A DISTINGUISHED member of the Lord Chamberlain’s company, Mr.
William Shakespeare by name, had entered the shop of a tailor in the
town of Nottingham. This popular and respected actor and playwright was
about thirty-five years of age. Of middle height, he had the compact
figure of one in the prime of a vigorous manhood. His hair was worn
rather long, but his beard, inclining to red in color, was trim and
close. His dress was plainer than is the rule with those who follow his
calling. Indeed at a first glance he had less of the look of an actor
than of a shrewd, cautious man of affairs who has prospered in trade.
Close observation might have amended this estimate. There was a vivid
pallor about the face, and the somber eyes, slow-burning and deep-set,
were like a smoldering fire. Even when the mobile features were in
repose, which was seldom the case, the whole effect of the countenance
was vital and arresting.
“That is a very choice coffin-cloth you have there, Master Tidey.”
The manner of the actor and playwright was simplicity itself. There was
not a suspicion of affectation in it. He passed his fingers over the
rich pall that lay on the tailor’s knee. Upon the hem of the cloth an
armorial device was being stitched by the hand of a master craftsman.
“Yes, it is Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor gravely. “Choice
enough, choice enough.”
“Who is the happy man?”
“A young gentleman who lies in the Castle yonder. He is to have his
head cut off a Tuesday by order of the Queen.”
A look of startled interest came into the eyes of the player. “Is that
so, Master Tidey? And young, you say, and gentle, too?”
“Aye, young enough. But two or three and twenty--by all accounts a very
fair and deliver young man.”
“It seems a pity,” said the player, “a mortal pity, for a man to die
by the ax in the heat of his youth. And yet ’tis better to die by the
ax than by the string. It is at least a gentleman’s death the Queen is
giving him,” he added grimly.
“As you say,” the tailor agreed, “it is at least a gentleman’s death
the Queen is giving him, and he’ll have the robe of a gentleman in
which to wrap his corpse. Happen, Master Shakespeare, that in like case
it is a better consideration than would fall to you and me.”
A light flashed in the somber eyes of the player. “Speak for yourself
Master Tidey,” he said, with a slow, deep laugh. “Whenever I get my
deliverance, by God’s grace I’ll have the robe of a gentleman to cover
me. Unless”--the light in the somber eyes was so intense that they
shone almost black--“unless they let the reason out, and then there’s
no warrant for any man’s exit. But what of this poor young man? How
comes he to this?”
The tailor lowered his voice to a whisper. It was as if he feared to
be overheard. “They do say ’a has plotted with the Papishers, who are
always contriving against the Queen.”
“What’s the name of the unlucky youth?”
“His name is Mr. Gervase Heriot.”
“Mr. Gervase Heriot! He is a kinsman of my Lord Southampton.” A look
of keen pity came upon the player’s face. “I know the lad well enough.
He sat on our stage at The Globe less than two months ago. An open,
cheerful youth incapable of plotting against aught save a flask of
canaries, if I’m any judge of nature. Poor young man. Master Tidey,
this is a very tragic matter.”
“Sad enough, Master Shakespeare, sad enough,” said the tailor,
stitching busily at the coffin-cloth.
The actor passed a delicately shaped hand, the hand of a poet, across
his face. “More than once I have marked the lad as he sat in the
playhouse,” he said. “’A was a proper neat youth. ’A had a subtle
tongue and a very flaming eye. ’A was german-cousin to Perseus, him
that bestrid the winged horse. And now--with the taste of milk yet on
his lips!” The player ceased abruptly, as if overcome by a surge of
feeling. For a time he was silent. The tragic end of a youth of bright
promise appeared to weigh upon him sorely.
Master Nicholas Tidey, whose skill with the needle and shears had
spread far and wide over the midland counties, was, like the player,
a Stratford man. In a rather shamefaced way, the tailor was a little
inclined to be proud of his fellow-townsman. To be sure his calling
was hardly that of a Christian. On occasion his speech was apt to be
a little disorderly, it even verged upon the fantastical, but Master
Tidey was bound to admit that there must be something in the fellow.
For one thing, rumor had it that he had recently bought New Place,
the largest house in his native town. Such a fact spoke for itself,
even if a wise man was inclined to discount the glowing reports of the
play-actor’s ever-growing success which reached him continually from
London. But, even as far back in the world’s history as the age of
Elizabeth, “Nothing succeeds like success” was a maxim known to the
philosophers.
“They do tell me, Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor, “that some of
these harlotry pieces of yours have been approved by the Queen.”
The playwright could not help smiling a little at a certain uneasiness
which was apparent in the tone of his friend, in spite of the fact that
that honest man tried very hard to conceal it. “If I said they had not,
Master Tidey,” he answered, with dry modesty, “I might be speaking less
than I know. On the other hand, if I said that they had, a needy writer
for the stage might be claiming more than becomes the least of her
Majesty’s servants.”
Master Tidey looked a little incredulous. “They do tell me, Master
Shakespeare, that you make them out of your own head entirely. Master
Burbage, who was here an hour ago to have new points set in his
hose, swore it was so, by the beard of the prophet--facetiously, as
I think. But I can hardly believe it, Master Shakespeare, not out of
your own head, and that’s the fact. Why, I mind the time you was a
little graceless runnion that used to play truant from Stratford Free
School. Many’s the time I’ve seen you come sliding down Short Hill of
a winter’s morning in your blue short coat, with your books falling
out o’ your satchel as you dangled it behind you, and generally twenty
minutes late for the muster. You were always a sharp lad, Master
Shakespeare, I’m bound to say that although somewhat idly given, but I
never thought you’d have had wit enough to make one of these interludes
all out of your own head like book-learned men who have been bred at
college.”
“It seems unlikely enough I grant you,” said the player discreetly.
“And my pieces, such as they are, don’t compare of course with those
of some I could mention--there is a young fellow by the name of Ben
Jonson, and one of these days you’ll be able to contrive a whole
garment for the best of us out of his sleeve ruffles. But I sometimes
think, Master Tidey, when of an evening I’ve had a glass o’ clear
spring water with a carroway-seed in it at the Mermaid Tavern, that
if only he had had the singular good fortune to have been bred at
Oxford or Cambridge, the world might one day have heard of William
Shakespeare--but no matter! It will all be the same a hundred years
hence.” The player laughed cheerfully. “We shall all be forgotten, and
our interludes too, long before then.”
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, there can be no doubt about that,” said the
tailor heartily. “And personally I thank God for it. I don’t hold with
these masks and gallimaufries and such-like cloaks for wantonness,
saving your presence. Still the Queen does, as I understand, and
although I am much surprised at _her_, that’s a great matter. And that
being the case I am bound to admit that for one who left the Stratford
Free School at the age of thirteen with no more book-knowledge in his
numskull than Daddy Jenkins could put there with his ferrule, and if,
as I say, the Queen approves your interludes, and they are entirely out
of your own head, as Master Burbage swears they are by the beard of the
prophet--why, I am bound to admit that you bring little or no discredit
upon your native parish.”
“You pay me a high compliment, Master Tidey,” said the actor. “And
fain would I deserve it. But you will grieve to learn, I am sure,
that the Queen has commanded the Lord Chamberlain’s servants to her
palace at Richmond on the tenth of July, and moreover she desires a
new piece from the pen of the least of them all. It would seem that,
for some reason at present obscure, her Grace in her bounty is pleased
to approve the nonsensical comedy of “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” which,
between ourselves, is by no means the brightest of the performances
from the hand of the rustical clown in question.”
In spite of the strictness of his tenets, Master Tidey could not
forbear to be impressed. “You are indeed coming to great honors now,”
said the tailor, whose worldly wisdom appeared to be in danger of
overriding his high principles. “And it is not for me to deny that you
have a talent--of a kind that is, Master Shakespeare. But at least, as
you are a Stratford man like myself, I am glad to hear that there are
those who think well of it. What will you put into your comedy, Master
Shakespeare? Love, I presume, and all manner of wantonness?”
“Well, Master Tidey,” said the author, “since you ask the question, you
can no more leave love out of a comedy than you can leave an apple out
of a dumpling. Besides, it is Gloriana’s desire that I should make her
a tale of love, that there should be youth in it and girlhood and high
poesy--that is, if we can rise to poesy in this barren age! And it is
Gloriana’s pleasure that it shall be played before her of a summer’s
afternoon under the greenwood in Richmond Park.”
“You will be making your fortune one of these days, Master
Shakespeare,” said the tailor, upon the verge of awe.
“That is as may be, Master Tidey. At least I would ask nothing better
than to quit the stage. A man’s dignity and a player’s calling don’t
ride well together. In the meantime must I tease my five wits to devise
a play for Gloriana. And it must be made, alas! by the tenth of July.”
“I’d rather you had to do it than had I,” said the tailor, with a sigh
of relief, as he took up the needle and shears.
By now the player was subdued to the process of thought, and was
twisting his short beard between his thumb and forefinger. The eyes
were veiled almost like those of a man in a trance. “I’ve a mind to put
Robin Hood in it,” he said. “The bold outlaw of Sherwood and his merry
men. Many’s the time they have come from the neighboring greenwood into
this famous old town of Nottingham.”
Before, however, the actor could pursue this pleasant idea, there arose
a sharp clatter of hoofs on the cobblestones outside the tailor’s door,
and a minute afterwards a personage entered the shop who at once turned
his thoughts into a new direction.