THE Lord Chamberlain’s servants were in the highest spirits. The
remarkable success of their first performance in the famous city of
Oxford had pleased them greatly. They had been put upon their mettle
by their cold reception at the hands of town and gown. Seldom had
they acted even one of their most effective plays with such force and
sincerity.
Long before the play was at an end, a triumph was assured. They had a
proud sense of having struck a shrewd blow to prejudice. Those in the
thronged galleries and the close-packed press all about the stage had
shouted themselves hoarse. The author of the play, who had a share in
the profits of the company, lost no time in turning the flood tide of
popular favor to account. His mind was a remarkable blend of business
acumen and high poetic genius. He arranged at once that the Lord
Chamberlain’s servants should extend their visit by three days, in
order that other of his pieces might be given. And among these was to
be a first performance of the new, pleasant, conceited comedy of “As
You Like It,” which in the following week was to be given at Richmond
Palace in the Queen’s presence.
There is nothing like a sense of success to uplift the heart. When
a man goes from triumph to triumph, his wit becomes more nimble,
his fancy expands, his talent runs the more free. And at this time,
all these happy conditions were fulfilled in the career of William
Shakespeare. He was at the zenith of his mental and physical power. All
things to which he turned his hand ministered to his fame and affluence.
The unlucky Gervase Heriot, lying in the shadow of a peril that would
have wrecked the strongest will, had come upon this man in an hour when
nothing seemed beyond the scope of his invention. The tragic history of
this young man, and of the noble girl who had forfeited all in order to
save his life, had wrought deeply upon the player’s pity.
Shakespeare had resolved to help the fugitives to the utmost of his
power. Such a decision in circumstances of such grave peril and
difficulty could only have sprung from the large generosity of a great
nature. He had all to lose by mingling in the affairs of one in this
grim pass. Nothing could be more perilous than to help a convicted
traitor to escape his doom, but in spite of the solemn warnings
and even the earnest prayers of his devoted friend, Burbage, the
playwright’s mind was now set upon this task.
It was easier, however, to form this resolve than to give it practical
expression. But the outcome of much anxious thought upon the matter was
to make one fact clear. If the life of Heriot was not to be spared at
the expense of a man as blameless as himself, an appeal must be made to
the Queen. And in order to do that with the smallest hope of success,
the young man must be able to adduce a strong proof of his innocence
and, at the same time, engage the Queen’s sympathy.
There lay the crux of the whole matter. And as soon as this conclusion
had been reached, the keenly practical mind of the playwright began
to grapple with this sore problem. At first, it seemed hopeless to do
anything. There appeared to be no means of obtaining the all-important
proof of Gervase Heriot’s innocence, without which it would be the
height of imprudence to bring the matter to the notice of the Queen.
For none knew better than William Shakespeare, that she was a woman of
harsh and imperious temper.
Thus was it beyond all things necessary that a proof of Heriot’s
innocence should be found. The playwright sat late that evening in a
secluded corner of the inn parlor, anxiously discussing with “Signor
Bandinello” every aspect of his unhappy case. It was true that he
deemed it wise to withhold all mention of the falconer’s visit and
the sinister news he had brought. Shakespeare was convinced that such
information had only to come to the ears of Gervase Heriot for the
fugitive to give himself up at once. This was not the kind of man to
allow another to suffer in his place.
Many were the questions with which the player plied Gervase, in the
hope of finding some way out of this tragic coil. The natural starting
point of this search for a means of escape was the presence in that inn
of the man Grisewood. In a sense, it would almost seem that the hand of
providence lurked in such a coincidence. But how to turn it to account,
that was the problem.
Would it be possible to make him play false his ignoble partner, the
man Simon Heriot? A very little reflection convinced Shakespeare
that any such hope was vain. To begin with, nothing was less likely
than that Grisewood would run the risk of putting his neck in a noose
by confessing the truth; again, having very recently experienced the
thrust of the sword of “the Italian music master,” he had now the best
of reasons for nursing an implacable hatred against the man whose life
he had sworn away.
From a consideration of the man lying upstairs sick with the pain of an
ugly wound, it was a natural transition to the sole author and inspirer
of the whole tragic business. The house of Simon Heriot was but ten
miles away. And if hope of any kind was to be derived from the nearness
of the chief actors in the sordid drama, it seemed to lie in this fact.
Quite apart from the pass of Sir John Feversham, the playwright was too
wise a man to approve the wild scheme that Gervase had formed, which
indeed was the cause of his return to Oxford. The risk would be great,
the gain slight and uncertain. But indirectly, it was Gervase’s crude
plan which now set the subtle brain to work. Many were the questions
Shakespeare asked touching the character, the habits, the mode of life
of Simon Heriot.
Among other things he learned was that this man was of a morbid
imagination, holding himself aloof from his kind. Of late, he had mixed
but little in the world. It was even thought by some that his mind had
at last turned against itself, and that it had begun to show signs of a
failing sanity.
It was not at first that the significance of these things revealed
themselves to the playwright. It was not at first that he realized the
use to which they might be put. Unconsciously, however, they were
stored in his brain against the time they should be cast into the
crucible of its invention.
Shakespeare learned much that evening from his talk with Gervase
Heriot. Keen as had been his pity for him from the moment he had first
heard his tragic history, their present intercourse deepened it rather
than made it less. He was quick to recognize the depth and the valor of
this young man’s soul, and that of the great-hearted girl who had dared
all to save him from the scaffold. Theirs was a wonderful story, all
compact of the very life-blood of drama. And when Shakespeare was told
very simply that upon the arrival of that hour in which they could no
longer hope to put off their foes, they had a plan whereby they might
die together, such a declaration had the power to thrill the heart of
one who spent his life in the devising of plays.
Long they talked together. On the one side was an intense sympathy, a
fervent pity; on the other, a clear and manful courage that was not
afraid to trust its instincts. And in this case those instincts were to
put implicit faith in this stranger by the wayside, the power of whose
personality was so compelling.
It happened about midnight, while Gervase and the player still talked
together, that a traveler came into the inn parlor. Shakespeare saw at
once that it was the falconer returned weary and despondent from his
quest. The man came over to where they sat. His face and bearing were
very tragic.
“You don’t happen to have seen anything of those gypsies I spoke to you
about?” he said to the player.
Shakespeare shook his head.
“I have lost all track of them now,” said the falconer. “My belief is,
they are somewhere in Oxford. At least, they were last seen outside
this inn. And, in any case, I can go no farther to-night.”
“What gypsies are you seeking, friend?” asked Gervase.
The falconer and he had only seen each other once, and then only for a
moment. Thus neither knew who the other was. The falconer gave a brief
description of those whom he sought, but it was explicit enough to tell
Gervase that Anne and himself were the objects of his quest.
“What might you be wanting with them?” asked Gervase.
“It is a long story,” said the falconer. “I am too weary to tell it
to-night. But to-morrow, perhaps.”
Thereupon, he went out of the room. Shakespeare was much relieved to
see him go. But the man’s inopportune return had much increased the
difficulties of the situation.
“I have seen that man before,” said Gervase, “yet, for my life, I
cannot think where. And I have not the least doubt that it is my
brother and I he is seeking. To-morrow, I must have a talk with him.”
“Might it not be well,” said the player, “first to find out whether he
is a friend or an enemy.”
“In any case, he is not likely to recognize me in this guise,” said
Gervase.
“It would be wise to take no chances, my friend,” said the player.
The task he had set himself was now beginning to press very heavily
upon William Shakespeare. He well knew it would be fatal to any plans
he might evolve if the fugitives learned what the business was that
had sent the falconer scouring the country-side. He must do all that
lay in his power to prevent the man conversing with Gervase Heriot. And
he must also contrive a means to keep Anne Feversham out of his sight,
lest he recognize her in spite of her boy’s dress.
Thus it was in a state of dire perplexity that the player sought his
bed that night.