WILL SHAKESPEARE
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WILL SHAKESPEARE
OF
STRATFORD AND LONDON
WILL SHAKESPEARE
OF
STRATFORD AND LONDON
A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS
BY
MARGARET CROSBY MUNN
> , • >
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1910
Copyright, iqio, by
MARGARET CROSBY MUNN
All rights, including dramatic rights, reserved
by Margaret Crosby Munn
Published, May, 1910
To
George Frederick Munn
M18S576
APOLOGIA
To the Spirit of William Shakespeare
If the light of an obscure Imagination
Has touched for a moment some aspects of
Your Veiled Life,
Let its reverent apology be that the dream,
Whether false or true, was unsought,
And that it was noble enough not to be allowed
To perish unrecorded.
The vital and illuminated portrayal of Hamlet
of Johnston Forbes-Robertson was the direct in-
spiration of this play. In some subtle and inexplic-
able manner the genius of the actor revealed to one
listener, at least, the heart and soul of Shakespeare,
even more, if possible, than that of Hamlet, and so
to my friend, the Player, I record my grateful ac-
knowledgment.
M. C. M. ■
WILL SHAKESPEARE
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY
William Shakespeare
Earl of Southampton
Earl of Essex
William Herbert (called Lord Herbert, after-
wards Earl of Pembroke)
Sir Thomas Lucy
Bailly — Chief Constable of Stratford
Taverner — Second Constable of Stratford
Foulke Sandells j Friends of the mother of
John Richardson j Anne Hathaway
Swaief^ \ Stratford Lawyers
Heminge ) R
Greene ) J
£?Dumpser } Pages of Southampton
Mistress Elisabeth Vernon, cousin of the Earl
of Essex.
Anne Hathaway, afterwards Anne Shakespeare
Countess of Rutland
Lady Bridget Manners, daughter of Countess
of Rutland
Phillida: Gentlewoman in waiting to Elizabeth
Vernon
Lords, Ladies, Players, Gentlemen-in-wait-
ing, Pages, Constables, Yeomen, Huntsmen,
Pikemen and Villagers.
ACT I
The Caging of the Phoenix
1582
A Forest Glade in Charlecote Park, the coun-
try-seat of Sir Thomas Lucy, near Stratford-on-
Avon.
ACT II
The Flight
1586
Interior of the home of Shakespeare in Strat-
ford-on-Avon
ACT III
[Twelve Years Later]*
The Lure of Elisabeth
May, 1598
The Inner Court of the London House of the
Earl of Southampton.
ACT IV
The Pyre — The New Phoenix Rises from
the Ashes
June, 1598
The Terrace and Garden of the Country
House of the Earl of Southampton.
The action of the play takes place between
the years 1582 and 1598.
Four years are supposed to have elapsed be-
tween Acts I. and II.; twelve years between
Acts II. and III. ; four weeks between Acts III.
and IV.
ACT I
THE CAGING OF THE PHOENIX
1582
ACT I
THE CAGING OF THE PHOENIX
1582
Scene: \A Forest Glade in Charlecote
'Park, the country seat of Sir Thomas Lucy,
near Str at ford-on- Avon. A background of
forest vistas. At left back a stream, sug-
gested by low sloping banks. At left front
the tangled roots of great oaks and beeches,
and small rocks and mounds of moss appear
above the sloping ground. Forest trees
Hank each side of the stage. At the right,
between an avenue of trees there is a space
of greensward and then more trees. The
whole scene suggests a remote sylvan soli-
tude. The glimpses of sky and the long
shadows indicate that the hour is near sunset.
A man's voice is heard at left. Before the
curtain rises men's voices are calling loudly
to each other.)
2 WILL SHAKESPEARE
TAVERN ER
[From a distance.]
Where Away? Bailly! I'm lost!
BAILLY
[Enters clambering over roots and rocks
at left front.]
I'm here, come on !
TAVERNER
[Nearer.']
Come where?
BAILLY
Here Fool!
TAVERNER
[Enters stumbling and climbing with
difficulty over the roots, etc.]
Well said, but fool no more !
BAILLY
How will you compass that ?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 3
TAVERNER
[Groaning.] My back! My legs!
When young I wished to be a forester.
My father balked my will. [Still stumbling
and clambering.] These twisted roots
And knife-edged rocks have won my mind
to his
More than five years of well-planned argu-
ment!
This poaching lad may trap and catch and
kill
The deer, the fish, the birds of Charlecote
Park
Till all this Forest-land is still and void,
But I'll not hunt him more! I'll be no more
A constable. I'll tell Sir Thomas so.
I will resign.
BAILLY
Resign? You speak with courage!
What shall you do for work? How live?
How eat?
4 WILL SHAKESPEARE
TAVERNER
Think you I'll be a constable forever?
/ have ambitions. I'm an ambitious man.
I'm going to be a miller! Look through the
trees
[Enter from back six or seven yeomen
armed with pikes and staves.']
Where come our Guard!
[Taverner goes to meet yeomen and
they greet each other.]
BAILLY
No parleying, my friends.
Bestow yourselves deep in the wood's green
heart,
Crouch in the underbrush, hide behind rocks;
Be very still and secret, but be keen.
We'll keep this place — Go you to right and
left,
So every point be guarded quite, and when
You hear three whistles, let you loose to me,
Like gulls that swoop together to one spot
WILL SHAKESPEARE 5
Upon the sea, where floats the silly fish.
Be off!
THE YEOMEN
Ay surely, sir.
BAILLY
Stay not too near.
Note well ! Be hidden, and He close to earth,
So your dun doublets and green caps and
cloaks
Mingle with leaf and earth and grow to-
gether.
Be off, remember well my words!
[The yeomen go to right and left and
back and disappear. Voices are
heard at left. Bailly listens.']
What's that?
TAVERNER
A woman's voice. No fear!
BAILLY
A hopeless fool!
Deep voices sound between the higher tones-—
6 WILL SHAKESPEARE
A flute and two bass-viols! Some gypsy-folk
Wander the wood, seeking to pitch their
tents.
They'll not stop here; these trees are massed
too thick.
We'll hide, and when they pass we'll keep
our watch
Until the deer and does come down to drink;
Then shall we catch our stag.
[Goes to back as voices approach.]
Be quick! They come!
[Bailly and Taverner disappear entirely
amidst the trees at back, , Enter has-
tily Anne Hathaway followed by
Foulke Sandells and John Richardson,
both elderly men, through the clearing
where the stream is supposed to flow
at left back.]
ANNE HATHAWAY
[Turning indignantly on Sandells and
Richardson. .]
Let me alone ! Why do you follow me ?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 7
SANDELLS
Why do you follow him ?
ANNE
Why question me?
You well know that I will not answer you.
I scarce escaped the village street this noon,
When in the lane that leads to Charlecote
wood,
Your shadows fell upon the sunny road
Before my eyes. Your footsteps followed
mine.
At qvery turn I looked and hard behind
Panting for bseath, with curious eyes, you
came.
This wood is free to rest or walk or — weep.
Yet in this solitude you spy me out.
'T is infamous! ,
RICHARDSON
Your mother bade us come.
That is our warrant. That our whole ex*
cuse.
8 WILL SHAKESPEARE
If such needs be. [to Sandells.~\ An open
question, Foulke?
This wood is free, as Anne most justly says!
For us to stray in — as it is for her.
SANDELLS
Your mother bade us come and bring you
home.
ANNE
[Scornfully.']
My mother dreams !
RICHARDSON
To wake you from your dream!
That you a woman grown and ripe in years
Should spend your life in wasteful worship of
A Boy! — ev'n worse, a pestilential thief!
A Law-Defier, — twice whipt and once in
prison.
An empty purse — an empty house — an
empty head !
Beggared in all that makes life rich and
full
WILL SHAKESPEARE 9
Yet of such mad and wanton mirth fulness,
That he goes singing through the village
streets
His eyes oft skyward fixed, his step so light
That one might dream he'd chanting mount
to heaven,
Like any meadow-lark! ... a public
shame !
SANDELLS
Anne, he speaks truth; you must give up this
lad.
RICHARDSON
This marriage shall not be, your mother
swears.
See him no more. See that you give him up.
ANNE
[With restrained anger.]
How then resign that one possesses not?
There is no thought of marriage. I am free.
io WILL SHAKESPEARE
RICHARDSON
You play with words. To what does dal-
liance lead?
[They both draw near her where she
stands in centre. ]
Before you we would place the steely shield
Of our protection. Lead you to solid ground.
And all this may be if you give him up.
ANNE
[With intensity of anger and drawing
back toward left; they follow. ,]
For once, I'll speak, Sandells and Richardson.
Does it protect me that you spy on me,
Distract my only hour of quietness,
Tear from my heart its sacred woman's veil
And peep upon its bleeding? O I could
laugh
If anger did not make me nearer tears!
Beggared he is? What of it? We are rich.
An empty head devoid of all but song?
My head counts pennies all day long at home !
WILL SHAKESPEARE n
Place me on solid ground? I know no
ground
That's firm except my love. It bears me
well.
[Advances swiftly toward the two men
who draw away terrified.]
Go tell my mother I obedience owe
To none. I cannot be coerced or led —
And opposition to my fixed will
Turns all my blood to poison in my veins.
Hate of your meddling consumes me now —
Go — go — my rage is mounting to my brain,
Hardening my heart. Had I been left alone
Good might have come. Peace to my moth-
er's life,
Prosperity to him I love. . .. . All's
gone!
[Turns to left back and flings herself
down near one of the moss-covered
mounds and leans against it, covering
her face with her hands, trembling.
Sandells and Richardson stand con-
fused in centre watching her."]
12 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SANDELLS
Shall we speak more?
RICHARDSON
Since that she was a child,
Her mood once turned to anger changes not.
SANDELLS
We'll go.
RICHARDSON
I'll tell her mother what she says.
SANDELLS
Facing her anger all my mind was changed.
RICHARDSON
The truth she spoke cut deep into my heart,
And made our studied preachment lies.
SANDELLS
Suppose — she marries him? What harm
would come?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 13
In very truth her mother's rich for three.
He might quit poaching if his purse were full,
And we'd be free from warding of the maid !
RICHARDSON
The mating of an eagle and a hawk!
Cage him and he would die, and she would
plunge
Her talons in his heart. This should not be!
She is a woman too — these fifteen years —
He — in the very prime of callowness!
SANDELLS
There's no solution else.
RICHARDSON
[Hastily.] She's stirring! Let us go!
SANDELLS
It is the way of wisdom!
i4 WILL SHAKESPEARE
RICHARDSON
Follow me!
We'll all rehearse unto her mother. Come!
[Exit — Richardson and Sandells softly
at left front.]
ANNE
[Raising her arms with a wild gesture.]
Will! Will! Will! Will!
[She again buries her head on her arms
and lies stilL A pause follows. The
greensward between the long avenue
of trees at right is more brightly
lighted by sunlight than the centre
and left of the stage which is more
shaded by the trees. At the furthest
end of this sunlit avenue a youth
about seventeen or eighteen years old
enters. His air is that of joyous irre-
sponsibility. He comes to front very
slowly with a loitering step, constantly
stopping and looking up into the trees
as if watching the birds. He has a gun
WILL SHAKESPEARE 15
and fishing-rod and tackle slung on his
back. About half-way down the ave-
nue there is a clump of fiowers grow-
ing at the foot of a large tree. He
stops and bends to look at them.
Then he lifts off his gun and fishing-
rod and lays them on the grass behind
the tree. He gathers the fiowers and
after carefully examining them he
kisses them and puts them in the belt
of his doublet and goes on slowly to
front. All the while he is singing.']
SHAKESPEARE
[Sings.]
O love me not when I am dead!
[When low lies heart and head.]
O praise me not when I am gone !
[The years are hastening on.]
The crowns of love and happiness
That would my eager spirit bless,
Give to me now, nor do thou wait
Until it be too late, too late!
16 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[While he sings he pauses frequently to
stoop and look at flowers and herbs,
and then goes on again. He comes to
front and turning to cross, sees Anne
Hathaway at left back. He raises his
hands and lets them fall in half-
amused, careless surprise.]
Again the stormy Anne!
[Goes nearer.]
How low she lies, poor Petrel ! Beaten down
Into the deepest hollow of the waves
By the wild tempest she herself creates.
I'll blow my gentlest breeze and bring a calm !
[He goes softly to back and bends over
Anne, standing beside her so that his
face is seen.]
She's sleeping! — While her face is wet with
tears
And wrung by violence within — Sleep!
Sleep !
Poor tortured soul ! In thy sea-depths
There lies the Pearl of Peace — while thou art
still
WILL SHAKESPEARE ly
'Twill slowly rise, milk-white and luminous
And spread a tranquil balm! Sleep! Sleep!
[He withdraws and goes toward the tree
where his gun is lying. Before he
reaches it, Anne stirs and raising her
head sees him. She hurriedly rises —
stands irresolutely, — then smoothes
her hair with her hands and goes
toward Shakespeare who does not yet
see that she has waked. ]
'anne
[In a slightly supplicating tone.]
Will! [then louder] Will!
SHAKESPEARE
[Turning quickly.]
Your sleep was short. Pray Heaven it was
sweet.
ANNE
[Coming nearer to him.]
Why are you wandering in the wood to-day?
18 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
I have a tryst.
ANNE
[Impulsively, and with suspicion.']
A tryst? What village maid
Pursues you to the heart of Charlecote Park?
SHAKESPEARE
[With simplicity and humor.]
None Anne, save you.
ANNE
[With impatience.]
Men make not trysts with men.
SHAKESPEARE
With no man's son am I pledged here to-day.
ANNE
[With growing irritability.]
You veil the truth with double answering.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 19
SHAKESPEARE
[With mischievous simplicity.']
I speak the simple truth. Nor doth maid nor
man
Entice me here. [Anne looks relieved.]
And yet I trysting come!
[Anne again is angry.]
The truth perturbs your mind. Let me
try Fancy now.
[He speaks with mystery, drawing close
to her.]
A Dryad haunts this wood; she loves a Faun.
Her steps tread down the earth beneath her
feet
As do a Queen's the footstool for her state.
Her parted, burnished, brown-gold, curling
hair
Shadows her whitest forehead and her brows
Lie sternly level over proud, deep eyes,
That know their rule over men's roving
hearts.
Her lips, a rose's petals, nobly carved,
20 WILL SHAKESPEARE
•Fulfil her eyes despotic ravishing:
And with her comes the fragrant, woodland
breath
Of sylvan glades recessed, and hidden pools
Where she has loved and dreamed through
thund'rous nights.
ANNE
[With fierce jealousy. ]
You speak of a real woman. Is't not true?
SHAKESPEARE
Who is more real than she of whom I dream ?
Last night by starlight I lay musing here
She fled to me and wept. Her faun was
false, /
A Nixie's thrall. Her vengeance I've as-
sumed.
The Faun and I will fight at set of sun.
Ev'n now I think I see his leaf-crowned head
Peering upon me from behind that oak,
And hear the drawing of his bow —
[He advances with sudden swiftness to
WILL SHAKESPEARE
21
'Anne and takes her arm and points to
a tree at right near front.']
There! There!
ANNE
[Who has listened and looked as if un-
der a spell, screams and hides her face
on his arm.]
0 pity— save me! I am terrified.
SHAKESPEARE
[First laughs lightly — then as she moves
from him and he sees her frightened
face he becomes grave.]
1 ever am at fault with you. I thought
To bring your smiles. Instead, I rouse your
fears.
[Still more gravely.]
My idle fantasy must not delay
Your homeward-tending steps. See! The
sun sinks!
Your mother watches for you; you must go.
[He leads her gently to left and she, as
22 WILL SHAKESPEARE
if still under a spell, yields. Suddenly
she stops and again speaks with sus-
picion.']
ANNE
True, it is late. Why then stay here alone?
SHAKESPEARE
I never am alone.
ANNE
[Violently. 1 You falsify!
I spied you quite alone this very hour.
SHAKESPEARE
A vast procession endlessly defiles
Along the tortuous avenues of my brain.
This wood would be the highway of the world
If they should throng its aisles. Lovers and
queens,
Kings, courtiers, fairies, maids, spirits of
earth,
And Heaven, are crowding here.
[Touches head.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 23
Some not far day,
They'll steal into my heart and live.
ANNE
[With dense bewilderment.']
My word!
I understand you not.
SHAKESPEARE
Delay you not.
ANNE
With hard discourtesy you drive me hence.
SHAKESPEARE
Not so. But have it so if so you will.
[Urges her gently to leftJ]
ANNE
Cruel! You suffer not — you know not grief.
SHAKESPEARE
I suffer, yet am not unhappy, Anne.
How pertinently you half speak the truth.
24 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ANNE
Danger still hedges you. Your father
mourns —
He is no more an alderman, 'tis said.
SHAKESPEARE
They've dragged his robe of office from his
back
That was so straight with pride; for a just
fine
Last week he could not even four pence pay.
ANNE
I'll pay his fines. Such trouble should not be.
[She takes out her purse and offers him
money.']
SHAKESPEARE
Put up your purse. I'll slave or sin for him,
But I'll not weep! Something is singing
here —
[Touches breast.]
That hidden in this fooling life I lead,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 25
There is a magic, and a mystery
Waiting some kiss of fate to spring to birth
And wrap me in its glow and ecstasy.
That is reality — this mere trifling play.
[Anne listens bewildered.]
Go now. No longer stay your steps. Go
now.
ANNE
You are a boy. Yet in your eyes and voice
You are a master, and I must obey.
[Exit Anne. Shakespeare leads her
away and then returns and springs
gaily toward the tree behind which his
gun and fishing-rod are lying.]
SHAKESPEARE
Come now, my trysting deer! My father
waits
Hungering sore. My trespass wins him
strength.
I'll seek my traps hid deep in brush and
brake.
26 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[Exit Shakespeare carrying gun, etc., at
left back near stream. The sound of
horses and carriage approaching by
the grassy avenue at right is heard.
A little boy's voice speaks, just out of
sight. A travelling carriage somewhat
splendid in color and ornament is
driven into the grassy space between
the trees at right. The postilions turn
on their horses and watch while the
door of the carriage is Hung open and
a little boy about nine years old tries
to get out. Two men inside the coach,
dressed in the most fashionable cos-
tume of the period, try to prevent his
alighting. He wears a courtier's cos-
tume of pale blue satin with a plumed
hat, and curls of golden auburn fall on
his shoulders.]
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON
[Struggling with the two men.~\
I pray you, gentlemen, hinder me not!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 27
I'll walk awhile beside the stream.
[He frees himself and springs out of
the carriage.]
FIRST GENTLEMAN
[Follows him.'] My Lord,
Lord Burleigh waits for you at Kenilworth.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
[Also getting out of carriage.]
We are in honour bound to hasten there
And place you in his arms without delay.
SOUTHAMPTON
My guardian tells his wishes all to me,
And I obey them — when my pleasure suits.
Then he is happy too and all is well.
[Looks up the river and claps his
hands.]
I see a darling swan that slowly floats
Just — just beyond the turning of the stream !
[Both the gentlemen roughly take his
hands and try to lead him back to the
carriage.]
28 WILL SHAKESPEARE
FIRST GENTLEMAN
Come, come, Lord Southampton, the car-
riages
Outstrip us by five miles. We must press on.
[Southampton shakes himself free and
speaks passionately.']
SOUTHAMPTON
I tell you if my Guardian were but by
He would be happy if I rested here
In this dear wood. I would be here alone.
£ To postilions."]
Drive on a little space. Quite out of sight.
[The carriage drives on just out of
sight.]
[To Gentlemen.]
Follow the carriage, you, else I shall tell
Lord Burleigh how you laid rough hands on
me.
But if you will be kind and grant my wish
[Coaxingly.]
My little, little wish, I'll silence keep.
My word of honour!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 29
[The two gentlemen who have looked
alarmed, confer together and then fol-
low the carriage, first bowing low.}
FIRST GENTLEMAN
Humbly, we obey.
[Exit gentlemen. Southampton stands
in centre. Shakespeare enters from
left back carrying gun in his hand.
He stops in surprise at the sight of
Southampton who looks at him with
the same surprise.']
SHAKESPEARE
More beautiful than was my Dryad! Gods!
He is not real ... I know he is not
real!
SOUTHAMPTON
Who are you? Will you shoot me with your
gun?
I've read of robbers— [Co mes closer.]
May I see your cave?
If you will hide me there, be very sure
My guardian will a royal ransom pay.
30 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
How exquisite, how fair his fashioning —
Heaven's own best make! How tripping
sweet his speech!
Lovelier than all my dreams ! He must have
strayed
From some far, magic palace.
[With half mocking gaiety.']
Little Prince
Of Fairyland, my gun is but a toy
That I do sometimes — play a little with —
As you yourself do sometimes play, mayhap,
With that most splendid sword slung at your
side.
Tell me, if it so please your gracious will,
Whence do you come and whither do you go?
SOUTHAMPTON
You speak as did the players at the Queen's
Great birthday feast last year, — but gentlier.
I go to Kenilworth. I come from London.
SHAKESPEARE
How rudely he dissolves my dream; And
yet
WILL SHAKESPEARE 31
The charm remains! Merely to Kenilworth
He goes!
SOUTHAMPTON
I'm tired of Kenilworth! Instead
I would stop here with you in this green
wood,
Swim in that deep, clear stream, follow its
curves
And touch the whitest feather of that swan.
Then gather flowers wild and sweet, like
those
You wear. The loveliest I've ever seen!
SHAKESPEARE
[Removing flowers from his belt.]
Will then your Highness take with you these
flowers?
The only homage I can offer now !
I heard once, or perhaps I — merely —
dreamed —
Of one sweet, weakling soul — She drowned
for grief! —
32- WILL SHAKESPEARE
Who gathered flowers like these, — it may
ha,ve been —
And gave them ev'n as I do now, — and told
Their names with fancies such as these —
[He gives the flowers one by one to
Southampton.]
Here is
Tender Forget-me-not, and here Narcissus,
'T was named for him who died in ages
gone
For love of his own beauty. So might you.
And Violets that mean Love and Death —
and one
Small, sweet, Blush -Rose to nestle at your
heart.
[Southampton looks bewildered at his
words but takes the flowers.']
SOUTHAMPTON
[Looking at flowers.]
Lovelier than those they plant in Kenilworth !
SHAKESPEARE
In Kenilworth what pastimes will refresh,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 33
And with what royal comrades shall you
meet?
SOUTHAMPTON
I'll play at Bowls and Tennis and I'll see
The Lady Bridget Manners.
SHAKESPEARE
Bridget Manners!
Sweet powers of Melody! But what a name!
Manners should mate with — something musi-
cal!
But is she kind, this Bridget? Does your
suit
To her fare sweetly? Unfold now your heart.
SOUTHAMPTON
[Pouting.] She flouts me.
SHAKESPEARE
Ah! How more than passing strange
That any little maid so hard should be.
34 WILL SHAKESPEARE
When I a man am wax to my heart's core
With one note of your voice's piercing sweet !
{Enter from right back, timidly, the two
gentlemen in waiting.]
FIRST GENTLEMAN
[Humbly. 1
My Lord of Southampton, the hour is late.
SECOND GENTLEMAN
Indeed, we fear Lord Burleigh's wrath, my
Lord.
The while this woodland hind stands parley-
ing.
SOUTHAMPTON
I'll keep my promise, and I will come now.
[The two gentlemen look at Shakespeare
rudely.']
Salute this gentleman. He is my friend.
He gave me these sweet flowers and he
speaks
WILL SHAKESPEARE 35
Something as does the Queen, when she com-
mands
And every one obeys.
[The gentlemen unwillingly bow, remov-
. ing their hats, and Shakespeare re-
turns the bow carelessly but with equal
courtesy. Southampton holds out his
hand to Shakespeare who takes it in
his and kisses it.~\
You have been kind
To me — I wish I could be kind to you!
SHAKESPEARE
Remember me, when to your Fairyland
You come.
[Exit Southampton and the two gentle-
men in waiting at right back. Shake-
speare stands gazing after them as if
in a dream. The sun-light has grown
'dimmer and more golden. "A crackling
sound is heard in the bushes by the
stream at left back. Shakespeare
'draws his hand over his eyes as if he
36 WILL SHAKESPEARE
were waking from sleep. Then with
his gun in his hand, held ready to
shoot, he steals swiftly and silently to
the stream and crouches down by the
bushes, in sight of the audience, close
to where the sound is still heard. A
pause.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Speaks softly.]
It is a doe! I'm sorry for't.
I can't betray the curious innocence
Of those broad brows, that gentle, liquid
gaze.
I'll catch it with a noose and take it home;
And when my father's hunger's fierce within
him,
If that he will, he'll kill it for himself.
So — So —
[He unlooses a rope slung with his fish-
ing tackle and making a noose throws
it and catches the doe and leads it
toward the front centre of the stage.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 37
From the back, from behind the most
distant trees, Tavemer and Bailly
rush forward and catch Shakespeare
by the arms. Shakespeare still holding
the leash flings them both off and with
the doe runs to back. Bailly puts his
whistle to his lips and whistles once
loudly.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Laughing as he begins to run, after
throwing off the two men.]
A merry chase! Your sturdy legs
Against my long ones!
[Immediately after Bailly blows his
whistle, three or four constables and
yeomen run forward from behind the
trees at back. Shakespeare sees them
and turns abruptly to left. Bailly
whistles a second time and two or three
more appear from left near the stream.
Shakespeare turns to right but as he
runs toward it Bailly whistles a third
38 WILL SHAKESPEARE
time and several more run forward at
right All surround Shakespeare.}
SHAKESPEARE
Ah! Fm caught! Fm caught!
[He struggles with the men and throws
them off."]
The odds against me are by far too strong.
But you, at least, shall go unhurt and free.
Go little Gentleness!
[He releases doe and pushes it toward
left back toward the stream. The doe
slips between the yeomen and disap-
pears at the same spot where it first
appeared. Taverner has been scram-
bling to his feet and rubbing his back
and head. He rushes forward as the
men again seize Shakespeare, ]
TAVERNER
Disarm him! Bind him!
[To Shakespeare, shaking his fist in his
face.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 39
You Infamy! You murderous young Fiend!
You threw me down! Flung me, a man of
Place
Upon the ground! Bind him without delay.
[The men hesitate and then tie Shake-
speare's hands behind his back, after
taking his gun, etc., from him.
Shakespeare submits. He wears an ex-
pression of alert but impersonal in-
terest in what is happening.']
BAILLY
[Coming forward.]
Why do you bind him? He cannot escape.
A CONSTABLE
*T was Master Taverner commanded us.
BAILLY
That's foolishness. Unbind forthwith his
hands.
[To Taverner.]
It shames strong men to bind a slender youth.
[The men obey.]
40 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[Smiles. To Bailly.]
Why, Sir, you have a fine sense of propor-
tion,
And I thank you.
[He shakes hands with several of the
men in succession.]
Well met Colin, — Robin —
Tame hunting for you, friends, with twenty
hounds
Full cry upon a solitary hare!
[Enter hastily Sir Thomas Lucy from
back, accompanied by a farm bailiff,
yeomen and huntsmen. All make way
for him. He looks about the group
and sees Shakespeare.]
BAILLY
Sir Thomas Lucy !
SIR THOMAS
[To Bailly.]
You have trapped your stag!
Your whistles borne upon the evening air
WILL SHAKESPEARE 41
Came to the open meadows where I walk
At close of day, and told the game was
caught.
[Goes to Shakespeare and speaks
sternly.']
Your thieving vagabondage now shall cease.
No more in Stratford nor in Charlecote Park
Shall you, a public nuisance, go at large.
You shall be whipt again, — prisoned again, —
And when your term of durance has an end
You shall be banished from this country
side
To wander outlawed in some distant land.
SHAKESPEARE
[Earnestly, as if agreeing with him.]
Most wisely said! Yet sterner than is need-
ful.
[While Sir Thomas speaks, Anne Hatha-
way has re-entered at left, followed by
Sandells and Richardson. All three
look anxious and agitated. Anne hears
all that Sir Thomas says. As he stops
.42 WILL SHAKESPEARE
speaking she goes swiftly to Shake-
speare with a cry of intense grief. ]
ANNE
All this I could have saved you from ! Ah me !
[She sinks at his feet, fainting. Shake-
speare and Sandells bend over her and
try to revive her. One of the con-
stables brings water from the stream
in a cup.']
SIR THOMAS
Who is this woman ?
RICHARDSON
'T is Anne Hathaway,
Daughter of Richard Hathaway —
SIR THOMAS
Of Shottery.
If memory serves me, right he died last year;
I held him in my high esteem and trust:
WILL SHAKESPEARE 43
A prosperous man. — How comes his daugh-
ter here?
What is this out-at-elbow scamp to her?
RICHARDSON
Your Worship, "Tis a most unlucky case.
She loves him, and is fain to marry him.
SIR THOMAS
His bride shall be the chain that fetters him.
RICHARDSON
[Insinuatingly.']
If that your Worship would a moment
hear — !
[Sir Thomas silently assents.]
RICHARDSON
Tis one of those strange cases that defy
The will of man— th' opposing of events.
She loves him and is fain to marry him.
She may not be turned from him. But in
truth
Her mother's rich in gold and loves her child!
44 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Anne's of full age — in fact these long years
past!
If Will were freed, she'd surely marry him.
If that the penalties your Worship names
Could be transformed by magic of your will
To fines, that could be paid in solid coin
To be disbursed for prospering the town
She'd gladly pay them all. Sandells and I
Come now from conference in the wood with
her.
Hearing the turmoil, we returned together.
SHAKESPEARE
[Who has overheard what Richardson has
said, starts away from Anne Hatha-
way and draws near Sir Thomas and
Richardson.']
Enough! I'll bear my punishment alone.
SIR THOMAS
[To Shakespeare.]
Silence is seeming in a prisoner.
[To Richardson, in a lower tone.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 45
There's wisdom in your thought; but there's
no edge
In money that will clip this Eaglet's wings.
[Shakespeare seems about to speak,
when Richardson silences him by a
gesture.']
RICHARDSON
[Aside to Sir Thomas.]
If you will grant me, sir, a moment's speech
With this unruly youth, my words may tame,
Where whips and bars have maddened to
more wildness.
SIR THOMAS
Most willingly.
[Richardson goes to Shakespeare and
draws him to front centre.]
RICHARDSON"
Listen! Here is your chance.
The last youth offers you. An open door
46 WILL SHAKESPEARE
To freedom, honour, peace, prosperity.
Anne's heart is yours, why not your life for
her?
Her mother will consent, to silence tongues.
If these things do not move your will per-
verse,
Bent on mere wantonness of idling sport; —
Think of your Father where he mourning
sits,
Bereft of place and fortune ere life's close.
Before it be too late repair his loss,
And bring a happy end to all this pain.
[Shakespeare listens with close but im-
personal attention.]
SHAKESPEARE
I would these things could move me; they do
not.
[At this moment Anne wakens from her
faint and moans. Richardson goes to
her and Shakespeare turns to look."]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 47
ANNE
Alas, Will!
[Shakespeare starts, goes to her, and
bends over her. Anne looks up at him
piteously and speaks with intensity.']
Banished. Then life's stopped for me !
So let me die.
[Shakespeare looks at her with pro-
found pity. Then he slowly moves
away from her toward front. fAs Anne
sees him go she moans again, holds
out her hands toward him with a des-
perate movement and then sinks back
in apparent unconsciousness. Shake-
speare stands in front looking for-
ward."]
SHAKESPEARE
Imprisoned I was free-^
Though caged, my steps were never turned
aside
From that free Highway of the Soul, whence I
48 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Looked forth upon the Vision of the World,
And up into the Treasury of Heaven.
But there are airless prisons of this life,
Where living men and dead are chained to-
gether :
Where white-winged birds are caged with
beasts that crawl
And burrow in the slime. Such do I fear;
Such are some marriages that I have known.
The flower-covered traps — Gold and Re-
pute—
They catch me not. Even my father's grief
Does not compel the bondage of my life
That dimly knows the trailing comet's flight.
[With a sudden change looking toward
Anne.]
But this poor woman — beaten, torn and
crushed
By violence of passion, by her unsought —
A helpless target, struck in th' core of being
By the barbed, wandering shaft of Love —
She calls — she calls for largesse from my
heart !
WILL SHAKESPEARE 49
\_A short pause. ]
There is a blindness in the soul of man
When all the Powers of Darkness have their
way.
We dream — we wake — and Life belies our
dream.
T was perfect — and there's nothing here to
match it.
Yet ever onward must we fare and live,
And act; blindly spring forward in the dark,
Or rot in self -reproachful, base inaction.
What is my outer life worth now to me?
Whipt, prisoned, banished, all because
I play with any passing toy for joy of being,
And for the lack of — Stars and Goddesses!
[The sun sinks out of sight.]
That blindness — It is on me now —
Only one path to tread, one thing to do.
A worthless life! But if it save another's,
And make it bloom, it has some right to be.
[He goes quickly to Anne, and kneeling
on one knee beside her, takes her hand.
She wakens and looks at him. He
50 WILL SHAKESPEARE
speaks lightly and with gracious court-
esy.']
If that a life so tattered and so slight,
So out of all repute held good by these, —
[Indicates the group standing near — Sir
Thomas, Sandells and Richardson.']
Can mend and strengthen yours, why then —
'tis yours.
ANNE
What do you mean? I do not understand?
[Sandells and Richardson look de-
lighted.]
SIR TH0MA9
[Laughing.]
Wise Youth! He chooses Marriage Bells,
instead
Of clanking chains. Kisses for stinging
lashes.
ANNE
[In dazed wonderment.]
You'll marry me?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 51
SHAKESPEARE
It seems my destined fate :
And I believe that one day it shall be.
[Yeomen and constables crowd around
shaking his hands and smiling.']
SIR THOMAS
With this most fortunate conclusion, Friends,
Let us each homeward go. The twilight
falls.
To-morrow in the town we'll ratify
With pen and seal what here is merely speech.
[All go out of wood at back and left.
The yeomen and constables first. As
the younger yeomen go, they sing.]
Song.
Sunlight dietfi,
Daylight flieth,
Homeward now!
Leave the furrow, leave the plough,
Rest beneath the bending bough.
52 WILL SHAKESPEARE
After toiling,
Rugged moiling,
Follows rest.
Homing swallows find the nest,
Find we each the True-Love's breast.
By the gleaming
River's streaming,
Waits the maid.
Dost thou linger ? Art aff rayed ?
Hasten! Clasp her — undismayed!
[Then follow Sir Thomas Lucy and the
farm bailiff. Then Sandells and Rich-
ardson. Shakespeare has helped Anne
to rise to her feet. She looks revived
and seems to question him earnestly
and he to answer. At last she smiles
and turns to follow the others.
Shakespeare stands motionless as if in
deepest thought.]
ANNE
[Holding out her hand.]
Come, Will!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 53
[Shakespeare turns quickly and takes her
outstretched hand and they go to-
gether a few steps. Then Anne stops
suddenly. 1
You say that you will marry me,
But will you love me?
SHAKESPEARE
I'll be patient with you.
Be patient then with me.
[They go on a little further. Shake-
speare turns and looks toward the oak
to which he pointed when he spoke of
the faun with whom he was to fight.]
Farewell my Dryad!
[They go.]
[Yeomen repeat second verse of song
softly, in the distance, as the curtain
descends.]
After toiling,
Rugged moiling,
Follows rest.
Homing swallows find the nest,
Find we each the True-Love's breast.
54 WILL SHAKESPEARE
CURTAIN
Note — First Act — The difficulty of bringing
a live doe on the stage in the first act can be
overcome easily by not having it appear on the
stage, but having the noise in the bushes heard,
and a portion of the body of a live or stuffed
doe seen in the distance in the bushes. Shake-
speare can go into the bushes and noose it, and
afterwards can untie it and release it in the
same way.
ACT II
THE FLIGHT
1586
Note — Second Act — As the orchestra comes
to the end of the interlude between Act I and
Act 2, it plays the refrain of an old spinning
song — the violins imitating the whir of the
wheel. The music ceases just before the cur-
tain rises. While the curtain is still down, the
thump and whir of a spinning wheel is heard,
and an old woman's voice sings a song to the
same refrain which the orchestra has been play-
ing; the curtain comes up while she, is singing,
showing a dark room.
ACT II
THE FLIGHT -
1586
Scene i. [Before the curtain rises a wo-
man's voice is heard singing to the whir and
thump of a spinning wheel.'}
Song
He kissed me once upon the lips
And since that time my heart has burned,
As the wild bee who honey sips
He left me and has ne'er returned.
Ah wellaway!
I'll braid my love-locks like a crown,
My shoes upon my feet I'll bind —
I'll seek him far as London-town,
I'll seek — but shall I ever find?
Ah wellaway!
57
58 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[As the song ceases the curtain rises.
The scene is living-room of the house
of Shakespeare in Stratford-on-Avon.
The room is almost dark. At the back
in the centre is a wide door. On either
side is a large square window. All
open directly on street, but are closed
and darkened by heavy wooden shut-
ters, through whose chinks the early
'daylight gleams. Enter from door at
right Anne. She looks older with lines
of ill-temper [and discontent on her
forehead.]
ANNE
[Groping her way to the nearest window."]
How dark it is!
[She throws open the wooden shutters
and the window, and the white morn-
ing light, without sunlight, -fills the
room. Through the window is seen
the village street and opposite houses.
The walls of the room are hung with
WILL SHAKESPEARE 59
an arras of painted cloths, much faded
and tattered. It is simply furnished
with old wooden cupboards, tables,
chairs and settles. There are doors at
the right and left. "At the left there is
a large fire-place where a few embers
smoulder, "Anne stands at the win-
dow."]
How damp and chill! One would swear it
were March not May!
[She goes to the other window and Mngs
open the shutters with a powerful
movement. All her actions are strong,
sudden, energetic. She shivers and
goes to the lire. She speaks with
anger.]
The fire nigh out and no wood! The careless
oaf!
[She goes to the door at right.]
Will!
[She goes to the arras to straighten its
folds and as she twitches it with sharp
jerks the portion she touches comes off
60 WILL SHAKESPEARE
in her hand. She flings it to the
floor. ,]
Plague on these wretched rags! All's rotting
here. There's not a woman of family in
Stratford who has not had new cloths since
two years back and these were old when I
wore pinafores! Will!
[Enter Shakespeare from right. He
looks but slightly older than before.
As he enters the sunlight floods the
village street and shines into the
room."]
SHAKESPEARE
[Going to the window and looking out.]
There is magic working with the gray church
tower — no stone remains; naught but gold
tracery against a sapphire sky. Look, Anne!
ANNE
[Speaking with quick energy.']
There lacks time for looking out of window.
I go to Shottery this hour.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 61
SHAKESPEARE
Wherefore?
ANNE
That my mother should longer nourish our
children makes my body tingle with shame.
She has harboured them now two months. I
go to Shottery to fetch them home.
SHAKESPEARE
[He has listened with a half frown, but
smiles as he speaks. ,]
'Tis sweeter when they're here !
ANNE
Sweeter! Can we think of sweetness when
they are to be fed and clothed? I sent them
to my mother that they might prosper by her
bounty. But she is old. She wearies even of
their play ! Last week her pale face smote me
and the neighbors' eyes when they see me
here alone, make my brain burn and breed a
madness in me.
62 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
They might have rested here.
ANNE
And starved! You speak too easily. Five
to feed even when we count not your father
and your mother.
SHAKESPEARE
{Lightly.']
You speak too largely. There has ever been
enough for all.
ANNE
You seem to think our children should be
content with food and clothing.
SHAKESPEARE
[With mischief.']
There is scripture warrant for that !
ANNE
You seek to anger me.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 63
SHAKESPEARE
Ah, no ! Believe me, no !
ANNE
No man in all Stratford has done so little
for his children as you ! Indeed you do noth-
ing! You are in truth your father's son.
SHAKESPEARE
[He has listened with an air of detach-
ment.']
What do my father and my mother now?
ANNE
Your mother spins and sings old songs in
the upper room. Out in the garden in the sun
your father sits idle. His eyes stare, yet see
nothing; for I passed before him now and
though he looked, he saw me not.
SHAKESPEARE
[He opens door at right near front "A
glimpse of a garden is seen. He looks
out.]
64 WILL SHAKESPEARE
I see him . . . His hands lie on his
knees as if they rested. Their burdens are
laid down; but the blurred eyes do not rest.
There is no immortal hope before, nor no
rich harvesting of joys behind. It is age's
listlessness not its repose!
ANNE
[Who has not listened.']
I talked with Dame Calverly yesterday when
we were cheapening ribbons with the pedler
from Henley. Her husband has sent their
daughter to London to see the sights and their
two sons to Oxford to study at the University.
And mine have naught before them!
SHAKESPEARE
[With amused pity.]
How ingeniously your brain weaves nets to
trap your thoughts and torture them! Their
ages mounted up upon each other count not to
six years. There surely is yet time before such
matters press !
WILL SHAKESPEARE 65
ANNE
[Violently.]
You are of all living men most maddening!
You delay and postpone. You are forever
playing at quoits and bowls — drinking and
laughing with the village idlers. What have
I or your children to hope for from you?
SHAKESPEARE
[Kindly, taking her chin in his hand and
looking into her eyes.]
Know you not that no one hour is like an-
other, no year like that which follows it? And
so with men and women. I am not now what
I shall be. Nor you — Nor you! Last even-
ing when we walked we saw the bare, brown
meadows by the river. You said that in Au-
gust they would be yellow with grain. [He
plucks a small branch from a rose vine grow-
ing by the window.] Why are there no roses
on this vine?
ANNE
You mock me. The time for roses is not
yet.
66 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[With sudden intensity. ]
You do not ask the rose to bloom before its
time. You do not rifle the mould of its seeds
when it has been newly planted. You do not
tear the seedlings up to see their roots whether
they grow or not. How do you know what
grows in me? What seeds sown by a hand
more skilled than our poor wits can wot of
may be ready to blossom in my soul? [He
speaks gently.] If I may but have time —
stillness — twilight and dark and dew of the
sky — sunlight and noon: and be untouched
as are the seeds you plant!
ANNE
[Blankly my stifled. ]
Now, now, you seek to puzzle me — to lead
me aside from what is urgent. [Angrily. ]
Most urgent do I say.
SHAKESPEARE
[Half aside. .]
She cannot understand.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 67
ANNE
[She speaks with still quicker energy than
at first, looking at the clock.']
Seven o'clock ; and I must be back by noon
for dinner!
[She goes to the cupboard at right and
opens it.]
Here is cold pasty and oaten bread and
cakes. Meagre fare for six! But so the chil-
dren have enough I care not for myself.
[Goes toward street door at back.]
I go, Will, good-day!
[Shakespeare is at front; he searches in
his pocket and takes out a key unseen
by Anne. He fingers it with an air of
abstraction. Anne goes. In the door-
way, she turns.]
And Will — at five this morning the maid and
I cleaned the upper rooms and freshly made
all the beds. Fetch you the wood. Do not let
the fire go out as yesterday. These May-days
grow chill at night, and the children come!
68 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
You shall have a royal fire!
ANNE
Good-day.
SHAKESPEARE
[In a gay, half -singing voice. ]
Heaven go with you!
[Anne goes. He slips key in his pocket
and goes out of door at left. He re-
turns at once carrying a great armful
of -firewood. He piles it with extreme
care beside the fire-place."}
If I am perfect there can be no reproach! I
know not why — but — anger which turns a
man into a beast is even more loathsome in a
woman. [Lightly.} Just or unjust we look
to them for gentleness whether they feel it or
not! Yet there's a kind of secret justice in
our feeling. For they will ever tune us to
their own key — if they but knew it! [A log
rolls from the pile. He replaces it.} Keep
WILL SHAKESPEARE 69
your place, Trifler! Know you not this is
grave work and our greatest part? Since we
belong to the Noble Order of Husbands we
must please her, or the way roughens too
much for further progress.
[He stands at a little distance and looks
with satisfaction at the pile of wood.']
She will have a royal fire ! [He glances at the
clock.'] She will be now on the road to Shot-
tery. All's still! This hour is very friendly.
[He goes to the cloth hanging at right
and drawing it aside unlocks with the
key he still holds a small door in a cup-
board set in the wall and from it takes
a manuscript.]
ANNE
[Returning to the door but not looking in.]
Will!
[He starts and replaces the manuscript
and closes the drawer hastily.]
Will! Forget not the fire! Have you laid the
fire? Have you piled the wood? Answer, I
go-
70 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[Absently fingering the key.]
I've piled it mountains high!
ANNE
'Tis well — for yesterday we froze. Good-
day! This time I go.
[Shakespeare goes to the door, looks
after her. Then he re-opens the
drawer. He takes out the manuscript
and goes to table at front and sits,
turning over the pages of the manu-
script.]
SHAKESPEARE
Words are our only immortal things! Any
fool can hammer the noblest marble statue in
the world to dust, but the Gods themselves
cannot destroy a word, once the same fool has
said it!
[The embers on the hearth flicker
brightly and go out.]
I ever believe that these words of mine
WILL SHAKESPEARE 71
shall be spoken, so magically — as it were so
enchantingly handled, — that their own value
will be doubled. For singleness is nothing!
They have a kind of life of their own on the
page — but let them be spoken by resolute lips
that marry each word as they touch it and all
the world shall feast at the wedding banquet!
Yet a playwright who passed through Strat-
ford once — an old man — with a beard — he
must have known! said to me that players
were such fools that the bitterest moment one
who writes for them can have, is to hear his
own words stupidly spoken — in discord — out
of tune and sense! Yet, there are those who
command the speaking and moving magic. I
could not myself! But that Godlike little boy
I met in the wood four years ago; — our
common tongue in his mouth became a novel
and precious tune that fed the heart. Ah ! — I
cannot think upon him! My senses so sicken
to see and hear him again! . . . Yet
there still must be such ! [He turns the pages
of the manuscript.'] All's been said and
J2 WILL SHAKESPEARE
played — from Athens to London! Yet the
Heart of Things remains, for every man to
find the answer to his own.
\He writes. Village boys and girls pass
in the street. They peer into the win-
dow an$ seeing Shakespeare writing
point and jeer at him, laughing with
each other. He does not observe them.
Bailly and Taverner, the constables,
followed by two men, one middle-
aged, spare and scholarly, the other of
the same type, but younger, come to
the door, look in, and knock loudly. ,]
SHAKESPEARE
[Starting from his chair. ,]
O for a few hours of quietness! [He goes
to the door.} What is your wish? Whom do
you seek?
[The men enter.']
TAVERNER
We seek your father, my young Feather-
head.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 73
SHAKESPEARE
What commerce have you with my father?
BAILLY
That is our concern, and not for your ques-
tioning.
SHAKESPEARE
IS peaking with courtesy.]
Mayhap then, I can guess : somewhat touch-
ing his estate or moneys brings you here. My
father is old in truth lacks force to carry him-
self— far less the weight of his affairs. Such I
purpose to lay upon these shoulders, which
have at least the virtue of strength!
TAVERNER
Ah, Ah — I remember, I do well! You had
ever a folly for turning fine phrases, even
while you cut a calf's throat for your father,
when he purveyed meat for the township.
74 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[Springing toward him and catching him
by the throat.']
Liar!
[Then shaking him by the shoulder as if
he were a puppy, and trying to laugh.]
Know you not whole armies of constables
have been swept from the earth for less than
that?
TAVERNER
Help! Help! Murder is being done!
[Three pikemen with long pikes rush
into the room from the street and
stand close to Taverner. The two
lawyers have shrunk into the corner
and now come forward.]
Now, now, Master Leatherby and Master
Swales, do you see? Did I not rehearse how
he flung me down in the wood four years ago
— like a brigand, like an assassin, a murderer.
It is just as I have always said — " Save a
man from the gallows and he will cut your
throat."
WILL SHAKESPEARE 75
MASTER LEATHERBY
Most wisely said, indeed!
SHAKESPEARE
[Still trying to laugh.]
Is this a comedy, or a mystery play? In-
form my ignorance that I may split with
laughter or be duly awed as the quality of the
piece may demand.
BAILLY
The images suit! [To Tavemer.]
Enough of playing the Injured! [To
Shakespeare. ] Briefly, Master Will, we are
come, not without regret in the hearts of
such of his townsmen as know, perforce, of
the matter, with a warrant for your Father's
arrest and due restraint by the law.
SHAKESPEARE
[With mingled incredulity and anger.]
A mad world!
?6 WILL SHAKESPEARE
BAILLY
One of necessity, you should say.
SHAKESPEARE
We'll argue that.
\He quickly crosses the room and as he
passes the door to the garden he stum-
hies against a chair, which closes the
door. He locks it, putting one hand
behind him, still facing the others,
who do not see what he has done, and
hides the key in his doublet."]
A pretty Game! As merry as New Cut, and
as provoking as Primero! And these gentle-
men, [to lawyers,] can each take a hand —
and so all will pass the day pleasantly. The
stakes to be our Golden Opinions of each
other, the prize a general Amnesty — in which
all share. Including of course, my father.
Merely as the host of the gamesters, who
make so free with his house — such as it is.
Come, come, The Game! The Game!
WILL SHAKESPEARE yj
[He motions them to sit down around
the table. He sits — leaning on the
table, while the others stand surprised
around it. To Master Leatherby.]
How, most erudite sir, can that which has
not strength to resist be restrained? Answer.
[To the other Lawyer.]
Keep a precise record, sir, of the play, for
each point counts.
BAILLY
[Gravely."]
The comedy of which you spoke, is of your
own playing, now, Master Will. Where hides
your father?
SHAKESPEARE
Before I answer, in all seriousness and
kindness tell me, as briefly as may be, what
legal warrant there is for thus seeking to
bring my father into custody?
TAVERNER
Have I not foresight beyond the common?
Prevising these questions I brought Master
78 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Leatherby to convince Young Featherhead of
our procedure according to law. Your docu-
ments, Master Leatherby.
LEATHERBY
[Producing a legal paper and reading in a
'dry, monotonous voice.'] "This indenture
Witnesses that John Shakespeare of Strat-
ford on Avon in the county of Warwick is
indebted to sundry persons hereafter named
for the sum of sundry pounds of current
English money, hereafter set forth, and that
he must doe, cause, knowledge and suffer to
be done and knowledged, all and everie such
further lawful and reasonable acte and actes
thing and thinges, devise and devises assur-
ances and conveyances whatsoever — "
SHAKESPEARE
Enough, enough — I believe anything you
wish without further assurance!
LEATHERBY
[Looking at him over his spectacles and
WILL SHAKESPEARE 79
continuing in the same manner.'] "As also
the saide John Shakespeare and his heirs and
assignes, and everie of them, of and from all
former bargaynes, sales, leases, joyntures,
dowers, wills, statutes, recognizances, writ-
inges, obliagtory ffynes, entyles " —
SHAKESPEARE
[Moving chairs with some noise and con-
fusion.'] You fatigue yourself, sir. Be
seated. Refresh yourself, I entreat — and
you, sir — and you — and you! —
[He opens a cupboard and brings out a
tankard of ale, mugs and cakes. [He
pours out the ale and offers it to the
lawyers and constables and pikemen.
They accept it half-astonished and
after drinking a little of it their stern
expressions relax and they seat them-
selves at the table, all but the pikemen
who stand in the corner and drink and
talk in whispers.]
80 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
Now, Worshipful Sirs — What sums are
needed to free my father from this process?
[To Leatherby who produces another long
document.] No longer weary yourself,
Noble Sir. [To Bailly.~] You are no doubt
acquainted with the facts? Spare Master
Leatherby. His breath should be reserved
for matters worthier its spending.
[Leatherby looks pompously gratified.']
BAILLY
[Taking a slip of paper from his pocket
and reading.] For the Asbies Estate. For
interest on the mortgage held by John Lam-
bert, twenty pounds ; to John Brown of Strat-
ford for money loaned, ten pounds; to the
Town of Stratford for debts for the Strat-
ford Theatre, forty pounds. To sundry
other private persons whose names I need
not now set forth, forty pounds. In all one
hundred and ten pounds. [After a pause and
looking with sympathy at Shakespeare.'] You
WILL SHAKESPEARE 81
understand, Master Will, that his fellow
townsmen hold your father in respect and
high consideration, but they have waited
many years and all suffer. I regret both for
him and yourself that such troubles should
be.
SHAKESPEARE
I thank you. There is no fence for ill for-
tune. [While Bailly has spoken, he has
carefully noted each item on a slip of paper.]
Were all this paid anon, he would go free?
ALL
[ With the exception of Taverner.] Yes ! Yes !
TAVERNER
[Laughing jeeringly."] Anon? Two
anons and a by-and-by, makes a while and a
half!
[The others try to silence him.'] Anon!
It's now that's needful. Anon, he asks?
Shameful asking should have shameful nay!
82 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
{Without appearing to notice himj] If
full payment could be assured for all public
and private debt within a reasonable time,
would such time be granted by the law?
[To Master Leatherby.] Vouchsafe your
valued judgment, Gracious Sir.
LEATHERBY
{Who has been enjoying the ale.'] A rea-
sonable time — Yes — Yes— There should be
no justice without mercy.
SHAKESPEARE
I pledge myself to pay these sums within
two years from this date and in the interval
to pay such interest as may be deemed suffi-
cient both by the town and those private per-
sons who have been at loss.
TAVERNER
He promises like a Lover to his Maid!
What security can he give? I ask that of
WILL SHAKESPEARE 83
you all? Seven hands in the dish here.
Two in the purse and that an empty one, and
an Idler at the fore. Ha, ha! They that
have not worked in heat must linger in frost !
Ha, ha!
[Shakespeare appears as if he had not
heard Taverner.]
BAILLY
[Losing his temper.'] Silence — Flea!
[To Shakespeare."] We know your love of
uprightness of dealing; that you are gentle
and honest, of an open, free and frank dis-
position; but that some security should be as-
sured is a necessity that you must under-
stand. [To Leatherby.] Kindly explain
this point to Master Will, sir.
[Leatherby produces from his bag an-
other document. Shakespeare hastily
fills his mug with ale.]
SHAKESPEARE
I neglect your comfort. No proof is nec-
essary. Your honored word suffices,
84 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[Leatherby bows affably and drinks.
Shakespeare sits motionless with an
expression of anxious thought. TAll
wait silently.']
BAILLY
If due security could be given I doubt not
that your proposal would be acceptable to the
town and the private persons (touching mem-
orandum) herein set forth.
SHAKESPEARE
[Showing his despair.] Security? Alas!
I have none.
LEATHERBY
[Having finished all the ale on the table.]
Then the law must proceed. What we came
for should be done. [He stands and the con-
stables also rise.] Take us to your father.
SHAKESPEARE
[Passionately and springing from his
chair and standing with his back to
the garden door.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 85
You may not see him!
[The constables, lawyers, and pikemen
rush tozvard him.}
LEATHERBY
"May not" is said not to the law.
BAILLY
He hides in the garden ! Out of our path !
You presume on our patience.
[He attempts to push Shakespeare
aside. 1
SHAKESPEARE
S'death! I'll presume yet farther before
you pass this door.
[They struggle.]
The Voice of Shakespeare's Father (without)
[He knocks at the door to the garden.]
Will! Will! What means this turmoil?
Who is within? Open! — [A silence.]
SHAKESPEARE
Peace, Father! A bout of wrestling for
86 WILL SHAKESPEARE
pleasantry with some of the neighbors. 'Tis
over. Go you to the pleached alley at the
garden end. They go!
THE VOICE
Tis well — I go to the pleached alley. But
more stillness were meeter for the honor of
my house.
[All stand silent and surprised.]
SHAKESPEARE
[With passion.] Is it justice or reason to
put a man in gaol who is too feeble to stir
abroad? When the heart acheth the whole
body is aworse and my father is weighted by
lassitude. A helplessness that is inert be-
cause there is beneath it no stir of hope. I
know from words and signs of whose mean-
ing I have discernment that he has come not
into church for a year for fear of process for
debt. All's at an end for him. Youth, man-
hood and the mighty tide of ambition that
sweeps the middle years. Yet pride still lives
WILL SHAKESPEARE 87
in him. Like all wounded and feeble things
the sorer to the touch because it has been hurt
already. Wound it not still more. Strike it not
now so that it die in agony. In his prosperity
did he not prosper all? Was it not he who
fed the poor and starving when the plague
ravaged the town? Was it not he who built
a theatre for Stratford that we might have
some surprise of laughter, some strangeness
of fancy, some grace shaped with Art to turn
the stones of our daily lives to bread if but
for an hour's space? For which of these
things do you prison him? Who has ever
had thought to reward him for these gifts?
Should not there be some generous handling
of him who was generous to all?
[He pauses. The men are visibly a/-
fected.]
Suppose an if you do this thing— Suppose
you drag this sick and bleeding soul to gaol
what gain have you ? He shall have no more
gold to pay you then than now, and you have
stained the records of the town with dark in-
88 WILL SHAKESPEARE
gratitude that no time to come can wash
white. [He pauses again.']
BAILLY
These be true words.
[The others assent silently, all but Tav-
erner.]
SHAKESPEARE
And I will pay all. Set this security
aside. Give me but two years' grace and if
Fate send not some hooded calamity across
my path to strike me before I can see its face,
whether it portend evil or good, nothing in
life shall stay my triumph.
[He covers his eyes with his hand and
then removes it looking fixedly for-
ward and slightly upward.]
BAILLY
[With emotion.'] Friends, I am for giv-
ing him his way.
LEATHERBY
[Throwing off his dry manner.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 89
Am I a simpleton that I so trust this youth,
and without reason?
TAVERNER
[Despairingly.] The twist of his tongue
turns their stiff brains on their very hinges
and oils them so they do not even creak!
SHAKESPEARE
[With impetuous sweetness.] Give me
your trusts, Gentles all. Let me wrap them
in my heart — fulfill them with its impulse and
its strength and when the fruit of my travail
lies in your hands you will be justified. Do
you consent?
LEATHERBY
[Slowly and hesitatingly.] There is no
legal warrant for such exception to the law.
SHAKESPEARE
Do you refuse?
LEATHERBY
We cannot.
90 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
Then let all lie in the secret kindness of
your hearts and let me prove my words.
BAILLY
I will lay all before the town council and
in all truth I do believe I will prevail.
SHAKESPEARE
May the goodness that is Divine refresh
your hearts for this sweet faith. Farewell
good friends.
[They go. He shows them to the door
and then walks swiftly to the front.]
I should be overwhelmed at what the years —
their movement and their mystery — wrap
around my life, but that I have within assur-
ance of strength to match their force, magic
for their mystery, freedom beyond bonds.
These bonds I seek not to break. I scarce
know how they came. Call it human pity —
the higher side of that same weakness that
wronged another life — or, on the other hand,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 91
clutching selfishness that assaulted a man's
defenseless side. Man made for woman-
woman made for man. The mystery of op-
posites — distant and strange, yet dragging
into gripping closeness diverse lives. Call it
fate, blindness, sex, anything but Love. But
when we stood before the altar and the Priest
asked pledges, did I not shout them? Let be
then. It is as it should be. It cannot be
otherwise. See — there am I in the steel-
bound cage and for my sin I acquiesce. And
then- — a brush of heavenly wings, an opening
of the heart, all unforeseen — and we are as
Gods, fathering unfledged souls, that we who
are aware, entertain as angels, kneeling at
their feet, bending our ears to catch some
lisping of the wisdom and the glory they have
newly left. O I should moan and shrink
when thought of these sweet young lives that
Heaven has given me holds the courts of my
brain, were it not that in even balance with
their crushing weight is my will to draw
forth this life's richest juices for them as I
92 WILL SHAKESPEARE
tread its press. To pour out for them wine,
distilled from every tree of Knowledge and
Life, whose fruit I pluck and eat because all
is mine, as I fare on the world's highway.
My father and my mother . . . Let me
compass peace not in their ken for them.
And for my wife — my wife — my wife — Is
she then indeed my wife? What the hawk
does not hold beneath her iron claw may the
Eagle ranging far bring to her bleak holding
in the rock? My vision is at fault. There
is an emptiness at my heart. I may not see
farther. Nor would I. There is balm and
calming in the veil of mist that floats at dawn
and lifts at last to show a novel splendour.
[He uncovers his manuscript and looks
at it.]
I thought it would be long to finish this but
see how it completes itself ! There lacks here
but little. Speed, speed! And my apple of
Hesperides may ripen by noon!
[He writes with an expression of joyous
content on his face. John Richard-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 93
son and Foulke Sandells pass the win-
dow at right and after looking in, rap
gently at the door which is slightly
ajar, Shakespeare continues absorbed
in his writing. They push open the
door and enter stealthily. They look
at each other and then sit in two chairs
at left and watch Shakespeare silently
for a moment, shaking their heads.
They look older and are dressed in
black clothes as if for a visit of cere-
mony. They cough and shift their
chairs somewhat noisily. Shakespeare
looks up suddenly and sees them.']
SHAKESPEARE
[Gaily.] Richardson and Sandells, my
ancient Ravens! What does this visit omen?
Why this sombre plumage of a morning? Is
it a tithe meeting? Or a funeral? Is Dame
Fernlow's cat dead? Or Dame Hathaway's
black cow? Unfold!
94 WILL SHAKESPEARE
RICHARDSON
[With injured dignity. ]
We bear a message to you from Dame
Hathaway.
SANDELLS
With vast unwillingness.
SHAKESPEARE
[With a quick frown but speaking with
good humor. ] A weighty message — Since
two must carry it. What's wrong with my
wife's mother?
RICHARDSON
There's nothing wrong with her. The
trouble is with you, young Featherhead.
SHAKESPEARE
[Turns and faces the two men looking
at them piercingly. They both -flinch
and look uneasy.]
What is the nature of my trouble? Give it
a name, I beg. I've read of a man who look-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 95
ing up to the sky and seeing a comet feared
it, until he heard that it had a name, when he
concluded it must be harmless and went into
his house again, content!
RICHARDSON
You must give us, Sandells and me, credit
for judgment — wisdom —
SANDELLS
Tact.
SHAKESPEARE
O enormous!
RICHARDSON
[Slowly and impressively.] Only duty—
the sacred obligation of old friendship brings
us here.
SHAKESPEARE
[Looking at the clock and speaking in the
same manner. ]
Only Duty— the sacred obligation of old prom-
ises made to all the Powers that be, force me
96 WILL SHAKESPEARE
to tell you that I, (speaks very rapidly) have
only two minutes to listen to you.
[He stands and moves a step or two
toward the two men.]
SANDELLS
[With uneasiness. ] Tell him, Richard-
son. I'll not face Dame Hathaway with her
words unsaid.
RICHARDSON
Dame Hathaway is dissatisfied with your
way of life. [Shakespeare looks astonished.]
It is four years since you married her daugh-
ter and during that time you have idled,
lounged, drunk sack with your rude wildrakes
and Anne has kept the house and her mother
has paid the bills. You have done no work —
SHAKESPEARE
O pardon me!
RICHARDSON
Wherefore ?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 97
SHAKESPEARE
I have worked.
RICHARDSON
And in what fashion?
SHAKESPEARE
I have — written.
RICHARDSON AND SANDELLS
[Laughing sneeringly.] Pray what have
you written?
SHAKESPEARE
[Who has been good-humored and careless
until this moment becomes suddenly
grave and reserved.}
Words.
RICHARDSON
[Again laughing jeeringly.] Words!—
words! And that he calls work! Well
Dame Hathaway says there's to be no more
98 WILL SHAKESPEARE
of these " words." You must go to work
with your hands, like any other honest man,
or Anne's Mother's money shall keep you no
more — and — ■
SHAKESPEARE
[Going to the two men with a swift, irre-
sistible movement, takes them by the
shoulders, and quickly, but gently,
pushes them to the door and out into
the street, speaking as he does so, with
breaks and pauses as he pushes them.1
When the Phoenix was consumed — even to
ashes — in his own nest — he flew away — up,
up, up — into the burning blue of the sky, with
new feathers. Such glorious ones! Did
you ever read the story? No? Go home
then and read it!
[The two men stumble over the thresh-
old and out into the street and disap-
pear hastily, looking timidly over their
shoulders as if to see whether Shake-
speare follows or not. Shakespeare
WILL SHAKESPEARE 99
looks after them, laughing uncontrol-
lably. He waves his hand to them
with gaiety and calls.]
SHAKESPEARE
Come again anon, — to-morrow — to dine!
We shall have venison for you and tripe and
onions and sack!
[He writes again as before. Music of
violins, flutes, haut-boys and horns is
heard down the village street and the
shouting of boys and girls. People
come to the doors and windows of the
houses opposite and some come out on
the street.]
a boy's voice
Hallo! Hallo! [A boy enters 'street
skipping and running."] Way! Room!
Make way! The Players! The London
Players from Kenilworth!
[Boys and girls follow him, laughing,
skipping and clapping their hands;
ioo WILL SHAKESPEARE
then a group of villagers, then musi-
cians playing, followed by a group of
players. They are all men and boys
and look shabby, travel-stained and
tired. At Shakespeare's door, which
stands open, they stop and the leader,
a middle-aged man, knocks. Shake-
speare has heard nothing and still
writes. The knock is repeated more
loudly. 1
SHAKESPEARE
[Starting.] O — who knocks?
FIRST PLAYER
Gentle, sir, is this mayhap an inn, where
we may refresh ourselves? We are most
weary — having walked this morning from
Kenilworth where we played yesterday for
my lords Leicester and Essex.
[The other players are grouped about
the door behind the first player. The
musicians and villagers stand behind
them in the street.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 101
SHAKESPEARE
[Going joyously to the door.] Enter
friends! All! For you this is an Inn — and
for refreshment! — Why, what there is, is
yours !
PETER DUMPSER
[A Village Boy]
This is no Inn. Tis Will Shakespeare's
own house!
[The players hesitate."]
SHAKESPEARE
[To boy.] That's enough from you, sir.
Silence or you shall have no cakes! — Too
truthful Peter Dumpser! [To Players.] I
said it was an Inn for you. I entreat you—
Brothers — Pass not my door without enter-
ing!
[The players and musicians yield and
enter. The villagers hang back and,
after shaking their heads and demur-
ring, all go with the exception of
ios WILL SHAKESPEARE
Peter Dumpser and one villager who
lingers in the street. ,]
SHAKESPEARE
Rest — rest. Here are seats for all.
[He pulls about the chairs and settles.
All sit in background. Shakespeare
opens doors of cupboards."]
All's cold, alas! — But here's game-pie and
oaten bread and sack and cheese.
[He empties the cupboards and puts
dishes and beer mugs and jugs on the
table and begins to serve the Players.
'All take food and eat and drink.
Shakespeare gives a double portion to
Peter Dumpser.']
FIRST PLAYER
But, sir, there is no seat for you — and all
the pie is gone!
SHAKESPEARE
When you eat I also am fed! [He sits on
WILL SHAKESPEARE 103
the edge of the table.] What did you play
yesterday for my Lord of Leicester?
FIRST PLAYER
A Fairy Masque.
SHAKESPEARE
[With eager interest.'] And by whom
written ?
FIRST PLAYER
By one Campion. You know his plays?
SHAKESPEARE
Alas ! I am till now ignorant of his name.
FIRST PLAYER
Tis a pleasing pastoral and suits in this
May time in the open air, with songs com-
posed by one of our company here.
[Points to a young musician.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Goes to him and shakes his hand.] I
104 WILL SHAKESPEARE
must hear these songs! Your eyes are
bright with Love-light. A nightingale, I'll
swear to it !
MUSICIAN
I thank you. A Hedge Robin, say rather!
[Enter, riding by the village street,
Heminge and Greene. They dis-
mount before Shakespeare's house.
A villager who has lingered in the
street holds the bridles of their horses,
while they enter the door and then
leads their horses away. They are
richly dressed in courtier's costumes
of brilliant satin."]
SHAKESPEARE
Heminge and Greene! Whether the sub-
stance of a dream or flesh and blood, welcome
to Stratford again.
HEMINGE
We pass never your Father's door, Will,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 105
without a sight of you, but we thought not to
find all our company of the same mind!
SHAKESPEARE
[Embracing him.'] Ah, Heminge. Your
voice! No spirit speaks so soundly. [He
embraces Greene.] Welcome, old friend.
[Some of the other Players stand and one
brings some chairs near front.]
SHAKESPEARE
[To Players.] My thanks for this cour-
tesy. You were the gracious forerunners of
old sweetness renewed. These are my fel-
low-townsmen. [Drawing close to Heminge
and Greene.] Amazing transformation!
You left Stratford with empty pockets,
meanly clad, and you come back ruffling it in
glaring satin suits, on horses like Lords, and
I'll swear, with full purses!
GREENE
[Laughing.] There be many who have
io6 WILL SHAKESPEARE
gone to London who can tell the same pretty
tale.
SHAKESPEARE
[Touching his ruff and costume.'] On my
soul, a ruff of lace like a Lady's. A chain
and jewel of amethyst shaped heart-wise
graven with tender emblems; a heart with a
winged cupid shooting; his arrow guided by
a Venus kneeling; a flower-broidered doub-
let; Love-Lies-Bleeding with Forget-Me-
Nots! [To Heminge.] And you — his
match in all these dazzlements! How comes
this?
HEMINGE
Fortune's caprice turns even the way of a
poor playwright! Blind like Love!
SHAKESPEARE
[With eager interest.'] Is it even so?
What plays please in London now?
GREENE
O, anything of the Peep-show order from
a Bear-garden to a Dog-fight!
WILL SHAKESPEARE , 107
SHAKESPEARE
{With disappointment] No higher soar-
ing?
HEMINGE
Fairy-Masques and spectacles, (so there are
satyrs who scramble to make the ground-
lings laugh, with songs and music cunningly
interspersed) are borne with some show of
patience. We played in one such yesterday
at my Lord Leicester's at Kenilworth. We
play it again in London when June opens.
SHAKESPEARE
Ah! If I might but see you then!
HEMINGE
You affect the stage?
SHAKESPEARE
I lack at this time opportunity to affect
anything — except as a kind of curtain-raiser,
beer and skittles. But — I have my own mo-
ments !
io8 WILL SHAKESPEARE
HEMINGE
And that way lies salvation!
GREENE
You would mayhap like to join our fra-
ternity ?
SHAKESPEARE
My imagination is ensnared by your be-
witching show of this our puzzling world;
for through the noble or jesting words you
so pointedly speak and through the mum-
mery of your action I read a kind of free
translation of the wonderful pageantry of
Life that illuminates it — for me! For me.
GREENE
You have played yourself?
SHAKESPEARE
Most indifferently in our Village shows.
HEMINGE
O, we all had a beginning! Others must
judge of your talent.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 109
SHAKESPEARE
I am my own kindest critic.
HEMINGE
Then from your own showing they must
rate you too low for even your modesty.
SHAKESPEARE
Impossible! For I rank myself, and were
I easily capsized I should be completely so by
my own pleasure in what I do — when I do it
well.
HEMINGE
Then you do somewhat and well — and
what may it be?
SHAKESPEARE
I am of your craft.
GREENE
You too! In the circles in which I re-
volve no one does anything else. But is
no WILL SHAKESPEARE
there then no more novel impulse from this
fresh plenitude of solitary nature that sur-
rounds you than to take to the too-trodden
highway of the Playwright? No secret by-
path that you alone frequent where you may
have raptures of discovery for yourself
alone ?
SHAKESPEARE
Unshared pleasure grows stale.
HEMINGE
But not so stale as fruit thrown on the
market and neither bought nor eaten! I
have plays on my shelf that in imagination I
saw the public swallowing like manna from
Heaven, when, in fact, they spewed them
forth and there remained for me but to
gather up the fragments!
SHAKESPEARE
Even if it bloom not for me, let me live
always in the perfume of the Rose! I love
the theatre! Its air would be sweet to me
WILL SHAKESPEARE in
even if the flowers in its gardens were not
of my planting.
HEMINGE
Show us of your imaginings —
GREENE
We entreat you.
SHAKESPEARE
Do you wish me to fright away the shy
Angel of my Thought before I have mas-
tered his whisperings? I thought not to un-
lock the gate to my garden of unfading
flowers until they bloomed as sturdily on
their stems as they do in my own mind — but
when Opportunity knocks so graciously only
Folly would keep it closed.
[He uncovers the Mss. and hands it to
Heniinge.]
A Fairy Masque such as you have played
even now. A dream I dreamed in the
Forest here on a night in Midsummer.
ii2 WILL SHAKESPEARE
\_Heminge turns the pages and reads
while Greene looks over his shoul-
der.]
HEMINGE
[Indicating a line.] Excellent fantasy!
[They read on.]
GREENE
Brave notions!
* HEMINGE
A prospering wit!
GREENE
A Fairy Masque indeed — but not such as
we have been playing! Ours was fustian,
this cloth of gold, if all the stuff be of this
weaving.
HEMINGE
[Who has continued to read and turn the
pages.]
Strange witchery! These fairies live —
These men and women are the shadows !
WILL SHAKESPEARE 113
SHAKESPEARE
In the Fairy World 'tis so.
GREENE
Never so before, yet true!
SHAKESPEARE
Should not art, like truth, be inevitable?
A great painter draws an arm. Never so
drawn before. Yet all the world cries out —
"An arm should be like that! It could not
be otherwise.,,
HEMINGE
The truth from the mouth of a babe!
GREENE
[To Heminge.] Burbage should see this.
HEMINGE
[Turning the pages of the Mss. to the
end.~\
This is not all ? It will be long to complete it ?
ii4 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
A few hours of quietness! The end— and
one might say a glorification of the whole!
Or — I might lay this phantasy aside. I have
other plays that might please more.
HEMINGE
Come with me to London — show this play
to Burbage, our manager. There is hunger,
know you, in the public stomach — though my
dishes lack seasoning to their zest! Come
with us!
SHAKESPEARE
[With sudden reserve.'] I know not if that
may be.
HEMINGE
A prudent youth. A vision of failure out-
weighs the chances of glory!
SHAKESPEARE
Not so. [To Greene."] My desires match
your words and my impulses rush to marry
WILL SHAKESPEARE 115
them. My hopes blossom in the sun of your
gracious encouraging. How may I requite
it?
[Enter Peter Dumpser with ale and
cakes.']
PETER DUMPSER
[To Shakespeare."] There's ale for you,
Will Shakespeare, for all have drunk save
you.
SHAKESPEARE
You come at a fortunate moment, truthful
Peter, a fresh spring where our own well runs
dry!
[He reMs the glasses of the players.]
HEMINGE
A glass to your London journey and good
luck at its end !
ALL
The London journey!
n6 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[All drink laughing and applauding and
clinking their glasses. The door to the
street at back in the centre is suddenly
pushed open and Anne enters. Her
face is pale and rigid with excitement
and anger. She passes swiftly be-
tween the seated players on either side
of the door, and goes to front.]
ANNE
An end to this. This is my home and this
my husband. My home not for defilement by
pot house carousals. My husband not the
comrade of vagabonds. Out — Out all!
[The players all rise and stand in con-
fused astonishment. Heminge and
Greene look at Anne with cold curios-
ity.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Springing to Anne, and laying his hand
on her arm.] Mad — and more blind than
mad! Unsay your words. O Anne, there's
WILL SHAKESPEARE 117
more at stake than your short vision sees!
[To players.'] Gentlemen — my friends — a
wild mistake! Some lack of understanding
in our village-folk, pardonable to your larger
experience, is untowardly shared by my — most
honoured wife. [To players, but more espe-
cially to Heminge and Greene.] She knows
not who you are! [To Anne, with pleading
intensity.] Speak again, with gentleness.
Salve the hurt your wild words cause these
generous, kindly folk. [To players.] All's
understood my friends. Go not! Be seated,
that our pretty comedy of the arts may go
on!
[The players who have begun to move
toward the door yield to his urgency
and again sit.]
ANNE
[With increased anger.] An impudence,—
a cowardice I scarce believe even though my
eyes see it? Silly souls! They know they
trespass in an honoured house, yet they sit
n8 WILL SHAKESPEARE
still and say nothing! [To Shakespeare.'] Is
it not enough that we are ruined by your
father's theatre-building madness here in
Stratford, that you let your own home be
fouled with this draggled flock of the high
road? Are you sheep-blooded also that you
leave me to play the watch-dog and drive
them out upon it again ?
[The players rise again, this time indig-
nantly, and look anxiously at Shake-
speare as if expecting him to resent
'Anne's words. He moves to a chair
near the table in the foreground and
sits looking forward with an air of
complete detachment. The players
and musicians confer an instant si-
lently and go out of the door. As they
cross the threshold Shakespeare springs
from his seat and goes to them smiling
radiantly.']
SHAKESPEARE
[Grasping the hands of Heminge and
Greene and some of the others.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 119
A brief farewell! Life leads us through
some lying hours, friends, yet truth is lusty!
The canker-worm gnaws, but the bud still
burns into the rose. Fruition redeems!
[Exeunt players and Peter Dumpser,
whose head Shakespeare* caresses as
he passes him.']
SHAKESPEARE
[Going to Anne and speaking kindly.]
Be my friend, Anne, as I am yours. There
is no Beauty else.
ANNE
[Turning angrily from him, and Hinging
open the cupboard door.]
My children's food taken from their
mouths and given to dogs! [She turns to the
lire-place and sees the grey ashes.] No fire—
a chilled house. [She throws some kindlings
and logs on the ashes and the fire blazes. She
turns fiercely to Shakespeare.] His children's
lives forgotten in his wanton pleasure !
i2o WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[Going to her again and attempting to
take her hand.]
Poor stormy Petrel ! Is it quite lost the old
magic that once stilled the storms which drive
your soul so wildly ? Listen, I will tell you all
my secret. I feared to start fair hopes in your
breast until there were some outward showing
that your reason would entertain. [He takes
his play from the table. ,]
See, — Here is opportunity, freedom, prosper-
ity for you and for our beloved. Know you
not that the good will of the gentle, generous
folk you have so unworthily driven forth is
our safest investiture for our happy fortune?
[He gives the play to Anne. She looks
at it and recoils.]
ANNE
A play ? On this, then, you have spent your
strength and the precious days and months
that might have been given to honest work?
Is it not enough that the hard grip of poverty
WILL SHAKESPEARE 121
holds us, for that your father wasted his sub-
stance for a theatre, that you too should play
with the dangerous flame? To the fire let all
theatre-scribblings go and burn there end-
lessly and no more torment us !
[She flings the manuscript into the fire
where it blazes for an instant. ]
SHAKESPEARE
[Snatching the manuscript from the fire.]
You know not what you do. You are burn-
ing up my life!
[He stands at a distance from Anne
holding the charred manuscript, trem-
bling and pale, looking at her wildly.]
Cruel woman ! Ignorance — Inexperience !
The instincts raging, but the heart unborn.
No love, no hope for me in you!
ANNE
[With frenzy.] O God! Have you not
caused me anguish that suffices? Idler,— rob-
ber of your children's living,— unnatural
122 WILL SHAKESPEARE
dreamer of false dreams! Go — let me not
see you more. Or, if you will stay there like
a block that understands not your own sin.
I will go while my children wait without in
the garden and wander the streets till I am
free from your presence that so maddens me.
[She opens the closed door and rushes
out into the now empty street and dis-
appears.']
SHAKESPEARE
[With intense bitterness."] Give greatness,
— shall not greatness be returned ? The bards
and books have written it, — but O how many
lies go masqueing through Time, for hun-
gry souls to starve and die upon! Where
have I so failed, that set perfection as my
mark? We must look to the larger tribunal
when the judge of the Hearthstone goes blind.
But, when the spring grows bitter, how may
the waters of life be sweet? O Life, me-
thought you were my friend! Wherefore
did'st trap me in this iron web? What Devil-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 123
spider lurking at its edge waits to end my
struggles with its sting? Yet out beyond my
web there lies the world. So mighty in allure-
ment, so vast in opportunity. [He stretches
out his arms.] I have a lust for life and love!
What do I see here? What do I hear? No
Beauty — no Peace — nor no Progressing. There
is no longer foothold for me here in mine own
place. For their enriching I must leave my
father, my mother, and those sweet lives that
taught me through my own heart what God's
love for men must be. It may be that the same
Providence that pushes the fledglings from
their nest now flings me forth from mine. I
have watched young birds newly fallen again
and yet again to earth. Some snatch of my
own life caught me from sight of what befel
the helpless, pitiable, soft things. Never saw
I one fly to safety! Yet before the summer
passed, the trees were sweet with song from
the young thrushes' throats. Am I — a man
— less master of my fate than they?
"Come with us," the players said. There
124 WILL SHAKESPEARE
was a large music in the words. " To Lon-
don." A place that breeds such miracles of
finished loveliness as was that prince-boy of
the forest, must be a soil where lives can
grow. Where beats now that gallant young
heart ? I'll seek him out ! God makes a patch
of blue for us in every sky, — some star, how-
ever dim, the night. .
[He goes to the cupboard and takes out
several manuscripts which he puts with
the charred one into a canvas hunting
bag hanging on the wall. He empties a
wallet at his side on the table. A few
coins drop out. He takes one and re-
places it in the wallet. ]
This will buy food. [He leaves the others on
the table."} I have often walked thirty miles
for pleasure, why not thrice thirty for my
life?
[He slings his gun and hunting-bag over
his shoulder. He goes to the table and
writes.}
WILL SHAKESPEARE 125
SHAKESPEARE
[Writing."} My father and my mother.
— Opportunity to refill our too empty purse
takes me to-day to London. There is needful
haste so that I may not now say more, but at
the first stage of my journey I will write all
that your own minds may ask. Give me your
trusts and your good patience until my letter
come. Your great hearts will greatly wait.
Will.
[He continues to write on another
paper.]
Anne : You have bid me go. You wish free-
dom from the sight of me. True it is with
some, that what the eye seeth not the heart
rueth not. So I go. What I win from for-
tune shall be yours with but a moiety for my
sustaining. Though you know it not, to one
goal, — Peace and Prosperity, — from our too
separate points we look. The lines converge.
When time brings them so close that you
126 WILL SHAKESPEARE
know our vision is the same, though differing
in degree, I will come again.
Will.
[He leaves the letters on the table and
taking his cap and gun goes to the
door.']
a child's voice
[From without the garden door.]
Father! Sweet father! Let me in.
ANOTHER CHILD'S VOICE
Let me come to you father!
SHAKESPEARE
[With fierce anguish.] God blast in hell
the fiend that sends those voices to knock at
my heart to weaken its resolution — all's dark
again! My way as black as night — and I —
blind. Yet, if I stay, life perishes in blank-
ness like my father's.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 127
THE CHILDREN'S VOICES
[Without. ] Father! Father!
[Shakespeare goes wildly toward the
voices, then turning away he covers
his ears with his hands and rushes
from the house to the street.']
CURTAIN
ACT II
SCENE II
Scene]: [Night. In the background
large meadow-land, very slightly rolling, with
sleeping sheep guarded by sheep-dogs who
also sleep. A still stream lighted by moon-
light winds across the meadows at a distance
in the background. At left, near the back,
are the imposing gates of a private park and
behind them, at a distance, is seen the shad-
owy outline of a Castle or Manor House with
dim lights shining in some of its windows.
The sky is full of stars and the moonlight
lights everything. At the right near the
back an old shepherd in a cloak and broad hat
watches the sheep, leaning on his staff.
There is a group of trees behind the shepherd
but far enough away for his -figure, turned
away from the audience, to be clearly out-
128
WILL SHAKESPEARE 129
lined against the moonlit plain. Enter from
right Shakespeare, walking wearily. ]
SHAKESPEARE
Can lead be quicksilver, or night be day!
How then can all this dead weight in my
heart
Be turned again to light and life and song?
[He stops and looks toward the mead-
ows.']
This is a sweet land ! Full of rest and peace ;
With grassy meads and waters clear as
Heaven.
I'll lie among those quiet lambs and sleep,
And let the Master-Shepherd lead my soul
Up to the stars for Light.
[He goes a few steps further and sees
the shepherd who has been hidden
from him by the group of trees.]
Ev'n here a taint!
A shepherd of this earth to reckon with.
Hola, my friend!
THE SHEPHERD
[Startled.] Who comes? He has a gun.
130 WILL SHAKESPEARE
A poacher — or a murderous highwayman.
What do you, trespasser on private land?
Off, or I'll set my dogs on you, or call
The castle guard!
SHAKESPEARE
[Laughing. ] Let your dogs sleep!
[He takes off his gun and holds it out
to the shepherd.]
Take this,
It is uncharged. I do not come to poach,
And as for robbery — Truth, I lack force
For even that — if such were my intent!
My ankles bend, my knees are turned to
straw.
I have walked more than thirty miles to-day.
Let me lie there among your sleeping sheep,
Share their mute rest and steal away at dawn,
And be to you a half-forgotten shade
Of night. Do you consent?
THE SHEPHERD
[Coming nearer and peering into his face.]
A wayfarer,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 131
And young!
[He takes his gun and examines it.']
Uncharged. You are an honest man.
It is not strange you seemed an evil one.
A month ago, upon a night like this,
A night of stars, — a man, armed, ev'n as you,
Asked me his way, — and yonder in the copse
A flight-shoot from the brays, that very night,
He killed a pedlar for his gold. At dawn
I found the body bleeding in the fern.
They caught the killer and this very hour
He's swinging at the cross-roads, not far
hence.
On quiet nights, like this — when a breeze
blows
This way, you hear the clanking of the chains,
Ay, Ay, quite clear!
[In the group of trees chains clank."]
SHAKESPEARE
[Shuddering. 1
Does murder haunt that copse ?
I thought to hear of chanting nightingales.
1 32 WILL SHAKESPEARE
THE SHEPHERD
Nightingales, say you? Ay, there's plenty
there
But they all sing in June. Whence come
you, Sir?
And whither go?
SHAKESPEARE
From Stratford, on the Avon ;
I go to London.
THE SHEPHERD
You fare far afield.
SHAKESPEARE
I seek — a Friend! Not many miles away
May one not find the Country-Seat of that
Illustrious youth, the Earl of Southampton?
THE SHEPHERD
Look there — Those are his gates.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 133
SHAKESPEARE
[With intense eagerness.']
Am I so near?
THE SHEPHERD
His castle lights shine there.
SHAKESPEARE
Is he within?
THE SHEPHERD
He was — he will be — but, look you, he goes
At sunrise with his train to London town.
SHAKESPEARE
Where is he now?
THE SHEPHERD
Beside the river-bank
He wanders with a troop of young court- folk
As gay and mad as he. With gray heads too,
i34 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Old sheep-dogs — like to mine — to keep their
lambs
From frollicking too far.
[In the distance soft music sounds and
ceases.]
SHAKESPEARE
How wondrously
Those floating tones assuage the ear and
heart !
I had forgotten there was music in
The world. [Another strain is heard.~\
THE SHEPHERD
O, ay! They even walk to tunes,
Dance, sing and play with cup and ball by
night,
And squander days at cards and dice and
bowls.
SHAKESPEARE
And never tire!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 135
THE SHEPHERD
If they tire, sir,
It is with pleasure. If they weary, sure
'Tis surfeiting of overmuch enjoyment.
SHAKESPEARE
There's art far finer, friend, in starving for
A joy and feeding with sharp joy upon
It, when it comes at last.
[Soft music is heard nearer. It ceases
again.']
THE SHEPHERD
[Turning and pointing to the right."]
See where they come!
SHAKESPEARE
[Looking and speaking eagerly]
He who walks first with curls that burn deep
gold,
Under the silver moon, is the young Earl,—
Is it not so?
136 WILL SHAKESPEARE
THE SHEPHERD
Ay, he's but fourteen years
Yet heighted like a man. The little maid
He leads, the Lady Bridget Manners, — whom
'Tis said, he courts in deadly boyish-love.
SHAKESPEARE
A man's tenacity! Four years ago
He lisped in his child-music of this child.
[The music, still soft, is heard continu-
ously, close at hand. A procession
of youths and maidens of from four-
teen to sixteen years approach with
two or three older men and women
and accompanied by musicians play-
ing. They wear summer court cos-
tumes and Hit across the stage from
the right to the left, and enter the
gates of the castle. They pass with
soft laughter and music, more like a
procession of spirits than of human
beings. As Southampton passes,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 137
Shakespeare springs forward, with
outstretched hands as if to touch and
hold him. The procession disappears
completely behind the gates and wall
of the castle. Shakespeare stands in
the centre of the stage watching as if
expecting it to re-appear.']
THE SHEPHERD
They will not come again to-night! Listen — «
I have a hut a stone's throw space from here,
Rest there — the ground is hard, ev'n for
young bones.
SHAKESPEARE
Not so. I'll sweeter rest beneath the stars.
SHEPHERD
Well — well — we are all mad when we are
young!
[Exit Shepherd to hut."]
[Enter hastily from gate an old Lady-
in-Waiting, stout and breathless.]
138 WILL SHAKESPEARE
LADY-IN-WAITING
[Calling.'] Elisabeth! Elisabeth Vernon!
Where has the mad girl gone? Find her I
must,
Else will her Cousin Essex rail at me.
[She hurries into the shrubbery near
the gate without seeing Shakespeare.
Enter from the group of trees at right,
close to where Shakespeare stands,
{Elisabeth Vernon. She is a tall girt
of eleven or twelve years wearing a
pale green dress of soft silky gauze,
clinging closely and not reaching quite
to her ankles. Her arms and throat
are bare. Her dark hair falls on her
shoulders and her head is crowned
with a wreath of green leaves. As
she sees Shakespeare, she stops and
stands staring at him in surprise.]
SHAKESPEARE
My Dryad come to life!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 139
ELISABETH
[Looking at him wonderingly, speaks
with easy, fearless confidence.']
What is a Dryad?
SHAKESPEARE
Enchanting fearlessness !
[He speaks as if telling a fairy tale to a
child.]
... A Dryad is
A woodland sylph, born in a hollow tree
Needing no shelter but the leaves and sky.
ELISABETH
What pretty words you speak! But I'm no
Dryad!
For I am but Elisabeth Vernon.
Now, who are you?
SHAKESPEARE
A Passionate Pilgrim.
ELISABETH
[Shaking her head.]
I never heard of one before! But though
Your speech is strange, I see your gentlehood.
Ho WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[With emotion.'}
High Heaven has giv'n you vision far beyond
Your world and years.
ELISABETH
My world? What is my world?
SHAKESPEARE
You're of the castle and the court.
ELISABETH
[Joyously.}
Well guessed!
[She draws near Shakespeare, speaking
confidentially.']
Have you seen anyone pass here?
SHAKESPEARE
A troop —
WILL SHAKESPEARE 141
ELISABETH
[Interrupting.]
Ah! They are in the castle! He forgot!
[She tears the wreath of green leaves
from her head and throws it on the
ground, stamping on it with fury.~\
SHAKESPEARE
[With quick anger. ]
Wanton cruelty!
ELISABETH
[Looking about in wonder.]
Where? Who is cruel?
SHAKESPEARE
[Picking up the wreath and smoothing
the crushed leaves. Elisabeth draws
closer, looking at him with surprise."]
You — who so wound these gentle, harmless
leaves.
142 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ELISABETH
I wore that crown for Southampton — I
waited
In the meadow where he said he'd come,
And he forgot me quite!
SHAKESPEARE
[With gay irony.']
A fruitless tryst !
This is my love-struck Dryad in very truth!
ELISABETH
Who walked he with ? A maid with hair like
flax?
SHAKESPEARE
{With mock earnestness.']
The very same!
ELISABETH
That frozen Bridget Manners!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 143
SHAKESPEARE
[In the same manner.]
The very same!
ELISABETH
[Suddenly sobbing.']
He has forgotten me,
And no one loves me!
SHAKESPEARE
Magic there surely is
In both her childish hate and love that melts
My heart within me! Woodland Child-
Princess,
/ love you and I never shall forget!
[Voices within the gate.]
Elisabeth! Elisabeth!
ELISABETH
They call!
And I must go.
i44 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
Once more, farewell my Dryad!
ELISABETH
[Putting her face close to his.]
I like you much! Pray come to London
soon!
[She waves her hand to him and runs
toward the gate and disappears in the
shrubbery within the gate.]
SHAKESPEARE
Such beings as that radiant girl and boy
Reveal myself to me. I may not think
Upon my darlings left behind. Tis ruin.
Yet I still love and evermore must love —
Love makes a mighty music in my heart
And must find noble hearts to answer it
A world on which to lavish all its wealth.
[He goes toward back near gates.]
I'll wrap myself in dreams of those I've seen,
And lying at their castle gates all night
I'll wake with dawn and follow in the dust
WILL SHAKESPEARE 145
Of their swift speeding hence, as if 'twere
clouds
'Round Phoebus' golden chariot wheels, — to
London !
[He goes to the gates and lies down near
them, using his bag as a pillow. ]
CURTAIN — END OF ACT II
ACT III
Twelve Years Later
THE LURE OF ELISABETH
MAY, 1598
ACT III
Twelve Years Later
THE LURE OF ELISABETH
May, 1598
Scene: {The inner Court of the London
house of the Earl of Southampton. The
sides of the court at right and left and back
are Hanked by the walls of the house of a
pinkish cream-colored stone with windows and
balconies. The space between these walls is
filled by a grass covered court. On the right
is a dais with seats, and at the back is an
arched opening showing an alley bordered by
a high clipped hedge. The extreme fore-
ground of the stage is composed of a very
low Hat terrace which runs all across the stage
from right to left. The front towards the
spectators is entirely open. At its farther
149
ISO WILL SHAKESPEARE
edge are very high, wide arches reaching al-
most to the top of the proscenium and sup-
ported by four slender columns, one at either
side on the extreme right and left and the
other two at even distances apart. The char-
acters pass across this species of low terrace,
supposed to be a part of the front portion of
the house. Through the lofty arches, all that
is enacted in the court is seen. When the
curtain rises, lackeys are hanging tapestries
and silk hangings over the balconies and plac-
ing Howers in the stone vases at the sides of
the court and on the dais. Musicians with
their instruments enter one of the balconies.
Laughing maids lean out of the windows of
the house and the lackeys throw -flowers at
them, which they try to catch. In one of the
balconies a page plays with a cup and ball and
another teases a parrot on a perch. Across
the centre of the green from right to left is
a stone wall or barrier about three feet in
height. There are arched exits at each side
and also a low closed doorway at the left.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 151
[Enter Florian from left, hastily yet
with conceited grace. He is a slender,
fair -haired youth and wears a page's
costume of pale blue.']
FLORIAN
[Calling to left.] Now follow the rest of
you, in Venus* name!
[Enter four pages, running. Three
wear the same costume as Florian.
The fourth, Peter Dumpser, a youth
of eighteen, wears the worn clothes of
a rustic]
FLORIAN
Stand there, my sky-larks, and tune your
throats. [To musicians in balcony.] A
Harmony, Gentlemen, a delectable Harmony
of Hautboys and Shawms!
FIRST MUSICIAN
Which one, gallant Florian?
152 WILL SHAKESPEARE
FLORIAN
The one you have set to my Lord South-
ampton's song to the Lady Bridget Manners.
FIRST MUSICIAN
We have the music here.
FLORIAN
We are to salute the Lady Bridget's ears
with the same this hour when she comes to
see the fighting with swords at the barriers,
which my Lord proposes to play to-day be-
fore the ladies of the Court. Your words,
chaunters !
[The pages produce leaflets with the
words of the song.~\
FIRST MUSICIAN
We are ready, gentle Sir.
[They play the opening measure.']
FLORIAN
[Beating time with a >wand.~\ Now with
WILL SHAKESPEARE 153
a softness since the opening words are dolo-
rous— yet, as there is a daring courage in the
closing stanzas, with a joyful noise through-
out.
[All begin to sing to the accompaniment
of the musicians.]
Love hath ever wrought me woe,
Brought me miseries long ago,
Wrung my soul with piercing pain,
Furies followed in his train.
FLORIAN
[Putting his hands over his ears.] O — O
— O! Love never wrung the soul of any
mortal as you are wringing mine now. This
is harmony run mad. Again the first line.
THE PAGES
[Singing.] Love hath ever wrought me
woe —
FLORIAN
There is a voice there like a grater. [To
154 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Peter Dumpser.'] Tis yours. You have no
more voice than a peacock, and (observing
his costume) without the peacock's excuse of
pretty feathers. What do you here?
PETER
[In a whining voice.'] The Steward bade
me present myself to you and you bade me
sing. It is true, Sir, I have no voice. I am
but endeavoring to make a joyful noise.
FLORIAN
Who are you?
PETER
My Lord Southampton's new page.
FLORIAN
His new page! Then your garments are
older than your office. Whence do you
come?
PETER
From Stratford.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 155
FLORIAN
From Stratford! As far from London as
Heaven! Where is your page's dress?
PETER
The Steward gave it me, but he bade me
go to you without delay that you should in-
struct me in my duty; so I came as I was.
FLORIAN
An obedience that has its uses as well as its
dangers. Go, put on your habit and return
to me here.
[Exit Peter.']
FLORIAN
[To pages, beating time.'] Again. I will
take his part. Speak the words with clear-
ness, for 'tis a well-penned metre intended to
reach the lady's heart through her ears.
[All sing.] ^
156 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SONG
Love hath ever wrought me woe,
Brought me misery long ago,
Wrung my soul with piercing pain,
Furies followed in his train.
But at last I snared the Boy,
Clipped his wings, and O, the Joy !
For Love taught my Love Love's ways,
Nights of balm and blissful days.
But Alas! the story saddens,
For the fickle maiden maddens,
Told me plainly she loved Love,
Holding him all else above.
But we cannot love without Love,
Cannot doff him as a glove,
We will keep but curb him duly,
That my Love may love me truly.
{Exeunt Musicians.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 157
FLORIAN
The song is well enough, but I doubt its
effect. There is more in love than decorum.
I have watched the Lady Bridget, — and if
the passion in her run not more to good con-
duct than tenderness, then my eye is deceived
as I amourously glint it among the ladies of
the Court.
[Enter Peter Dumpser in a habit like
those of the other pages. ]
[To pages. .] Go wait in the ante-chamber
while I instruct this Mirror of Truth in a little
vital dissembling.
[Exeunt pages casting scornful looks at
Peter.']
FLORIAN
What is your name?
PETER
Peter Dumpser, Sir.
FLORIAN
Peter Dumpser! Your parents were as
158 WILL SHAKESPEARE
cruel as mine, who called me Samuel Swales,
— but when my Lord Southampton asked me
my name, I answered Florian, whereon he
immediately gave me a place in his house-
hold. Could he have a Samuel Swales and
a Peter Dumpser to carry his love-missives,
think you? You shall not be Peter, but
Pierre, after the French fashion.
PETER
Is not my own name good enough for a
page, Sir?
FLORIAN
Good enough for a page! Look you, a
page's office may be the first step to that of
confidant of a king or the beloved of a prin-
cess.
PETER
How may that be?
FLORIAN
Tis History. I have read it in my Lord's
books. There was Hyacinthus who was a
WILL SHAKESPEARE 159
kind of page to Apollo, Lord of Music.
Apollo so loved Hyacinthus that he turned
things about and became his page in turn,
even carrying his arrows to the chase. There
was Chastelard, page to Queen Mary of
Scotland, who, had he not been over-bold,
might have been made her consort, for did she
not lean upon him in the Dance? There was
Ganymede, who was so fair that an eagle car-
ried him away to be page to Jupiter, one of
the Kings of Heaven. Since knowing this,
being rarely beautiful myself, whenever I see
an eagle, I hide.
[He takes out of a pouch a hand mirror of
burnished silver and looks at himself
with rapture, arranging his curls.]
PETER
Can such things be?
FLORIAN
Printed History.
PETER
I can hardly believe you!
160 WILL SHAKESPEARE
FLORIAN
A page has his opportunities. I see what
others do not.
PETER
[Drawing close and looking at his eyes.]
Yet are your eyes no larger than mine!
FLORIAN
Dolt! It is not the eye, but what looks
through it. Listen. All London knows that
Lord Southampton courts Lady Bridget Man-
ners. Every dog sees that! But I see that —
[Here he holds up four fingers and checks
off the names on them] while Southampton
ever pursues Lady Bridget, Mistress Elisa-
beth Vernon follows Southampton, 'and in
his turn, Master Will Shakespeare watches
Mistress Elisabeth Vernon with fixed and
dreaming eyes — and so there they are like
four crows on a wall, each looking after the
other.
PETER
Would that I might see as you do!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 161
FLORIAN
Behold me. I am still a page, yet when
my Lord goes to Court, I am always with
the gentlewomen-in-waiting by my good will.
There I am in the midst of them, all hot in
amity, of look so lovely, smiling to the eye.
I gracify the matters with the proudest of
them. It is, gentle Florian here and kind
Florian there! There is one named Phillida,
— a tall, sad-eyed, very perspiring girl, — but
with a rare appreciation of me. I have writ
her madrigals. Do you think if they were
signed Samuel Swales there could be aught
of romance about them? But to Court we
seldom go now, for my Lord passes his days
at the playhouse with the great playwright
Master Will Shakespeare, who has become so
famous that even the Queen commands him
to give one of his plays before her at the
Earl of Merton's country seat next month.
PETER
Is Will Shakespeare become so famous as
that?
i62 WILL SHAKESPEARE
FLORIAN
Lord Southampton is foolish enough to
think him as great a man as he is himself —
but then he is a poet too! But for yourself,
Peter, remember well when my Lord asks
your name answer boldly Pierre.
PETER
But that is not true.
FLORIAN
Truth is out of fashion at court. Were it
to come in again the Queen's imagination of
herself could never survive it. It once ruled
the universe undisputed, but that was ages
gone when Adam was but a vapour and Eve
a sweet breath of air. No, no, Pierre. Be-
lieve me, to lie honorably is one of the first
duties of a page. The guests come soon. I
have not eaten since morning. By my soul,
which I believe has its dwelling in that part
which nourishes me, I am hungry!
[Enter the other pages.}
WILL SHAKESPEARE 163
FIRST PAGE
Shall we keep the Court, Sir, as is the cus-
tom at this hour?
FLORIAN
[Angrily] Who bade you intrude on me?
Pierre keeps the Court to-day, while I eat.
Out — and wait on me when I bid you.
[Exit pages with angry looks at Florian
and Pierre.]
FLORIAN
I go. Keep you the Court. If any stranger
come, ask him his name and business. If he
answer not to your satisfaction, be in the
bones of him at once.
PETER
[Timidly.] How may that be, seeing
Lve no sword?
have no sword?
FLORIAN
Have you not fists and feet? Speak to
164 WILL SHAKESPEARE
him a rough speech full of passions with your
tongue and let your other members do the
rest. Come aside and I will show you the
right knock. See — there— and there — and
there —
[Exeunt Florian and Peter, Florian strik-
ing and kicking and tripping Peter up.
Pester helplessly parrying his blows.']
[Enter Shakespeare and Southampton,
walking slowly, their arms around each
other's shoulders, their heads bent to-
gether in earnest talk. They wear
Court costumes, Southampton's of
more splendid ornament than Shake-
speare's. Southampton wears his hair
in long golden curls on his shoulders.
At centre they stop and separate,
Shakespeare still keeping his hand on
Southampton's shoulder.]
SHAKESPEARE
Beware of Essex.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 165
SOUTHAMPTON
[With surprise.'] Say you so, and why?
SHAKESPEARE
Mistake me not, Southampton, for the man
Compels my love; — since Nature hath herself
Compounded him of vital elements.
Urbanity innate, a noble person,
Of courtesy that oft fulfils itself
Against the current of his headstrong will.
But deep beneath the seeming of such grace,
Lie boldness, even to temerity,
And arrogance that forces him to rule,
Even though that rule be ruin to himself
And those swept with him in audacity.
SOUTHAMPTON
For him the Queen waxes uxorious,
Softer than melting honey in the sun,
Which Essex* fingers dabble in at will.
Such moulding at her years is deep impressed.
Essex is safe.
166 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
He draws in over- fast
Of the Queen's courtesy — as does a child,
Nursed ever by a too indulgent nurse,
And he will tire as does the sated child
And seek a newer plenty of his own
O'er which alone he may have sovereignty,
And give of it to whom and when he wills.
I speak but from imperious love of you —
Trust not his dangerous fondness. Join no
scheme
Fledged by his rash imagination.
Let comets dash their ruin through the
spheres,
Shine you a radiant light in your own place,
Apart and safe.
[A fanfare of trumpets is heard without.'}
What pleasure claims the hour?
SOUTHAMPTON
We fight with swords against these barriers
I here have raised. I'm tired of dallying
WILL SHAKESPEARE 167
With baby sports! Look what a wonderful
Sad change there is in our young Londoners.
Our ancient wrestling with strong force of
arms
To wallowing in ladies' laps at cards;
Our running steeds and coursing hounds to
cosseting
In chambers at the levees of the Queen —
England's young manhood turned to feeble-
ness.
So I, to sting virility to life,
Again command such foregone games as
these ;
A saving calling-back of vigorous times
When even pleasure taxed men's strength and
blood.
I lead one band's assault against the other.
SHAKESPEARE
Who leads against you?
SOUTHAMPTON
Essex.
168 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
Ah!
[He takes Southampton's sword in his
hand and touches the point, which is
covered by a cap.]
Mark this.
A harmless button. — If in ardent play-
That grows too fierce, such button should be
wrenched
From off your enemy's swift-thrusted blade,
What proud and dear young blood would
flow! Have care!
For some men keep a special dagger for —
Their friends.
[Another fanfare of trumpets is heard.]
[Enter Florian.']
FLORIAN
The guests approach, my Lord.
SOUTHAMPTON
Come, Will,
And meet them at the outer door with me.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 169
[He throws one arm over Shakespeare's
shoulders as they go out at right.']
[Exeunt Shakespeare and Southampton,
followed by Florian.]
[Enter Peter.]
PETER
[Imitating Florian's movements.] There!
My left leg around his leg — thus. His head
under my arm — thus. My fists pommelling,
and my right leg kicking — whatever of his
other parts are at my convenience — thus!
[Enter two pages.]
FIRST PAGE
He has a fit! Call the Steward!
SECOND PAGE
He is mad! Lock him in the dark cellar!
Steward ! Steward !
xyo WILL SHAKESPEARE
PETER
Ah, pray you, Sirs, I have no fit. I but
practice my defense of the court.
FIRST PAGE
He is a Natural.
SECOND PAGE
His defense of the court! He thinks he is
in wild Scotland where they kill men for
sport at supper.
FIRST PAGE
And our office is given to him! I shall
bite my nails with anger for a week.
[Enter third page.]
THIRD PAGE
My Lord Southampton commands you in
the outer court.
[Exit third page.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 171
PETER
Before you go, tell me what like is my
Lord Southampton, for I have not yet seen
him. How is he favored? Dark or light?
How may I know him?
FIRST PAGE
[To second page, drawing him aside. ~\
Now hear how I will set a trap for him that
he may never take our honor from us again.
\To Peter. ,] You may know him by his
being a little man, fat and scrubby. His hair
is coal black and he wears it short like a priest,
and he has a small black mustache on his
upper lip, like a Frenchman. He carries no
sword but always a green parrot on his left
wrist.
PETER
Now can I never mistake him!
SECOND PAGE
[Looking down the alley, speaks to the first
Vj* WILL SHAKESPEARE
page aside.] Quick! Hide here with me, and
see what follows.
[The two pages go to right as if to go
out, but hide behind a column.]
THE PAGES
Farewell, Peter! Defend the court, Peter!
PETER
[Looks about the court, and down the
alley at left back.] Someone comes! O — he
is a tall man — he carries a sword. A very
tall man and of a masterful port. O! O!
Hardy as I am, I am very vengeably afraid.
[He gradually withdraws backward
against the further wall. Southampton
appears at end of alley.]
PETER
Florian said — "speak to him a rough speech
full of passions." But I have no passions!
O, if my Mother were but here to teach me
WILL SHAKESPEARE 173
language! But I will do the best I learned
from her.
[Enter Southampton."]
PETER
[Going toward him with a swagger.] Your
name, and business, Scullmullion !
SOUTHAMPTON
What have we here? Out of my way,
monkey.
PETER
[As if remembering a lesson.] "If he
answer not to your satisfaction " [He
flies at Southampton and springing on him
winds his legs and arms around him, kicking
and striking him.] Learn not to trespass in
the Earl of Southampton's house!
[The two pages behind the column run
away.]
[Enter Florian.]
174 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON
Here, Florian ! Help me pull off this Devil-
fish, all legs and arms!
[Florian pulls Peter away."]
SOUTHAMPTON
[To Peter.] What do you mean by such
lunacy ?
PETER
[Pointing to Florian.^ He bade me.
SOUTHAMPTON
What means he, Florian ?
FLORIAN
My Lord, he has lived with sheep and cows
all his life and has their understanding of
English. I bade him keep intruders from
the court, and not knowing your Lordship,
this is his reading of my instructing.
SOUTHAMPTON
Chastise him well, Florian, that he may re-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 175
member that well-meant mistakes are as dan-
gerous as acts of evil intent. . . . Bestow
those seats with more" dignity. Place one on
the highest dais as if it were a throne, and
wait me here.
[Exit Southampton.']
FLORIAN*
O Pierre, Pierre^ you preserve your own
integrity at the expense of that of others, and
yet persist in calling your kind of truth a
virtue !
[He catches Peter by the collar and
strikes him with his wand. Peter half
eludes him, running away a few steps,
but Florian catches him again.]
That was a fine recoil and the slant of your
body at this moment better drawn than the
leaning tower of Pisa.
[Fanfare of trumpets without. The
musicians re-enter balcony. Florian
releases Peter.]
Help me, Pierre!
176 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[They arrange the chairs on the dais as
Southampton directed. A festal march
is played. Enter musicians and guests.
A page calls the names as they enter
and take their places on the dais.
Southampton enters first and directs
them to their places.']
PAGE
Lord Herbert. The Countess of Rutland.
Lady Bridget Manners. The Earl of Rut-
land.
[Southampton leads all but Lady Bridget
Manners to the foremost seats on the
lowest steps of the dais. Then he takes
Lady Bridget's hand. She has pale
golden hair and is dressed in white.']
SOUTHAMPTON
In Joust and Tourney of our elder custom,
There ever was a Queen of Love and Beauty.
Fair Sweetest, be our Queen and crown our
winning.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 177
[He tries to lead her to the chair at the
top of the dais.]
BRIDGET
[Drawing back.] My place is by my
Mother's side, my Lord.
COUNTESS OF RUTLAND
Such is my wish, my Lord, and my com-
mand.
[Lady Bridget takes the chair beside the
Countess of Rutland.]
SOUTHAMPTON
[With impatience and annoyance.]
'Tis fighting against barriers indeed!
[During this dialogue, Elisabeth Vernon
with a gentlewoman-in-waiting enters
at left. Elisabeth advances and then
withdraws to left and listens with con-
centrated attention until Lady Bridget
takes her place by the Countess of Rut-
land. Elisabeth wears a dress of ruby
178 WILL SHAKESPEARE
colored brocade with a front of white
and gold and pearls; a standing lace
ruff and jewels in her dark hair. The
Earl of Essex enters at left and they
advance together, the gentlewoman
following.']
PAGE
Mistress Elisabeth of Vernon, and The Earl
of Essex.
SOUTHAMPTON
Welcome, noble cousins!
Essex, stay here. Fair Mistress Vernon,
wait! •
[Essex stands by the chair on the second
step of the dais that Southampton has
indicated and Elisabeth Vernon stands
alone in centre.']
SOUTHAMPTON
[Pointing to the chair on the top of the
dais.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 179
See — where there waits for you a queenless
throne !
Have pity, pray you, on our Headless State!
ELISABETH
[With mocking raillery.']
fA throne a-begging in a world like ours,
Where every woman dreams herself a queen!
'Twould sure be reckless waste. Where is
my crown?
SOUTHAMPTON
In Love's sweet kingdom 'tis the Queen gives
crowns,
Wearing them not. Be thou our generous
Queen.
ELISABETH
Risk no fair titles till my reign be tested !
[Southampton leads her to the top 'of the
dais. She sits and intently watches
Southampton. The musicians in the
balcony continue the festal march while
other guests enter. The page continues
180 WILL SHAKESPEARE
to announce them, but his voice is
drowned by the music. A trumpeter
sounds a call to arms. Essex and four
noblemen take their places on the far-
ther side of the barrier. Southampton
and four other noblemen stand in the
foreground on the side of barrier
nearest to the audience. The pages
divest them of their ruffs, cloaks and
upper doublets and they stand in their
white silk blouses and trunks and hose.
The pages give them swords. ]
SOUTHAMPTON
[To Herbert, with solicitude, ]
Where now is Will ? I shall not play without
him.
{Enter slowly down the clipped alley at
back, Shakespeare. He passes the
others until he comes to Southampton.
rAs he enters, Elisabeth Vernon turns
and iixes her eyes upon him, and as he
passes her he turns slowly, as if forced
WILL SHAKESPEARE 181
to do so, and looks fixedly into her
eyes; then passes on.~\
SOUTHAMPTON
[Taking a sword from a page and holding
it out to Shakespeare. ]
Fight on my side, Sweet Will, that I may win.
SHAKESPEARE
Though love is free, I am not of your caste.
I am a player, yet — I will not play.
All that takes place upon the earth requires
A watcher. Let me watch.
SOUTHAMPTON
[With anger. 1 A subtle stab
And undeserved. Who does not know that
Genius
Is of the highest, rarest caste of Heaven!
SHAKESPEARE
We're on the earth ! But be not hurt, South-
ampton,
1 82 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Nor weight me with your pity, for I joy
In the still watch I keep, more than you can
In all your straining play.
[The trumpeter sounds a second call to
arms. The combatants stand at atten-
tion. Shakespeare stands alone at left
near front and watches Elisabeth Ver-
non. The game begins. Florian and
Peter are in the foreground at right. ]
FLORIAN
[To Peter.] Now there'll be sport!
Behold the Lady Bridget. — She's as pure
And cool as is a snowdrop in chill March —
A Morning Flower! But there above her
gleams
A Beauty of Mysterious Night. Mark how
Her dark regard burns on Southampton, yet
He feels it not, as ever low he bends
To pluck his white Bud from the Fields of
Dawn.
[The musicians play. Essex and his men
overpower Southampton and his fol-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 183
lowers and drivel them back from the
barrier. But Essex is thrown down
by Southampton. Excitement among
the guests. The musicians stop play-
ing.]
COUNTESS OF RUTLAND
The game is over-rough, my Lords, methinks.
SOUTHAMPTON
Madam, the Queen's great father and your
king
Much loved the game.
ELISABETH
Men love not play with toys!
Am I called Queen? Then let the game go
on.
[Shakespeare has watched only Elisa-
beth. Now he turns wholly to South-
ampton. They fight again. South-
ampton and his men overpower Essex
and his band. The button on Essex's
184 WILL SHAKESPEARE
sword comes off. Southampton tries
to elude him, but Essex, in a frenzy of
excitement, forces him to fight, and
Southampton is suddenly wounded in
the right arm. Shakespeare has grad-
ually drawn nearer and nearer to Es-
sex and Southampton.']
COUNTESS OF RUTLAND
[Rising.]
Witness! I prophesied brutality!
ELISABETH
[Also rising."]
Superb! Ah! how I thrill with ecstasy!
A sight worth living for in our tame world!
[As Essex's sword button falls off,
Shakespeare springs into the grassy
arena.]
SHAKESPEARE
O dangerous Force! Foul play!
[He seizes Essex by the arm and wrests
his sword from him.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 185
SOUTHAMPTON
[Gaily.] I thank you, Essex.
Small wounds may turn great cowards into
heroes.
ELISABETH
[Hurriedly descending from her seat at
the top of the dais with a cry of
alarm. 1
How should I dream that blood was drawn!
[She draws close to Southampton. Her
voice breaks with emotion.']
ELISABETH
,. He bleeds!
[She turns angrily to Essex.]
Robert, this is more like a dastard's trick
Than noble sport between two gentlemen.
ESSEX
Lash me not more, my cousin, with your
tongue
186 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Than does the heart within me, though my
hand
And hasty head oft play it false!
[To Southampton.]
Pardon !
SOUTHAMPTON
[Laughing.']
How may one pardon when there is no sin !
ELISABETH
You bleed !
[She tears the soft muslin and lace scarf
from her shoulders and binds South-
ampton's arm with passionate solici-
tude. Essex watches her with an an-
gry frown. The guests on the dais
are grouped together; some watching
Southampton and Elisabeth, some
talking together with excitement.
Herbert has drawn Shakespeare aside
at left and they confer apart, not ob-
serving that Elisabeth has bound
WILL SHAKESPEARE 187
Southampton's arm. They now come
forward. During this scene the pages
are rapidly re-dressing the combatants.
Elisabeth takes a crimson ribbon from
her dress and fastens it on Southamp-
ton's arm.']
ELISABETH
An honor fairly won. Your knights,
And you, had triumphed, 'ere my cousin's
sword
Pierced you with such unlicensed cruelty.
[Southampton drops on one knee, takes
Elisabeth's hand and kisses it, bending
low. Pembroke stands near. Essex
and Shakespeare at some little distance
observing all that happens.]
ESSEX
[Turning slightly away sings sneeringly
in a low voice, but with great distinct-
ness.]
188 WILL SHAKESPEARE
" Every ass
Must have his grass,
And every fool his favor!"
[The group in centre turn to look at Es-
sex with confused surprise, as if not
catching the words.']
SHAKESPEARE
And had you won the favor, Essex, speak-—
Which title would best fit you, fool or ass?
ESSEX
[Instinctively feeling for his sword,
which Shakespeare still holds, and
then making a gesture of anger. ~\
Poets may safely jest with empty scabbards!
SHAKESPEARE
[Handing him his sword. ]
While Earls may never trifle with full brains!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 189
ESSEX
Mine has a memory for more than verses,
E'en such as yours, and punctuates reminders
With the rash blood of masquerading rustics,
As Ireland and Tyrone shall attest.
SHAKESPEARE
Yet, in a universe where nothing counts
Except the soul, I doubt not, Essex, that
We two shall meet one day on equal ground.
Pray you recall this when you match yourself
One day against the masquerading rustic.
[While Shakespeare and Essex are talk-
ing, Florian helps Southampton dress.
A fanfare of trumpets. Enter a
page.]
PAGE
My Lords, the banquet waits!
SOUTHAMPTON
Follow me, friends,
And drink to skill at arm's, and knightliness,
To put King Arthur's Table to the blush !
i9o WILL SHAKESPEARE
[Exit all at right, but the pages, Essex,
Elisabeth Vernon and her gentle-
woman. The pages begin to dress Es-
sex. Essex shows his impatience at
being dressed. One page tries to fas-
ten a knee ribbon; another kneels, at-
taching the clasp of his shoe which has
come undone in the game; another
tries to put on an upper garment; and
a fourth to replace his ruff.']
ESSEX
[Struggling to free himself.']
Off, louts! You finger me and cling like
leeches.
Off! Off! Out of my way! Out of my
way!
[He Hings the pages aside and springs
• toward the exit, his cloak hanging
from one shoulder, his ruff unfas-
tened, and his whole dress in disor-
der.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 191
ESSEX
Elisabeth !
[Elisabeth has just reached the exit and
turns when she hears his voice. She
returns to hint.]
ELISABETH
I listen, Robert. Speak.
ESSEX
[With rough vigor, but with great kind-
ness.}
Cousin, that I have love for you, you know ;
That I have pride in you, you guess; and yet
All that which pride breeds in my blood for
you
Is still a warning unforeseen. Should I
Unveil my heart, you'd find two images,
My wife's and yours, enshrined there each by
each ;
Yet neither form usurps the other's place — •
Each holds her own. She first, you next,
i92 WILL SHAKESPEARE
And claiming both my staunchest champion-
ing
Should there be need of such. What are
your years?
For, I forget their sum; — so rich, so large,
So lavish is your burgeoning, you seem
Even to me, who am of your own race,
One of those women, rarest on the earth,
Who have no youth, nor age, when woman-
hood
Has ripened them; and yet — you are a
woman
With all a woman's weakness — all her fears,
And all her heritage of pain. As frail
As you are proud.
[He speaks with earnest force, taking
her hand in his.~\
You know that in our world
There are sharp lines that women such as you
May never cross. Once crossed, their white-
ness stained,
They may no more be white. No more re-
turn.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 193
Guard yourself strictly. You stand near the
throne,
Where all eyes stare, and somewhat of seclu-
sion,
Of quietness and modest dignity,
Befits a woman of your 'rank and place.
ELISABETH
How glibly men debar a woman from
The air of freedom where they take their
pleasure !
How you would rend a woman who thus
dared
To caution you, or hedge about your will,
With mean precaution. Robert, know you
not
God has made women, as well as men, with
souls,
Bold and impassioned, daring all of life?
Born to consume themselves divinely in
A passion's flame, yet ever strong enough
To fling their passion, quite outworn, aside,
If some supreme ambition beckoned them
On to a fruit fuller field.
194 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ESSEX
This is indeed
A man's stout spirit in a woman's breast.
The world has cruel handling for such!
Again, what is your age?
ELISABETH
Past twenty-two!
ESSEX
[With irony. ]
The age of wisdom, Sweet, undoubtedly.
Certain the age when elder wisdom counts
For naught. No more of mine I'll waste.
[Again roughly. ]
Of late, I've seen Southampton's eyes on you.
ELISABETH
[With raillery.}
On me! He has but two and they are fixed
On Bridget Manners. But you entertain.
Speak on.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 195
ESSEX
His eyes are fixed on her, on you,
On every passing woman. Well I know
That bold, untrammeled, roving, gypsy eye!
The gambler's eye, with women. Marking
them
As this or that most lucky card, to bring
Good fortune, it may be, and pleasure cer-
tainly.
ELISABETH
This of your friend! What then is friend-
ship worth,
If you so strangely vilify Southampton?
ESSEX
He is my friend, and I am his, be sure ;
His is the spirit and the blood that magnetize
Both men and women; for whose sunny
touch,
Lighting their flesh-dulled Souls, they risk
too much
196 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Of wisdom and of wisdom's fruitful ways.
And yet he is of fair and blameless honor.
The brightest star in England's galaxy.
But where a woman is concerned, he is
A poisoned brand of swift, contagious fire.
[He speaks ■fiercely.']
Listen, Elizabeth. Were Southampton
To put the honor of one of my race
In jeopardy, my hand must redden with
His blood. Remember this, for I'll not tear
My heart out of its sheath again for you
To smile upon its two-edged pride, that cuts
Not for myself alone but for my race —
And you . . . The campaign into Ire-
land
Draws ever near, and should it be
Then I must leave you here alone
Without a kinsman's ward and guarding
presence.
ELISABETH
[Caressingly.]
Ah, Powers above ! What nobleness of heart
WILL SHAKESPEARE 197
Now wrought upon to pain, without a cause!
Go speak these words to Bridget Manners,
for
Southampton ever hovers over her
Pure, fragrant whiteness — the most daring
bee
That ever boldly pillaged honey, in
June's palpitating balm.
[She draws near to Essex and peers with
mockery and sweetness into his face.]
What fierce, sad eyes !
ESSEX
[Angrily.]
Such siren words and ways but anger me.
[Elisabeth stands motionless with droop-
ing head, all sudden gentleness. She
puts her arms about his neck. Essex
looks at her a moment and then speaks
with tenderness."]
Forgive me, Beautiful— Most beautiful—
Only do not forget! Go to your friends.
[He releases her arms— kissing her
198 WILL SHAKESPEARE
hands. She smiles into his face zvith
confident strength. Exit Elisabeth
with her gentlewoman.}
ESSEX
Now could I win Southampton's pledge to go
With me to Ireland and hasten the campaign,
So might this danger pass. The glittering
bait
Of Cecil's pending embassy to Paris
Has captivated quite his youthful eye,
And when the lure of pleasure fills his sight,
How may a battle-field dissolve the spell?
[Enter Southampton.']
SOUTHAMPTON
Most fortunately met! When the night falls
And all my guests are gone, I pray you,
Essex,
Meet me here. I would speak with you se-
cretly
Upon the scheme you late dropped in my ear.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 199
ESSEX
[With intense eagerness.]
You'll go with me to Ireland?
SOUTHAMPTON
I swear
My blood is half asleep in England now,
Sickening at games for ladies — though they
be
Lilies and roses all, to make men drunk
With rich allurement! Briefly, I must go
To Paris first with Cecil — then with you
To Ireland. Your wild adventure there,
Even in thought, quickens my blood and
brain.
ESSEX
When do you go to France?
SOUTHAMPTON
For yet awhile
I am held here. Mere Flower-Bonds, in-
deed!
200 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Yet not too quickly broken, since my word '
Is pledged in diverse ways to divers men.
Yet I may bring all circuits to a close
Before June's dew-steeped nights are gently
past.
[So un d of music and carousal at right. ]
I may not linger now. At ten o'clock
I'll meet you here.
ESSEX
My word on it. At ten,
Yonder I'll walk alone in the yew path,
Lacking to-day the small neat speech most
meet
For little ladies' ears at feasts.
[Exit Essex by the clipped alley at back.
Enter Shakespeare from right. Sound
of music and laughter without.']
SOUTHAMPTON
Ah, Will!
Sweet Will, at sight of you my will dissolves!
I thought to play the Host, but now instead
WILL SHAKESPEARE 201
I'll let them laugh and drink of earthly wine;
We'll quaff a finer vintage of the soul.
Your eyes are clouded, that should be
Clear as your mind's un fathomed deeps.
Whence comes the cloud? I'll penetrate it
too!
SHAKESPEARE
Who knows where clouds are born? To
know them mists,
Formed out of air and dew intangible,
Dissolving ever into mists again,
Is all we need to know. So can we bear
Their blinding.
SOUTHAMPTON
Blind me not with imagery,
However fair. Turn your thoughts home-
ward now?
SHAKESPEARE
Not now alone, but ever more and more,
For there are loves and griefs too keen and
strong
202 WILL SHAKESPEARE
To sleep. The cords that bind me there are
tightening.
They cannot break and soon must draw me
back
To Stratford — to my children and — my wife.
SOUTHAMPTON
Beseech you, go not hence! Illume us here.
Too much in this our time by greatness gone
Have we been overcast. Greece dead, Rome
past —
You live! Filling our beauty-craving hearts,
Quickening our dying hopes and dead ideals,
The age's richness lives within your sway,
Joy of the hour and splendor of the past.
SHAKESPEARE
There's splendor in such homage! Royal
State
In praise so nobly lavished — so unselfed.
What have I to return? Only this truth —
You and one other hold my heart — its life
To damn or bless. Its only sustenance
WILL SHAKESPEARE 203
To give and serve. Should danger menace
you,
I'd snatch you hence. Should Hatred lurk
to strike,
It must strike me and spend its venom here,
And reach you, if it must, a stingless thing!
SOUTHAMPTON
[Musingly.]
I and one other hold his heart. But who
Can have the power or art so to enslave
A King?
SHAKESPEARE
No art, but power infinite.
An orb of fire — so full of light and heat
That ev'n her careless rays cause whatsoe'er
They fall upon to live and grow and bloom
For her alone; for if their light be gone,
Such revel of life once known, loss would be
death.
Fire oft without light like those dark rays
Of our known sun, which stream to earth's
deep centre,
204 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Dark, lightless rays, yet giving life to all,
Who dwell upon Earth's surface. A Flame
of Life!
SOUTHAMPTON
In Heaven's truth, some goddess of his
dreams !
SHAKESPEARE
Dreams are but — dreams! . . . My
goddess is — a woman.
SOUTHAMPTON
This is no sylvan maid nor London courtesan.
SHAKESPEARE
I said an orb of fire. Orbs dwell beyond our
ken
In the bright firmament above, to which
We lift our aching eyes.
SOUTHAMPTON
Ah — raves he thus
Of some court lady or some princess, seen
WILL SHAKESPEARE 205
But never yet approached? This well may
be.
A Poet's fancy, from which poems spring.
Dream on your fill and let me share your
dream ?
SHAKESPEARE
In sleep last night I sailed upon the sea
And felt its briny spray upon my cheek;
Tasted and swallowed it, as 'twere salt
tears —
A woman's tears — a maddening, bitter-sweet,
And I am water-wild to-day, and so
Let me alone!
SOUTHAMPTON
Sweet Will, forgive, I pray.
Love should share all — ev'n dreams!
SHAKESPEARE
This, if a dream,
Is one that I must dream alone — alone —
To its fore-destined waking; for we wake,
206 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Be sure, be very sure, from every sleep,
However deep and sweet.and long it be.
[After short pause.]
How fares your princely suit to Bridget Man-
ners?
SOUTHAMPTON
My flower of dawn! My vestal dove! She's
mine!
By every timid, virgin sign. And soon
I'll woo her fresh lips to confess their truth,
And take their first love-blossom with my
own.
[Enter a messenger from the. Globe
Theatre.]
MESSENGER
[Obsequiously.]
Your pardon, noble Lord and Master Will,
That I do so intrude—
SHAKESPEARE
We have stout hearts
And survive the intrusion. Speak its cause.
[The messenger bows low.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 207
MESSENGER
The Earl of Merton at whose country seat
You purposed with your company to play
A fortnight hence, before the Queen and
Court,
Has sent in haste to say the play must be
Next week — Tis so the Queen herself com-
mands ;
To-night our wagons and our company
Must start, and this too sudden going hence
For the Earl's play and for our month-long
tour
Has thrown our people into mad confusion.
They wildly run about like hens and geese
Into whose very midst a fox has sprung.
Your steadying presence can alone compel
Order and calmness there.
SHAKESPEARE
Go— Tell my flock
I will be with them soon, within an hour.
Fly — so their minds may rest!
208 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[He gives the Messenger a piece of
gold."]
MESSENGER
A generous heart!
[Exit Messenger.']
SOUTHAMPTON
You go — you go to-night?
SHAKESPEARE
For but a month!
SOUTHAMPTON
Forget not you are pledged to me in June.
Then falls the Masque at Tichfield, where I'll
cause
Such Faery-Magic to bewitch each sense
That you shall dream my dream the only
truth;
One mystic night not linked to Fact or Time.
I have your 'pledge? You will be with me
then?
Upon your holy word, than which I count
Nothing more sacred.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 209
SHAKESPEARE
[Laughing.']
Over-earnest heat
Over a trifling thing! Am I not pledged?
[Enter Florian at back carrying a silver
casket. He sings. ]
FLORIAN'S SONG
Mighty Venus, mightier Love,
Help who weareth this Disguise —
Help him, Heavenly Powers above!
Guard, where deadly peril lies.
11
Mask his face and mask his heart;
Hide him from her dangerous eyes;
Shield him, lest Love's fiery dart,
Find its Billet and — he dies!
210 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON
There singing goes my most familiar sprite.
A quaint youth, full of odd imagination.
I'll question and he'll something strange reply.
Where go you Florian ? Come close and tell.
FLORIAN
To place this casket in your private room.
Thanking your Lordship for your trust in
me —
Yet knowing well your Lordship fords a
stream
As well upon a Jackass as a Racer —
Or Peter Dumpser would not be my mate !
SOUTHAMPTON
What did I say? Bring me the casket here.
[Southampton unlocks the casket, while
Florian retires to some distance and
waits. Southampton takes out a
courtier's costume of black with a lace
WILL SHAKESPEARE 211
collar and the jewelled chain, star and
blue ribbon of the order of the Garter,
also a black mask. To Shakespeare.]
I'll whisper in your ear what no one here
May know, save only you and Florian.
Hide deep my jest. The evening of the
Masque
I shall be garbed in this mysterious black,
Wearing th' insignia of the Star and Garter,
And further closely masked in black.
There are three Garters living now in Eng-
land,
And all will come to my June revelry,
And thus to mystify my curious guests
Will cause confusion and amazing haps;
For all these men have plots, amours and
schemes.
[Laughter of guests approaching is
heard.]
A VOICE WITHOUT
[At right.]
Southampton — Come !
212 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON"
They call, and I must go!
[He touches the costume and casket.]
Go — place these, Florian, in my cabinet,
And bring me here the key.
[Voices without, at right.']
Southampton — Come !
SOUTHAMPTON!
[To Shakespeare.]
You stay an hour?
SHAKESPEARE
One hour stol'n from time!
[Exit Southampton, at right.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Taking jewels and costume in his hands
and examining them, while Florian
still waits respectfully at a little dis-
tance.]
Ah! — What delicious tangles would ensue,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 213
If I should clothe myself that Faery night
In black, the twin of this — the hat, the mask,
The semblance of these gems, this chain —
this Star!
I pledge the genius of sweet mystery
That so I will — no matter what befall!
[Florian approaches and with Shake-
speare replaces the costume and jewels
in the casket. ]
I'll bear this with you, Florian; lock it safe.
Then speed you with the key back to the Earl.
[Exit Shakespeare and Florian with the
casket by a low door at left that opens
directly on a winding stair. ]
[Enter Southampton and Bridget Man-
ners from right. ]
SOUTHAMPTON
When have I not thus loved you, Bridget?
Dear,
I am but young in years, but old in feeling.
My love for you has not been yesterday
Nor yester year — but always — as you know.
214 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Why, then, spend words on what my life has
told?
Give the sweet answer which my blood fore-
tells.
BRIDGET
Alas, you force hard truth when gentleness
Is what I fain would proffer you!
SOUTHAMPTON"
Hard truth?
BRIDGET
How may one make denial sweet?
SOUTHAMPTON
[Incredulously.] Denial?
BRIDGET
I am not meant for you, nor you for me.
SOUTHAMPTON
What folly's here?
BRIDGET
I must take courage to speak!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 215
SOUTHAMPTON
[With agitation.']
Wherefore this —
BRIDGET
[Calmly.]
You are too volatile,
Too young, and something too fantastical
For me to trust myself — my life — to you.
While that my Mother lives, all might go
well;
But if she were to die, [which God forefend,]
I doubt your carriage of yourself. I speak
From observation.
SOUTHAMPTON
[With violent agitation and anger. J
Ah! From observation!
O hideous and worldly-wise admission!
While I have giv'n you all I had of love —
Poured out my heart's whole treasure at your
feet,
You have been peering, — conning o'er my
faults.
2i6 WILL SHAKESPEARE
What are you ? Why, I've hated women that
do
Such things.
BRIDGET
And you? Are you perfection's self
That none can find a fault ? I have been told
Of women you have cruelly harmed and left.
SOUTHAMPTON
What bitterness and hate submerge my soul!
BRIDGET
If that your love so quickly turns to hate,
Was it then ever love?
SOUTHAMPTON
Are you a vixen
Whom I thought a dove? Oh, — I have been
Deluded by my wealth of tenderness
For you. It is not that I have not sinned —
I have. But all such sinning is so much
The custom of the only world I know,
That, in the rash and headlong heats of youth,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 217
I scarcely knew it sinning, till I looked
Within the Heaven of your purest eyes,
And I believed that their divinity
Would quite absolve my sins. O God! O
God!
0 sweet, first flush of boyhood's bloom and
hope!
Gone, gone —
[He weeps. Then after a short pause
speaks again."]
'Tis done — forever done — and you —
Be sure that you shall cost me no more
tears —
And if we meet the morrow, as we may,
For streams that long have flowed in paral-
lels
Are not too quickly parted, you shall feel
How cold the night has been.
BRIDGET
[Calmly. ] Such coldness holds
Contagion — so 'tis said. Farewell, my Lord.
1 seek my mother, and with her, my home.
2i8 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[They bow ceremoniously. Exit Brid-
get at right.]
SOUTHAMPTON
No one shall know my hurt, — not even Will — -
Already it is old as Death, and rots
Within my flesh. I'll cut the fester out,
And let quick Life refill the empty place
With, if need be, a myriad living loves!
Give me a woman of blood and fire and heart,
However rash or sinning, so she feel!
Yes — such a woman as draws near me now!
[Enter Elisabeth with a paper in her
hand, which she is reading. It begins
to grow dark. Southampton bows
low to Elisabeth.']
Lady, why do you veil your eyes' bright
beams
For filthy ink?
ELISABETH
[Crushing the paper in her hand.]
This screed, my Lord, is trash!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 219
SOUTHAMPTON
I'll wager you so name all words of men.
ELISABETH
Indeed, I never so named yours, my Lord.
You speak me few and write me none at all!
SOUTHAMPTON
I would not have them crushed, as you have
crushed
Those writ upon the paper that you hold.
ELISABETH
Do you so doubt all women? It is sung
By every bird on every bush that maids
Are wisest when they doubt all words of
yours.
[Enter Essex from right. ]
ESSEX
[To Elisabeth, with sternness. ]
Cousin, I'll see you home. The night is dark.
220 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ELISABETH
[With gaiety and sweetness."]
Such guardianship were chivalry itself!
But I'm companioned here by Lady Rutland,
By her daughter and my gentlewoman.
I will go hence with them. My carriage
waits.
ESSEX
[Abruptly."]
The Gods protect you! You will have your
way.
[Exit Essex at left.]
[It grows darker.]
[Enter Herbert. He approaches the
table where there are flagons of wine
and glasses. He pours and drinks
several times. He then goes toward
Elisabeth.]
HERBERT
[To Elisabeth.]
Where may I find your Cousin Essex, Lady?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 221
ELISABETH
[Mockingly.']
He flees our gaiety, and with a frown
Departed by that door a moment since.
[While Herbert has spoken with Elisa-
beth, guests have entered from right
with pages, who light them across the
court with flambeaux. The pages
then place the flambeaux in sockets at
the sides of the court."}
GUESTS
[To Southampton.]
Good-night, my Lord!
SOUTHAMPTON
[Going to guests, as Herbert speaks to
Elisabeth.]
The Stars attend your path !
[To Elisabeth.]
Your pardon, Lady!
[Exit Southampton with guests at left.
Lady Rutland and Bridget Manners
222 WILL SHAKESPEARE
cross the court attended by a page
with a Hambeau.']
HERBERT
[Who has been again drinking at the
table, to Elisabeth.]
I would speak with Essex.
ELISABETH
Be quick and stay him in the outer court.
HERBERT
My thanks. [With exaggerated courtesy."]
Vouchsafe that I attend you
Back to the banquet-hall.
ELISABETH
[Aside, with raillery.']
Ah me ! Ah me !
A woman scarce may draw her breath alone!
[Exit Elisabeth and Herbert at right.]
[Enter Shakespeare from the door open-
ing on the stair at left. He holds a
WILL SHAKESPEARE 223
paper in his hand on which he is writ"
ing. He comes forward and slowly
crosses terrace to the right. He stops
writing and the lightly held paper slips
from his fingers near the column at
right front. He stops.~\
SHAKESPEARE
Poor Leaf! Thou doest well to fall to earth!
The mighty tree that trembling bore thy life
Is still forbid by Heaven to nourish thee.
My Love is strength unlicensed and fore-
doomed
To pain. Yet since by its illuming fire
I live — along this flaming pathway must
My soul, if it be true to truth, be hurled.
Great God! — Why should I waste my life in
words,
When all the force that moves this Universe
Of worlds and suns, whirls on my Soul to
act?
Yet, lest Love-Madness quite destroy my
brain,
224 WILL SHAKESPEARE
I'll give my passion speech, though its just
fruit
Be balked and turned to tragedy within.
O woe as old as Earth!
[With a sudden change. ]
Yet for the Love,
The Love, let God be praised!
[Enter from right, Elisabeth reading the
paper she held in her hand before.
She has thrown a long, dark cloak
over her shoulders.]
SHAKESPEARE
Ah!
[He steps behind the column near by.
Elisabeth sees him and, starting, drops
the paper she holds. It falls near the
sonnet.]
ELISABETH
[With mockery.] Do you seek
To hide from me? Am I so dread a thing?
So to be feared?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 225
SHAKESPEARE
[Motionless in the shadow of the column
and speaking with deep, restrained
feeling. ]
There are prisoners,
Lady, who are forbid to go in th' sun.
ELISABETH
Who is't has prisoned you?
SHAKESPEARE
Myself — my life.
ELISABETH
Why ! Life is full of open doors. — Escape !
SHAKESPEARE
I have no right nor power to break my bonds.
ELISABETH
Still behind bars ! Shall I release you ? See !
'Tis simple and as quick as breathing.
[She moves swiftly to him and, taking
his hand, draws him from the shadow
of the column.']
226 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[As she takes his hand.~\
Ah!
[He stands motionless again as if in a
trance. Elisabeth sees the paper he
has dropped and, stooping, picks it up.
Shakespeare makes a slight movement
to stop her and then stands as be-
fore.,]
ELISABETH
What's here? This bears my name — there-
fore 'tis mine.
[She reads. ]
To my dark Heaven's Star, Elisabeth.
" Farewell, thou art too dear for my possess-
ing,
And like enough thou knowest thy estimate
The charter of thy worth gives thee releas-
ing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
[She reads indistinctly. Then clearly
again.~\
WILL SHAKESPEARE 227
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment mak-
ing.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter."
[Angrily,]
Your dream has carried you too far! Too
far!
[She tears the sonnet to pieces.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Springing forward and snatching the
torn bits of paper from her hand.]
Women are all alike ! O stay your hand !
You know not what you tear. When this
proud Hall,
These shafts of hardest stone, have crumbled
quite,
And all the pride of Times to come is dead
And buried in a too-forgotten past,
These words will live.
[He stoops and picks up the paper she.
dropped.]
228 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Let me see what you read
So ardently but now and treasured, though
You would destroy my verse!
[He reads from a small printed sheet.']
The Never-present Writer to the Ever-pres-
ent Reader:
Be it known to the ladies of this realm that
[Here he reads with mocking, ironical
emphasis. ]
" The power of cloth of gold is now less
powerful than a month agone. An insuffi-
ciency of pink satin causes blue satin, with
cuts laced with silver, to hold sway. Side
sleeves lie flatter to the sight and skirts have
a brightness from binding with gold tinsel.
Ruffs have become a very refuse unless set
with Pearls "
[He flings the paper on the table and
laughs loudly. ]
Ha! Ha! We look and look in women's
eyes
And plunge our souls into their liquid deeps
WILL SHAKESPEARE 229
And dream the heavenly bath holds balm
divine,
Tinctured with wisdom most celestial,
The solvent for our world-tormented lives.
We look behind the azure or the gray —
The color matters not — the eye is all —
And in its depths discern — a Fashion Book!
O — O — I could both curse and weep to know
For what slight things men stake immortal
souls !
ELISABETH
[With ironical approval.]
Well done! Very well done! Most sharply
said !
You whet your cutting wit successfully
On yon poor sheet and — me!
[She sits on the circular stone bench by
the stone table and leans on it, looking
up at Shakespeare, who still stands. ]
But, an you please,
Have you observed in Pleasance or in Hall,
23o WILL SHAKESPEARE
Where these same men, our Lords by nature
— wise
And strong, — of course! — of course! —
Where do they go?
Straight to the bird who has the brightest
plumes,
To her whose wit and beauty are enhanced
So richly and so sweetly that they seem
A treasure doubly rare. Ah, Master Will!
Our Spring is brief; our kingdom — Hearts
of men.
You curse our eyes — but to your hearts, our
road
Must lie through yours — fickle and beauty-
led!
[With a sudden change to gentle earnest-
ness.~\
But you are angered — I have torn your
verse !
SHAKESPEARE
I angered? Madam, there are times when
men
Use anger as a "sword to kill a pain
WILL SHAKESPEARE 231
Within the heart — as sharp as death, yet
sweet
As honey from the blooms of Paradise.
[He impetuously takes one of the -flam-
beaux and places it near the table.
He sits on the bench and takes the
fashion paper in his hand.]
Hidden within these paltry, silly words
I'll find another sonnet which will hold
My answer and your pardon.
[He bends over the paper, marking the
words.]
ELISABETH
[Taking her writing tablet, which hangs
from her chatelaine.]
Sport for two!
See — dreaming here for many a day there lie
Unwritten missives that await my touch
To give them life.
[She examines a leaf of the Tablet.]
Here's one that bears your name!
[She writes. Peter Dumpser enters
232 WILL SHAKESPEARE
from right, extinguishes two of the
flambeaux, crosses the court and, open-
ing the door to the stair that leads to
Southampton's room, goes up, leaving
the door ajar. He is examining a let-
ter which he holds. Neither Shake-
speare nor Elisabeth observe him.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Marking the words in the paper, speaks
without raising his head.]
Now picture me, a man, playing the child!
But in this hour I am but seventeen!
Life, pristine and unstained, once more is
mine.
ELISABETH
I've won! I've won the race! My screed is
done!
SHAKESPEARE
We meet at the goal ! I ended ere you spoke.
[He draws nearer to her and indicates
with his pencil the words he has
marked, reading as he does so.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 233
" Ah, from what power hast thou this power-
ful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the
day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warranties of
skill,
That, in my mind, thy worst all best ex-
ceeds? "
ELISABETH
[Interrupting.']
I'll have no more! Call4 you this pardon?
Tis
A stern forgiveness ! I am gentler far
To you than you to me.
[She reads from her tablet.]
"You dazzle my wits. You confuse my un-
derstanding. You destroy my ambitions, yet
fulfill my dreams. Did your rank in this
world match your rank as a poet, there would
234 WILL SHAKESPEARE
be a crown on your head and I the first to
bow to it. For kings or principalities cannot
compel my homage—Only to Heaven and
Genius can I kneel/'
SHAKESPEARE
[Agitated.]
Your words are flames
That mount in golden wreathings to my brain !
[A page enters from right and extin-
guishes another flambeau, so that the
court is lighted only by the moonlight
and the flambeau beside the table.
The page goes out at back.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Looks about, starts up, and speaks with
still more agitation.]
It is deep night;
See — every guest has gone! What blasting
shame
To me if Scandal's mire should foul your
name!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 235
Where are your people? I will take you
hence.
ELISABETH
[Laughing lightly. ]
My carriage and my gentlewoman wait —
I will go soon! Rest here and let me speak.
What greater shame or sp than Twere to
kill
The budding moment trembling to its bloom?
Who knows what this half-veiled, half-dawn-
ing hour
Holds for us both? You know not how en-
slaved
And smothered women are. You are so
great
You bring me air. I pray you, let me
breathe !
[She sinks back luxuriously in the seat
and looks up pleadingly at Shake-
speare, He has stood with an air of
impatient anxiety. At her last words,
he makes a step toward her.~\
236 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ELISABETH
[Motioning to the seat beside her.]
Sit here and let us talk like two old friends,
Who meet upon a summer afternoon.
[Shakespeare sits on the bench.]
Do you remember when almost a child,
I went in secret, masked, to hear your plays,
My soul then fed upon your mighty words
And knew their greatness of itself — and how,
Without the Play-House door I spoke with
you?
SHAKESPEARE
[With the same restrained feeling. ]
Do I remember!
ELISABETH
Ah! Such stolen hours
Give life to leaden days. We'll mark this
one
By speaking only truth — and swiftly reach
A height we else might wait long years to
gain.
[A clock without strikes ten.~\
WILL SHAKESPEARE 237
SHAKESPEARE
My hour stolen from time is at an end!
A million life-times could not tell the truth,
That bursts my heart!
ELISABETH
[Without noticing his agitation.]
I often marvel how that God has made,
A country boy — for such you must have
been,
So greater than our greatest here — speak
truth-
Do you not weary of the life we lead,
Shut in this town, playing the games of self,
And pride and gain and love? Do you not
long
For the sweet breath of hills and fields and
flowers —
The forest deeps — the simple folk you left?
SHAKESPEARE
It is not that I love not what I left — •
238 WILL SHAKESPEARE
But that old life fell from me like a cloak
When once the towers of London smote my
eyes,
And all her mighty life beat at my heart;
And now her noble blood flows in my veins,
And I am one with all her great adventure.
ELISABETH
Is't true that you are married?
SHAKESPEARE
Fast as church law
And as man's law can bind me.
ELISABETH
And you love —
Your wife?
SHAKESPEARE
{Starting from the bench, and speaking
with agitation.~\
Can God forgive me if I lie
About my truth of truths? Will God for-
give me
WILL SHAKESPEARE 239
If I speak the truth and free my soul
From this relentless flame turned inward to
Destroy me?
[He withdraws a few steps and puts his
hand on his heart looking directly into
Elisabeth's eyes.]
I love you
[Elisabeth draws back as if startled but
returns Shakespeare's look as if fas-
cinated.']
THE VOICE OF ESSEX
[Just without at left.]
Go tell the Earl
Of Southampton I wait him in the court.
A PAGE
[Without at left]
Good, my Lord.
ELISABETH
[Springing from her seat and clinging to
Shakespeare with fright.]
240 WILL SHAKESPEARE
My Cousin Essex comes!
His rage would crush me if he finds me here —
I thought him gone an hour since. Hide me!
THE VOICE OF HERBERT
[Without at right.]
Is the Earl within?
Go seek him.
SHAKESPEARE
[Taking Elisabeth's hand and with his
other hand seising the flambeau.']
Come!
[He quickly draws her across the court
and opens the door on the stair and
draws her after him, closing the door
and leaving the stage in darkness as
Essex and Herbert enter from opposite
sides. ]
ACT III
SCENE II
[The scene instantly changes to a small,
panelled room lighted by a high standing lamp.
A low door at left. Under a massive carved
table Florian and Peter Dumpser are strug-
gling and quarreling over a letter which Peter
holds. On the table stands the silver casket
which Florian carried, and an antique vase
filled with roses. Also Hagons of wine and
goblets, a dish of fruit, and other viands.
Swords and musical instruments and two or
three portraits of beautiful women hang on
the walls. ~\
FLORIAN
[Striking Peter. ~\
O Treacherous Fox! You boast of your
truth and virtue and steal my Lord's letters.
Where is your consistency?
241
242 WILL SHAKESPEARE
PETER
The letter bears my name.
FLORIAtf
At last a wholesome lie! I have hopes of
his honesty. [He snatches the letter from
Peter, and reads the inscription.'] " For my
Lord Southampton." You little Viper! [He
strikes him again while Peter whines. ] If you
were any bigger than a Whisper I should fight
you to an end!
f The door at left opens and Shakespeare
stands in the entrance, bearing the
flambeau. Behind him Elisabeth Ver-
non is seen.~\
SHAKESPEARE
[To Elisabeth, as he sees the pages.]
Wait without, I* pray you, while I dismiss
these inopportune servants.
ELISABETH
[With gaiety, drawing back into the
shadow.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 243
I am invisible!
{Shakespeare shuts the door.']
SHAKESPEARE
[Roughly.]
Out — both of you ! When Lord Southamp-
ton learns that you fight in his cabinet he will
give you the streets for your brawls.
[Florian and Peter crawl from under the
table.]
FLORIAN
Please you, Master Shakespeare, I brought
hither my Lord's casket as you bade me and
found Peter Dumpser stealing my Lord's
letters.
SHAKESPEARE
\ln a hushed tone of surprise.]
Peter Dumpser!
FLORIAN
[Giving the letter to Shakespeare.]
Read the inscription, Master Shakespeare.
Ah, this Field Lily, Pierre, is a little marble
tomb of vice !
244 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[Taking the letter reads, aloud. ,]
" For my Lord of Southampton in his house
in Holborn in London. For his page Peter
Dumpser." The letter is for Peter, Florian.
Go you down the stair. If you are small
enough and still enough, you may yet find
standing room in this house. And as you
pass out, you see and hear nothing. Do you
understand my English? [He pushes the un-
willing Florian out and past the waiting Elis-
abeth.']
[To Elisabeth.]
Your patience yet a moment, Lady.
[He again shuts the door and returns to
Peter.]
Whence do you come?
PETER
From Stratford, Sir.
SHAKESPEARE
'[In the same hushed tone of surprise.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 245
Thus do ghosts stand in our path, — to warn
us of another world than this in which we
live!
PETER
I knew you, Master Will, when I was but
a Patch, but I feared to speak with you now
that you are become so great a man.
SHAKESPEARE
[Grasping his hand.~\
Country-born, and sunburned even as you,
Peter ! But you must follow your yoke-fellow
and without delay. I'll speak you again.
PETER
My letter, Sir?
[Shakespeare gives him the letter. Peter
continues.]
O, Master Will! I cannot read more than
my own name. I dare not go to Florian for
the spelling out of my letter, and the other
pages gibe at me. This is from my mother, I
246 WILL SHAKESPEARE
know. The first word I have had from her.
Read it me, good Master Will.
[He holds the open letter to Shakespeare,
who half -unwillingly takes it.~\
PETER
[Whining.']
'Tis from my mother!
SHAKESPEARE
[Good-humoredly.]
Take your pap, then, while Queens wait.
[He reads.] " To my much loved son Peter.
The Fever has come to Stratford, though
not so fierce as when my mother was young.
I fell ill of it and quaked with fear, thinking
to die without sight of you. Many have had
the Fever and 'tis said Anne Shakespeare, that
was Anne Hathaway, is one and hath died a
week since. Her children are with her mother
at Shottery and are well. I am mending but
I would see you, Peter, for I cannot eat nor
sleep for lacking sight of you. Come home,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 247
Peter, for a space. Ask my Lord to spare you
to your mother who is in such need of you."
[After a long pause, Shakespeare speaks
with awe.]
Is Anne dead? Can that viyid life be
ended? That vital tongue be still? God
forgive my sins! I should have gone home
before. . . . There will be years before
this is a truth to me.
PETER
O, Master Shakespeare, will my Lord of
Southampton let me go to my mother?
SHAKESPEARE
I will answer to Lord Southampton for
you. Go to Stratford as speedily as may be.
Here is gold for your journey. \He gives
him a purse.]
PETER
[Peeping into the purse.]
Never saw I so much gold before. I can
never spend it !
248 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
Stay beside your mother for a fortnight
and then come to my Lord Southampton's
seat in Titchfield. Look at me. Go to the
house of Dame Hathaway in Shottery — and
to the house of Anne Shakespeare in Strat-
ford and bring me yourself news of — this
fever. I write and go myself but I wish more
certain and speedy news than the Queen's
commands now permit. Do you understand?
PETER
I will do your bidding, Master Will, and
I will bring tidings to Titchfield — if I am not
struck by the fever myself, which the Angels
fore fend !
[Exit Peter.']
SHAKESPEARE
[At door. To Elisabeth with sternness.]
Enter.
[Elisabeth enters. She looks about and
claps her hands and laughs. ]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 249
Tis Southampton's cabinet!
An adventure truly !
SHAKESPEARE
Do you trust
Yourself alone with me?
ELISABETH
You are a gentleman.
SHAKESPEARE
I am a man. And one that never knew
Himself to be a man until this hour.
ELISABETH
[With an attempt at lightness. ,]
Your eyes are wild. I almost fear you now.
[With gravity. ]
And God forgot almost all kinds of fear
When He made me. Indeed I do not boast!
SHAKESPEARE
You asked me but a moment since,
To sit and talk like two old friends, who
meet
250 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Upon a summer afternoon. And now,
I bid you stay and speak with me — not like
Old friends but like, (for imagery), two
flames
That tremble upward, ever drawn more near
By very virtue of their light and fire.
Yearning to fuse in one fierce holocaust
Not caring if a world be thus consumed.
[He leads her to a seat near the table.
She sits. He stands near her, speak-
ing rapidly. ,]
I told you in the court below I had
A wife, (slowly) I had a wife — 'tis said
she's dead . . .
If I should come to you quite free — with
hands
As clean as shriven love could make them,
with
A name quite low — Yet in the years to come
With somewhat of a light upon it — Could
you
Crowned, golden, nimbus-like with love — with
love!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 251
Such love as I give you, — Could you then
dream
Of loving too? Of drinking of the wine
That Life pours out but once — the wine of
Love.
ELISABETH
[With light gaiety.]
Without such dreams how very dull and tame
How very flat this life of ours would be!
SHAKESPEARE
You jest. You know not how such jesting
stabs !
ELISABETH
Is it not wisest thus to jest with the
Impossible ?
SHAKESPEARE
Enough. I have my sentence.
[He goes quickly toward the door.]
ELISABETH
[Rising and following him, lays her hand
on his arm.]
252 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Master Will! [Shakespeare returns.'] I an-
swered not the truth !
SHAKESPEARE
Tigress! All glowing hues — all softened
curves,
In motion how alluring your perfection!
And yet as you thus clutch again your prey
This laceration
[He touches his heart]
Speaks your touch to be
That of the jungle and the hidden lair.
ELISABETH
[Sits and looks up at him with a sudden
air of girlish softness and sweetness.']
None ever spoke such cruel words to me!
Such needless, cruel words. God's truth it is
I love you, Master Will.
[Shakespeare snatches the petals from
one of the roses and flings them over
her. They fall on her head and shoul-
ders in a rosy shower.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE
253
SHAKESPEARE
This joy's too great!
This flaming whirl within my brain and heart
Blurs all before me. Let me see your eyes.
{He sits near her, looking into her eyes
as she looks up at hint.]
Such lakes of limpid candour! With a light
That blinds me. Is't for me or for the love
Of love and life? Elisabeth — Could you,
A Star, so drop from out your sphere to me?
ELISABETH
Stars drop through space and none know
where they fall.
Should I so fall, T' would be to find myself
Throned in another Heaven of your love.
SHAKESPEARE
{With fiery exaltation.']
Your words are treasures sought and bought
with blood
And travail of men's souls, for ages past;
Like argosies of spoils from fabled lands —
254 WILL SHAKESPEARE
And I am glad of them, as one who finds
His Golden Fleece after long quest and war.
[He takes her hands in his.]
Can such eyes lie? Can the sweet, madding
touch
Of these delicious hands be false?
I'll not believe it, though my heart cries out
In blackest doubt that flings me down to hell.
[He speaks with impassioned entreaty."]
Is't true that you love me? Search well your
heart.
ELISABETH '
[With the same girlish candor.]
There's nothing high in me — and yet I love
The heights. You lift me to them!
SHAKESPEARE
[With passionate impatience.]
That's not love.
ELISABETH
Among the men who court me there's not one
With whom my life could know a moment's
peace. r
WILL SHAKESPEARE 255
You are so noble — and I trust you so!
When men are matched with men— not names
or lands —
In all our England, who so great as you?
SHAKESPEARE
[Completely softened, speaks brokenly."]
An unknown, country lad — a scribbling
youth
Who crawled foot-sore and hungry London
streets,
With but the visions in his plays for friends
And retinue. Can you love such an one?
ELISABETH
Romance is in it!
SHAKESPEARE
Trifle not— the truth!
ELISABETH
Indeed I love you — or — I know not love!
I should be dull if I loved not such greatness!
[Shakespeare draws her to him.']
256 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
Seal then your words in spirit and in touch
That do not lie.
[He kisses her. A long kiss on her lips.
She repulses him angrily. ]
Now know that you are mine.
Mine in the heart's quick beat. Mine in the
life!
ELISABETH
[With anger.']
You dare too far !
SHAKESPEARE
[Flinging himself on his knees at her feet.]
If I too fiercely crushed
Those living roses of your lips with mine —
Too deeply drained their honey, let my plea
For your forgiveness be a life-long thirst.
[Elisabeth, half irresolutely, holds out
her hand. He kisses it reverently and,
rising, stands at a little distance. The
door is suddenly opened, and South-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 257
ampton enters. He stands in motion-
less astonishment as he sees Elisabeth
and Shakespeare."]
SOUTHAMPTON
[To Elisabeth, with irony. ]
Lady — you strangely honor my poor room!
[To Shakespeare, with still more biting
irony. ]
A tryst well-chosen — if surprising! But,
You might have barred the door and so
averted
My rash and most inopportune intrusion!
SHAKESPEARE
[Advancing impetuously toward him.]
This hour's too strangely bright, even in
Death's awe,
For blindness. Southampton I hither brought
Lady Elisabeth — untowardly
Belated in the court. Guests came and went
And shelter from their curious eyes was.
meet.
258 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON
[His suspicion entirely disarmed.]
Well done!
SHAKESPEARE
When all below at last have gone
Safely attend her home. For I must go.
SOUTHAMPTON
My life for her protection!
SHAKESPEARE
\_Going to him, takes his hand and speaks
with solemnity.]
Thus with you
I leave the dearest Treasure of my life.
My radiant Pearl of price — long travailed
for.
For in this hour it is not given to me
To stay and love my Pearl. Nor beat my
breast
And deep bemoan my dead — once close — so
close
To mine own life! My part is not to wait —
WILL SHAKESPEARE 259
To love — or to reflect. But to watch life
As it flies past — wrest from its changing
mask
Its secrets dark or ravishingly bright,
And then turn all to Beauty where — look
well!
You'll find the mirror of your own life's
Pageantry.
Why do I thus? "(With a half smiling, al-
most apologetic manner)"
I can do nothing else!
I'm not a peasant — nor a courtier —
In the Exchange how weary I should grow!
And then — all turns to gold for those I love
Who wait at home. I can do nothing else!
[With awe and solemnity. ,]
They say my wife is gone! I cannot stop
Th' immutable stern steps of destiny.
I know my children safe — Now I must go
Fulfil the Queen's command — for that is in
The path that I can tread and stumble not.
And then to Stratford. But— {he takes
Elisabeth's hand)
26o WILL SHAKESPEARE
Here is my Love.
My love incarnated — whom I must leave —
To whom I must return — or else — I die !
For to reach Stratford from the Earl's,
Where I must play next week before the
Queen,
I must pass Titchfield. There to taste again
As I do now — a life transcending Life,
Transcending even Death.
[To Southampton."}
So guard my Love —
My heart's own friend — whose loyalty I
trust
More than I trust my own.
[Elisabeth and Southampton have lis-
tened and watched Shakespeare with
silent wonder. A noise of men's
voices, speaking loudly, is heard in the
passage outside the door. Southamp-
ton springs to bolt it, but it is Hung
open and Herbert and Essex enter,
Herbert laughing loudly. As they
enter, Shakespeare tears the short black
WILL SHAKESPEARE 261
velvet coat from his shoulders, and
gives it to Elisabeth.']
Quick — veil yourself!
[Elisabeth wraps the cloak around her
head like a hood and veils her face
with it, withdrawing against the wall.]
ESSEX
[Angrily.]
Southampton! Wanton as ever!
HERBERT
[Laughing loudly and recklessly.]
Ah! ha! Southampton! We wait in the
court for your conference on State matters —
while you and Will Shakespeare are revelling
here! [Going to the table.] By Phoebus!
Wine — a banquet — and a Lady! You might
have bidden us. [He pours out two glasses of
wine and taking one goes toward Elisabeth,
staggering slightly.] Your good health, Fair
One!
[Elisabeth shrinks back against the wall.]
At least I assume you to be fair!
262 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ESSEX
[With grim humor. ]
A rash assumption. Else, why the hood ?
HERBERT
Unveil, sweetest, and give his doubt the lie.
ESSEX
Since ladies of the court, or shy maidens,
do not frequent Southampton's room at night,
why this reserve?
HERBERT
[Drawing close to Elisabeth attempts,
with drunken assurance, to snatch the
cloak from her head.~\
Tantalize me no longer — mysterious Beauty!
[During this scene, Southampton has
betrayed great uneasiness. Shake-
speare has remained motionless near
Elisabeth, intently listening to and
watching Herbert and Essex. As
WILL SHAKESPEARE 263
Herbert touches the cloak wrapped
about Elisabeth's head, he strikes his
hand up and stands between Herbert
and Elisabeth, at the same time burst-
ing into a peal of laughter.]
SHAKESPEARfl
Your pardon Herbert, but the situation is
laughable as you will confess!
[The great szveetness of his manner, and
his laughter disarms Herbert's anger
and he listens as Shakespeare con-
tinues.']
As Essex truly says, ladies of the court, or
young girls are not found in Southampton's
room at night !
HERBERT
[Loudly echoing his laugh.] Well said!
[To Southampton angrily.] Then again, why
the veil? Speak to your Incognita, Southamp-
ton, and bid her not spoil sport with such
mock mystery. Do your part! Come
Laggard !
264 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[He advances toward Southampton with
an air of tipsy violence, ,]
SHAKESPEARE
[Gently resisting his advance.] But listen!
It is amusing. A novel predicament! Some
say Southampton's fault is youth and wan-
tonness ! Sure he has grace and gentle sport,
as becomes the young! Were he a wolf he
might betray a lamb! But even when faults
resort to him they become graces! As
now — ! This — (He indicates Elisabeth) may
be some imprudent Lady of another world
than the court — possibly, alas ! of my world —
the theatre! For through an unguarded life
their manners perforce grow careless. What
think you Herbert?
HERBERT
[With an air of wisdom,]
I think it likely.
SHAKESPEARE
And Southampton — being no wolf — would
WILL SHAKESPEARE 265
spare the crimsoning of this lamb's white
wool.
HERBERT
[With irritation.']
Why seek to shelter Southampton, who
blushes not at all!
SHAKESPEARE
Faith ! I love him in such sort that his good
report is mine also!
HERBERT
[Again turning toward Elisabeth.] Why
not speak for yourself, Sweet Silence? Are
you to be kept hidden even against your own
will? I'll soon end that! [He again tries
to pass Shakespeare, staggering and almost
falling.]
SHAKESPEARE
[Interposing again between them.] Would
you not feel pity if I were to let you hear a
tale of this encounter? It is a Romance in
one sweet-scented page. [Herbert stops and
listens.] What if Southampton and this lady
266 WILL SHAKESPEARE
have but looked! But her eyes have magic
and they draw him as' by a spell. What
if they had but spoken — but with tenderness
rising in their hearts, drawn upward by his
eyes that have the sun's fire in them. What if
they but talked in the court when steps came
near. Ever-and-ever-more-near. [He ad-
vances slowly and mysteriously toward Her-
bert.] A man's heavy step! He approaches
them — nearer — they see him — dark, menacing,
and in his hand the glint of steel! [With
growing power. ~\ Is it her husband? She
must be saved — saved at any hazard ! South-
ampton springs forward — catches him by the
throat! [With a tremendous outburst. ]
Thus!
[Shakespeare makes a swift dart at Her-
bert and catches him by the throat.
Elisabeth shrieks. Herbert struggles
and curses."]
HERBERT
Ruffian! Dastard! Unloose me!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 267
SHAKESPEARE
[Releasing him, bursts into gay laughter. ]
Forgive me, Herbert! I am a player and
must ever play at life! And when the mood
is on — my word, I know not what madness
I do ! Your pardon !
HERBERT
[Bewildered and credulous.'] Yes — Yes!
My pardon willingly and here's my hand.
ESSEX
[Applauding. 1 By Heaven! Quite a
comedy, and well-played!
HERBERT
[With sudden irritation.']
S'death! But your hands clutched me!
[With sudden anger.] You hound, by what
right do you thwart the pleasure of gentlemen ?
Go back to your Bear Garden! [To Elisa-
beth.] And you! So — So — Thus do our
eyes drink your beauty.
[He eludes Shakespeare by a swift move-
268 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ment and snatches the cloak from
Elisabeth's head. At the same instant
Shakespeare overturns the lamp which
falls to the ground with a crash and is
extinguished. The stage is dark. As
the lamp crashes, Elisabeth screams
again. Then all stand silent.']
SHAKESPEARE
[Standing before Elisabeth in the darkness.]
Truth, Gentlemen, it is I, not this lady or
Southampton whose blushes need shelter, and
see how kindly has the darkness done it for
me ! For — the truth must out — I have a fancy
for her myself! 'Tis folly sure with South-
ampton in the lists! What fortune can my
passion have against him whose bosom is en-
deared zvith all hearts! I — who am in dis-
grace with fortune and men's eyes. I — who
to behold desert am but a beggar born, forced
to make myself a motley to the view. He has
but to cast his eyes earthward and there's a
woman at his feet! [With increasing pas-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 269
sion."] While I am alone — and she is to my
thoughts as food to life. Gentlemen, at birth
the world was given to you, but her love is
better than high birth to me. I call for
nothing in the Universe save her, my Rose.
And so — your indulgence. Be she of the
Theatre, of the Markets, or even some Night
Wanderer of the streets, 'tis she I love — and
by your own sacred loves, hidden in your
hearts, I conjure you, spare mine!
[All have listened silently as Shakespeare
speaks. As he ceases, Herbert sets on
the table the still filled wine glass he
has held. He lays his hand on Essex's
arm and together they silently go out
of the room and down the stair. The
setting moon now shines directly into
the room, so that Shakespeare, Elisa-
beth and Southampton and the whole
room are clearly seen. Shakespeare
continues to speak, but this time much
more quietly and directly to Southamp-
ton and Elisabeth. ,]
270 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Thus do we Mummers rend the veil from
our own hearts, that the sleeping nobleness in
others may be wakened. And, so that end is
served, it is well done. Now may Dew from
Heaven descend upon you both and keep you
stainless and refreshed. [He takes their hands
in his.] Be true. Be true. Not with the
truth that says "I'm true" but winks, half-
looks, and with an eyelid's lift betrays a soul
and splits a mighty heart; but with the truth
that says — " Thou shalt be safe and thy love
honored, though my name be stained and
blotted from men's minds;" — and lives it
out until the death of Time. Farewell ! Fare-
well! At Titchfield on the 6th of June I shall
be with you. Spurred by such Friendship and
such Love, to reach a height, as man among
my fellow-men that this our world has never
known before. And — who can gainsay my
word? — may never know again. [To South-
ampton.'] When all your guests are gone,
safely attend her home. Forget not. And
now farewell, my dearest Ones.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 271
[He presses Southampton's hand against
his heart with both his and abruptly
bending low kisses Elisabeth's hand,
and goes toward the door. Exit Shake-
speare, closing the door. Southampton
replaces the lamp and striking a light
relights it. Elisabeth has seated her-
self by the table. Southampton goes
to her and speaks, leaning on the table.']
SOUTHAMPTON
[In a hard, half angry tone.']
Speak truth. Is he mad?
ELISABETH
But partly so.
SOUTHAMPTON
Surely it is madness. How very strange
he is to-night!
ELISABETH
[Striving to speak lightly. ]
So poets should be. Is poetry the daily fruit
of most men's lives?
272 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON
This hour's full of torment for me. Will
you speak truth if I do question you?
ELISABETH
[Looking unflinchingly in his eyes.] I will.
SOUTHAMPTON*
Is he — [he stops abruptly.] He bade me
take you safely home.
ELISABETH
Hark!
[She goes quickly to the door and opens
it. Loud voices and laughter from
the Court belozv and footsteps cross-
ing it are heard. She returns to her
seat by the table. She sinks into it
and leans back with the same aban-
donment that she had shown with
Shakespeare. ]
We still must wait! There is no haste.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 273
SOUTHAMPTON
Will you speak truth? I should say, can
a woman speak truth? All truth, I mean.
ELISABETH
I can — I will — to you.
SOUTHAMPTON
Whether I doubt or believe, I'll question
you. Answer you what you will. Is Will
Shakespeare mad or do you love him?
ELISAEETH
[She covers her face with her hands in
deep agitation.]
O, I believe I do! I love his greatness
which few see as I.
SOUTHAMPTON
Do I not know his greatness? Hell's at
work in my life! But we're here in the
world. What can come of such love?
274 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ELISABETH
I do not know.
SOUTHAMPTON
Could you give your life to him? Could
you wed Will Shakespeare, even had he no
wife?
ELISABETH
[Again with agitation.']
O — I know not.
SOUTHAMPTON
And if you do not wed — I am a man — -
what then?
ELISABETH
Shame ! Probing to the heart the bud that
is not yet a rose!
SOUTHAMPTON
Damnation! Is life to betray me twice in
one day? I will not have it. I've thirsted,
in the ages since this afternoon, for this
hour. It comes quickly — but — it cheats.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 275
Answer again. Are you pledged willingly
in any sense that's true, to Will Shakespeare?
ELISABETH
[With subtle coquetry."]
O pledged? No — Pledged is a hard word.
But were he another than he is it would be true
— all true.
SOUTHAMPTON
He has deceived himself?
ELISABETH
Yes.
SOUTHAMPTON
Then if he is self -deceived and you not
pledged, I'll speak: There is no treason. I
swear that when I met you in the Court this
afternoon my heart was empty as a shell that
whispers of the distant sea. That sea of
Love that often breaks its waves upon a
stone.
ELISABETH
A stone?
276 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON
A woman can turn stone as easily as
breathe ... at least so Bridget Man-
ners can! Fve looked upon your beauty all
these years. Feasted upon it as I would upon
a sun-riped nectarine. My senses would
have starved if Fd not seen its richness upon
such and such a day. But I was blind. A
little vile, yellow, speck of dust between my
eyes and sunlight. But when I saw you to-
day I — dried, parched by that same dust —
knew you could fill my heart up to the brim
with life.
ELISABETH
O too late! Too late!
SOUTHAMPTON
What do you mean?
ELISABETH
[With reserve.]
Did I not say to you that maids are wisest
when they doubt all words of yours.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 277
SOUTHAMPTON
[Passionately.]
O words — what are words? Look at me.
I've starved on a dream and now I'm Life
itself for you. We're here, alone, and Life,
its very self, no cheat or dream, is pressing
close. Will you let it slip away? If you so
wish — I'll go.
ELISABETH
No, No!
SOUTHAMPTON
[He kneels on one knee close to her
knees and takes her hands.]
May I kneel here and worship?
[Elisabeth does not answer.]
How still! Do I displease you so? Do you
wish me to leave you?
ELISABETH
[Closing her eyes and speaking as if
drugged.]
No! No!
278 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON
What am I to you?
ELISABETH
[Slowly opening her eyes and meeting his.]
The Kingdoms of the World and the Glory of
them.
SOUTHAMPTON
Caught !
[He snatches her in his arms and kisses
her violently. She does not rebuke
him but reaches out her arms and
strains him to her, returning his em-
brace and kiss with twofold passion.
They release each other and South-
ampton stands, looking down upon her
upturned face. The door is suddenly
opened and Shakespeare enters. He
goes toward them.']
SHAKESPEARE
[With deep, restrained emotion.] Forth
from this great Enchantment I could
WILL SHAKESPEARE 279
not go to meet the world without one last,
dear look. You need not speak. Let but
my eyes, my heart embrace you both. [To
Southampton."} My Friend! [To Elisa-
beth.'] My Happiness!
[As they stand with slightly bowed
heads, guilty and silent, he goes
toward the door and there stops, hat
in hand, looking at them. He calls in
a clear voice.] >
There are my two Angels !
CURTAIN
END OF ACT III
ACT IV
THE PYRE—THE NEW PHOENIX
RISES FROM THE ASHES
JUNE 1598
ACT IV
THE PYRE— THE NEW PHOENIX
RISES FROM THE ASHES
JUNE 1598
Scene: [Bacchanal music] The Garden
and Terrace of TitchHeld, the country seat of
the Earl of Southampton. A background of
trees and sky. Across the back of stage is a
stone ivy- grown terrace with a balustrade.
A stone stair leads down on either side from
the terrace to the foreground of the stage.
Trees, flowering shrubs and flowers -flank
either side. There is a stone seat at the
right. In the centre at back, built against the
stone terrace, is a fountain with a semi-circu-
lar stone basin with a broad rim. The whole
scene has a picturesque and romantic beauty.
At the left above, opening on the Terrace, is
seen the corner of a vine-covered, stone
283
284 WILL SHAKESPEARE
manor-house. The windows of the house are
lighted. The moonlight is clear and brilliant.
Lighted lanterns of soft light colours hang in
the trees. When the curtain rises, nymphs,
in filmy draperies with cymbals and wreaths
of flowers, and satyrs and fauns dressed in
skins and crowned with green leaves, are
moving across terrace and steps and among
the shrubs and trees. As the curtain rises
they sing to the accompaniment of the or-
chestra; as they sing they rush wildly down
the steps, the satyrs and fauns striving to
catch the nymphs, who elude them, laughing
and dancing. ,]
SONG
ALL
For this night we are not men
Nymphs and Fauns and Satyrs we!
SATYRS AND FAUNS
Peep at head and feet and then
Furry ears and hoofs you'll see!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 285
ALL
If a stranger cross our path
Dare our covert to intrude,
Straight we crush him with our wrath
Drive him from our sacred wood.
FAUNS
If a maiden this way come
Rightful prey is she of ours;
Swiftly do we bear her home
To our couch of moss and flowers.
ALL
For this night we are not men
Nymphs and Fauns and Satyrs we!
SATYRS AND FAUNS
Peep at head and feet and then
Furry ears and hoofs you'll see!
[Stage Direction — The music for this
song is abrupt and rough, and at the
end of each verse the cymbals clash
wildly. 1
286 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[At the end of this song the Satyrs and
Nymphs and Fauns creep back behind
the shrubs and trees and hide.]
[Enter Shakespeare dressed in a black
costume like the one Southampton has
prepared for the Masque. He wears
the blue ribbon and star of the order
of the Garter. He is unmasked but
carries a mask in his hand. He wears
also a large black hat and cloak.']
SHAKESPEARE
[Removing his hat as if for more free-
dom.]
How clear this air! How magical these
flowers !
There is some rare enchantment in this place,
Some spirit breathing balms of Joy and
Youth.
I know not what awaits me here to-night,
From Stratford, whence my messenger should
come — '
WILL SHAKESPEARE 287
From Stratford, where I go upon the mor-
row;
What word of Death — or Life renewed for
Anne.
I know not whether I am bound or free —
What comes is veiled — but this one thing is
sure —
This hour is deadly sweet, and brings to me
The life of mine own life, Elisabeth !
Through all these wasteful, fruitless days
and weeks,
Love-haunted, love-tormented, I have
dragged
Body and will to meet each hour's behest.
While far across the miles that stretched be-
tween
My spirit free and swift and strong as fire
Has flown and dwelt with her, so leaving me
A ravished altar, bankrupt of its flame —
A dead man, living still, whose soul survives
But in the pleasure of his Mistress* will.
Yet now all life sweeps back to fill my life
And every step that brings me closer her
288 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Makes me tenfold a man — Nearer a god!
[He touches the star and ribbon of the
Garter.']
For once a Prince! Though but for one
short night,
Sweet Heaven, send some princely destiny!
[Bacchanal music. The Satyrs and
Fauns creep from the bushes and
spring upon Shakespeare singing
roughly. 1
SATYRS
If a stranger cross our path,
Dare our covert to intrude,
Straight we crush him with our wrath,
Drive him from our sacred wood.
SHAKESPEARE
[Joyously."]
My old-time Forest-Friends at last! Come
on!
IVe waited for you long!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 289
FIRST SATYR
Now throw him down!
SECOND SATYR
I'll trip his heels!
THIRD SATYR
I'll twist and break his bones!
SHAKESPEARE
Come rough or smooth, all's well for me to-
night !
[He fights with the satyrs, overpowers
them and drives them back to the co-
vert of the bushes. 1
SATYRS AND FAUNS
[Singing mournfully behind the bushes
and groaning at the end of each line.~\
For to-night we are not men —
O! O! O!
Fauns and hairy Satyrs we — ■
O! O! O!
2QO WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
[He advances a few steps."]
A mystic night borne from a land of dreams!
Are all my visions closing round my path,
No dreams but substance of my life at last?
[Soft music is he'ard. A water Nymph
rises slowly from the fountain.]
WATER NYMPH
[Holding out her arms to Shakespeare.]
Beloved, I've risen from such far, green
depths,
Dashing the salt spray from my seeking eyes.
Long, long ago — you called me from the
sea —
I heard and I am come to answer you.
SHAKESPEARE
[Going nearer to the fountain. He
speaks with humour, shuddering.]
The women of the sea must be so cold !
WATER NYMPH
THe women of the earth are ever false!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 291
SHAKESPEARE
This even from a Water-Fay!
WATER NYMPH
Trust None !
SHAKESPEARE
Not even you?
WATER NYMPH
Trust no one on the earth.
Trust me. Deep as the sea my love. Come!
Come!
[She holds out her arms* beckoning. ~\
SHAKESPEARE
No love of yours for me, nor mine for you!
But I can dream a thousand lives in one.
Earth, sea, and sky are mine, if so I choose!
[He goes quickly to the edge of the
fountain. The Water Nymph
splashes the water over him and sud-
denly sinks down in the water and
vanishes laughing, mockingly. ,]
292 WILL SHAKESPEARE
WATER NYMPH
[As she sinks.]
Deep as the sea my love. Follow me there!
[The Satyrs and Fauns echo her laugh-
ter softly from the bushes.]
SHAKESPEARE
Each briny drop a sea-kiss, fresh and
strange.
Through Dreams and Follies to my Star of
Love!
[He passes across the stage and goes out
through the shrubs and flowers at
right. Enter from terrace above,
Elisabeth Vernon and her waiting-
woman, Phillida, unmasked, but carry-
ing masks."]
ELISABETH
How long has Florian paid court to you?
PHILLIDA
A year.
ELISABETH
And how do you regard this youth?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 293
PHILLIDA
I trifle with him when that he is near,
But when he goes I would that he were back.
ELISABETH
In your small way you love! You'll play
your part.
Heed me — Lord Southampton has hidden
from me
Two days. Love-tokens he has sent to me
And written words. But while he's planned
this masque,
Filling these shaded nooks with Nymphs and
Fauns,
Making sweet music sound from every bush,
He has not let me see his face, nor learn
What his disguise to-night. This is a jest
To him, to whet this evening's mystery —
But 'tis to me sheer torment. When he's
gone,
I know not where he goes, nor what he does.
O Phillida, if you should love a man,
294 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Love him, I mean, so you are lost in him,
Passed quite from out yourself, your soul and
life
All at the mercy of his veering will,
Then never, never let him from your sight —
For if you do, some mischief's sure to come.
PHILLIDA
I wish that you had never seen his face!
Are men so false?
ELISABETH
Some do not mean to be,
And yet are so! Florian will surely know
What dress his master wears. Watch here
for him,
Until he comes — and he is sure to come,
For from the casement in the hall above
Where we were dallying with the other
guests,
I spied him speeding toward this very spot
Down the Yew path. Garbed like a Faun in
Skins,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 295
Bearing a silver casket in his arms —
Learn alt from him.
[She points down the alley at left.']
He comes! Dear Phillida,
Now fail me not. I must have sight and
speech
Of Southampton to-night. If you should see
My Lord, give this into his hands. Fail not!
[She gives Phillida a note.]
[Exit Elisabeth to house. Phillida goes
with her to the top of the terrace.
Enter Florian dressed like a Faun,
carrying the silver casket.]
FLORIAN*
[Singing.]
Mighty Venus, mightier Love
Help who weareth this disguise
Help him Heavenly Powers above
Guard him from her dangerous eyes!
PHILLIDA
[She plucks a rose from roses that grow
296 WILL SHAKESPEARE
on the Terrace and throws it, striking
Florian who stops and looks up.~\
FLORIAN
My Phillida!
PHILLIDA
What have you in that box?
FLORIAN
You shall not know.
PHILLIDA
You swore last week you would do aught I
wished.
And the first thing I ask you, you deny!
FLORIAN
Again I swear you — anything — but this !
PHILLIDA
Good even !
[She goes toward the house.']
WILL SHAKESPEARE 297
FLORIAN
Phillida!
[He climbs to the top of the Terrace by
means of the stone-work of the Foun-
tain. Phillida returns. Florian lays
the silver casket on the top of the bal-
ustrade and sits beside it.]
PHILLIDA
[Drawing close to him.~\
How beautiful
You are in your Faun's dress!
florian
I ever said
You'd a rare eye for my fine points!
[As he speaks, smiling conceitedly, Phil-
lida swiftly opens the casket and
snatches the costume from it, examin-
ing it before Florian has time to take
it from her. Enter Essex in the cos-
tume of a Roman warrior. He hides
and watches. 1
29& WILL SHAKESPEARE
FLORIAN
You wretch!
But sure 'twas not my fault! For man is
strong,
God stronger, woman strongest!
PHILLIDA
\Eluding Florian, holds up the costume
and ornaments laughing.']
Well I know
This is my Lord Southampton's dress to-
night
[Still eluding Florian who tries to catch
her.]
Black mask and hose and doublet — and the
star
And chain and azure ribbon of a knight
Of noble orders most august — the Garter!
FLORIAN
[Snatching the costume and putting it in
the box.]
I deny your guess!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 299
Phillida
Your eyes affirm its truth.
FLORIAN
Now keep the secret you have stolen from me
Or I am lost! My Lord awaits. A kiss?
PHILLIDA
Not one.
FLORIAN
[With mock tragedy. Kneeling be-
seechingly. ]
I prithee, maiden, for the good
Of my poor soul.
[Phillida eludes him and runs to house
laughing. J
FLORIAN
My time's not yet but comes—
For that lost kiss I'll twenty steal to-night !
[Exit Florian with casket.]
300 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ESSEX
The waiting woman of Elisabeth, peeping
at Southampton's disguise. Great God! No
woman's safe from him, nor he from them!
He would wed Bridget Manners, eyes Elisa-
beth, and lures her maid. Some men should
be labelled " Poison " and imprisoned. He
even magnetizes me when I am in his pres-
ence. Praise Heaven, he goes soon to Paris!
[Enter Herbert by the same entrance by
which Essex entered."}
ESSEX
Well met, Herbert!
[Enter the two pages who appeared in
Act HI, one playing with a cup and
ball. They sit on the edge of the
fountain, not seeing Essex and Her-
bert behind the shrubs at right, .]
FIRST PAGE
[Tossing the ball and trying to catch it
in the cup and missing it.}
WILL SHAKESPEARE 301
I have it from the steward's wife that Lord
Southampton is not to marry Lady Bridget
Manners — and more than that!
[Herbert steps forward as if to silence
the pages, but Essex restrains him.']
SECOND PAGE
You've missed the ball three times. It's
my turn. [He takes the cup and ball]
What more of my Lord Southampton.
FIRST PAGE
You'll never guess!
SECOND PAGE
[Tossing the ball.]- I know more than I
tell. Go on.
FIRST PAGE
'Tis said Lord Southampton has courted
Mistress Elisabeth Vernon with too much
familiarity. The steward's wife had it from
Lady Bridget's maid. The maids know it —
the court knows it — the Town will know soon
302 WILL SHAKESPEARE
— everyone but the Queen — and when she
knows there'll be a reckoning!
[Essex starts and unsheathes his sword.
Herbert again makes as if to stop
the talk of the pages but Essex again
restrains him and they listen.']
SECOND PAGE
No news to me !
FIRST PAGE
The pride of him! You fool not me with
your mock knowledge.
SECOND PAGE
Do you remember the night of the game of
swords a month since in my Lord's house in
Holborn.
FIRST PAGE
Well.
SECOND PAGE
At ten o'clock, I fell asleep hidden in the
alcove of the little stair by the door that leads
WILL SHAKESPEARE 303
to my lord's cabinet. At two in the morn-
ing [I know, for I heard the bells strike]
voices wakened me. Lord Southampton and
Mistress Elisabeth came down the stair. At
the door to the court she veiled herself and
they passed out to the outer court and so to
the streets. But I'll warrant you there were
soft words and clingings before they left the
stair. I saw her face plain. She's a rare
Beauty !
FIRST PAGE
Why told you not me before?
SECOND PAGE
I saw Florian beat Peter Dumpser for an-
gering my Lord Southampton that same day.
I held my peace because I value my skin and
my place. But if others know, I'm safe!
[A whistle is heard from the house.] The
Steward's whistle! Come quick!
[Exeunt Pages running. Essex stands
motionless with bent head. Then
speaks with restrained rage and pain."]
304 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ESSEX
Herbert is this true? No lies.
HERBERT
I would have spared you!
ESSEX
O fooled and gulled! Under my very
eyes! Elisabeth! My Pride! The Flower
of all our race! Dragged down amid the
yery ruck of women who fall in the slime of
men's lust. Elisabeth in Southampton's
room that night! O blind fool! Under my
very eyes! [He pauses as if searching his
memory. ] What meant Will Shakespeare by
his fond confession that so moved us?
HERBERT
The merest mummery, to shelter his idol,
Southampton.
ESSEX
He forewarned me that afternoon that
were we matched against each other, he would
WILL SHAKESPEARE 305
triumph. [Bitterly.] But I was an easy
dupe. How long have you known?
HERBERT
I heard it whispered more than a fortnight
since.
[Two ladies cross the terrace above,
talking and laughing and go out at
left.]
ESSEX
I see blood on everything.
PEMBROKE
Have care! Come aside where we may
speak unnoticed.
[Exit Essex and Herbert."]
[Enter Shakespeare. He puts on his
mask, draws his hat over his eyes and
steps aside as the two ladies re-enter
from left.]
FIRST LADY
How are the mighty fallen!
3o6 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SECOND LADY
She was ever too proud to please me.
FIRST LADY
[Removing her mask and fanning herself.'}
I'm warm with dancing! I pity her the more
because of her pride. Will Southampton wed
her, think you?
SECOND LADY
If his wooing of her has been so free, why
should he?
[Exit Ladies.}
SHAKESPEARE
There's some malicious spite at work! They
speak of Bridget Manners and Southampton.
Who would have thought that scandal would
stain that snow image! But none escape!
[Enter from terrace Phillida. She goes
to Shakespeare with a letter in her
hand.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 30^
PHILLIDA
[Giving him the letter."]
My mistress bade me place this in your hands.
[She courtesies and goes out at same en-
trance.]
SHAKESPEARE
[With agitation, opens the letter without
looking at the address. He looks at
the signature.]
Elisabeth !
[He reads.]
"Cruel Beloved — Your absence from me has
been winter, though summer is at our doors."
[He passes his hand across his eyes as
if to clear them.]
0 Love, what dost thou to mine eyes that
they behold and see not what they see1? Do
1 read right? The words all run together
like rose-colored flames. [He reads again.]
" These June days without you have been but
a December night. See how I lay bare my
heart, but mighty Love and this dark solitude
3o8 WILL SHAKESPEARE
have mastered its reserves. Seek me without
delay this evening, for I can wait alone no
more. Elisabeth."
ELISABETH
[Shakespeare pauses and then kisses the
open letter and hides it in his doub-
let]
O Heaven! Have you in all your divine
store a gift more princely than this?
[He hastily masks himself and draws his
hat partly over his eyes as Essex en-
ters at right, unmasked. Enter at left
Peter Dumpser in traveling costume.']
PETER
[At left.]
Here comes a man with a sword unsheathed.
No more fighting for me !
[He climbs the nearest tree and watches
Essex and Shakespeare.]
ESSEX
^Advancing to Shakespeare with blind
frenzy.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 309
Southampton, Foul Libertine and Coward!
Since your crime cries from the housetops, here
on your own land, take its just requital.
[He tries to stab Shakespeare with his
short Roman sword. Shakespeare
parries the blow, but does not return
it. Essex continues more wildly.]
Think you to hide from me? The very air
whispered me your disguise. Will you let
me kill you like the dog you are? So be it
then.
[He strikes again. Shakespeare defends
himself. Essex's sword pierces his
shoulder and in defending another
blow, Shakespeare wounds Essex in
the right side. Voices and laughter of
guests is heard approaching. Essex
staggers and falls. Shakespeare at-
tempts to help him to rise, but Essex
repels him and struggles to his feet.
The guests draw nearer."]
Curses! I'm helpless. But the end's not
now!
310 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[Guests are seen at entrance to Terrace,
at right. Essex goes toward left with
difficulty, staggering and swaying.
Exit Essex. Guests go out again.]
SHAKESPEARE
[He staunches the blood from his wound,
laughing.]
Ah Southampton ! This dress has stood you
in good stead to-night. Better my sturdy
blood than the fine wine of yours! But who
would have thought Essex would have taken
scandal about Bridget Manners so to heart?
There's madness spreading in his blood and
brain. What more dangerous than the
wounded Lion? Where hides Southampton?
Some warning's urgent for him. Somewhere
in garden or in house he's to be found — and
then — my Joy!
[Exit Shakespeare at right.]
PETER
[Descending from the tree.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 311
I would I were safe in Stratford!
[Exit Peter at left. Enter Elisabeth
and Phillida.'] *
ELISABETH
My lord gave you no answer for me?
PHILLIDA
People were coming and I feared to be seen
of them. I gave the letter into his hands and
ran away before anyone spied me.
ELISABETH
It was wisest so. But there's no peace.
Go seek him Phillida through all the Park,
and when you find him tell him I wait him in
the vine-covered summer-house by the Old
Fish Pool.
PHILLIDA
I'll find him easily. I saw his black dress
and blue ribbon but now amid the Masquers
in the Pleasance near the house.
312 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ELISABETH
I breathe with more ease. The darkness
that has been around me clears. Tis a most
fair night! I go to the summer-house, Phil-
lida. Send my lord soon.
[Exit Elisabeth at left. Bacchanal music
sounds. Enter Fauns from right, skip-
ping, dancing and singing. They sur-
round Phillida and dance around her.]
FAUNS
[Singing.]
If a maiden cross our path,
Rightful prey is she of ours,
Straightway do we bear her home,
To our couch of moss and flowers.
[Phillida struggles to escape with genuine
alarm, but each time she tries to break
the ring the Fauns prevent her.]
PHILLIDA
Let me go! Let me go! Fiends! Devils!
WILL SHAKESPEARE 313
FAUNS
You're ours! You're ours!
PHILLIDA
[Struggling wildly with the Fauns. ,]
Fools — quit your masquerading! I'm on
my Lord's business. Let me go!
FAUNS
She's ours!
[Enter Florian, dressed as a Faun. He
breaks the ring, lifts Phillida in his
arms and carries her off.]
FLORIAN
She's mine!
PHILLIDA
[Struggling with Florian.]
Ah! You shall rue this Florian.
[Exit Florian carrying Phillida at left.
Fauns rush off at right, laughing and
singing. ~\
314 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[Enter Elisabeth from left back, not the
same entrance by which Florian and
Phillida have gone out. She calls.~\
Phillida! Phillida! Where are you? I would
speak with you!
[Enter Shakespeare from left still masked
and with his hat brim pulled over his
eyes. His cloak is thrown back. The
Star and chain and ribbon of the
Garter show plainly. Elisabeth goes
toward him swiftly.']
O my Love, why have you remained away
from me so long? But no masquerading
can hide you from my eyes !
[Bacchanal music. A nymph chased by
a Faun runs from left across the stage.
Shakespeare has remained silent, only
showing by a gesture, his emotion.']
Did Phillida tell you that I should wait you
in the Summer-house by the pool?
[The Nymph and Faun re-enter together,
laughing and talking. They pause
near Elisabeth and Shakespeare.]
WILL SHAKESPEARE 315
ELISABETH
[Speaking softly."]
Yes — You are wise to remain masked and
silent — so guarding me — for at sight of you I
forget all but you. Follow me to the Summer-
house. I will go first that there may be no
evil eyes to spy, or cruel tongues to slander.
[Exit Elisabeth at right, followed by the
Nymph and Faun.]
SHAKESPEARE
God! Can such joy be mine! This ecstasy
Is keen and sharp and held me dumb and
still
Before the splendour of her wondrous self.
She bade me follow to the Summer-house
Beside the pool. Which house, what pool?
O Love,
Guide thou my steps to her. Come glorious
Hour!
And let me live at last!
[Exit Shakespeare at right. Florian's
voice is heard shouting from Terrace.]
316 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Help! Help! Murder has been done!
[Enter Florian on Terrace, followed by
Phillida. He rushes to centre of top
of Terrace shouting and calling, in
intense excitement.']
Help! Help!
[Herbert and guests rush from house
at right and from left to the Terrace,
many bearing torches, and stand on
either side of Florian. Others enter
with torches from right and left below.
Florian continues to speak loudly with
the same excitement. ]
Some one has tried to kill my Lord Essex!
A dastardly murder be sure. I found him
lying in the shrubbery behind the* house, bleed-
ing and still. So still I think him dead !
[Excitement among guests.]
HERBERT
I'll seek and bear him here.
TWO GENTLEMEN
We'll go with you.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 317
[Exit Herbert and gentlemen. The
guests crowd around Florian, question-
ing him. Enter Herbert and gentle-
men from below at right carrying
Essex. They lay him on the grass in
centre, in front. The guests crowd
the stairs from the terrace on either
side, with torches. Others with torches
are grouped about Essex, Herbert and
Elorian in centre.']
HERBERT
Who has done this?
[Enter a guest, dragging with him Peter
Dumpser.]
GUEST
Here is a boy who knows more than He
will tell.
FLORIAN*
That Rat, Pierre!
318 WILL SHAKESPEARE
HERBERT
[Who has been trying to revive Essex, to
Peter.]
Do you know aught of this?
[Peter is silent.]
HERBERT
Come. Speak, Lout.
PETER
I have had trouble in my Lord Southamp-
ton^ house before now. I would liefer be
silent, if it please you, my Lord.
FLORIAN
[With an air of stern virtue.]
Speak the truth, Pierre. The whole truth —
naught but truth !
PETER
If Florian bids me tell the truth, I know I
may! I have been in Stratford with my
mother a month and reached Titchfield this
WILL SHAKESPEARE 319
evening. As I came here to the garden seek-
ing my Lord Southampton, and Master Will
Shakespeare, I saw two men quarrelling and
I climbed a tree, thinking that as the quarrel
was none of mine, 'twas best I should take
no part in it.
HERBERT
Did you see who fought?
PETER
I saw my Lord Essex, but the other one
wore a black mask.
HERBERT
What garments did he wear? What was
his height? Tell all.
PETES
He was all in black, but a blue ribbon was
drawn across his breast and a great star of
diamonds shone upon it. A chain of gold
was about his neck, he was of a noble port,
and his head was as high as was my Lord
Essex's head.
[Florian shows dismay at Peter's words."]
320 WILL SHAKESPEARE
HERBERU
[To guests. ]
Disperse — search the grounds! Find this
masked cut-throat.
[Some of the guests go out hastily. Her-'
bert bends over Essex. ]
FLORIAN
[Aside to Peter.]
O Pierre, you witless worm! The black
masquer with the ribbon of the garter was my
Lord Southampton. You have undone us all !
[He takes Peter aside and scolds him,
while Peter expostulates. Herbert and
guests re-enter, bringing with them
Southampton masked and dressed in
costume like Shakespeare's.]
HERBERT
Unmask, you scoundrel!
SOUTHAMPTON
What folly is this? By whose insolent in-
WILL SHAKESPEARE 321
terference am I dragged here? [He sees
Essex.] What's here?
HERBERT
Your mock ignorance avails not. You
were seen by this lad. [He indicates Peter.]
SOUTHAMPTON
You are all mad. Who has wounded the
Earl?
HERBERT
[To Peter.]
Was this he whom you saw? Answer.
PETER
[Whimpering.]
Indeed he wears the same dress and hat and
has the same port and build.
HERBERT
[To Southampton.]
Seek not to escape.
[Enter Elisabeth at right. She waits at
entrance listening.]
322 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SOUTHAMPTON
[To Herbert.']
Are you mad too ?
[Enter Shakespeare front left, masked.
Herbert and the guests show their
surprise at seeing two black masks
dressed exactly alike.]
HERBERT
An end to this folly — unmask both — or by
Heaven there now will be force for force —
blood for this blood. [He indicates Essex.]
[Shakespeare unmasks and Southampton
follows his example. Elisabeth draws
near Southampton. Shakespeare kneels
beside Essex and puts his hand to his
heart.]
SHAKESPEARE
His heart beats well. He but swoons.
[Imperiously, to the guests.] You crowd too
closely. Back that he may have more air.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 323
[All fall back but Elisabeth, Southampton,
'Herbert and Florian.] A cordial, Florian.
[Exit Florian to house.']
ELISABETH
[Aside to Southampton.']
O Love, was this wisely done ? Had you not
kept apart from me these last days, this might
have been averted. Why came you not to me
earlier? Did not Phillida give my letter into
your hands but now?
[Shakespeare hears her words. He
listens dazed. Enter Florian with a
cordial. Herbert takes it from him
and stooping forces it between Essex's
lips. Shakespeare rises and going a
few steps aside, takes out the letter
and reads the address, while all watch
Essex.}
SHAKESPEARE .
[Reading the address.]
To my Lord Southampton.
324 WILL SHAKESPEARE
[He stands as if stupefied, his face con-
traded with intense grief. Essex
raises himself on his elbow. South-
ampton goes to him and Shakespeare
crosses to Elisabeth at left front.~\
SHAKESPEARE
{Showing her the letter."]
O Siren, false as hell within! What glory
dies through you!
[Elisabeth looks in amaze at him and at
his dress. Then she cowers, covering
her face with her hands.]
ESSEX
[Pushing aside the cordial.]
Let be. You shall not make a babe of me.
[He struggles to his feet.]
Call my servants. I would be away from this
cursed place. [To Southampton.] South-
ampton you've hampered me to-night, but
our reckoning will come.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 325
SOUTHAMPTON
[Indignantly. ]
'Fore God, I have not lifted hand against
you, nor even seen you this night 'till now.
[The guests murmur. ]
HERBERT
[To Southampton.']
Are you a liar !
[Shakespeare has stood as if pondering,
his head bowed, his face showing pro-
found grief. He moves nearer centre.]
SHAKESPEARE
[At front, imperiously, aside to South-
ampton.]
Bid your guests go. There is untangling of
this snarl, but 'twere better done alone.
SOUTHAMPTON
[Hesitates — then speaks to guests.]
Good Friends, this accident has stopped quite
our pleasure. That you may be the sooner in-
326 WILL SHAKESPEARE
formed as to its cause and satisfied as to its
just repairing, let our Festival end now.
[He goes toward guests and attends them
to the exit at left back. Elisabeth goes
to bench at right and sits, her eyes and
face partly shaded by her hand.}
FLORIAN
[To Phillida as they pass out.}
Ah ! Phillida, if you have it in your heart to
be kind, be so now, for Pierre has shamed all
my training !
[Phillida gives him her hand and they
pass out at left.}
ESSEX
[To Herbert.}
Your arm.
SHAKESPEARE
[To Herbert.}
That this quarrel may be the more quickly
mended, I pray you let me speak with Essex.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 327
[Herbert hesitates, then withdraws a few
steps. Southampton is at left back
with guests, who go out. Elisabeth
seated on the bench at right as before.
Shakespeare is in centre at front with
Essex.']
[To Essex.]
Essex, for Friendship's sake I fought with
you,
To spare Southampton. Wearing his dis-
guise
To add another touch of mystery
To this night's sport — Not knowing what
should come!
Your pardon for your wound and mine to
you
For this — [He indicates his wound.]
ESSEX
[He turns away impatiently.]
Enough.
SHAKESPEARE
Ah! Wait. You are too quick.
328 WILL SHAKESPEARE
I claim your patience still. You would de*
stroy
Southampton, thus to clear your cousin's
name.
Tis the world's way! But there's another
path
Which taken now may better shelter her.
Whispers are in the air, blown on the wind
Like thistledown. But like the thistledown,
To fall to earth, forgot and trampled on,
If no one fans the air with scandal's breath.
These two, {indicating Southampton and
Elisabeth] be sure, or soon or late will
wed.
For love of her pursue no more revenge.
ESSEX
I cannot speak upon this now — and yet — My
thanks.
Herbert, your arm.
[Herbert rejoins him. Exit Essex and
Herbert at left, Essex leaning upon
Herbert's arm. The guests have all
WILL SHAKESPEARE 329
gone. Southampton comes slowly
toward centre. He pauses as he draws
near Shakespeare and looks at him with
anxiety and fear. Elisabeth has risen
and stands, her eyes -fixed on Shake-
speare with a half-terrified expression.
Shakespeare is at centre alone, looking
toward front with the same expression
of profound grief. .]
SHAKESPEARE
[Without turning his head.~\
Southampton.
[Southampton advances until he stands
at Shakespeare's left.']
You, possessing all that life
Can give to man, might have forborne my
Love.
SOUTHAMPTON
Her beauty conquered me. She was not
pledged
To you, or any other man.
33Q WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
You plead
As ever plead the darlings of this world —
Falsely — and yet as if of pardon sure.
Yes — beauty tempted — and your straying
youth
Has led you in its riot even there.
[Looking toward Elisabeth.]
Where twofold truth is broken — hers and
yours
Both false to me.
[To Elisabeth.']
Come. I would speak with you.
[Elisabeth comes toward him slowly with
the same half-terrified expression, until
she stands on his right. Shakespeare
turns to Southampton.]
Do you love her? Have care to say what's
true,
For there is that in me that in this hour
Would rise with ruin for you, at a lie.
Do you love her?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 331
SOUTHAMPTON
Ah! Better than my life!
SHAKESPEARE
How often have I heard you say those
words,
Each separate time about a different woman !
[Southampton attempts to speak, but
Shakespeare silences him by a gesture
and turns to Elisabeth.]
Do you love him?
ELISABETH
[Her head is bowed as if in deep shame.
Then she raises it and speaks, with an
effort and yet with daring.]
I've loved so many — that —
I do not know ! I thought that I loved you !
SHAKESPEARE
There speaks the fearless spirit of old blood — '
The Truth — ev'n though she shames herself!
[To Southampton.']
332 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Again —
Speak Boy — these moments give you time for
thought —
What is your love for her?
SOUTHAMPTON
Once I saw fly
A strange, wild bird my falcon could not
strike.
I watched it soar and thought if I could lure
Its beauty to my wrist, touch its fair plumes,
And warmly cherish it against my breast,
I'd be content — ev'n though it soared away
And I must ever win it back again.
SHAKESPEARE
She is your mate. Wed her. Keep, if you
can.
[Elisabeth looks startled and makes a
motion toward Shakespeare, as if to
check him. He turns to her.~\
And you — again — what is this man to you?
WILL SHAKESPEARE 333
ELISABETH
[Slowly — as if unwilling to speak, yet
unable to be silent. ,]
He is a Star — the brightest in my sky;
There is a constellation where he shines,
In this my world, the only world I know,
He is a Sun — and where his radiance falls
Life blooms, and every hour glows fair and
rich
With promise to my heart's untamed desires.
SHAKESPEARE
No other man or life for you. Wed him.
[They stand silent as if surprised and
shamed. Southampton advances nearer
Shakespeare, and then withdraws a
few steps and waits, watching Elisa-
beth. She does not appear to notice
him and he goes out at left. Elisabeth
draws nearer to Shakespeare, who
stands looking forward with deep sad-
334 WILL SHAKESPEARE
ness, but complete detachment from
her. She turns away as if awed. Exit
Elisabeth at left, but not by the same
exit as Southampton. Shakespeare
goes to the stone seat at right and sits.
The lights on the Terrace and in the
shrubbery flicker and go out. The
stage is dark except for a gradual,
slow lighting of the dark star-strezvn
sky, which begins to change to the
luminous blue of the early dawn.
Petals and flowers of the flowering
shrubs fall to the ground. Shakespeare
slowly takes off the star and chain and
ribbon of the Garter. ,]
So passes all the Dream and Ecstasy!
\Enter quietly and timidly from right
Peter Dumpser with a letter. He ap-
proaches Shakespeare and gives the
letter to him.~\
PETER
The answer to your letter, Master Will.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 335
SHAKESPEARE
[With kindness, but barely noticing
Peter.]
Ah Peter — safely here again — and met
No lions on the way!
[He gives Peter money. Peter waits
a moment and then as Shakespeare
does not seem to be conscious of his
presence, he goes out as quietly as he
entered. Shakespeare opens the letter
and reads.]
" To Will, who is my husband, though so long
away : I have been sick of the Fever that has
ravaged Stratford, but now, praise God's
goodness! I am mending and will soon be
again in health. Whiles I was sick, by night
and day, I thought upon you. O Will, will
you come home to us? Your father and
mother wait for you. Our girls are well
grown and fairer than pride could desire.
Your daughters ask for you. Never will I
drive you from us again as I did once. The
336 WILL SHAKESPEARE
gold you send nurtures us richly, but 'tis you
we would see. We wait for your coming.
Anne/'
[He lays the letter beside him on the
seat."]
Does anyone
On earth desire me?
[Enter from left Elisabeth. She comes
toward him hesitatingly and stands at
a distance, her hands clasped as if in
sup plication. 1
ELISABETH
[With almost childlike timidity.]
I thought if I
Might come to you in deep humility,
Confess my falseness and forgiveness ask,
This shame and pain that burn my heart
would go.
SHAKESPEARE
[Looking at her as if spellbound.]
How wondrous are you now as you stand
there !
WILL SHAKESPEARE 337
How dark and false! An angel ever dark
And yet to me, loved still — though ever false.
ELISABETH
I meant not to be false!
SHAKESPEARE!
I see you now
As souls barred out of Paradise must see
Within its gate, their fair, forbidden Loves.
ELISABETH
[Goes to him impulsively and kneels by
the stone seat. His arm rests on the
curved end of it and she bends her
head as if to lean it upon his arm. He
draws his arm away roughly.']
SHAKESPEARE
No potions shall I drink of Siren's tears
Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within!
ELISABETH
[She weeps, covering her face with her
hands.]
How pitiless you are!
338 WILL SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE
How pitiless
You are!
ELISABETH
[She rises and half turns away.~\
Then un forgiven, must I go!
* SHAKESPEARE
[He springs from his seat. She turns
toward him.~\
O for forgiveness — why, that has no part
In love! For love is love, and covers all
Both good and ill. No more of that! And
now
For you and me.
[Elizabeth sits on the bench. Shake-
speare stands near her!\
You will go hence from me
To meet another life apart from mine,
Another man's brand on you, blurring mine.
I, to the life my blindness and my fate
Made for me years ago. So lest the world
Should task you to recite what merit lived
In me, that you should love, forget me quite,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 339
Lest the wise world should look into your
moan
!And mock you with me after I am gone!
For I, in your sweet thoughts would be for-
got,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
ELISABETH
[Despairingly. ]
In gaining Southampton I won the world,
In losing you I lost my soul!
SHAKESPEARE
The soul
Is made of stronger stuff! Listen to me.
You cast a lure, a magical rose-film
Around my life. So potent in its spell
I scarcely dared to breathe, lest it should
break
And I should die. Pushed on, on every side
Out of its magic I was thrust. It broke —
And in the throes of that dark agony
I knew not Death — but strangely greater
Life.
340 WILL SHAKESPEARE
And that this mighty love I bear for you
May bloom for you, I bid you to a tryst
In some bright unseen Star, some unknown
Star,
Where all Heaven's debts are paid to thwarted
man.
[He pauses — then looks wonderingly
about the garden.]
That blindness that so cursed my life is gone.
See you how vast this garden has become.
As if an amphitheatre of the world,
All filled with fresh, robust, substantial life —
[Elisabeth rises startled.']
Life that outlives our brief, tormented span?
[He turns toward Elisabeth and lays his
hand on her arm and speaks with awe\
We are not here alone.
ELISABETH
Alas, he raves!
His o'ercharged heart has turned his noble
mind.
What sin to play with such a mighty flame !
WILL SHAKESPEARE 341
SHAKESPEARE
See you who come ?
ELISABETH
No, I see none.
SHAKESPEARE
Quite blind!
[He turns from her. Elisabeth shrinks
back in terror; then returns and holds
out her arms to Shakespeare. Seeing
that he does not seem conscious of her
presence, she goes out, her head droop-
ing, at right. Shakespeare looks toward
the left at back.~\
They come! How strange — and yet so close
my heart,
Its every throb pulses to give them life.
[In the dim light at the back of the stage
at right, a shadowy procession of
figures pass. They are seen but dimly.
They represent Hamlet, Macbeth,
Othello, Lear and, last, Prospero. As
342 WILL SHAKESPEARE
they pass each stops, turns and looks
at Shakespeare, and then passes on,
Shakespeare speaks as if dazed and
dreaming.']
What beautiful, majestic forms are these!
That princely youth who pierces to my soul
With sad and supplicating eyes. Those
kings,
Unknown and mighty — that most noble Moor
With soul convulsed by an immortal grief.
[He advances a jew steps nearer the pro-
cession of figures.']
Command me, O ye noble ones and great!
[He covers his eyes with his hand.]
I am your servant, and would gladlier
Serve you, than any on this earth.
[Exit figures, all but Prosper o.]
Who comes?
What gravity of life! What wisdom stored!
What passion past! What powers laid aside!
Shall be so one day? You make me fear,
Grave Shape. In thee I seem to see, the man
To come in me.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 343
[He clasps his hands as if in prayer.]
. My charms are all o'er thrown
And what strength I have's mine own
Which is most faint .
. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair,
Unless I be relieved by prayer;
Which pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults."
[Exit Prospero. Shakespeare passes his
hand across his eyes as if awakening
from a dream.]
They're gone!
Were they then ever here? I saw them
plain.
There's that in this I do not understand!
They live in me, and I must give them
Life,
And show their greatness to a listening
world.
The gift is mine, and I shall hold it fast.
[The sky is changing from the clear deep
344 WILL SHAKESPEARE
blue of early morning to the rose of
dawn. He looks about."}
Elisabeth! Gone too! And yet, still mine!
[He sits on the bench."}
I know and hold my power in my grasp,
Mightier than my hopes.
[With a sudden change to keen emo-
tion.}
But, O my Heart!
When will the life be sweet?
[In the centre of the rose sky near the
horizon, a luminous gold light is seen,
as if the sun were about to break
forth.}
I recall once
I wandered in the spring in flower-strewn
fields,
And held my little daughters by the hand;
Close, close to me on either side, they walked
With baby steps, breast-deep in daffodils.
The sun poured beams upon their golden
heads,
WILL SHAKESPEARE 345
The whole world laughed, and love and joy
secure
Stole in my heart and asked that they might
stay.
\_He takes the letter in his hand and
reads. ]
"Your daughters ask for you." The day I
fled
From home, they called — " Sweet Father —
let us come
To you." Should I have stayed? Has all
this pain,
This empty heart, come from the following
Of what seemed then the only path to tread?
Do they still call for me? Is it too late
To go to them?
[The round disc of the gold light in the
sky has grown more brilliant. It be-
comes transparent and there is seen
within its circle the figures of two
young girls of about fifteen and six-
teen years. They are standing in a
field of tall grass, daffodils and cow-
346 WILL SHAKESPEARE
slips, in golden sunlight. The blue sky
is above and behind them. Their yel-
low hair falls on their shoulders. They
are bending, absorbed in gathering the
-flowers. Shakespeare rises, turns and
sees them. He looks in wondering
joy. They raise their heads smiling,
as if touched by some loving influence.
Shakespeare speaks wtih passionate
joy.]
My Children! Darling Ones!
My Own ! With you to stay my empty heart,
[He half turns to front and speaks with
triumph.']
I'll make those Shapes Majestic lately here,
Immortal in this world.
[He turns and holds out his arms to his
daughters.]
Dear Ones, I come!
[The vision vanishes. Sunlight Hoods
the scene.]
CURTAIN
END OF PLAY
Note I. — The play is historically accurate as
to dates, principal events, etc. In some in-
stances, actual conversations between some of
the characters have been recorded in old private
letters written in Latin, of which but two copies
of translations are in existence.
Note II. — In the latter part of Act III, and
in Act IV, where Shakespeare speaks of his
love, he has in several instances been permitted
to speak for himself in the words of the son-
nets. Where he has done so, the words are
in italics.
Note III. — To Mr. Roger Laneham, of the
Court of Queen Elisabeth, Florian's grateful
thanks are due.
SHAKESPEARE.
An Overture — Fantasia.
FOR THE PLAY
WILL SHAKESPEARE
OF
STRATFORD AND LONDON.
Synopsis of the Overture — Fantasia.
PRELUDE.
Sylvan Music — Then Romantic and Passion-
ate— Then Sylvan again, which continues for
a few moments after the curtain rises.
ACT I
I. Song for Shakespeare, without accompani-
ment.
II. Song, Quartette for male voices, no ac-
companiment.
INTERLUDE
Between Act I and Act II
Expressing stormy emotion and anger — which
dies away into music expressing night and re-
pose, and then returns to the stormy emotion —
349
350 WILL SHAKESPEARE
Then melts into a spinning song in which the
instruments imitate the whir and thump of a
spinning wheel.
ACT II
Scene I
I. March for the Players entering Stratford.
Interlude
Between Scene I of Act II and Scene II,
again expressing night and repose which con-
tinues after the curtain rises. Love Motif first
occurs.
Scene II
Music for a moonlight procession of young
people who drift across the stage with soft
laughter in the darkness, lighted only by moon-
light.
Interlude
Between Act II and Act III, representing
Splendor of Life and Love. Love motive.
ACT III
I. Love Song accompanied by orchestra. It
is a Quartette for the four parts, Soprano,
Alto, Tenor, Bass.
II. Music for a procession of guests, or-
chestral.
WILL SHAKESPEARE 351
Interlude
Repeating Love motive, which leads into
Revelry music, which continues after the cur-
tain rises.
ACT IV
I. Bacchanal Music.
II. Song for Satyrs and Fauns with orchestral
accompaniment.
III. Love motive and Bacchanal music. Love
music.
Finale
Of Elevated, serious music, Emotional, yet
almost Religious in character.
;
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