IT was such a spectacle as could rarely have been seen in that place,
this homely fellow without airs or graces or pretensions to fashion,
seated in the presence of his sovereign and treated by her with a
respect she extended to few. But not by word, deed or gesture did
he claim the estate of an equal. He was William Shakespeare, the
play-actor, and she was Elizabeth Tudor, the conqueror of Spain.
But the kingdom of the mind is no Venetian oligarchy. Those who speak
the same language are all made free of it. And queen and mime, alone
perhaps among that assembly, were able to address each other in the
universal tongue. Seldom, of late years at least, had this crabbed,
difficult and arrogant woman, been seen in a mood so accessible. She
spoke freely to this man of things of which few had heard her speak.
And presently she said:
“I hope, Master Shakespeare, you will devise a new play for our
diversion.”
“Already, your grace,” said the dramatist, “there is a new play taking
shape in my head. And if on a day it should have the great good fortune
to please the fancy of your grace, the least of your servants will be
the happiest man in your realm.”
The words themselves may not have been without irony, but the gentle
voice showed no trace of that quality which the countrymen of
Shakespeare so much distrust.
“That is indeed high news, Master Shakespeare. And of your bounty do
we pray you that your new diversion be all in the mood of comedy as is
this inimitable piece we have seen this afternoon.”
“Alas, your grace!” The playwright shook his head. “We poor makers of
plays are no more than mortal men. And as mortal men are subject to the
coils of fate, so are the characters we weave subject to those laws
which govern our being.”
“I don’t understand,” said the Queen.
“We makers of plays, your grace, often have but a small part in our
own contrivances. Many a time have I devised a play in the spirit of
comedy, but it is ever the characters themselves who spin the plot.
And whether they shall spin it to a comic or a tragic issue none but
themselves shall say.”
“But you are the moulder and the master of your characters, are you
not, Master Shakespeare?”
“Alas, your grace, my characters are the moulders and the masters of
me!”
The Queen was perplexed by so paradoxical a saying.
“I confess,” said she, “I should ever have thought it to be otherwise.
Now is it that you would have us believe that although you have
yourself devised the characters and the plot of your new interlude,
you have so little hold upon them that you know not until your play is
written whether it will be in the tragic or the comic vein?”
“It may not always be so, your grace, to the extent that it is in this
particular case. But in this instance, I will confess that I have but
little hold upon the destiny of the characters in the story.”
“That seems very odd, Master Shakespeare. And our counsel to you is
to take a very speedy and secure hold upon your characters unless you
would court our grave displeasure.”
“Alas, your grace!” The playwright sighed heavily.
“Tell me, sirrah, what is your perplexity?”
“To tell my perplexity, your grace, would involve the whole plot of the
story, and a recital of that your grace would doubtless find tedious.”
The Queen, however, in the expansiveness of her mood, assured the
author that he need have no fears upon that account. On the contrary,
she professed herself delighted at the prospect of hearing it. She
avowed, besides, that her ladies would be immensely diverted by
hearing the argument of the new play fresh from the mint of the poet’s
invention.
“Do you tell us the story, I beseech you, Master Shakespeare!” said the
Queen. “And although I cannot pretend that an unlearned woman such as
myself has it in her power to resolve your perplexity, there are about
us those of quick parts who shall hear it, who, I doubt not, will be
able to give you valuable advice upon the conduct of your play.”
Doubtless the Queen spoke in mockery, since at heart she was a despiser
of most men and of all women. Mr. William Shakespeare, however, was
fully prepared to take her at her word.
The poet, in order to give full effect to his narrative, rose from the
chair upon which he was seated. With perfect self-possession and an air
of supreme mastery which it is given to few men to attain, he stood
to confront the Queen and the expectant and critical throng of her
courtiers.
The lives of Gervase Heriot and of Anne Feversham were at stake. And
instinctively the poet knew that his own life was at stake also. No
hazard could have been more perilous than that upon which he now
proposed to embark. He was about to take a very grave liberty with an
august personage who was notoriously quick to resent even a minor one.
The mind of such a man, however, moves on a plane where the mere
personal equation is of very little account. Had the least thought of
self entered it, such a hazard had not been for a moment possible. His
own safety and freedom were as nothing. The whole force of his mind was
centered in the hope of preserving the lives of these hapless children
of destiny.
“I will give the plot of the play as briefly as I can, your grace. And
under your grace’s favor and that of the ladies and gentlemen of your
court I will beg you to devise a fitting and proper conclusion for it
and thereby spare the poor author many a sleepless night.”
The playwright spoke in a clear and measured tone. His voice was raised
so that all might hear every word distinctly. The air of the man, which
was far too much infused with the play of a noble mind to bear any
suggestion of effrontery, had already made a profound impression upon
all. Such a voice, such a demeanor made it clear to the Queen, no less
than to the youngest page within earshot, that the recital of this
story involved issues far deeper, far more complex than the mere idle
gratification of an author’s vanity.
“An extraordinary man,” whispered the Lord Treasurer in the ear of his
friend, Pembroke. “I have heard much of his plays of late, but I cannot
pretend to be a judge of ’em. But if they are as remarkable as the
writer, it is no wonder they stand so high in the public esteem.”
Pembroke made no reply. For one thing he was sadly uneasy. He had grave
fears as to the course the story would take, for he had reason to
suppose that Shakespeare had actively concerned himself in the affairs
of Gervase Heriot, and that by hook or by crook he was determined to
bring them to the notice of the Queen. In Pembroke’s view it would
be the height of folly to introduce such a perilous topic in such
circumstances, but poets were a peculiar race, apt to be carried away
by an idea. And the subtle significance of the man’s manner in the
telling of the story led my lord to anticipate the worst.
An expectant silence fell on this assembly. The playwright had begun
his narrative, and except for the inflections of the clear, yet low and
gentle voice, there was not a sound to be heard within the precincts of
the pavilion.
“A certain young man,” the playwright began, “well born, well favored,
well endowed, with every grace of mind and heart, fair of form as a
young god, a very Antinous among his kind, a beautiful youth who has
thought ill of none, much less having performed it against any, has
yet been born to one signal disadvantage. And the disadvantage is so
uncommon in itself that it seems strange that he should suffer it. It
is merely that he is too much the favorite of fortune. And yet I would
have your grace remark, for that is the essence of my story, how this
one faint cloud in the fair heaven of this youth’s tranquility is
enough to contrive his overthrow, to dim all his glories, to rob him of
all hope of peace and happiness in this life.”
The Queen nodded her head sympathetically. She was following every
word with the closest attention. And indeed the pregnant manner of the
story’s telling compelled it.
“The young man’s disadvantage is very great inasmuch that he has the
ill-hap to inspire the covetous envy of a wicked kinsman. It is a
simple stroke of ill-fortune, as your grace will see, which he cannot
help and for which he is not in any wise responsible. This kinsman, his
father’s brother, although himself a man of property and well placed in
the world, is yet consumed with a desire to add to his own demesne his
nephew’s broad lands in the west country. He is a bitter-hearted and
envious man, who has carried on a perpetual war with fortune because
she has not made him the elder brother.
“Chance puts a weapon in the hands of this covetous man. The age is
one of peril and unrest. It is a time in which every man suspects his
neighbor. Nothing is easier for a base man who is also bold than to
bring a charge of misfeasance against one he would remove and whose
lands he would inherit. And this is what the uncle decides to do in
the matter of his nephew. He procures two evil men to accuse the young
man of having borne a part in a wicked and vile conspiracy against the
person of the sovereign. In the age in which the play is cast such
things are unhappily too common, and this is a bad man’s opportunity.
“To be brief, your grace, the plot is laid, the charge is made, the
young man is brought to trial and condemned upon the evidence of two
suborners. He is unable to refute the accusation, so cunning are the
rogues by whom he is beset; moreover the author of the plot has always
passed for a just and disinterested man.
“To add to this unfortunate young man’s mischances, his trial is held
behind closed doors, for, as I say, the times are greatly perilous and
the public mind is much inflamed. And he is condemned privily to the
block, and is sent to a strong fortress in the country, there to die by
the ax on a certain day. He makes an appeal to his sovereign, an august
and gracious lady whom he has faithfully served. But stealthy serpent
tongues have done their work only too well. The Queen will not heed the
appeals of this innocent, unhappy youth, and he is left to his cruel
fate.
“The decree of heaven is otherwise, however. The inscrutable Providence
which has used the young man tenderly in all things save one and in
that one so unkindly, begins to relent toward him, and, as your grace
shall hear, he is not left to die.”
The playwright paused for a moment. The attention of his hearers was
riveted by the force and cogency of a narrative which was given with
a solemnity so impressive that it was made to appear a veritable
page from life itself. The Queen, her ladies and her gentlemen, were
spellbound by the vivid power of the recital. But Cecil and other high
officers of the household, who were able to trace the parallel of the
story were transfixed by the man’s audacity.
Only too clearly did they recognize the source of the plot of the
dreadful drama this man was daring to unfold. And if they could have
done so they would have stopped this hopelessly indiscreet recital
of it. Blank consternation was written in the faces of those who knew
whence the story came.
“Stop the mouth of that madman, for God’s sake!” cried the Lord
Treasurer in the ear of Pembroke.
But not Cecil and not Pembroke and not mortal man in that assembly
could stop the mouth of the player now.
“Your grace,” the low, clear voice went on, “this innocent youth is not
left to die. The governor of the fortress wherein the young man is held
captive, a most honorable and worthy and highly esteemed servant of
the state, has a young daughter. She too, like this ill-starred youth,
is passing fair, and like him is also happy in every relation and
attribute of life save one. And her unhappiness is that she has not yet
known love.
“But on a day, your grace, love comes to her. One summer’s morning
it is the will of fate that she shall see the condemned man in the
courtyard of his prison. And from his own lips she learns his grievous
history. She learns that three days hence he is to die by the ax.
“A rage of pity comes upon her. At all costs she is resolved to save
him from a fate he has done nothing to deserve. And this young girl, so
brave and so high of soul, finds a means to let him out of his dungeon,
and contrives his escape from the castle by a famous secret passage way.
“And there is more to tell. Love has come to her. She yields all that
she has of security and also the many benefits she enjoys under her
father’s roof in order that she may share the life of this hunted
fugitive. Footsore and hungry, by mere and mead, sleeping now under
the open sky, now in barn or byre, they make their way from place
to place. The officers of the law are ever upon their heels, but
Providence is with them, so that at last they come to a fair and famous
city and fall in with a cry of players.
“Now may it please your grace, one of these players is not only an
actor but is also a maker of plays. And this man, by the bounty of
the gracious lady his sovereign, has been commanded to devise for her
a pastoral to be performed in her presence on the greensward of a
summer’s afternoon. And this man is so charmed by the grace and beauty
of these vagabonds, both of whom are dressed as boys, so charmed by
their fair appearance and their goodly manners, that he would fain
admit them into the company of players, in order that they may be
trained as actors, and perchance on a day delight the Queen with their
accomplishment.
“At first these wanderers reject the proposal. But they are hard set.
They have journeyed far and food and lodging are to seek. And being
driven to a final desperate extremity at last, they put their faith in
this play-actor. They reveal to him the whole of their tragic history
and crave his help.”
“One moment, Master Shakespeare.” It was the harsh, imperious voice of
the Queen. And it seemed to fall like a thunderclap upon the expectant
hush engendered by the player’s narrative. “Do I understand you to say
that these persons informed this play-actor of the whole matter?”
“Yes, your grace, of the whole of their history,” the player spoke with
a calm fearlessness: “the whole of it as it was at that time known
to them. Moreover, this player, having heard their tragical story,
resolved to help them to the utmost of his capacity. To this end he had
them put in a disguise of an Italian music master and his son.”
“In order, sirrah, I presume,” said the Queen’s harsh voice, “to defeat
the ends of justice?”
“Not in order to defeat the ends of justice, your grace,” said the
player with a calm deference which, however, did little to allay the
rising anger of the Queen, “but rather to the end that justice might
be vindicated. That only was the purpose in the player’s mind as shall
presently appear. But under your grace’s favor, I will continue this
tragical history.”
“Do so, sirrah, I pray you.” The voice of the Queen was now ominous
indeed.
“The fugitives had lain but one night at the inn in the city in the
disguise of an Italian music master and his son, when an unhappy
distraught man came seeking them. He was the devoted servant of the
governor of the castle. His master, it appeared, upon learning his
daughter’s act, had repaired straightway to his royal mistress with
news of the escape of his prisoner. Moreover, he took upon his own
shoulders the whole of the blame. He withheld from the Queen the part
his daughter had played in his prisoner’s escape and submitted himself
to fate.”
By now there were many who would have stopped the mouth of the player,
and foremost among them was the Lord Treasurer. This man, Shakespeare,
knew too much. And while some marveled at the madness of his audacity,
and all deplored his grievous indiscretion, there was not one among
them who might venture an attempt to silence him without affronting
the temper of the Queen.
But for that matter it had been impossible to silence the player now.
For one thing the Queen, with a face that boded ill, was marking
intently every word that fell from the man’s lips. And again the
player’s feelings were wrought to such a pitch of interest by the
stress of his narrative that he seemed to be carried completely beyond
himself. For the consequences likely to ensue he had no care. He was as
one transfigured. Let justice, mercy and truth prevail even if his own
life was the price to be paid for those brightest jewels in Gloriana’s
crown.
“Is there no means of stopping the mouth of that madman?” growled the
Lord Treasurer in the ear of Pembroke.
But Pembroke could give no answer. He turned aside, his breast
tightening, his shoulders shaking convulsively.
“Pray proceed with your story, Master Shakespeare,” said the harsh
voice of the Queen.
“The servant of the governor of the castle,” continued the player in
obedience to this command, “an honest, good fellow, no sooner learned
his master’s peril, than he pursued the fugitives from place to place
over all the midland country-side. Thus it was that in the end he had
the good fortune to come up with them at the inn at Oxford. Now I would
respectfully crave that your grace remark with particular closeness
that which I am about to relate.”
“You can count upon our so doing, Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen
grimly.
The player smiled rather wanly. He could not remain insensible to the
ominous words and the yet more ominous tone. But there was not a tremor
of fear in the dauntless face.
“It is simply, your grace, that this humble player, the least of the
Queen’s servants, is alone to blame for all of that which follows. In
the first place, the young man was no sooner informed of the peril of
the governor of the castle than he desired to yield himself straightway
to the will of the sovereign. But the player, mistakenly perhaps, was
able to hold him from this most honorable course until a riper season.
And in the meantime, the player set his mind to work in order to adduce
a tangible proof of this young man’s innocence, so that when the time
came for him to cast himself upon the mercy of the Queen, he should not
appear empty-handed before her.
“Providence favored him. By means of a device which I will not
describe, lest I tax the patience of your grace, the player was able to
obtain an irrefragable proof of the young man’s innocence. By the same
means, moreover, he was able to adduce clear evidence of those who were
guilty. But of this I will presently speak more fully.
“In the meantime, however, while all this was going forward, the hour
was drawing near for the new interlude to be given in the presence of
the sovereign. And the player deemed such a season to be not the least
favorable for two noble but ill-starred children of destiny to invoke
justice and mercy of a woman, the first in the realm.”
At this point the player paused in his narrative. A profound silence
descended upon all. Every person who had heard the singular story was
now aware that it was no mere figment of a poet’s mind. It was a grim
and terrible reality. And that unhappy fact was declared in the harsh
and cruel eyes of the Queen.
For a full minute not a word was spoken. The player had given as much
of his story as was vital to his design. And now with a true political
instinct he refrained from adding another word, but left it to the
Queen herself to speak.
She made no haste to do so. Astonished beyond measure, resentful,
angry, she brought the whole of her powerful mind to bear upon the
matter before giving expression to her thoughts. Dumbfounded as she was
by the audacity and the indiscretion of this man, two facts dominated
her now. The mystery attending the circumstances of the young man,
Gervase Heriot’s escape from Nottingham Castle, was now made clear. The
unlucky Sir John Feversham had neither art nor part in it after all.
He had kept a stubborn silence for no other reason than to shield his
daughter. And it was none other than that froward young woman who had
given that charming performance in the new comedy but a few minutes
ago. At last the Queen turned to her ladies with a look of sour triumph.
“Did I not say,” she cried, “that that was indeed no youth who strutted
in doublet and trunk hose?”
A moment afterwards the august lady had turned imperiously to the
player.
“This seems but a tame conclusion to your new interlude, Master
Shakespeare.”
“Most humbly and respectfully do I beg your grace to devise an issue to
this pitiful story.” The player had now sunk upon one knee. “It lies
far beyond the compass of my own poor contrivance. But it is within the
province of your grace to fashion it in either the comic or the tragic
vein. Yet if it shall seem good to you to fashion it in the latter,
there is one last boon that I have to crave for these children of fate,
and on my knees I do so.”
“And what, pray, is the boon you crave, sirrah?” There was not a spark
of pity in the face or in the tone of the Queen.
“The boon I would crave for them is this, your grace. Should it not
seem good to your grace to exercise the most royal prerogative of
mercy, they implore you to allow them to die together on the same
block, by the same ax, in the same hour.”
This grim request sent a shudder through that horrified assembly. But
not a muscle relaxed in the ruthless face of the Queen.
“Master Shakespeare,” she said in a slow, measured voice, “your request
shall be granted. These traitors, young as they are, shall die together
on the same block, by the same ax, and in the same hour. And as there
is a God in Heaven, Master Shakespeare, you yourself shall share the
fate they have so richly merited.”