THE Queen was taking counsel already with the Lord Treasurer, Cecil,
her all-wise and all-powerful minister. This morning, she was in a
harsh and vengeful mood. Many were the plots she had known in the
course of a troubled life against the security of that person for whose
well-being she had so great a reverence. And each one, as it occurred,
had the effect of hardening that naturally ruthless temper to which,
like others of her race, she was never afraid to give free play.
The young man, Gervase Heriot, had been proved guilty upon that which
was held to be good and sufficient evidence, of a plot against her
life. He had been condemned to death by the Court of Star Chamber
sitting in camera. But by the wanton and wicked connivance of the
young daughter of Sir John Feversham, in whose custody he was held in
Nottingham Castle against the time of his execution, Heriot had been
able to break out of his prison. Subsequently, the condemned man,
in the company of this wicked girl, had wandered about the country
many weeks, finally falling in with one Shakespeare, an actor and
writer for the theater, who, well knowing they were proscribed, had
actively befriended them. Moreover, with unforgivable effrontery,
this play-actor had chosen to make public confession of his guilt at a
singularly ill-chosen time.
The Queen was not in a mood to hear of leniency in this heinous matter.
But Cecil, the Lord Treasurer, was a very wise man, deliberate in
speech, tardy in judgment. And the view he held was at direct variance
with that of his august mistress.
The Lord Treasurer had already brought the cool and detached mind of
a statesman to bear upon a most difficult problem. The actors in this
unhappy drama were nothing to him in themselves. Heriot was a man of
family, with a considerable estate in the west of England; the girl
was the daughter of Sir John Feversham, a man of good reputation, who
had rendered thirty years of honest service to the Queen. The man
Shakespeare was by profession an actor, and of him there was nothing
more to be said. Indeed, as far as the Lord Treasurer was concerned,
there was nothing more to be said of any of the persons of the drama.
As mere private individuals, they had not the least interest for
him; the merits of their cause concerned him but little, yet public
expediency, that and only that, was a thing of paramount importance
in his eyes. And when all was said, this was certainly a plaguy ill
matter, and it had given my lord a very anxious night.
It seemed that Pembroke, a man whom Cecil regarded as a person of
weight, had expressed a very definite opinion in regard to the case.
According to Pembroke, the man Shakespeare was widely known and
esteemed not in London merely, but also throughout the length and
breadth of the kingdom. He had behaved with the gravest unwisdom,
but Pembroke held staunchly to the view that his action was not of a
character to incur the inclemency of the law. Moreover, the play-actor
had the excuse that he sought an occasion to establish the innocence of
a deeply wronged man.
Yet here was a very sore point with the statesmanlike soul of the Lord
Treasurer. Heriot had been condemned by the Court of Star Chamber, and
Cecil had not the least desire that the case should be re-heard. At the
best, the whole affair constituted one of those unsavory businesses
which it is ever the aim of true statecraft to keep out of the light
of day. To this point of view, however, Pembroke had made the cogent
rejoinder that since the whole story had been given to the world, it
was no longer possible to treat it as a mystery.
Doubtless it was this fact which rendered Shakespeare’s action
unpardonable in the sight of the Queen. She, too, had a faculty of
statesmanship, and she was well able to appreciate the point involved;
but also she had a woman’s power of illogical resentment, and in her
view not the least part of the player’s crime was the inconvenience it
caused.
Cecil, having duly taken all the circumstances into account, was
already strongly in favor of mercy. It would be wise, in his view, to
grant a pardon to the player. The pressure of public opinion was likely
to be great, and in the opinion of Cecil that was a cardinal matter.
But the Queen was obdurate. She was incensed by the audacity of the
man. Great care had been used to keep the whole of this ugly business
a close secret, but all precaution had been rendered nugatory by this
man’s amazing indiscretion in regard to things that did not well bear
the light of day.
“My lord,” said the Queen, with an air of finality, “what I have said,
I have said. This man shall make payment for his wicked folly.”
“Be it so, your grace,” said the minister, with a sad shake of the head.
He knew how vain it was to persist when once the Queen had made up
her mind. She had all a Tudor’s despotism. The statesman shrugged his
shoulders disconsolately. The man Shakespeare had certainly behaved
like a stark fool, and richly merited any fate that could overtake him,
for my Lord Treasurer’s was that practical order of mind that hates a
fool quite as much as it hates a rogue. The one was intelligible, but
the other was an affront to the human race. Still, the man Shakespeare
had many highly placed friends. And if Cecil himself had little use
for the order of things the man represented, he recognized, with that
large grasp of mind in which none of his age excelled him, that this
play-actor stood for human amenity. And that in itself was a thing that
even the most cynical of statesmen cannot afford to neglect.
The Lord Treasurer was about to withdraw from the Queen’s presence,
when one of her gentlemen came into the room.
“Madam,” he said, “under your good pleasure, one Richard Burbage, a
tragedian, would speak with you upon a matter of great urgency.”
“A pox take him,” said the Queen, roughly. “A pox take all comedians
and all tragedians, too. I would that I had never set eyes on any of
the tribe. Send the rogue about his business with a flea in his ear.
Or stay--send him to us and we will hear what he has to say. And God
help the rogue, if he speaks amiss.”
The gentleman withdrew. A minute afterwards, he ushered into the room
with great ceremony one Richard Burbage, a tragedian.
It happens continually, in the process of nature, that a man’s calling
is declared in his personality. The soldier, the clergyman, the
lawyer and the horse-dealer are cases in point. But no man could have
borne clearer evidence of the unhappy estate to which it had pleased
providence to call him than Richard Burbage, the tragedian. His gaunt
face was haggard, his bloodshot eyes were wild, his somber dress was
muddy and in sad disorder.
“Well, my man, what is your pleasure?” said the Queen sourly enough, as
soon as this odd figure appeared before her.
The tragedian showed no undue haste to reply to the question. There was
a slow force in him for which the Queen and Cecil were not prepared.
And when he spoke, it was with the calm precision of one secure of soul.
“Your grace,” said the tragedian, and for all his wild eyes he looked
steadily at the Queen, “it is my desire to offer my life for the life
of William Shakespeare.”
The mood of the Queen was by no means agreeable. Nevertheless, these
simple and considered words struck home to the heart of the woman.
They had no savor of vainglory. They were the fruit of a rare spirit,
and she who was accustomed to judge men was quick, almost in her own
despite, to recognize the source from which they sprang.
“Tell me why you offer it, Master Burbage,” said the Queen. “Tell me
why life has so little savor for you, that you would yield it for that
of a rival actor?”
“I offer my life, your grace, for that of one so far beyond myself
that, although I enjoy my days as much as any man alive, there can be
no higher privilege than to give them for such a one as he. And the day
will surely come when the whole world will rise up and call me blessed.”
These were wild words for prosaic ears. There was almost a core of
madness in them, yet it was impossible to doubt the grim sincerity of
this fanatic.
The Queen looked at the Lord Treasurer, and the Lord Treasurer looked
at the Queen. One fact at once shone clear in the minds of both. It was
no ordinary man who offered life itself on the altar of friendship.
“The truth is,” said the Queen at last, “you mad players, who spend
your days in mouthing bombast and in tearing passions to tatters,
get a kind of swelling in your brains. The truth is, Master Burbage,
you over-color all the facts of life. Your speech in consequence is
high-flown, your behavior nonsensical, your appearance ridiculous.”
“It may be so, your grace.” The player spoke slowly and calmly, and yet
without any great show of humility. “But I would entreat your grace not
to overlook the fact that Richard Burbage would pay away his life for
the boon he craves.”
“Yes, sirrah, I appreciate that,” said the Queen. “And to me, Master
Burbage, I confess it makes you a subject for confinement in a
mad-house. How say you, my lord?”
But my lord was thinking so deeply that he failed to answer the
question of his august mistress. It was the business of his life to
estimate men and things; and for perhaps the first time in his career,
he was face to face with men and things with which his recondite
knowledge and his remarkable faculty seemed powerless to deal.
“Yes, you bombastical players have an inflammation of the mind, there
is no doubt about it,” said the Queen. “In your opinion, Master
Burbage, I do not doubt the author of ‘As You Like It’ is the greatest
man alive.”
“Yes, your grace,” said the tragedian, very simply, “he is undoubtedly
that in his own province, and as, in my humble judgment his province is
the highest of all, I cannot honestly claim less than that precedence
for him. But, of course, I speak, your grace, as but a strutter of
boards and a mouther of bombast. Yet in my humble opinion, a man
must be what he is, and be that only, and with all his heart. Nature
fashioned me for the theater. Therefore, my life is consecrated to the
theater, which for me is the sum of all things, the highest good. And
therefore I say to your grace, that never again will the theater look
upon the like of William Shakespeare, who to me, and to many another in
this age and in ages yet to come, must ever remain the brightest jewel
in Gloriana’s crown. And if it be given to Richard Burbage to purchase
with his own life the priceless things that lie as yet unborn in the
womb of our immortal poet’s invention, it will be a great end for a
poor tragedian.”
These singular words were spoken plainly and bluntly enough, but with
an air of deference. And they were absolutely sincere. Whatever the
Queen’s views might be concerning the sanity of play-actors, she was
compelled to recognize this speech, perhaps more by its manner than by
its matter, as the product of a powerful and well-ordered mind. It was
now the turn of the Queen to ponder deeply. In spite of herself, she
could not help being affected by the demeanor of this man.
Now it almost seemed as if Providence had set itself to work on the
poet’s behalf, and was determined to make the most of a favorable turn.
For that was the moment chosen by it for the announcement to be made to
the Queen that two most distinguished persons, the Earl of Pembroke and
Sir Walter Raleigh to wit, most humbly craved audience of her Grace.
“I will see them,” said the Queen, peremptorily. “Let them be brought
to me.” She then added sourly to the Lord Treasurer, “They are upon
this same plaguy business, I’ll warrant.”
Presently appeared these two distinguished gentlemen, true ornaments of
their age. Each was a singularly handsome man, not yet in middle life;
each had the marked ease of bearing of those who are very familiar
with their surroundings. The Queen received them with the rough humor,
caustic, witty and by no means unpleasant, which she inherited from her
father and kept for her intimates.
“Well, my friends,” she said, “I’ll wager a tester I know already what
is your good pleasure.”
“Your grace were infinitely less in wisdom were the case otherwise,”
said Pembroke.
“You have come to plead the cause, I do not doubt, of a very foolish
and wicked man.”
The silence of Pembroke gave assent to the harsh words.
“Well, my lord, I hope you are prepared as is Master Burbage here to
yield your life for him.”
“If it were our privilege, your grace, to do that, we should be greater
men than we are like to be--with all respect to Sir Walter here--in the
eyes of posterity.”
“A pox upon posterity! Who cares a fig for it? The hour in which we
live alone matters to all of us. But tell me, my lord, why do you
choose to concern yourself with the matter of this foolish play-actor?
And also I would have you make known your wishes in regard to him.”
“Touching your grace’s first question,” said Pembroke, “I am honored by
the friendship of one whom I esteem beyond all other men, and for whose
deliverance I will gladly pay into the treasury as round a sum as I can
well afford.”
The Queen gave a grunt of disgust. The raddled face wore a very
unpleasant look.
“Humph,” said she. “That seems little enough, my lord. Master Burbage
here offers his life.”
Pembroke turned instantly to the tragedian, with his most courtier-like
bow.
“Master Burbage does himself infinite honor,” he said. “I offer the
half of my estate and he offers the whole of his, therefore is he twice
the man that I am in the sight of heaven.”
“A well-turned speech, my lord,” said the Queen. She then fixed her
sour smile upon Raleigh. “Tell me, Sir Walter,” she said, “what is the
price you are prepared to pay for this foolish and wicked player’s
ransom?”
The point-blank question was answered readily enough.
“The half of my fortune, your grace,” said Raleigh, “even as my Lord
Pembroke.”
“But Master Burbage here,” said the Queen, acidly, “is prepared to pay
the whole of his life.”
“Your grace,” said Raleigh with shining eyes, “Master Burbage is indeed
a man happy in his valor and noble in the scope and compass of his
nature. Our poet is fortunate in such a friend, yet such high constancy
is not less than his deserts.”
This frank speech gave pause to the Queen. When the worst had been said
of her, a robust commonsense remained the keystone of her character.
These were men she was bound to respect. And to hear them express such
unqualified opinions in regard to this play-actor had the effect in
some degree of modifying her attitude. Besides, she herself believed
the playwright to be a very remarkable man. But the combined testimony
of such men as Pembroke and Raleigh made it clear that he was even more
remarkable than she knew him to be.
“My Lord Burleigh,” she said abruptly, addressing Cecil, “let this man
Shakespeare be brought to us. We will hear what defence he will venture
of his froward conduct.”
The Lord Treasurer quitted the room at once, in obedience to this
command. Burbage, Pembroke and Raleigh would have followed him, had not
the Queen ordered them to remain where they were.