre._]
STANLEY:
What do you women see in him? He’s impudent; but good-looking boys are
always impudent. I could forgive the Queen for loving Essex; he’s a man,
a great Captain, too; but this raw Herbert—pshaw!
LADY JANE WROTH:
Perhaps it’s his youth pleases her, Sir John. And then he’s marvellous
well-featured. [_They pass, Lacy and Lady Joan, after a couple or two
pass, return to_ C.]
LACY:
[_Earnestly._] My speech, lady, shall follow your taste, like my dress.
If you prefer plain cloth to murreyed sarsenet, it shall be as you wish,
I will speak poor drab. But taffeta phrases have a rich distinction, and
silken terms are soothing to the sense.
LADY JOAN:
I would not have you altered, the gay doublet suits you: the fanciful
speech, too. But just a touch of—austerity in ornament—is that how you
speak?
LACY:
Rosebud of maidens, you delight my heart!
[_They pass. Lady Cynthia Darrel and a Courtier come to the front._]
LADY CYNTHIA:
Do you think Mistress Fitton good-looking?
A COURTIER:
Good-looking, yes; but swarthy.
LADY CYNTHIA:
Too tall for my taste, and bold. Ha! Ha! If that’s your country
innocence, I prefer the town. Those black eyes in that pale face—ugh!
Now Herbert is a model, perfect.
A COURTIER:
He’s very well, and he knows it. [_They pass. Slowly Lord Herbert and
Miss Fitton return. The Mistress of Ceremonies orders the cushion dance:
the pages arrange the cushions._]
MISS FITTON:
I know you don’t; too well I know it.
HERBERT:
I swear I do; put me to the proof.
MISS FITTON:
What’s the good?
HERBERT:
All the good; you’ll have the proof, and be convinced, and yield. Try
me.
MISS FITTON:
[_They dance: at the end of the bar, Herbert kneels on a cushion._] How
easy it is to gull oneself when one wishes to. If the Queen entered now,
my lord, you’d be at her feet in an instant.
HERBERT:
Not I. Not if you promised to come to me: Will you? [_Miss Fitton kisses
his forehead._]
MISS FITTON:
Do you mean you would stay by me even if she called you?
HERBERT:
Even if she called, if you promise.
MISS FITTON:
You would not dare.
HERBERT:
Dare! indeed; wouldn’t I! [_They dance round, and when their turn comes
to kiss, Miss Fitton gives her lips. Immediately afterwards the doors
are thrown open and the Queen announced_, R. _Some servants enter
backwards; then the Queen moves to throne_, R. C. _The dancers stop; all
bow and curtsey._]
SCENE VI.
THE QUEEN:
Let the dance go on! [_The Queen looks round; Herbert and Miss Fitton
are standing_ L.C. _The Queen calls_ “Lord Herbert.” _Herbert goes on
talking to Miss Fitton as if he did not hear._]
MISS FITTON:
[_In a loud whisper._] Go, the Queen calls, go.
LORD HERBERT.
[_To Miss Fitton._] But will you promise?
THE QUEEN:
Lord Herbert!
MISS FITTON:
Go, I’ll forgive you, go.
HERBERT:
But will you promise?
THE QUEEN:
[_Turning to a Servant._] Send Lord Herbert to me.
MISS FITTON:
[_As the servant nears the couple._] Yes, I promise—sometime—go!
[_Herbert, bowing low to Miss Fitton, swings round, walks to the Queen,
and puts one knee to the ground._]
THE QUEEN:
[_Angrily._] You forget your manners, my lord, and your duty.
HERBERT:
[_Smiling._] Manners, ma’am, and duty are worthless frozen words: my
allegiance to you is an irresistible passion; as, you know, the desire
of the moth for the light.
THE QUEEN:
Methinks, the moth is quite content with blackness, here. [_With a
glance at Miss Fitton._]
HERBERT:
The eyes that suffer through excess of radiance close of themselves to
rest.
THE QUEEN:
[_As if pacified or negligent._] You may dance, my lord. [_Amid the
astonished silence and observation of all, Herbert bows and draws
backward towards Miss Fitton._] Go on with the dance. The Coranto, not
that kissing thing. [_The Pages remove the cushions._]
LADY JANE WROTH:
[_To Sir John Stanley._] She hates to see _others_ kissing.
STANLEY:
That’s morality. [_The talk breaks out again, and the dance goes on. In
a moment or so Herbert is at Miss Fitton’s side, and they dance round._]
THE QUEEN:
[_As they pass, calls_] Lord Herbert! [_He dances on as if he didn’t
hear. The Queen descends from_ _her throne, and takes him by the ear._]
Are you deaf to-night? I will dance with you. [_Lord Herbert bows,
smiling, and they dance a measure or two; the Queen holds up her dress
very high and marks each step elaborately in bygone fashion: when they
come to_ C.]
HERBERT:
I knew I’d win you.
THE QUEEN:
Win me?
HERBERT:
And now I have succeeded.
THE QUEEN:
What do you mean?
HERBERT:
Jealousy is the best proof of love.
THE QUEEN:
You saucy boy! [_They dance to the entrance_, R. _He holds the cloth,
and the Queen passes through. As the cloth falls, Herbert turns and
hastens back to Miss Fitton, who moves to meet him: the others are
dispersing; the servants begin to dismantle the tent._]
HERBERT:
Did I keep my word?
MISS FITTON:
How bold you are!
HERBERT:
And you—beautiful. Remember! you promised.
MISS FITTON:
[_Hesitates, then looking at him nods as if reflecting._] I did promise.
HERBERT:
Come, then.
MISS FITTON:
Oh no; not to-night. To-night I must—I could not. I could not. It is so
late. I said “sometime.”
HERBERT:
You are too proud to cheat. I have your word. Come: it’ll soon be
midnight.
MISS FITTON:
Midnight!
HERBERT:
Yes, midnight. What of that?
MISS FITTON:
Nothing: nothing——
HERBERT:
Come, then. You are not afraid of the dark with me.
[_While speaking he puts his arm round her, kisses her and draws her
towards entrance_, C. _There he takes cloaks; wraps her in one and puts
the other on. They go. The stage darkens. A servant comes in, takes up
something and goes away. The stage darkens; stars appear. Midnight
sounds from some neighbouring clock. On the first stroke Shakespeare
enters from_ L., _moves to trysting-place and waits. No one comes. In
the distance faintly he hears his own song growing clearer as if the
singer were passing by: “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.” He
moves about restlessly while the song dies away._]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT III
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SCENE I.
_In the Mitre Tavern._
HOST:
[_Wiping the table._] I can trust no more. I’m a poor man, Master
Chettle.
CHETTLE:
[_Aside._] Poor in flesh and poorer in spirit. [_Aloud._] Go to, man, I
don’t ask you for trust. From now on the drink of the day shall be paid
in the day. What can you want more?
HOST:
Ay, that were good enough if——
CHETTLE:
Oh! Your “if” ’s a scurvy coward, a water-drinker dripping with doubts;
no host for a generous tavern. Hark ye, ye don’t send in the reckoning
before the meal; but an hour after. Make the hour three and ye shall
have your money. Send me the drawer, man, and before night ye shall be
paid. Was ever such an unbelieving sinner!
HOST:
Sinner, I may be, Master Chettle; but unbelieving, no. I have trusted
you these ten years, Master Chettle, and the reckoning grows; every year
it grows. That’s not want of faith, Master Chettle.
CHETTLE:
Ha, ha! Ye have me there: quick wits, Master Fry, and the riposto
tickles. There, I’m glad it’s settled. Send me the drawer and you shall
have your money to-night. I never could haggle with a man of mind. And I
bring you custom, man, more custom than any dozen, and such custom, the
wits of London, the heads o’ the world!
HOST:
Ay, ay; but——
CHETTLE:
There, there; it’s settled: honest men have but one word. I know you
good, Master Fry; but hard like this new religion; hard. There, there!
we are old friends. Send the drawer; he knows my ways and quickly; this
tongue-fence hath made me dry. Here come my friends, a goodly company
and all thirsty; despatch, man, despatch! [_Exit Host: Jonson and
Burbage enter together; Fletcher, Dekker, Marston follow; the drawer
brings back Chettle his sack._]
SCENE II.
JONSON:
I thought we’d find you here, Chettle; but what are you doing?
CHETTLE:
[_Writing._] Writing, lad, for a meal, as a poet must in these
niggard-tradesman times.
BURBAGE:
Have you seen Shakespeare?
CHETTLE:
Shakespeare? No. Why do you ask? Is there any news?
BURBAGE:
Great news! The Lord Chamberlain writes me to be in readiness to play
before the Queen. I must to the theatre at once.
FLETCHER:
I’m with you.
DEKKER }
MARSTON }
And I!
CHETTLE:
A drink, lads, before you go, to keep out the river-mist; water’s the
cause of all my pains!
JONSON:
Sack, you mean; sack and canary that make your blood boil with gout.
[_The drawer brings wine in large flagons._]
CHETTLE:
Not so, bully Ben. Not so. Rheumatics, not gout. Ah, had my mother but
given me sack when I was young and tender, I had never known these
whoreson tweakings. A pious upbringing, Ben, and a watery diet have been
my undoing.
BURBAGE:
Do you go with us, Jonson?
JONSON:
No. I’m not known to your Lord Chamberlains.
FLETCHER:
Nor I. Yet I go to see the stir.
JONSON:
You are of the company.
FLETCHER:
No. I take Foster’s place; you can have Browne’s.
JONSON:
No, no! I’ll keep my own name and my own place. [_Enter Shakespeare._]
Ho, Will! you’re to be a courtier; have you heard?
SHAKESPEARE:
No: what is it?
BURBAGE:
We must be ready: we may be summoned any day to play at Court: I have
the order.
JONSON:
What’s Chettle chuckling over there?
CHETTLE:
[_Looking up from his writing._] Angling for supper, lads; just a snack.
DEKKER:
Let’s see Chettle’s snack.
FLETCHER:
[_Pounces on the paper and reads._] It’s a letter to Mistress Tagge of
the “Tabard.”
MARSTON:
Let’s hear it!
JONSON:
Read it, Fletcher, read it!
CHETTLE:
No. No! Mad lads! That forked radish there shall not clapperclaw my
work. If you must hear it I’ll read it myself. No whipper-snapper shall
squeak my words! Now, lads, listen! [_Reads._] “To fair Mistress Tagge,
the best hostess in London; _argal_ in the world! I kiss your hands most
beauteous and bountiful; I have but now seen your drawer and heard that
you want twenty angels to-night. The time’s short, but I’ll bring them
as I’m a true man unless the rascal bookseller lies in his promise to me
and that he’ll not dare——
JONSON:
What a poor cheat! Who’s the bookseller, Chettle?
CHETTLE:
[_Reads on._] “This very night I’ll bring the angels to my angel!”
JONSON:
Oh, foul jest!
CHETTLE:
“But as I shall come late will sweet Mistress Tagge prepare me a
mouthful of supper—any little thing’ll do—a snack just to provoke
appetite, for indeed I’m far from strong.
JONSON:
Oh, mountainous weakling! Tun of lard!
FLETCHER:
Now for the snack, boys! Listen.
CHETTLE:
Ay, a snack, you pizzle; a snack for a man. [_Reads._] “Say a slice of
calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey and——
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Interrupting._] “Or indeed both,” Chettle, put in “or indeed
both,”—the salmon and the lamprey.
CHETTLE:
Right you are, bully boy. Right! [_Corrects the letter and reads
again._] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey
or indeed both, [_looks up at Shakespeare and laughs_] and then a loin
of young pork dressed with your own select and poignant sauce and then a
few oiled mushrooms——
SHAKESPEARE:
Too many “thens,” Chettle. “A few oiled mushrooms and one is ready to
loose a button and begin.” [_All laugh._]
CHETTLE:
True, true, lad; ’tis but a beginning. [_Writes and reads on._] “For
something to eat, a shoulder of mutton and a cantle of one of your noble
pasties [_Shakespeare interjects_ “just to quiet the stomach’s craving,”
_and Chettle writes and repeats the phrase_] just to quiet the stomach’s
craving, and then a bird, say a pheasant for choice, and afterwards a
goose [_Shakespeare interjects_ “to trifle with,” _and again Chettle
writes and repeats the words_] to trifle with, and instead of salad some
barbel’s beards—you know how I like ’em—and nothing more an’ you love
me—nothing, unless it be a morsel of cheese [_Shakespeare interjects_
“to take away the cannibal taste of the meat” _and Chettle writes and
repeals the words with a loud laugh_] to take away the cannibal taste of
the meat.”
JONSON:
You gulf of gluttony! No wonder you’re lame with gout!
CHETTLE:
It’ll tweak you worse at my age, old gamecock! Ah, lads! My suppers are
all numbered; I can’t increase ’em by one and so I want ’em all good.
This world owes Hal Chettle a living.
FLETCHER:
Are you finished?
CHETTLE:
[_Reads on._] “And you’ll not forget the wine, dear Mistress Tagge:
nothing but your old sack—sack without taint of sugar or cow’s
juice—pure milk o’ the grape; and afterwards, if you will, a tankard of
canary with my pipe, just to keep me warm thro’ the long night. And as
for the angels, count on ’em; if I can, I’ll bring you twice twenty; for
I love an open hand.” [_Shakespeare, going to the door, interjects_,
“‘In others,’ Chettle, ‘in others.’” _All laugh; but Chettle cries_,
“No, no, mad wag,” _as Shakespeare goes out_.]
JONSON:
You unspeakable liar, you; you haven’t two coins in the world to clink
together!
CHETTLE:
That’s the virtue of the promise, thickhead! Ha; Ha! lads! He knows how
to write and how to fight, the great boar, but not how to live. That’s
Chettle’s art. Ben has no kindling fancy, no procreate imagination. I’ll
tell you a secret, lads, a rich secret, a secret of gold; in this world
large promises excite more goodwill than small performances, and praise
to a woman is more than sacks of money. He! he! Oh, the sweet creatures;
how should we live without ’em! And how angry I shall be to-night with
that cozening, lying bookdealer! Ha! ha!
JONSON:
Haven’t you any conscience?
CHETTLE:
No, bully boy, no: I’ve never been rich enough to keep a conscience:
never! With us poor devils conscience is like a court-suit put by for
state occasions and then used as little as may be: we pawn it sometimes
for a dinner. Conscience, look ye, is a jade that still cries “No, no!”
and never helps with brave encouragement: a good defender of the rich;
but a born foe of the poor, laming enterprise. No, no, lad, no
conscience for me; a bad one’s worse than a belly-ache, and with a good
one I’d starve. Conscience is like a shrewish wife (have I touched ye
there, Ben?), as long as you listen to her she makes you miserable, and
when you no longer care for her, why should you keep her? To conclude:
Conscience, boys, is a bogey to frighten the feeble from frolic. Ha ha!
JONSON:
But as a man, aren’t you ashamed to cheat a poor woman?
CHETTLE:
Have at ye again, lad! In this world we all cheat and are cheated. You
cheat the groundlings and orange-girls out of their crosses with a bad
play when they’ve paid to hear a good ’un, and I cheat by giving soft
words instead of coins. And the conclusion! The girls are angry with
you, while my hostess is in love with me. True virtue is good-humour,
Ben: and a pleasant smile’s more than all the commandments.
FLETCHER:
Chettle’s putting up for a saint.
CHETTLE:
And why not, lad, why not? The greatest sinners always make the greatest
saints. Reason: they’ve more stuff in ’em for good or evil and better
wits to shape the mass to a purpose. Reason again. How can you help
others to resist temptation unless you feel the strength of it in your
own flesh?
JONSON:
You are the sum of all sins—a glutton, drunkard, letcher and shameless
to boot: how can you talk of being a saint!
CHETTLE:
Sins of the flesh, my lad, find pardon easier than malice of the spirit;
I’d be a saint to-morrow, but the living’s thin and ye’re all such
unbelieving rascals that ye’d make me misdoubt my own virtue!
JONSON:
Virtue in you would be like a lump of butter in a raging fire, ’Twould
feed the flames!
CHETTLE:
That’s the unbelief in ye, that still keeps me a sinner, a villainous
sinner!
BURBAGE:
At this rate, Chettle, you’ll make us all late. Come, boys, come,
there’s much to do.
CHETTLE:
’Tis a churl would leave a good dinner, but no one would leave good talk
but a chough, and that was good, wasn’t it, Ben?
JONSON:
Like your dinners, Chettle; more to be praised for quantity than
quality, but still——
CHETTLE:
Have with you, lads: I’ve a Court cloak in white sarsenet; the colour of
fear and of conscience, it takes a stain in every weather and from every
touch! Ha! ha! ha!
[_Exit all save Jonson, who calls the drawer by stamping on the floor._]
SCENE III.
JONSON:
[_To drawer._] Bring me inkhorn and paper: I would write.
DRAWER:
[_Wiping the table._] Coming, sir, coming!
[_Exit drawer._]
_Enter Shakespeare._
SCENE IV.
JONSON:
[_Watching him._] What is it? Will: what is it? You wander in and out
like one becrazed—The poisoned dart of old Virgil—Eh? Yet surely you won
your beauty?
SHAKESPEARE:
I have not seen her for weeks.
JONSON:
What have you done?
SHAKESPEARE:
Herbert said he would speak to her.
JONSON:
Well?
SHAKESPEARE:
I have not seen him since.
JONSON:
Humph! Like consequence, like cause.
SHAKESPEARE:
No, no! he’s my friend unwearied in kind offices. If you but knew——
JONSON:
Then why not find him and solve the riddle?
SHAKESPEARE:
I will: I must. To-day; now. [_Goes to door and returns._] But if she
has changed to me—ah, Ben, hope is something; we mortals live by hope.
JONSON:
Hope balanced by despair. Have done with the ague-fit, man!
SHAKESPEARE:
You’re right: I’ll go at once. [_Exit._]
JONSON:
[_Siting dozen again to write._] So honest Trust has always Cheat for
friend.
SCENE V.
_A Room in Lord William Herbert’s lodgings in London._
HERBERT:
[_Unbuckles his belt and gives it with his sword to a gray-haired
servant in livery: takes off his cap with its great jewelled brooch and
throws it on the table._] Has no one come?
BODY-SERVANT:
No one, my lord; but there’s a messenger from Wilton inquiring after
your health.
HERBERT:
My health! Another of your tricks, Longman, I’ll be sworn. You must be
mad: I’m perfectly well.
BODY-SERVANT:
Your lordship had a chill last week and Lady Pembroke made me promise——
HERBERT:
[_Waives him to silence._] Bah, bah! [_The Servant bows and steps
back._] I expect a lady this afternoon; the same who came the other day:
you know, tall and dark; bring her to me here, and then you are free to
write to my lady mother and tell her I have a tingling ear—the right
one—don’t forget. [_The Servant bows and retires backward. Herbert
recalls him._] And, Longman, tell the other servants I’m not to be
disturbed. [_Exit Servant. Lord Herbert goes over to a mirror and
arranges his slight moustache, runs his fingers through his hair, then
picks up a sword and makes imaginary passes with it; at length takes up
a book, throws himself into a chair and begins to read. A few moments
pass; a discreet knock is heard at the door. Miss Fitton enters, Herbert
reads on, till she stands before him and puts her hand on his book. He
jumps to his feet._] I am sorry, Mary. [_Kissing her._] I did not hear
you. I was reading an old love-story, the story of Achilles and the
Siege of Troy. Won’t you sit?
MISS FITTON:
And our love-story is not a month old. A month ago and you would have
been waiting at the door for me; but now—— [_Sighs._]
HERBERT:
I was waiting there to-day; but you are very late, and one cannot play
sentinel for ever. Have you heard the news? No! Lady Joan instead of
curing Lacy, has caught his trick of speech, and her quaint words and
demure air set everyone roaring.
MISS FITTON:
We women are all ape-like in our loves; I catch myself repeating your
words like an echo: I wish I had been born a man—Heigh-ho! But there’s
another piece of news—
HERBERT:
What’s that?
MISS FITTON:
The Queen has heard that Lady Jane Wroth gives her lips too easily: she
has locked her up for a month on bread and water.
HERBERT:
Joan’s rather pretty, don’t you think? with great child-eyes; but
shy—who’s the happy man? Essex or Egerton, I’ll be sworn.
MISS FITTON:
A newer lover, I hear, and one nearer to the Queen’s heart—young William
Herbert.
HERBERT:
I? Never, never. Oh! a kiss in passing—a mere courtesy——
MISS FITTON:
You are incorrigible!
HERBERT:
I am. How can I help it? I can’t love the rose and scorn the lily. Every
woman tempts me; but after all Mary is best [_tries to take her in his
arms, but she draws away_], for Mary is hardest to win, and I love her——
[_Kisses her._]
MISS FITTON:
[_Yielding._] What fools we women are! I know you don’t love me; but I
cheat myself you do, and the slighter the proof the more I fondle it.
What double fools, for when I would be true and brave and free, you lean
your head upon my breast, and the mother in me makes me your slave; my
blood turns to milk; I am all tenderness and take your desire for love.
We are so foolish-fond—wretched creatures!
HERBERT:
Not much to choose between us: Come, Mary, here are your tables; since
you gave them to me I haven’t kept you waiting once: now have I? [_Puts
them on the table._]
MISS FITTON:
No, and twice you have waited for me. If I could be sure you loved
me—sure—[_A knock is heard at the door_] Who’s that?
HERBERT:
I don’t know; I gave orders——[_The knocking is repeated._]
MISS FITTON:
I must not be found here; where? where——
HERBERT:
[_Pointing to the door_, R., _and whispering._] That door will take you
out. Come to-morrow at the same time. You will? [_Smiles as Miss Fitton
says “Yes” and goes; he returns towards door_, C.; _the knocking is
repeated_.] Come in there; come in. [_Shakespeare enters._] Oh, it’s
you, is it?
SCENE VI.
SHAKESPEARE:
Unbidden; but not, I hope, unwelcome.
HERBERT:
No, no. Come in and be seated. I was half asleep, I think.
SHAKESPEARE:
We have not tasted life together for days and days.
HERBERT:
’Tis true; not since my quarrel with Raleigh. How the old limpet clings
to place. He has just come to new honours, I hear: she has made him
Governor of Jersey. Curse him!
SHAKESPEARE:
With honour one can always buy honours.
HERBERT:
[_Laughs._] Yes! the singular is more than the plural.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Hesitatingly._] When I last saw you I begged your voice. Did you see
her?
HERBERT:
I did. I wanted to speak to you about it; but it’s not—pleasant.
SHAKESPEARE:
Not pleasant!
HERBERT:
I did my best, talked of your talents—all to no effect. Girls are queer
monkeys!
SHAKESPEARE:
No effect!
HERBERT:
[_Looking in the mirror._] I mean, though she admires you infinitely,
she cannot love you.
SHAKESPEARE:
Cannot love me? Mistress Fitton!
HERBERT:
Who else?
SHAKESPEARE:
She told you she did not love me?
HERBERT:
[_Looking at his profile._] She did.
SHAKESPEARE:
Strange!
HERBERT:
Why strange?
SHAKESPEARE:
She does love me.
HERBERT:
[_Waving the mirror._] Admire, yes; but love, no!
SHAKESPEARE:
Love, yes!
HERBERT:
Friendship, affection, love if you will, but—but—not passion.
SHAKESPEARE:
Passion.
Herbert:
[_Throwing down the mirror._] Do you mean to say——
SHAKESPEARE:
Yes.
HERBERT:
[_Indignantly._] What! What! Ha! Ha! Ha! The damned young minx!
SHAKESPEARE:
Why do you call her minx?
HERBERT:
Because—because she lied to me.
SHAKESPEARE:
No other reason?
HERBERT:
None!
SHAKESPEARE:
What object could she have in deceiving you, as to her love for me, you,
my friend?
HERBERT:
[_Carelessly._] In faith I don’t know—a girl’s whim, I suppose.
SHAKESPEARE:
Strange—a girl seldom denies her love—and Mistress Fitton has courage.
Most strange!
HERBERT:
Well, you must ravel out the tangle at some idle moment; it’s too knotty
for me. Have you seen Chapman’s “Iliad”? I’ve just been reading it: ’tis
as fine as Homer; don’t you think?
SHAKESPEARE:
I am not learned enough to judge.
HERBERT:
I hear you met Bacon the other day. What did you think of him?
SHAKESPEARE:
I know him too little—he’s Jonson’s friend—she denied me, you say, to
you?
HERBERT:
She did. But now I must dress: you’ll forgive me.
[_Takes up his sword-belt and buckles it on: looks for his gloves and
cap. Shakespeare in the meantime moves to the table and catches sight of
the tablets which Herbert has thrown down._]
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Picking up the tablets._] Oh, my divining soul! [_Turns to Herbert._]
I pray you, of your courtesy; when did you see Miss Fitton last?
HERBERT:
[_Arranging his doublet before the mirror._] Yesterday, to-day. Why?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Showing tablets._] When did she give you these?
HERBERT:
Those? where did you find them?
SHAKESPEARE:
She gave them to you?
HERBERT:
Mary Fitton? Yes.
SHAKESPEARE:
And _you_ took them, knowing they were my gift to her?
HERBERT:
How could I know that?
SHAKESPEARE:
She told you. You must have asked where the verses came from: she hates
verses, and loves truth—truth!
HERBERT:
Don’t take it so tragic, man. A girl’s kiss, no weightier than a breath.
SHAKESPEARE:
A girl’s kiss, and a friend’s faith. No weightier than a breath.
HERBERT:
In love and war, none of us is to be trusted.
SHAKESPEARE:
So!
HERBERT:
It wasn’t all my fault——
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Taking hold of him, and watching his face._] Not your fault! What? She
tempted you—[_Herbert nods_]—and who could resist her? she tempted you!
Oh, let her rot and perish and be damned; the foul thing! I am cold with
loathing.
HERBERT:
I don’t want to put the blame on her; it all came naturally; but you
must not think I went about with intent to deceive you.
SHAKESPEARE:
She tempted you; when? The first time you saw her; the very night I
asked you to plead for me?
HERBERT:
I don’t wish to excuse myself; you know how such things happen. We
danced; she dared me to wait by her when the Queen came; of course I
waited—oh, curse it!
SHAKESPEARE:
She dared you. That rank pride of hers the pride that ruined angels and
unpeopled heaven! The foul temptress! Damn her, oh, damn her!
HERBERT:
Pride’s no fault.
SHAKESPEARE:
No fault! She swears love to me and then to you; kisses me and kisses
you—no fault—she loves the slime that sticks to filthy deeds.
HERBERT:
You believe her when you’re with her; she seems true.
SHAKESPEARE:
O, the world hath not a sweeter creature. She might have lain by an
emperor’s side. Hang her! I do but say what she is. The public commoner!
HERBERT:
Don’t blame her, she’s so young.
SHAKESPEARE:
And so fair! Such courage, strength, wit, grace, gaiety. God! Had she
been true one would have pawned the world for her. And now——
HERBERT:
You take it too tragic.
SHAKESPEARE:
Too tragic! I have lost all—joy, hope, trust—all gone; my pearl of life;
my garden of delight!
HERBERT:
Think, man: it’s not the first time she has slipped, she doesn’t pretend
it is.
SHAKESPEARE:
The pity of it; ah! the pity of it! The sky is all soiled: my lips,
too—my hands—ah!
HERBERT:
Why can’t you be a man, and take what’s light lightly!
SHAKESPEARE:
Only the light do that! [_To himself._] Is it wrong to kill those light
ones?
HERBERT:
You would not hurt her.
SHAKESPEARE:
No! That’s true. I could not hurt her sweet, white flesh. God, how I
love her! I’ll tear out that love! Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it:
all dirtied, all. But I’ll not be fond!
HERBERT:
Why not? she loves you; she said so: it’s true, most likely.
SHAKESPEARE:
Trust’s dead in me: she has killed it. I think of her, and shudder—the
sluttish spoil of opportunity. Faugh!
HERBERT:
Put it out of mind, and it’s as if it had not been.
SHAKESPEARE:
You’ll marry her?
HERBERT:
I wouldn’t marry an angel.
SHAKESPEARE:
And yet—she loved you—kissed you—gave herself to you: Damnation!
HERBERT:
You make too much of it!
SHAKESPEARE:
Too much! I trusted you, your honour: bared my heart to you——Ah! the
traitor wound!
HERBERT:
Forgive us both and forget: Come. [_Puts his hand out._]
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Shrinks back._] Words, words!
HERBERT:
I never meant to hurt you.
SHAKESPEARE:
That’s the Judas curse! They know not what they do; but it’s done. I had
two idolatries—my friendship for you; I loved your youth and bravery!
And my passion for her, the queen and pearl of women. And now the
faith’s dead, the love’s befouled.
HERBERT:
In a little while hope will spring again and new love.
SHAKESPEARE:
Never, my summer is past! The leaves shake against the cold.
HERBERT:
What can I say? What can I do?
SHAKESPEARE:
Nothing: I must go. [_Turns to the door._] You have your deeds to live
with. [_Exit Shakespeare._]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT IV
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SCENE I.
_In the “Mitre” Tavern._
SHAKESPEARE:
[_To Ben Jonson, whom he finds sitting._] Good morning, Ben. Has Burbage
left?
JONSON:
He’s gone to the theatre; he will be back, anon. You’re all to go to
Court, he says. Do you play?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Indifferently._] I don’t know: I hope not. [_Drawer enters and gives
Shakespeare a letter._] Will you forgive me?
JONSON:
[_Shakespeare reads._] I’ll wager that’s from Chettle, asking you to pay
his reckoning. [_Shakespeare nods._] But you won’t do it. No one
deserves help less.
SHAKESPEARE:
Those who deserve it least, Ben, often need it most.
JONSON:
Need! He is all needs; he but uses you—shamelessly.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Looking at the letter and smiling._] He signs himself “the old
roisterer who won’t trouble you long.”
JONSON:
“The old roisterer” at your expense.
SHAKESPEARE:
I owe him what money can never pay [_takes out his purse_] his jokes and
humoured laughter. He warms me with his hot love of life, and living.
[_Gives Drawer gold; exit Drawer._
JONSON:
I’ve no patience with you. You play prince-fool with everyone and you’ll
suffer for it yet.
SHAKESPEARE:
Prince-fool, indeed. Which is the better title, I wonder:—prince or
fool? [_Shakespeare goes to window; opens lattice and looks out._] Hush;
hark! [_Opens the door, listens; shuts it again._] Curse her!
JONSON:
Be careful of your money, man, and the world will let you play both
parts at will.
SHAKESPEARE:
Money! What is money to me?
[_Returning into the room again and moving about and then going to the
casement._]
JONSON:
Everything, Will, shield and sword; back and front piece. [_Shakespeare
turns round listening._] You are love’s plaything, Will.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Stopping in front of him._] Love lives on love, Ben; the less she
gives me the less I crave. When I saw her every day it was too little,
and now I see her twice a month, I’m no longer her slave. ’Tis not worth
while to befool oneself for so little.
JONSON:
[_Shrugging his shoulders._] H’m. You’re not cured yet!
SHAKESPEARE:
Hush! [_Hastens to door and listens, opens it;_ _drops his hands in
despair, shuts it again, turns into the room._] Damn her!
JONSON:
Love, you know——
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Stops in front of him._] Is it love or hate? Sometimes I hate
her—sometimes she is coarse to me, obstinate and vain, soulless as a
drab, sometimes [_Puts his hands to his face._] the rose of women.
[_Throws himself in a seat._] I pass my time in waiting for her,
thinking of her: I am degraded into a brute-desire. She writes, “I will
be with you in an hour,” that is three hours agone; she is not here yet,
and may not come to-day; damn her!
JONSON:
Why don’t you work; put her out of mind: forget her?
SHAKESPEARE:
Forget! work! That is the worst of her, she kills my work, and yet she
quickens life in me. When we sacrifice ourselves for some one, Ben; when
we give too much; we grow to hate her! ... Is it not shameful of her to
tease me so? [_Goes to window again and looks out._] The slut! [_Sits
down again._]
JONSON:
They say a man gets the woman he merits. I have a shrew, a scold,
constant and jealous like the itch; you a wanton, mad with pride. Yet we
could be free if we would; we are afraid to hurt them, Will; that’s
it—afraid. What fools men are!
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Starting up._] I wish she were here, I’d hurt her——
JONSON:
Hark; she comes! I’ll not spoil sport.
[_Exit by door_, L.
SCENE II.
[_Some one knocks at door_, C.; _Miss Fitton enters dressed in a man’s
cloak and hat._]
MISS FITTON:
Am I late?
SHAKESPEARE:
Late! I have been here for hours, walking up and down like a beast in a
cage, listening for the step that never comes. When Hope has died and
the ashes are cold, you come.
MISS FITTON:
Perhaps I should not have come: would that have been better?
SHAKESPEARE:
I don’t know: I am worn out with waiting.
MISS FITTON:
[_Half turning to door._] I can go.
SHAKESPEARE:
You fiend! [_Goes to her and takes her head in his hands, holds it back,
and kisses her on the lips again and again._] Kiss me! Put your arms
round me. Ah! [_Takes a long breath._] What a wretch you are! I was
afraid you had forgotten altogether and would not come!
MISS FITTON:
It was hard to come. [_Throws open her cloak, shows her dress._] See, I
was on duty. Jane Wroth was ill: I had to take her place: as soon as I
was free I threw on this cloak and hat and came. I didn’t wait even to
tire myself: [_Pats her hair._] I must be hideous.
SHAKESPEARE:
You were to have come on Monday and didn’t come: for hours I walked to
and fro outside the Court—madness and I—a pretty pair—you would do well
to fear us. But now—take off that hat and cloak.
MISS FITTON:
[_Takes off the hat; takes up a hand-glass and looks at herself; lays it
down._] I must be gone soon.
SHAKESPEARE:
What? You are but come, and already speak of going. Come, then.
[_Puts his arm around her and draws her towards the inner door, that,
when open, shows a bedroom._]
MISS FITTON:
No, no; time fleets. I must go soon: it is impossible. Let us talk here.
SHAKESPEARE:
You are the bellows and the fan to my desire: yet as soon as you see the
flame, you shrink and leave me.
MISS FITTON:
[_Regarding him curiously._] It is hard to please you now.
SHAKESPEARE:
You don’t try often—nor long.
MISS FITTON:
[_Shrugs her shoulders._] You make it hard for me to come again.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Goes and kneels at her feet as she is sitting, and puts his hands on
her waist._] Why don’t you try to cure me another way? Why not come and
give yourself to me, till, surfeited with sweet, the appetite may die?
That is the cure of love. Cure me like that!
MISS FITTON:
It might take long. But I like you better as you are now.
SHAKESPEARE:
Do you! Ah! [_Putting his head back._] If you knew the maddening hours I
spend, longing, waiting, hoping, fearing, you would pity me. There is a
martyrdom in love. I live in purgatory; burning now with hell’s fevers,
and now my fiend comes and my dungeon, flame-lit, is more lovely-fair
than Heaven. When you have gone the air will sing of you; I close my
eyes and hear the rustle of your garments, and [_putting his hands to
his face_] on my hands there lingers the perfume of your beauty. [_He
buries his face in her dress, then rises gravely._] You once said love
would keep love; I love you, Mary, to madness.
MISS FITTON:
[_Rises, too._] I am fond of you, too; do not doubt it.
SHAKESPEARE:
Come, then [_putting his arm round her and drawing her towards the inner
room_], and I will be what you like; one short half-hour——
MISS FITTON:
[_Frees herself._] No, no; I must be gone. What time is it? I must be
back before the dinner; I must.
SHAKESPEARE:
You make me hate you! To be refused and shamed.... My first thought was
right.
MISS FITTON:
Your first thought?
SHAKESPEARE:
That damned boy!
MISS FITTON:
Herbert! [_Hurriedly._] I have not seen him for days and days. Has he
been here?
SHAKESPEARE:
He’s not likely to come here. Damn him!
MISS FITTON:
[_Takes up her hat and begins to put it on; she puts her hair right with
the hand-glass and then moves to the door and takes up her horseman’s
coat from the settle; all this while Shakespeare sits with his head on
his hand. She moves across and stands beside him, and then puts her hand
on his shoulder._] You make it hard for me to come! You are so
moody-sullen. What would you have me do?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Looking down._] Love me, that’s all [_As if to himself._]—it isn’t
much. Give me love’s ecstasy, the joy that beggars thanks; the life that
is divine. Love is my mortal sickness, love!
MISS FITTON:
You should rouse yourself: you are moody.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Looks up smiling._] Mad, you would say; why not? It goes with “bad”
and “glad” and “sad”—good words all! Do you know how first I came to it?
I will tell you. Sit there and let my eyes feed on you. [_Miss Fitton
sits near him._] Strange; you are more desirable now than when I first
knew you. Then I saw faults in you; now your faults all sharpen
appetite. As I look at you it all comes back—that first day in Whitehall
when the morning air was warm like milk and the wavelets danced in the
sun. Do you remember how we sat and kissed, each kiss longer than the
last? [_Mistress Fitton bows her_ _head._]... I went the other day to
the same spot by the river—I was alone and desolate—but of a sudden you
came—[_she turns to him in wonder_] yourself, of grace and pride
compounded, like a queen, and I touched your hair, and every separate
hair a sin of multiple desire; I drew down your face and your lips clung
and kissed as no lips ever kissed before. Then of a sudden you were
gone, and I was awake—alone. Since then I have prayed to go mad again,
to hold you, and so be mad for ever, lips on lips——[_Mistress Fitton
rises._] What are you doing?
MISS FITTON:
[_Takes up cloak._] I must go, Will; I must, indeed. I am late now.
[_Holds the cloak to him._]
SHAKESPEARE:
What! Now! You have been but a moment... [_He drapes her in the cloak._]
Perhaps it is best so. [_She turns to the door._] You will come again
soon?
MISS FITTON:
Soon. But I want to hear you laugh as you used to laugh and turn all
things to humour and gaiety!
SHAKESPEARE:
Come soon, and I will clown it—soon! [_She goes, nodding to him from the
door._] Soon.
SCENE III.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_While Shakespeare stands at gaze Ben Jonson enters._] It is the end, I
think—the end. [_Turns to the room._] What weak curs we are, Ben: I beg
her to come soon; yet I wish she were dead!
JONSON:
A proud patch, that; she’s not likely to die soon: the devil takes care
of his own.
SHAKESPEARE:
She’s proud, indeed; but why do you miscall her?
JONSON:
We were there in the yard as she passed, three or four of us: the yard
was dirty: she picked up her clothes and walked past us as if we were
posts. Shapely legs she’s got.
SHAKESPEARE:
Shapely, indeed. Damnation!
JONSON:
Why did she go so soon?
SHAKESPEARE:
Duty at Court, she said.
JONSON:
A convenient excuse. Why came she so far for so little? I’d seek another
reason.
SHAKESPEARE:
Another reason? Speak plainly, man, like a friend.
JONSON:
Plainly, then, it’s said she visits Herbert in that horseman’s cloak.
’Twas Hughes spread the thing: he knows.
SHAKESPEARE:
Herbert! Damn her!
JONSON:
Put her out of your head, man. Violet’s worth a dozen of her. Put her
out of your head and think of weightier things. You are to play at Court
this afternoon, and Burbage says the Queen will make you Master of the
Revels if you ask for it. I wish ’twere mine for the asking.
SHAKESPEARE:
It irks me to ask favours of her: her hands are red with blood.
JONSON:
For your friends’ sake, Will, if not for your own: Burbage wants it, all
of us; it would strengthen us, and we need it. The preachers grow louder
against us every day, and the old cat is breaking fast; she won’t last
long. Burleigh and all of them are in weekly letters with James. Ask
boldly, man; once in the place you are there for life.
SHAKESPEARE:
I will do my best. But I am glad I’m not on the stage. I hate the public
show: I am in no mood to play bear or dog.
[_The clock strikes one._]
JONSON:
Well, I must be gone or my vixen will bite. Good luck, Will, and don’t
forget you must be our Master under the Lord Chamberlain. Your friends
expect it of you. [_Exit Jonson._]
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Takes out a copy of “The Merry Wives,” reads it for a few moments,
then throws it down._] It is all sickening to me. I can write nothing.
The love of the work has left me: the love of life, too: when she went,
all went—ambition, hope, everything.... Damn her! How maimed and sore I
am!...
[_After a few moments the clock strikes two; a moment later the door
opens and Miss Fitton comes in; he starts up as she enters._]
MISS FITTON:
Have you heard? Herbert’s in the Tower.
SHAKESPEARE:
For what crime?
MISS FITTON:
For loving me, I suppose.
SHAKESPEARE:
You don’t expect me to weep?
MISS FITTON:
I thought you might do something; get Southampton or one of your friends
to ask for his release. It is only her temper!
SHAKESPEARE:
And you? What will you do.
MISS FITTON:
I am banned from Court; supposed now to be on my way home. If she knew I
was still here and for what purpose, there is no suffering she’d spare
me. Yet I stay for pride, I think, and for the danger.
SHAKESPEARE:
And to see him again.
MISS FITTON:
No, that’s done with. But I want him free, not punished.
Shakespeare:
You love him still; why do you pretend to love me? You can’t love two
men.
MISS FITTON:
Can’t I? I don’t know. You are so different.
SHAKESPEARE:
What do you mean? You can’t love us both.
MISS FITTON:
He dominates me and I you. He hurts me and I hurt you, and yet I can’t
bear you not to love me. I do love you, Will, really; you heal me when
he has bruised me. You make me proud again and he humiliates me. I don’t
want to see him ever again. But I don’t want him in prison, and I know I
can ask you to help him. I wouldn’t ask any other man; but you I can
ask; you are the soul of kindness.
SHAKESPEARE:
Why did you give him my tablets?
MISS FITTON:
I gave him more—much more. And now I have to face——
Shakespeare:
“More?”
MISS FITTON:
More than men dare or dread; we women always lose more than men.
SHAKESPEARE:
So you know love’s penalty—you poor child!
MISS FITTON:
I suffer, if that’s what you mean; but the suffering will pass. My
courage rises to the need: the world is wide; the roads run free. What
will be, will be. One mistake never ruins a man’s life, and one mistake
shall never ruin mine. Next summer the sun will shine again and the air
be young and quick; I have no fear. [_Turns to go._] Farewell, I’m for
the road. [_Mistress Fitton turns to go._]
SHAKESPEARE:
You will come back. We shall meet again!
MISS FITTON:
[_Turns to the door, and turns back again._] It is hard to say; we’ve
played at cross-purposes, Will; but we all wound and are wounded in
love’s lists; yet, after all, love is the soul of life.
SHAKESPEARE:
A great game; and you are a great player, the greatest I shall ever
know. [_Takes her hand and kisses it._] Of many thousand kisses this
poor last. [_Exit Miss Fitton._]
SCENE IV.
[_Burbage, Marston, Dekker and Fletcher burst in._]
BURBAGE:
Great news, Will, great news! The Queen’ll hear us in “The Merry Wives
of Windsor” to-night in full Court. Now use your wit, my lad, and you’ll
be Master of the Revels, and our licence’ll be safe and we’ll all come
to honour and riches!
DEKKER:
He counts his hens in the shell always.
FLETCHER [_To Shakespeare, humming._]:
“Why so sad, singer, why so sad?
Girls were deceivers ever—
One foot in Court and one on Stage,
To one love constant never!”
SCENE V.
_The Throne Room at Court._
[_The Queen enters, with train of ladies, lords, and counsellors, and
takes the throne; Burghley, small and deformed, dressed in black, is on
her right._]
THE QUEEN:
The play was well enough. [_Turning to Burghley._] My Lord Burghley,
have you heard from our cousin James? Has he punished those raiders yet?
LORD BURGHLEY:
He’ll give us every satisfaction, your Majesty, except what costs him
money.
THE QUEEN:
A mean spirit and a long tongue; he had the one from his father, the
other from his mother. And Essex? How does he bear his disgrace?
LORD BURGHLEY:
He chafes and talks loud; it’ll all end in talk. But he should not be
strengthened, Madame; the time’s unsettled and for that reason I’d pray
your Majesty to release Lord Herbert; he’s young and well liked of the
common——
THE QUEEN:
Keep to your own business.
LORD BURGHLEY:
[_Bows low._] Shall I write to the King of Scots imposing a penalty?
He’s responsible for disorder.
THE QUEEN:
I’m tired to-night.
LORD BURGHLEY:
Your complexion’s brilliant; you look your best.
THE QUEEN:
Ah! You think so. What’s this?
[_Lord Lacy and Lady Joan come forward and bow low. Lord Lacy advances
holding Lady Joan’s hand._]
THE QUEEN:
[_To Lacy._] What is it? Speak.
LACY:
Oh, Dazzling Luminary, Glorious Orb of Britain whose radiant beams
diffuse in all our hearts the light of loyalty, the warmth of
admiration: most gracious, wisest Mistress, permit your most obedient,
loyal servitor to approach your throne with humblest imprecation.
THE QUEEN:
If the prayer, my lord, be worthy of its dress, ’Twill need our realm to
content you. But give it words, man, plain words.
LACY:
Most Mighty Regent, you distress me! I approach your queenly presence
robed in vestments of State out of reverence for Britain’s Majesty, and
in the same spirit I would use orphrey’d phrases sewn with pearls of
speech, and you ask me plain words.
THE QUEEN:
Let’s have ’em jewelled if you will; but what’s your want?
LACY:
The jewel of this realm, indeed: the prize of all this nether world, the
diamaunt of distinction——
[_Bows and waives to Lady Joan._
THE QUEEN:
What! That Chit!
LACY:
Oh, Arbitress of Fate! I supplicate your Sovereign Power! enrich me with
a word; set joy-bells ringing with a gest of grace and fill my heart
with heavenly gratitude.
THE QUEEN:
[_To the girl._] And you? Shall he wear you? It misdoubts me the gift’s
already given!
LADY JOAN:
[_Curtseying to the ground._] Oh Fairest Vestal, Mirror of Beauty, Pink
of Perfectness: I would requite my Lord with dutiful affection——
THE QUEEN:
I was sure you would, and with a dozen brats as well.
LADY JOAN:
’Tis only stars and our great Queen can live alone.
THE QUEEN:
[_To Burghley._] I hate women’s praises; they’re always feigned and
false! [_To Lacy._] Do you hold the wedding in our Court, my lord?
LACY:
Rectress of Action! On bended knees and with a lowly heart I implorate
your Majesty, let us withdraw from the blinding light of this world’s
Sun and hide our joys in sylvan shade where hours go softly by.
THE QUEEN:
The wedding should be here; afterwards you can go to your estates; does
that please you, girl?
LADY JOAN:
My beseechings flow to my lord’s desire——
THE QUEEN:
By God’s Body, they are both mad; have it as ye will; [_To Lady Joan_]
but when you come again your beseechings, as you call them, may flow in
another direction. [_To Burghley._] Did ever Christian hear such
phrases?
[_Lacy and Lady Joan bow and retire._
LORD BURGHLEY:
The girl’s worse than the man!
THE QUEEN:
Saw you any fashion, my lord, which my sex does not exaggerate? The
woman has taken the infection from the man, but in the weaker body the
fever rages most wildly——
SCENE VI.
THE QUEEN:
“Her beseechings” forsooth—I’m very weary! [_The Players enter and stand
grouped by the servants at the end of the Hall._] Ah! there are our
players. Well, let that one approach who wrote the piece—I mean—Ach! I
forget his name! [_Turns to Lord Burghley._] Those common names are so
hard to remember.
[_The servant goes down the Hall and brings Shakespeare to the Queen. As
Shakespeare bows low the Queen looks at him, but doesn’t speak for some
time._]
THE QUEEN:
[_Breathing heavily, as if tired._] You wrote the piece?
SHAKESPEARE:
To please your Majesty!
THE QUEEN:
[SLOWLY AND WITH DIFFICULTY.] I did say something about it; I’ve
forgotten what—I—Yes—Oh, I wanted to see the fat Knight in love, and you
wrote this “Wives of Windsor” to show it: ’tis not ill done, but the
Knight was better in the earlier piece, much better; the story better
too. Still, I wished it, and now—They say you’re witty, and rhyme well,
and would make a good Master of the Revels to save my Lord Chamberlain
there—some labour——
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Bows low._] I thank your gracious Majesty with all my heart, and
should be proud to serve in any place; but——
THE QUEEN:
[_Starting up._] But!—But! The fools are all mad to-night. But what?
SHAKESPEARE:
I would prefer to private gain what our great Queen herself desires—
THE QUEEN:
[_Leaning back again._] And that is? He, he! You’d be more than wizard
to divine what I don’t know.
SHAKESPEARE:
I had a friend, your Majesty, most dear——
THE QUEEN:
What’s that to do with me, man? Say what you want and make no speeches;
I’ve heard enough speeches to-night to last me a lifetime.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Kneeling._] I beg for freedom, your Majesty, for my Lord Herbert:
mercy for his youth——
THE QUEEN:
[_Sitting bolt upright._] Did ever one hear the like? My dog will school
me next! You forget your place, man.
SHAKESPEARE:
I am nothing, gracious lady, but a voice to the pity in your heart: the
meanest born may beg for mercy——
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes; ’Tis mightiest in the
mightiest.
THE QUEEN:
[_Laughs loud._] Ha! ha! ha! The player’s turned preacher. Ha! ha! Hark
you [_She beckons him nearer._] Your tongue’s too long; I’ll have it cut
if it wag so boldly.
SHAKESPEARE:
He loved you well, ma’am, and often spoke of all your greatness. His
faults are youth and madcap daring.
THE QUEEN:
I care not. When we’re hurt, we strike. He was kind to you, you say, and
so you speak for him; he cheated me——
SHAKESPEARE:
And me of all I loved and left me desolate.
THE QUEEN:
Ha! And you plead for him. Faugh! Even the cur snarls at those who beat
him. Learn spirit from your dog!
SHAKESPEARE:
Ah! madam, we learn sympathy from suffering, pity from pain!
THE QUEEN:
[_Wearily leaning back in her throne._] Do we? I don’t. [_Pause._] I’m
weary! You can go now, man; go, I say! [_Shakespeare bows and moves
towards the body of the hall; after a pause the Queen rises and takes
Lord Burghley’s arm._] I’m weary—weary! [_All bow; Queen goes out on
Burghley’s arm._] Very weary!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE EPILOGUE
SCENE I.
_Shakespeare’s bedchamber in his house at Stratford. The master is
seated in a large chair close to the bed. A small table stands near the
head of the bed. His daughter Judith is in the room; as the curtain goes
up she goes to the door and admits Jonson and Drayton. She will scarcely
look at them, and soon after leaves the room._
JONSON:
[_Going quietly to bed._] We came to see you, Shakespeare, before we
return to town.
DRAYTON:
We were so sorry to hear you were ill. But what’s the matter?
SHAKESPEARE:
My joy at seeing you both: the cup of wine last night; our great
talk—have set the old candle guttering.
JONSON:
It isn’t what you drank; you were most temperate.
SHAKESPEARE:
I have poor unhappy brains for drinking: one cup, you know, was always
too much for me.
DRAYTON:
It must have been the talk, Shakespeare; you drank nothing. But I never
dreamt you were so weak; you used to seem strong enough.
SHAKESPEARE:
I was never strong, I think. Even as a youth any excitement robbed me of
sleep and made me fanciful, and of late years I have only been well when
very quiet—when the thin flame is lanterned from every breath [_with a
gesture_]. But what matters it? If the candle goes out there’s an end.
JONSON:
I blame myself for having overtired you. But you talked wonderfully—as
no one ever talked before, I think, and I could not pull you up; now I
blame myself.
SHAKESPEARE:
There’s no blame possible. It was a great night; one of the greatest
nights of my life. But give me more news: I seem to have heard nothing;
are the boy-players still followed?
DRAYTON:
No: the fashion’s changed. There’s some talk of having girl-actresses to
play the girls’ parts on the stage, as they do in France.
JONSON:
A mad proposal. It would bring the theatre into worse repute than ever,
and give the Puritans a handle for attack.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Smiling._] The pretty children! Now at sixteen they all wish to be
nuns or nursing sisters: then they would not know whether to be nuns or
actresses, and they would be sure to confuse the duties: if they acted
they’d try to do good to their hearers, and if they tended the sick they
would want pretty dresses and a crowd of spectators to admire their
devotion.
JONSON:
Ha, ha! Excellent.
DRAYTON:
Come to London soon, Shakespeare. We all miss our gentle peacemaker and
his wit.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_With deprecating gesture._] Tell me everything. Are there any new
poets, new theatres? Do the Puritans disturb you? Here in my house my
daughter puts preachers to lodge as soon as I go away for a week or so:
to purge the air, I suppose, of my sinful presence.
JONSON:
There’s no great change. Pembroke is in greater favour than ever; he’s
Lord Chamberlain now, and sends me money each year to buy books.
SHAKESPEARE:
Alms to escape oblivion.
[_Leans back wearily and closes eyes as daughter re-enters room._]
DRAYTON:
[_To the daughter in a whisper._] He’s not dangerously ill, is he?
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:
[_Tartly._] Doctor Hall says father is very ill.
JONSON:
[_Holds out his hand._] Oh, I am sorry, too sorry. Our visit has done
you harm.
SHAKESPEARE:
No need for grief. Our life is but a breath— A rack of smoke that at the
topmost height Dislimns and fades away.
JONSON:
Not so, dear friend: the work remains. And of all men you should be
content, for your work has already put you among the immortals.
SHAKESPEARE:
We are immortal only when we die;
It is the dead who steer the living—
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:
[_To Jonson._] Oh, please! you must not make him talk; it was the talk
last night gave father the fever. Doctor Hall says talk excites him even
more than wine.
JONSON:
Then we must go, Shakespeare, but I never thought we’d go so sadly. I
can only hope now that the illness will be short and that you will soon
be yourself again.
[_Shakespeare droops and does not answer._
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:
I must get your medicine, father. [_She goes out._
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Half wandering._] So she’s well and married. I’m glad!
JONSON:
Who?
SHAKESPEARE:
Mary—Mary Fitton. A great woman.
DRAYTON:
And beautiful!
SHAKESPEARE:
When she left me my hopes went down for ever. Strange! At first I didn’t
suffer much; it’s the scratches hurt, not the death-wound; but as the
years went on I suffered: it was always ill with me here about my heart—
Yet I see now she was a wonderful piece of work—a great woman—she made
me sound the depths.
JONSON:
And Pembroke? He didn’t touch you so nearly?
SHAKESPEARE:
No. His was the poison of daily life; the small, hard nature, the low
betrayal. It was well to forget him. But she was too great to be
forgotten. There was something immortal in her, and I loved her.
JONSON:
I wonder you did not kill them both.
SHAKESPEARE:
No, no, Jonson: that is your nature, your violent nature. We all must
suffer through the best in us: the mother through her child; the lover
through his love; the wise through his wisdom—these are the growing
pains of our humanity.
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:
[_Enters again with medicine in her hand._] Now, father, you must take
this medicine. Sir [_to Drayton_], the doctor says that father must be
kept very quiet.
JONSON:
[_Taking Shakespeare’s hand._] Then, Shakespeare, all good wishes and we
go. Farewell, old friend, farewell.
DRAYTON:
[_Also taking Shakespeare’s hand._] Good-bye, dear friend, good-bye! I
shall have news of you from my brother who passes this way next week,
and will tell us in London how you do. Farewell.
SHAKESPEARE:
Farewell. Farewell! I thank you both for coming, and all your offices of
friendship and your courtesy. Keep me in loving memory.
DRAYTON:
We shall, indeed! [_Exit._]
JONSON:
Always. Always. [_Going out he adds._] So long as this machine lasts.
SCENE II.
_His will is outspread now on the table by the bed._
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:
[_To Shakespeare._] My sister’s downstairs and wants to know if you have
altered the will.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Wearily lying back._] Yes—yes. Ask her to come up. [_Judith goes to
door and calls._]
MISTRESS HALL:
[_Comes in. To Judith._] How tired he looks! Run at once for my husband,
see if you can bring him: I think he’s very ill. [_Judith hurries to the
door and goes. Shakespeare lies with his eyes shut. Mistress Hall goes
to him._] Do you hear me, father?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_With closed eyes._] Yes.
MISTRESS HALL:
You have altered the will?
SHAKESPEARE:
[_He bows his head._] Yes.
MISTRESS HALL:
I hope you have given something good to mother in it. She’s been so good
to us.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Opens his eyes._] Yes.
MISTRESS HALL:
Years ago she may have been jealous; but she has never left us for an
hour. You must forgive, you know, if you hope for forgiveness.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Very low voice._] I know.
MISTRESS HALL:
And you must think we love her as you loved your mother.
SHAKESPEARE:
[_Half wandering._] Ah! My mother! The gentlest, sweetest—the noblest
mother in the world! I often call to her as if she were still here, and
feel her hands upon my forehead. I think I’ll sleep now. The long day’s
work is done! [_Closes his eyes in death._]
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:
[_Enters._] The doctor’s coming.
MISTRESS HALL:
[_Looking at Shakespeare._] I am afraid he’s dead, Judith.
JUDITH SHAKESPEARE:
[_Sobbing on her knees._] O! Father, dear, dear, dear— [_Rises from her
knees at the bedside._] Oh, Susanna, look! he’s happy; look! he’s
smiling.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PRINTED BY A. BONNER
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=The
Man Shakespeare
and His Tragic Life Story=
=BY FRANK HARRIS=
AUTHOR OF “MONTES THE MATADOR,” “THE BOMB,” ETC., ETC.
Canvas Gilt, 448 pages, 7/6 net
Over 6,000 lines of favourable criticism of this book have appeared
in the Press of this country since publication.
=A FEW EXTRACTS=
“By far the most original, suggestive, and brilliantly conceived writing
on Shakespeare that our times have known, or are likely to know.”—_The
Nation._
“Nobody who cares for fine literature, however indifferent he may be to
Mr. Harris’s main thesis, should pass this book by. As a thesis we call
it a brilliant and fascinating _tour de force_. As a book concerned with
the greatest poetry we assign to it critical merit of the first order.
In both aspects we predict for it a permanent importance.”—_The Saturday
Review._
“This work appears to us the most original and, in some ways, the most
illuminating criticism of Shakespeare that has ever been written.”—_The
Westminster Gazette._
“Mr. Harris has written a book with which all students of the
Shakespeare mystery will have to deal; he has opened a line of study
that was practically unknown.”—_The Outlook._
“It must have been Tolstoi who inspired Mr. Frank Harris to write
this brilliant, this amazingly ingenious book on Shakespeare....
This is a splendid, even a magnetic book written with a magnetic
inspiration.”—_The Observer._
“A very remarkable contribution to our knowledge about Shakespeare.”—W.
L. COURTNEY in the _Daily Telegraph_.
EDITION DE LUXE
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=PRICE ONE GUINEA NET.=
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FRANK PALMER, Red Lion Court, London
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Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, =2=s. =6=d. net.
WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS.
=A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS.=
By ARNOLD BENNETT.
“We rejoice to see published in an independent volume Mr. Arnold
Bennett’s stirring and mordant play, ‘What the Public Wants,’ which we
noticed here on its first production in London. It is far the
best—indeed, the only very good—modern English play with a subject drawn
from the life of journalism. And, unlike some plays that act well, it is
uncommonly good reading.”—_The Manchester Guardian._
“It reads even better than it played, and it is hard to put it down
until one has come to the end. It is also very nicely printed and
bound.”—_The Pall Mall Gazette._
----------------------------------------------------------------
Crown 8vo, Gilt, =2=s. =6=d. net.
=CUPID AND COMMON-SENSE.=
=A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS,
With a Preface on the Crisis in the Theatre.=
By ARNOLD BENNETT.
“Though neither so interesting or so important as the play itself, the
introduction by which Mr. Bennett prefaces his work is a discourse full
of pointed remarks about the present state of the drama, the bad
business of which all theatrical managers complain, the inexhaustible
growth in the younger generation of new expectations from the theatre,
and the promise of new spirit in play-writing. Mr. Bennett holds that
the boards of the future will belong to those who follow in the wake of
Mr. Bernard Shaw. His piece, accordingly, an ably-constructed,
well-observed, interesting and thoughtful play of four acts, in plain,
modern prose, without any sort of smart dialogue, other theatrical
ornaments, treats its theme as that writer might be expected to treat it
were he less witty and less ironical than at his best he is.... The play
reads well, and reads as if it would prove still more effective and
enjoyable when acted. The stage would be healthier if such pieces were
more commonly to be seen there than they are.”—_The Scotsman._
----------------------------------------------------------------
=FRANK PALMER, Red Lion Court, London.=
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that:
was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Shakespeare and His Love: A Play in Four Acts and an Epilogue" ***
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