BY THE SAME AUTHOR

NOVELS:
REGIMENT OF WOMEN FIRST THE BLADE LEGEND
PLAY:
A BILL OF DIVORCEMENT
 LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN

WILL SHAKESPEARE
AN INVENTION IN FOUR ACTS

BY

CLEMENCE DANE

‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.’

Shakespeare.

The Play was first acted at the Shaftesbury Theatre, London, on November 17th, 1921, by the Reandean Company, with the following cast:—

Strolling Players, Beefeaters, Stage Hands,
Drinkers, Court Attendants, etc.

The Production by BASIL DEAN.
The Music by THOMAS WOOD.
Designs for the Scenery and Dresses by GEORGE HARRIS. [Pg 1]

The curtain rises on the living room of a sixteenth century cottage. The walls and ceiling are of black beams and white-washed plaster. On the left is a large oven fireplace with logs burning. Beyond it is a door. At the back is another door and a mullioned window half open giving a glimpse of bare garden hedge and winter sky. On the right wall is a staircase running down from the ceiling into the room, a dresser and a light shelf holding a book or two. Under the shelf is a small table piled with papers, ink-stand, sand box and so on. At it sits Shakespeare, his elbows on his papers, his head in his hands, absorbed. He is a boy of twenty but looks older. He is dark and slight. His voice is low, but, he speaks very clearly. Behind him Anne Hathaway moves to and fro from dresser to the central table, laying a meal. She is a slender, pale woman with reddish hair. Her movements are quick and furtive and she has a high sweet voice that shrills too easily.

Anne. What have you brought us, Mother, unawares?

Mrs. Hathaway. Why, I met the man in the lane and he asked his way here. He wants Will.

Henslowe [in talk. He is a stout, good-humoured, elderly man, with bright eyes and a dancing step. He wears ear-rings, is dressed shabby-handsome, and is splashed with mud. A lute is slung at his shoulder].
Played? It shall be played. That’s why I’m here.

Henslowe. Why, yes and no! I’m from Spain at the moment—I have castles there; but my bed-sitting room (a green room, Madonna) is in Blackfriars. As to my means, for I see your eye on my travel stains, I have a bank account, also in Spain, a box-office, and the best of references. The world and his wife employ me, the Queen comes to see me, and all the men of genius run to be my servants. But as to who I am—O Madonna, who am I not? I’ve played every card in the pack, beginning as the least in the company, the mere unit, the innocent ace, running up my number with each change of hand to Jack, Queen, King, and so to myself again, the same mere One, but grown to my hopes. For Queen may blow kisses, King of Hearts command all hands at court, but Ace in his shirt-sleeves is manager and trumps them off the board at will. You may learn from this Ace; for I think, sir, you will end as he does, the master of your suit.

Henslowe.  Here’s an actor’s hand, and a bad one. You’ll lose your words, King o’ Hearts. Your great scenes will break down.

Shakespeare. Then I’ll be ’prenticed direct to the Ace.

Henslowe.  Too fast. You must come to cues like the rest of us, and play out your part, before you can be God Almighty in the wings—as God himself found out when the world was youngish.

Anne. We’re plain people, sir, and my husband works his farm.

Henslowe.  And sings songs? I’ve been trying out a new play in the provinces before we risk London and Gloriana—

Anne. What! the Queen! the Queen? [Pg 9]

Henslowe.  Oh, she keeps her eye on poor players as well as on Burleigh and the fleet. There’s God Almighty in the wings if you like! But as I say—

Shakespeare. Too flat, though I love it. Give me hills to climb!

Henslowe. Flat? You should see Norfolk, where I was a boy. From sky to sky there’s no break in the levels but shock-head willows and reed tussocks where a singing bird may nest. But in which? Oh, for that you must sit unstirring in your boat, between still water and still sky, while the drips run off your blade until, a yard away, uprises the song. Then, flash! part the rushes—the nest is bare and the bird your own! Oh, I know the ways of the water birds! And so, hearing of a cygnet on the banks of Avon—

Anne. Ah!

Henslowe.  You’re right, Madonna, the poetical vein runs dry. So I’ll end with a plain question—“Is not Thames broader than Avon?”

Shakespeare. Muddier—

Henslowe.  But a magical water to hasten the moult, to wash white a young swan’s feathers.

Shakespeare. Or black, Mephisto!

Henslowe.  Black swans are rarest. I saw one when I was last [Pg 10] in London. London’s a great city! Madonna, you should send your husband to market in London, and in a twelvemonth he’ll bring you home the world in his pocket as it might be a russet apple.

Anne. What should we do with the world, sir, here in Stratford?

Henslowe.  Why, seed it and sow it, and plant it in your garden, and it’ll grow into the tree of knowledge.

Anne [turning away].  My garden is planted already.

Henslowe.  Why, that a woman can make her fortune in London as well as a man. There’s one came lately to court, but sixteen and a mere knight’s daughter, without a penny piece, and you should see her now! The men at her feet—

Anne. And the women—?

Henslowe.  Under her heel.

Henslowe.  Laugh? Weep? No, I’d be a friend to such a man! Go to him now and tell him from me—or no! Go rather to this wife of his that loves him well, you say—?

Henslowe.  But if instead they had lived—in Stratford—there’d have been such a see-saw in six months as—

Henslowe. I say—tell Margery!
What! is she a woman, a wife, and will not further her man? I say to you—tell Margery, as I tell you—

Shakespeare. You do?

Henslowe.  I do. I do tell you that if you can come away with us now with your ‘Dream’ in your pocket, and teach it to us and learn of us while you teach, and strike London in time for the Queen’s birthday—I tell you and I tell her, Jack’s a made man. See what Margery says to that, and give me the answer, stay or come, as I pass here to-night! And now let me go; for if I do not soon whip my company clear of apple-juice and apple-bloom, clear, that is to say, of Stratford wine and Stratford women, we shall not pass here to-night. [He goes out.]

Shakespeare. To-night! [Calling] Anne! Anne! [He walks up and down.] Oh, to be one of them to-night on the silver road—to smell the steaming frost and listen to men’s voices and the ring of iron on the London road! [Calling] Anne!

She sinks down in a crouching heap by the hearth. There has been a sound of many voices drawing nearer, and as she ceases speaking, the words of a song become clear.

The voices drop to a low hum. Henslowe thrusts his head in at the window.

Henslowe. The sun’s down. The sky’s as yellow as a London fog. Well, what’s it to be?

Shakespeare. London! The future in a golden fog!

Henslowe.  Come then!

Shakespeare. I’ll fetch my bundle. Wait for me! What voices?

Henslowe. Did I not tell you you feared your fortune? But there are some in the company can tell you a better, if you’ll let ’em in.

A Player [dressed as a king, over Henslowe’s shoulder]. Are we never to come in? It’s as cold as charity since the sun set.

Anne. It’s no warmer here.

A Child [poking his head under the Player’s arm]. I can’t feel my fingers. [Anne looks at him. Her face changes.]

The Child [warming his hands]. I’m not a baby. I’m nearly eleven. I’ve played children’s parts for years. I’m getting warmer. Are you? [Pg 33]

Anne. No.

Child. I like this house. I’d like to stay here. I suppose there are things in that cupboard?

The King [overhearing].  Now, now!

Child. That’s my father. He’s a king this week. He’s only a duke as a rule. Are there apples in that cupboard? Will you give me one?

Anne goes to the cupboard and takes out an apple.

Anne. Will you give me a kiss?

Child. For my apple?

Anne. No, for love.

Child. I don’t love you.

Anne. For luck, then.

Child. You told him you’d got no luck.

Anne. Won’t you give me a kiss?

Child. If you like. Don’t hold me so tight. Is it true you’ve no luck? Shall I tell your fortune?

Anne. Can you?

Child. O yes! I’ve watched the Fates do it in the new play. It’s Orpheus and—it’s a long name. But she’s his lost wife. Give me a handkerchief! That’s for a grey veil. [Posing.] Now say to me—“Who are you?”

Anne. Who are you?

Child [posing].  Fate! Now you must say—“Whose fate?”

Anne. Whose?

Child. Oh, then I lift the veil and you scream. [Stamping his foot.] Scream!

Anne. Why, baby?

Child [frowning]. At my dreadful face. [But he begins to laugh in spite of himself.]

Anne [her face hidden].  Oh, child! Oh, child! [Pg 34]

Child. That’s right! That’s the way she cries in the play. You see the man goes down to hell to find his wife, and the Fates show her what’s going to happen while she’s waiting for him. She’s in hell already, waiting and waiting. It takes years to travel through hell. That’s her talking to the old man in rags and a crown.

Anne. Who’s he?

Child. Oh, he’s a poor old king whose daughters beat him. He isn’t in this play. Well, when Orpheus gets to hell—I lead him there, you know—

Anne. A babe in hell—a babe in hell—

Child. I’m the little god of love. I wear a crown of roses and wings. They do tickle. Soon I’ll be too big. So he and I go to the three Fates to get back his wife. She isn’t pretty in that act. She’s all white and dead round her eyes—like you.

Anne. Does he find her?

Child. After he sings his beautiful song he does. Everybody has to listen when he sings. Even the big dog lies down. Your husband made us a nice catch about it yesterday. I like your husband. I’m glad he’s coming with us. Are you coming with us?

Anne. No.

Child. It’s a pity. If you were a man you could act in the company. But women can’t act. Even Orpheus’ wife is a boy really. So are the three Fates. They’re friends of mine. Would you like to talk to them, the way we do in the play? Come on! I go first, you see. You must say just what I tell you.

He takes her hands and pulls her to her feet. She stares, bewildered, for the room has grown dim. The dying fire shines upon the shifting, shadowy figures of the Players. The crowd grows larger every moment and is thickest at the foot of the stairs. Shakespeare is seen coming down them.

Anne. The room’s so full. I’m frightened. Who are all these people? [Pg 35]

Child. Hush! We’re in hell. These are all the dead people. We bring ’em to life.

Anne. Who? We?

Child. I and the singer. Look, there’s your husband coming down the stairs! That’s just the way Orpheus comes down into hell.

Anne. Will! Will!

Child. Hush! You mustn’t talk.

Anne. But it’s all dreams—it’s all dreams.

Child. It’s the players.

A Roman Woman. Pluck back my dagger first and tell my story!

A Drowned Girl. Oh, listen, listen, listen, I’ve forgotten my own story. It’s a very sad one. Remember for me!

There is a strain of music: the crowd hides Shakespeare: the three masked players have drifted free of the turmoil.

Child [delighted]. He does it quite as well as Orpheus.

Anne. Who are these dreams?

Child. The people of the plays. And there are the Fates at last! That’s the end of my part. Now you must talk to them till your husband comes. He comes when you scream.

He picks up his bow and runs away.

Anne. Come back! Stay by me!

Child [laughing]. Play your part alone.

He is lost in the crowd. The Masks have drawn near. The first is small and closely veiled and carries the distaff. The second is tall: part of her face shows white: her hands are empty. The third is bowed and crowned: she carries the shears. [Pg 38]

Anne. These are all dreams or I am mad. Who are you?

First Mask.  His fate. I hold the thread.

As she retreats the Second Mask takes the distaff from her.

The Child.  kneeling at the hearth stirs the fire and a bright flame shoots up that lights the whole room. It is empty save for the few players gathering together their bundles and Shakespeare who has hurried to Anne. His hand, gripping her shoulder, steadies her as she sways.

Shakespeare. Still railing?

Child [to his father]. She’s a poor frightened lady and she cried. I like her.

The Players trail out by twos and threes. They pass the window and repass it on the further side of the hedge. They are a black, fantastic frieze, upon the yellow, winter sky. Henslowe goes first: the king’s crown is crooked, and the child is riding on his back: the masks come last. [Pg 40]

[Pg 43] He is seen an instant, a silhouette with outstretched arms. Then he, too, disappears and there is a long silence. A cold wind blows in through the open door. The room is quite dark and the fire has fallen to ashes.

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

[Pg 44]

[Pg 45]

A room at the Palace. Elizabeth sits at a working table. She is upright, vigorous, with an ivory white skin and piercing eyes. Her hair is dark red and stiffly dressed. She is old, as an oak or a cliff or a cathedral is old—there is no frailty of age in her. Her gestures are measured, she moves very little, and frowns oftener than she smiles, but her smile, when it does come, is kindly. Her voice is strong, rather harsh, but clear. She speaks her words like a scholar, but her manner is that of a woman of the world, shrewd and easy. Her dress is a black-green brocade, stiff with gold and embroidered with coloured stones. Beside her stands Henslowe, ten years older, stouter and more prosperous. In the background Mary Fitton, a woman of twenty-six, sits at the virginals, fingering out a tune very faintly and lightly. She is taller than Elizabeth, pale, with black hair, a smiling mouth and brilliant eyes. She is quick and graceful as a cat, and her voice is the voice of a singer, low and full. She wears a magnificent black and white dress with many pearls. A red rose is tucked behind her ear.

Elizabeth. Money, money! Always more money! Henslowe, you’re a leech! And I’m a Gammer Gurton to let myself be bled. Let the public pay!

Henslowe. Madam, they’ll do that fast enough if we may call ourselves Your Majesty’s Players. [Pg 46]

Elizabeth. No, no, you’re not yet proven. What do you give me? Good plays enough, but what great play? What has England, what have I, to match against them when they talk to me of their Tasso, their Petrarch, their Rabelais—of Divine Comedies and the plays of Spain? Are we to climb no higher than the Germans with their ‘Ship of Fools’?

Henslowe. ‘The Faery Queen’?

Elizabeth. Unfinished.

Henslowe. Green—Peele—Kyd—Webster—

Elizabeth. Stout English names—not names for all the world. I will pay you no more good English pounds a year and fib to my treasurer to account for them. You head a deputation, do you? You would call yourselves the Queen’s Players, and mount a crown on your curtains? Give me a great play then—a royal play—a play to set against France and Italy and Spain, and you can have your patent.

Henslowe. There’s ‘Tamburlaine’!

Elizabeth. A boy’s glory, not a man’s.

Henslowe. ‘Faust’ and ‘The Jew of Malta’!

Elizabeth. I know them.

Henslowe. He’ll do greater things yet.

Elizabeth. Do you believe that, Henslowe?

Henslowe. No, Madam.

Elizabeth. Then why do you lie to me?

Henslowe. Madam, I mark time. I have my man; but he is not yet ripe.

Elizabeth. How long have you served me, Henslowe?

Henslowe. Twelve years.

Elizabeth. How often have you come to me in those twelve years?

Henslowe. Four times, Madam!

Elizabeth. Have I helped or hindered? [Pg 47]

Henslowe. I confess it, Madam, I have lived on your wits.

Elizabeth. Then who’s your man?

Henslowe. You’ll not trust me. He has done little before the world.

Elizabeth. Shakespeare?

Henslowe. Madam, you know everything. Will you see him? He and Marlowe are among our petitioners.

Elizabeth. H’m! the Stratford boy! I have not forgotten.

Henslowe. Who could have promised better? He came to town like a conqueror. He took us all with his laughter. You yourself, Madam—

Elizabeth. Yes, make us laugh and you may pick all pockets! He helped you to pick mine.

Henslowe. So far good. But he aims no higher. Yet what he could do if he would! I have a sort of love of him, Madam. I found him: I taught him: I have daughters enough but no son. I have wrestled with him like Jacob at Peniel, but when I think to conquer he tickles my rib and I laugh. That’s his weapon, Madam! With his laughter he locks the door of his heart against every man.

Elizabeth. And every woman?

Henslowe. They say—no, Madam!

Elizabeth. Then we must find her.

Henslowe [with a glance at Mary Fitton]. They say she is found already. But a court lady—and a player! It’s folly, Madam! Now Marlowe would shrug his shoulder and go elsewhere; but Shakespeare—there is about him in little and great a certain dogged and damnable constancy that wrecks all. If he cannot have the moon for his supper, he will starve, Madam, whatever an old fool says to him.

Elizabeth. Then, Henslowe, we must serve him up the moon. Mary!

Mary [rising and coming down to them]. Madam? [Pg 48]

Elizabeth. Could you hear us?

Mary.   I was playing the new song that the Earl set for you.

Elizabeth. For me? But you heard?

Mary.   Something of the talk, Madam!

Elizabeth. You go to all the plays, do you not? Which is the coming man, Mary, Shakespeare or Marlowe.

Mary.   If you ask me, Madam, I’m all for the cobbler’s son.

Henslowe. Mistress Fitton should give us a sound reason if she have it, but she has none.

Mary.   Only that I don’t know Mr. Marlowe, and I know my little Shakespeare by heart. I’m an Athenian—I’m always asking for new tunes.

Elizabeth. Which is Shakespeare? The youngster like a smoking lamp, all aflare?

Mary.   No, Madam! That’s Marlowe. Shakespeare’s a lesser man.

Mary. O Madam, spare me! It’s a stiff instrument and once, I think, has been ill-tuned.

Elizabeth.  Tune it afresh!

Mary. You wish that, Madam?

Elizabeth.  I wish it. Marlowe can wait—and Pembroke.

Mary. Madam?

Elizabeth.  I am blind, deaf, dumb, so long as you practise your new tune. But the Earl of Pembroke goes to Ireland.

Mary. He’s an old glove, Madam.

Elizabeth.  Young or old, not for your wearing. Strip your hand and finger your new tune!

Mary. Now, Madam?

Elizabeth.  Why not? Why do I dress you and keep you at court? Here’s Spain in the ante-room and France on the stairs—am I to keep them waiting while I humour a parcel of players?

Mary. Indeed, Madam, I wonder that you have spared half an hour.

Elizabeth.  Wonder, Mary! Wonder! And when you know why [Pg 50] I do what I do you shall be Queen instead of me. In the meantime you may learn the trade, if you choose. I give you a kingdom to rule in the likeness of a poor player. Let me see how you do it! Yet mark this—though with fair cheeks and black hair you may come by a coronet (but the Earl goes to Ireland) yet if you rule your kingdom by the glance of your eyes, you will lose it as other Maries have done.

Mary. I must reign in my own way—forgive me, Madam!—not yours.

Elizabeth. Girl, do you think you could ever rule in mine? Well, try your way! But—between queens, Mary—one kingdom at a time!

Elizabeth goes out.

Mary [she sits on the table edge, swinging her pretty foot]. So Pembroke goes to Ireland! Ay, and comes back, old winter! I can wait. And while I wait—Shakespeare! Will Shakespeare! O charity—I wish it were Marlowe! What did the old woman say? A kingdom in the likeness of a player. I wonder. Well, we’ll explore. Yet I wish it were Marlowe. [Shakespeare enters.] Ah! here comes poor Mr. Shakespeare looking for the Queen and finding—

Shakespeare. The Queen!

Mary. Hush! Palace walls! Well, Mr. Shakespeare, what’s the news?

Shakespeare. Good, bad and indifferent.

Mary. Take the bad first.

Shakespeare. The bad?—that I have not seen you some five weeks! The good—that I have now seen you some five seconds! The indifferent—that you do not care one pin whether I see you or not for the next five years!

Mary. Who told you that, Solomon?

Shakespeare. I have had no answer to—

Mary. Five letters, seven sonnets, two catches and a roundelay!

Shakespeare. Love’s Labour Lost! [Pg 51]

Mary. Ah, Mr. Shakespeare, you were not a Solomon then! There was too much Rosaline and too little Queen in that labour.

Shakespeare. You’re right! Solomon would have drawn all Rosaline and no Queen at all. I’ll write another play!

Mary. It might pay you better than your sonnets.

Shakespeare. Do you read them—Rosaline?

Mary. Most carefully, Mr. Shakespeare—on Saturday nights! Then I make up my accounts and empty my purse, and wonder—must I pawn my jewels? Then I cry. And then I read your latest sonnet and laugh again.

Shakespeare. You should not laugh.

Mary. Why, is it not meant to move me?

Mary. I do know you.
You are the quizzical Mr. Shakespeare of the ‘Rose,’ who never means a word he says. I’ve heard of you. All trades hate you because you are not of their union, and yet know the tricks of each trade; but your own trade loves you, because you are content with a crook in the lower branches when you might be top of the tree. You write comedies, all wit and no wisdom, like a flower-bed raked [Pg 55] but not dug; but the high stuff of the others, their tragedies and lamentable ends, these you will not essay. Why not, Mr. Shakespeare of the fairy-lands?

Shakespeare. Queen Wasp, I do not know.

Mary. King Drone, then I will tell you. You are the little boy at Christmas who would not play snap-dragon till the flames died down, and so was left at the end with a cold raisin in an empty dish. That’s you, that’s you, with the careful fingers and no good word in your plays for any woman. Run home, run home, there’s no more to you!

Shakespeare. D’you think so?

Mary. I think that I think so.

Shakespeare. I’ll show you.

Mary. What will you show me, Will?

Shakespeare. Fairyland, and you and me in it. Will you believe in me then?

Mary. Not I, not I! I’m a woman of this world. Give me flesh and blood, not gossamer,

Mary. Not so poor if I know her. Oh, make that plain—she was not poor! And tell them, Will, tell all men and women—

Shakespeare. What, my heart?

Mary. I will whisper it to you one day when I know you better. Oh, it’ll be a play! Will you do it for me, Will? Will you write it for you and for me? Where do they live?

Shakespeare. Verona. Italy.

Mary. Come to me daily! Read it to me scene by scene, line by line! How many acts?

Shakespeare. The old five-branched candlestick.

The first performance of Romeo and Juliet: the end of the fourth act. The curtain rises on a small bare dusty office, littered with stage properties and dresses. When the door at the back of the stage is open there is a glimpse of passage and curtains, and moving figures, with now and then a flare of torchlight. There is a continuous far-away murmur of voices and, once in a while, applause. As the curtain goes up Mary Fitton is opening the door to go out. Shakespeare holds her back.

Mary. Let go! Let me go! I must be in front at the end of that act. I must hear what the Queen will say to it.

Shakespeare. But you’ll come back?

Mary. That depends on what the Queen says. I’ve promised you nothing if she damns it.

The applause breaks out again.

Shakespeare. Listen! Is it damned?

Mary. Sugar-sweet, isn’t it? But that’s nothing. That’s the mob. That’s your friends. They’ll clap you. But the Queen, if she claps, claps your play.

Shakespeare. Your play!

Mary. Is it mine? Earnest?

Shakespeare. My earnest, but your play.

Mary. Well, good luck to my play!

Shakespeare. Give me—

Mary. Oh, so it’s not a free gift? [Pg 58]

Shakespeare. Give me a finger-tip of thanks!

Mary. In advance? Not I! But if the Queen likes it—I’m her obedient servant. If the Queen opens her hand I shan’t shut mine. Where she claps once I’ll clap twice. Where she gives you a hand to kiss, I’ll give you—There! Curtain’s down! I must go.

Shakespeare. Mary!

Mary. Listen to it! Listen! Listen! This is better than any poor Mary.

She goes out. The door is left open. The applause breaks out again.

Stage Hand [putting in his head at the door]. You’ll not see anyone, sir, will you?

Shakespeare. I told you already I’ll come to the green-room when the show’s over. I can see no stranger before.

Stage Hand.  So I’ve told her, sir, many times. But she says you will know her when you see her and she can’t wait.

Shakespeare. A lady?

Stage Hand.  No, no, sir, just a woman. I’ll tell her to go away again.

Shakespeare. Wait! Did she give no name?

Stage Hand.  Name of Hathaway, sir, from Stratford.

Shakespeare. Anne! Bring her here! Bring her here quickly, privately! You should have told me sooner. Where does she wait? Did any see her? Did any speak with her? If anyone asks for me save Henslowe or Mr. Marlowe, I am gone, I am not in the theatre. What are you staring at? What are you waiting for? Bring her here!

Stage Hand.  Glad to be rid of her, sir! She has sat in the passage this hour to be tripped over, and nothing budges her. [Calling] Will you come this way—this way! [He disappears.]

Shakespeare. Anne? Anne in London? What does Anne in London?

Stage Hand [returning]. This way, this way! It’s a dark passage. This way!

Mrs. Hathaway comes in.

Shakespeare.   Not Anne! [Pg 60]

Mrs. Hathaway. Is Mr. Shakespeare—? Will! Is it Will? Oh, how you’re changed!

Shakespeare.   Ten years change a young man.

Mrs. Hathaway. But not an old woman. I’m Anne’s mother still.

Shakespeare.   I’m not so changed that I forget it. What do you want of me, Mrs. Hathaway?

Mrs. Hathaway. I bring you news.

Shakespeare.   Good news?

Mrs. Hathaway. It’s as you take it.

Shakespeare.   Dead?

Mrs. Hathaway. Is that good news, my half son? She is not so blessed.

Shakespeare.   I did not say it so. Is she with you?

Mrs. Hathaway. No.

Shakespeare.   Did she send you? Oh, so she has heard of this business! It’s like her to send you now. She is to take her toll of it, is she?

Mrs. Hathaway. You are bitter, you are bitter! You are the east wind of your own spring sunshine. She has heard nothing of this business or of that—dark lady.

Shakespeare.   Take care!

Mrs. Hathaway. I saw her come from this room—off her guard. I know how a woman looks when a man has pleased her. Oh, please her if you must! I am old. I do not judge. And I think you will not always. But that’s not my news.

Shakespeare.   I can’t hear it now. I am pressed. This is not every night. I’ll see you to-morrow, not now.

Mrs. Hathaway. My news may be dead to-morrow.

Shakespeare.   So much the better. I needn’t hear it.

Mrs. Hathaway. Son, son, son! You don’t know what you say.

Shakespeare.   That is not my name. And I know well what I say. You are my wife’s mother and [Pg 61] I’ll not share anything of hers. But if she needs money, I’ll send it. To-night makes me a rich man.

Mrs. Hathaway. Richer than you think—and to-morrow poorer, if you do not listen to me.

There is a roar of applause.

Shakespeare.   Listen to you? Why should I listen to you? Can you give me anything to better that?

Mrs. Hathaway. But if she can? Sixty years I have learned lessons in the world; but I never learned that a city was better than green fields, friends better than a house-mate, or the works of a man’s hand more to him than the child of his own flesh.

[Pg 64]

Mrs. Hathaway. Not later, I warn you, if you’d see the child alive.

Shakespeare.   Fear not, I’ll be there. D’you think so ill of me? I could have been a good father to my own son—if I had known. If I had known! This is a woman’s way of enduring a wrong. Oh, dumb beast! Could she not send for me—send to me? Am I a monster that she could not come to me? “Buy him gingerbread”! To send me no word till he’s dying! Would any she-devil in hell do so to a man? Dying? I tell you he shall live and not die. There was a man once fought death for a friend and held him. Can I not fight death for my own son? Can I not beat death off for an hour, for a little hour, till I have kissed my only son?

Mary. Are you mad to keep her waiting? She has favours up her sleeve. You are to write her a play for the summer revels. Quick now, ere the last act begins! Off with you! [Shakespeare goes out.] Look how he drags away! What’s come to the man to fling aside his luck?

Marlowe. He has left it behind him.

Mary.    Here’s a proxy silver-tongue! Are you Mr. Marlowe?

Marlowe. Are you Mistress Fitton?

Mary.    So we’ve heard of each other!

Marlowe. What have you heard of me? [Pg 65]

Mary.    That you were somebody’s brother-in-art! What have you heard of me?

Marlowe. That you were his sister-in-art.

Mary.    A man’s sister! I’d as soon be a cold pudding! What did he say of his sister, brother?

Marlowe. That you brought him luck.

Mary.    That he leaves behind him!

Marlowe. Like the blind man’s lucky sixpence that the Jew stole when he put a penny in his plate.

Mary.    A Jew of Malta?

Marlowe. What, do you read me? You?

A Stage Hand [in the passage].    Last act, please! Last act! Last act!

Mary.    I must go watch it.

Marlowe. Don’t you know it?

Mary.    Oh, by heart! Yet I must sisterly watch it.

Marlowe. Stay a little.

Mary.    Till he comes? Then I shall miss all, for he’ll keep me.

Marlowe. Against your will?

Mary.    No, with my Will.

Marlowe. Is it he or his plays?

Mary.    Not sure.

Marlowe. If I were he I’d make you sure.

Mary.    I wonder if you could! I wonder—how?

Marlowe. Too long to tell you here, and—curtain’s up!

Mary.    Come to my house one lazy day and tell me!

Marlowe. Hark! That’s more noise than curtain!

Henslowe’s Voice.    Shakespeare! Shakespeare! [Entering.] Here’s a calamity! Where’s Shakespeare? He should be in the green-room! Why does he tuck away in this rat-hole when he’s wanted? And what’s to be done? Where in God’s name is Shakespeare? [Pg 66]

Mary.    With the Queen.

Marlowe. The curtain’s up; he’ll be here in a minute.

Mary.    What’s wrong?

Henslowe.  Everything! Juliet! The clumsy beasts! They let him fall from the bier: they let him fall on his arm! Now he’s moaning and wincing and swears he can’t go on, though he has but to speak his death scene. I’ve bid them cut the afterwards.

Marlowe. Broken?

Henslowe. I fear so.

Marlowe. The understudy?

Henslowe. Playing Paris. Where’s Shakespeare? What’s to be done? The play’s spoiled.

Marlowe. He’ll break his heart.

Marlowe.   But to act! Can you trust her?

Shakespeare. She? Go and watch! I need not.

Marlowe.   But is it in her? She’s Julia not Juliet, not your young Juliet, not your June morning—or is she?

Shakespeare. You talk! You talk! You talk! What do you know of her?

Marlowe.   Or you, old Will?

Shakespeare. I dream her.

Marlowe.   Well, pleasant dreams!

Shakespeare. No more. I’m black awake.

Marlowe.   What’s wrong? Ill news?

Shakespeare. From Stratford. Yes, yes, yes, Kit! And it must come now, just now, after ten dumb years!

Marlowe.   Stratford? Whew! I’d forgotten your nettle-bed. What does she want of you?

Shakespeare. Hark! Mary’s on.

Marlowe.   It’s a voice like the drip of a honey-comb.

Stage Hand [entering].  Sir, sir, sir, will you come down, sir, says Mr. Henslowe. The end’s near and the house half mad. We’ve not seen a night like this since—since your night, sir! Your first night, sir, your roaring Tamburlaine night! Never anything like it and I’ve seen many. Will you come, sirs?

Shakespeare. You go, Marlowe!

Stage Hand. There’s nothing to fear, sir! It runs like clockwork. The lady died well, sir! Lord, who’d think she was a woman! There, there, it breaks out. Listen to ’em! Come, sir, come, come!

Marlowe.   We’ll come! We’ll come!

The man goes out.

Shakespeare. Not I! Oh, if you love me, Marlowe, swear I’m ill, gone away, dead, what you please, but keep them away! I can stand no more.

Marlowe.   It’s as she said—mad—mad—to fling your luck away.

Shakespeare. A frost has touched me, Marlowe, my fruit’s black. Help me now! Go, go! Say I’m gone, as I shall be when I’ve seen Mary—

Marlowe.   A back stairs? Now I understand.

Shakespeare. Oh, stop your laughter! I’m to leave London in half an hour.

Marlowe.   Earnest? For long?

Shakespeare. Little or long, what matter? I’ve missed the moment. Who has his moment twice?

Marlowe.   Shall you tell her why you go?

Shakespeare. Mary? God forbid!

Voices. Shakespeare! Call Shakespeare! [Pg 69]

Shakespeare. D’you hear them? Help me! Say I am gone! Oh, go, go!

Marlowe.   Well, if you wish it!

He goes out leaving the door ajar. As Shakespeare goes on speaking the murmurs and claps die away and the noises of the stage are heard, the shouts of the scene-shifters, directions being given, and so on. Finally there is silence.

There is a sound of hasty footsteps and Mary Fitton enters in Juliet’s robes. She stands in the doorway, panting, exalted, with arms outstretched. The door swings to behind her, shutting out all sound.

Shakespeare’s lodging. It is the plain but well-arranged room of a man of fair means and fine taste. The walls are panelled: on them hang a couple of unframed engravings, a painting, tapestry, and a map of the known world. There is a four-post bed with a coverlet and hangings of needlework, and on the window-sill a pot of early summer flowers. There is a chair or two of oak and a table littered with papers. Shakespeare is sitting at it, a manuscript in his hand. On the arm of the chair lolls Marlowe, one arm flung round Shakespeare’s neck, reading over his shoulder.

Shakespeare. Man, how you’ve worked! A whole act to my ten lines! You dice all day and dance all night and yet—how do you do it?

Marlowe.   Like it?

Shakespeare. Like it? What a word for a word-master! Consider, Kit! When the sun rises like a battle song over the sea: when the wind’s feet visibly race along the tree-tops of a ten-mile wood: when they shout “Amen!” in the Abbey, praying for the Queen on Armada Day: when the sky is a brass gong and the rain steel rods, and across all suddenly arch the seven colours of the promise—do I like these wonders when I stammer and weep, and know that God lives? Like, Marlowe!

Marlowe.   Yes, yes, old Will! But do you like the new act?

Shakespeare. I like it, Kit!

[They look at each other and laugh]. [Pg 74]

Marlowe.   And now for your scene, ere I go.

Shakespeare. My scene! I give you what I’ve done. Finish it alone, Kit, and take what it brings! I’m sucked dry.

Marlowe.   I’ve heard that before.

Shakespeare. I wish I had never come to London.

Marlowe.   Henslowe’s back. Seen him?

Shakespeare. I’ve seen no-one. Did the tour go well?

Marlowe.   He says so. He left them at Stratford. Well, I must go.

Shakespeare. Where? To Mary?

Marlowe.   Why should I go to your Mary?

Shakespeare. Because I’ve asked you to, often enough. Why else? You’ve grown to be friends. You could help me if you would.

Marlowe.   Never step between a man and a woman!

Shakespeare. But you’re our friend! And they say you know women.

Marlowe.   They say many things. They say we’re rivals, Will—that I shall end by having you hissed.

Shakespeare. Let them say! But have you seen Mary? When did you last see Mary?

Marlowe.   I forget. Saturday.

Shakespeare. Did you speak of me, Kit? Kit, does she speak of me?

Marlowe.   If you must have it—seldom. New songs, new books, new music—of plays and players and the Queen’s tantrums—not of you.

Shakespeare. I have not seen her three days.

Marlowe.   Why, go then and see her!

Shakespeare. She has company. She is waiting on the Queen. She gives me a smile and a white cool finger-tip, and—“Farewell, Mr. Shakespeare!” Yet a month ago, ay and less than a month—! Did you give her my message? What did she say? [Pg 75]

Marlowe.   She laughed and says you dream. She never liked you better.

Shakespeare. Did she say that?

Marlowe.   She says you cool to her, not she to you.

Shakespeare. Did she say that?

Marlowe.   Swore it, with tears in her eyes.

Shakespeare. Is it so? I wish it were so. Well, you’re my good friend, Marlowe!

Marlowe.   Oh, leave that!

Shakespeare. Kit, do you blame me so much?

Marlowe.   Why should I blame you?

Shakespeare. That I’m here and not in Warwickshire.

Marlowe.   I throw no stones. Why? Have you heard aught?

Shakespeare. No, nor dared ask—nor dared ask, Marlowe. The boy’s dead. I know it. But I will not hear it. Marlowe, Marlowe, Marlowe, do you judge me?

Marlowe.   Ay, that putting your hand to the plough you look back. Would I comb out my conscience daily as a woman combs out her hair? I do what I choose, though it damn me! Blame you? The round world has not such another Mary—or so, had I your eyes, I should hold. For this prize, if I loved her, I would pay away all I had.

Shakespeare. Honour, Kit?

Marlowe.   Honour, Will!

Shakespeare. Faith and conscience and an only son?

Marlowe.   It’s my own life. What are children to me?

Shakespeare. Well, I have paid.

Marlowe.   But you grudge—you grudge! Look at you! If you go to her with those eyes it’s little wonder that she tires of you.

Shakespeare. Tires? Who says that she tires? Who says it?

Marlowe.   Not I, old Will! Not I! Why, Shakespeare?

Shakespeare [shaken].  I can’t sleep, Kit! has come to me? I think I go mad. [He starts.] Was that the [Pg 76] I can’t write. What boy on the stairs? I sent him to her. I wrote. I have waited her will long enough. She shall see me to-night. I’ll know what it means. She plays with me, Kit. Are you going?

Marlowe.   I shall scarce reach Deptford ere dark.

Shakespeare. How long do you lodge in Deptford?

Marlowe.   All summer.

Henslowe [pounding at the door]. Who’s at home? Who’s at home?

Marlowe.   That’s Henslowe.

Shakespeare. Why does the boy stay so long?

Henslowe [in the doorway].  Gentlemen, the traveller returns! For the last time, I tell you! My bones grow too old for barnstorming. Do you go as I come, Kit? Thank you for nothing!

Marlowe.   Be civil, Henslowe! ‘The Curtain’ ’s on its knees to me for my next play.

Henslowe.   Pooh! This man can serve my turn.

Marlowe.   You see, they’ll make rivals of us, Will, before they’ve done. I’ll see you soon again. [He goes out.]

Henslowe.   Well, what’s the news?

Shakespeare. I sit at home. You roam England. You can do the talking. How did the tour go?

Henslowe.   You’re thin, man! What’s the matter? Success doesn’t suit you?

Shakespeare. How did the tour go?

Henslowe.   By way of Oxford, Warwick, Kenilworth—

Shakespeare. I said “how” not “where.”

Henslowe.  —and Leamington and Stratford. We played ‘Romeo’ every other night—and to full houses, my son! I’ve a pocketful of money for you. They liked you everywhere. As for your townsfolk, they went mad. You can safely go home, boy! You’ll find Sir Thomas in the front row, splitting his gloves. He’ll ask you to dinner. [Pg 77]

Shakespeare. Were you there long?

Henslowe.   Two nights.

Shakespeare. Did you see—anyone?

Henslowe.   Why not say—

Shakespeare. I say, did you pass my house?

Henslowe.   Yet fill your scuttle lest the world grow chill! Is the new play done?

Shakespeare. No.

Henslowe.   Much written?

Shakespeare. Not a line.

Henslowe.   Are you mad? We’re contracted. What shall I say to the Queen?

Shakespeare. What you please.

Henslowe.   Are you well?

Shakespeare. Well enough.

Henslowe.   Ill enough, I think!

Henslowe.   Now, now, now—do I ask another ‘Juliet’ of you? God forbid! A fine play, your ‘Juliet,’ but—

Shakespeare. Now come the “buts.”

Henslowe.   Man, we must live! Can we fill the theatre on love and longing, and high words? Ay, when Marlowe does it to the sound of trumpets. But you—you’re not Marlowe. You know too much. Your gods are too much men and women. Who’ll pay sixpence for a heart-ache? and in advance too! Give us but two more ‘Romeo and Juliet’'s and you may be a great poet, but we close down. Another tragedy? No, no, no, we don’t ask that of you! We want light stuff, easy stuff. Oh, who knows as well as you what’s wanted? It’s a court play, my man! The French Embassy’s to be there and the two Counts from Italy, and always Essex and his gang, and you know their fancy. Get down to it now, there’s a good lad! Oh, you can do it in your sleep! Lovers and lasses, and quarrels and kisses, like the two halves of a sandwich! But court lovers, you know, that talk verse—and between them a green cress of country folk and country song, daffodils and valentines, and brown bowls of ale—season all with a pepper of wit—and there’s your sandwich, there’s your play, as the Queen likes it, as we all like it!

Shakespeare. What? No answer?

Henslowe.   See here, Will! If you do not write me this play you have thrice promised, I’ll to the Queen—sick or mad I’ll to the Queen this very day for your physic—and so I warn you.

Shakespeare [to the boy]. Did you see—?

Boy. The maid, sir!

Henslowe.   I’ll not see ‘The Rose’ in ruins for a mad—

Shakespeare [to the boy]. But what did I bid you?

Boy. Wait on the doorstep till Mistress Fitton came out, though I waited all night. But indeed, sir, she’s gone; for I saw her, though she did not see me.

Henslowe.   Oh, the Fitton! Now I see light through the wood!

Shakespeare. What’s that you say?

Henslowe.   I say that the Queen shall know where the blame lies.

Shakespeare. You lie. I heard you. I saw you twist your lips round a white name.

Henslowe.   Will! Will! Will!

Shakespeare. Did you not?

Henslowe.   Why, Will, you have friends, though you fray ’em to the parting of endurance.

Shakespeare. What’s this?

Henslowe.   I say you have friends that see what they see, and are sorry.

Shakespeare. Yes, I am blessed in one man and woman who do not use me as a beast to be milked dry. I have Marlowe and—

Henslowe.   Marlowe? And I said, God forgive me, that you knew men and women! Marlowe!

Shakespeare. You speak of my friend. [Pg 83]

Henslowe.   Ay, Jonathan—of David, the singer, of him that took Bathsheba, all men know how. [Shakespeare makes a threatening movement.] No, no, Will! I am too old a man to give and take with you—too old a man and too old a friend.

Shakespeare. So you’re to lie and I’m to listen because you’re an old man!

Henslowe.   Lie? Ask any in the town. I’m but a day returned and already I’ve heard the talk. Why, man, they make songs of it in the street!

Shakespeare. It? It? It?

Henslowe.   Boy?

Boy. Here, sir?

Henslowe.   What was that song you whistled as you came up the stairs?

Boy. ‘Weathercock,’ sir?

Henslowe.   That’s it!

Boy. Lord, sir, I know but the one verse I heard a drayman sing.

Henslowe.   How does it go?

Henslowe.   Eh, Will? A good tune! A rousing tune!

Shakespeare [softly]. “For this prize, if I loved her, I would pay all I had! I do what I choose though it damn me!”

Boy. May I go, sir? [Pg 84]

Shakespeare. Go, go!

Boy. And my pay, sir? Indeed I’d have stopped the lady if I could. But she made as if she were not herself, and rode out of the yard. But I knew her, for all her riding-coat and breeches.

Henslowe.   What’s all this?

Shakespeare [to the boy]. You’re dreaming—

Boy. No, sir, there was your ring on her finger—

Shakespeare. Be still! Take this and forget your dreams! [He gives him money.] Henslowe, farewell! If you’ve lied to me I’ll pay you for it, and if you’ve spoken truth to me I’ll pay you for it no less.

Henslowe.   Pay? I want no pay. I want the play that the Queen ordered, and will have in the end, mark that! You have not yet served the Queen.

Shakespeare. Boy! Hugh!

Boy. Sir?

Shakespeare. Which way did she ride?

Boy. Am I asleep or awake, sir?

Shakespeare. Which way did she ride?

Boy. Across the bridge, sir, as I dreamt it, along the Deptford road.

Shakespeare. Marlowe! The Deptford road! The Deptford road! [He rushes out.]

Boy [showing his money].  Dreaming pays, sir! It’s gold.

Henslowe.   Boy, boy! Never trust a man! Never kiss a woman! Work all day and sleep all night! Love yourself and never ask God for the moon! So you may live to be old. This business grows beyond me. I’ll to the Queen.

He trots out, shaking his head. The boy skips after him, whistling his tune.

THE CURTAIN FALLS. [Pg 85]

A private room at an inn late at night. Through the door in the right wall is seen the outer public room, with men sitting drinking. There is a window at the back, set so low in the wall that, above the window-sill, the heads of summer flowers glisten in the moonlight. On the left wall is the hearth and between it and the window a low bed. In the centre is a table with candle, glasses and mugs, and two or three men sitting round it drinking. Marlowe stands with his back to the window, one foot on a chair, shouting out a song as the curtain rises.

A Man [hammering the table].  Again! Again!

Landlord [at the door]. Sir, sir, there’s without a young gentleman hot with riding—

Marlowe.  Does the hot young gentleman give no name? [Pg 86]

Landlord. Why yes, sir, Archer, Francis Archer! He said you would know him.

Marlowe.  I knew an Archer, but he died in Flanders.

Landlord. He may well come from Flanders, sir, for he’s muddy.

Marlowe.  Are Flanders’ graves so shallow? Tell him if he’s alive I don’t know him, and if he’s dead I won’t know him, and so either way let him go where he belongs.

The Landlord goes out.

The Man.  What, Kit! send him to hell with a dry throat?

Marlowe. And all impostors with him!

The Man.  But what if it were a true ghost? Have a heart! You’ll be one yourself some day, and watch old friends run away from you when you come to haunt them in pure good fellowship.

Landlord [at the door].  Sir, he says indeed he knows you. His business is private.

Marlowe. Well, let him come in. No, friends, sit still! If he’s the death he pretends we’ll face him together as the song teaches.

Marlowe.  What voice is that? [Pg 87]

Mary stands in the doorway. She is dressed as a boy, with cloak, riding boots, and slouch cap.

The Man [to Marlowe]. Ghost of a nightingale! D’you know him?

Marlowe. I think I do. [To Mary, aside] What April freak is this?

The Man [with a glass]. Spirits to spirit, young sir! Have a drink!

Mary.    I should choke, sir! We drink nectar in my country.

The Man.  Where’s that, ghost?

Mary.    Oh, somewhere on the soft side of heaven where the poppies grow.

The Man.  He swore you were dead and buried.

Mary.    And so I was. But there’s a witch in London so sighs for him and so cries for him, that in the end she whistled me out of my gravity and sent me here to fetch him home to her.

The Man.  Her name, transparency, her name?

Mary.    Why, sir, I rode in such haste that my memory could not keep up with me. It’ll not be here this half hour.

Marlowe. Landlord, pour ale for a dozen, and these friends will drink to her, name or no name—in the next room. [Pg 88]

The Man.  Kit, you’re a man of tact! I’m a man of tact. We’re all men of tact!

Mary.    Well, did you ever see a better boy? My hair was the only trouble.

Marlowe. Madcap! What does this mean?

Marlowe. Uneasy days—I could not.

Mary.    Are you burned, moth? Are the poor wings a-frizzle?

He was to come to me to-night to tell me his tragedies and his comedies and—oh, I yawn! And I played her so well too at the first—

Marlowe. Who?

Mary.    The cool nymph under Tiber stairs—what’s her name?—Egeria. Am I your Egeria, Marlowe?

Marlowe. Something less slippery.

Mary.    Oh, she was fun to play—first to please the Queen and[Pg 89] then to please myself. For I was caught, you know. It’s something to be hung among the stars, something to say—“I was his Juliet!”

Marlowe. What, you—you Comedy-Kate?

Marlowe. More than I wish.

Mary.    Would you be cured?

Marlowe. Not possible.

Marlowe. He should know.

Mary.    What’s that?

Marlowe. Nothing.

Mary.    He’s married?

Marlowe. I do not tell you so.

Mary.    Married! He shall pay me. Married! I guessed it—but he shall pay me. A country girl? [Pg 90]

Marlowe. If you must know! He has not seen her these ten years. She sent for him the night of ‘Juliet.’

Marlowe. I shan’t boast I told you. O Mary, when I first came to you, it was he sent me. He came like a child and asked me to see you, to say what good of him I could,

[Pg 91] Mary.    O dull Kit! have I adventured here to hear you talk of dying?

Marlowe. You borrowed Archer’s name.

Mary.    I wanted one that would startle you out to me, and you told me the tale of him once, how young he died.

Marlowe. And how unwilling! You’ve set him running in my head like a spider in a skull,

Marlowe darts at Shakespeare and is thrown off. He staggers against the table, knocking over the candle. As he strikes the second time his arm is knocked up, striking his own forehead. He falls across the bed. There is an instant’s pause, then Shakespeare rushes to him, slipping an arm under his shoulder.

A Man. Sing another verse! [Pg 101]

Another.    There’s the boy back. Make him sing it!

Mary. I’m to fetch more wine first.

The Man.   Sing another verse!

Another.    Luck, you fool, not love!

Another.    Where’s the difference? If you’re in love you’re in luck.

Another.    Here, stop the boy!

Mary. Let me pass, gentlemen!

The Man.   Sing another verse!

Another.    If Love and I—

Another.    Shut up now and let the kid sing it!

Mary. Why yes, if you’ll let me pass afterwards, sir, like love in the song.

The Man.   Sing another verse! Sing twenty other verses!

Mary disappears in the crowd. The door swings to as Shakespeare turns back into the room.

Henslowe comes in hurriedly. He leaves the door half open behind him.

Henslowe.   Why, here’s a bird of wisdom sitting in the dark! Shut your eyes, man, and use candles or you’ll scorch out your own sockets! What’s wrong now? But tell me that as we ride; for the Queen wants you in a hurry, and what’s more an angry Queen. I’d not be you! Here I’ve hunted London for you from tavern to lady’s lodging till I ferreted out that Marlowe was here, and so I followed him for news. [Pg 103]

Landlord [putting his head in at the door]. Is anything wrong sir?

Henslowe.   Wrong? What should be wrong? But we’re in haste. Call the ostler! We want a second horse.

He slips his arm through Shakespeare’s and tries to lead him to the door.

Landlord. Is the gentleman ill, sir? He sways.

Henslowe.   Your good wine, host.

A Man [over the Landlord’s shoulder].  The best on the Surrey side!

Henslowe.   He’ll tell the Queen so in an hour if you’ll make way.

Henslowe.   Keep your people back, landlord! [Pg 104]

The Man [staggering into the room]. I say, three cheers for the Queen!

Henslowe.   Ay! My friend! Let him be!

The Man.   Is he drunk too?

The Other.  If I were a judge I’d say “Very drunk”! He’s spilled his wine on his clothes. What I say is “Waste not, want not!”

Landlord.  Come now, come away! You hear what the gentleman says.

Shakespeare [turning in the doorway]. Ay, wake him, wake him, old trump of judgment! Wake him if you can,

The Man. Ay sir, he shall sleep till he wakes. But we, sir, we’ll sing you off the premises, for the love of Bess.

Hey, Bess? Ho, Bess!

Another [hammering the table]. Death, not Bess! Death! Death! Death! Come along chorus!

The door swings to and quiet settles on the lightening room. The first ray of sunlight touches the bed. Outside the birds are beginning to sing.

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

[Pg 106]

[Pg 107]

A room in the palace, hung with tapestries. On the right wall is a heavy, studded door: on the left, a great raised seat on a low platform. On the back wall is a small curtained door and a large window. A girl in a primrose-coloured gown stands at it holding back its curtain. Set slantwise in front of it, nearer the centre of the stage, is a writing table with scattered papers. At it sits Elizabeth, a secretary beside her. The Queen’s dress is of dull grey brocade with transparent lawn and jewels of aquamarine; but as the evening deepens its colour becomes one with the dusk and only her white face and hands are clearly seen.

Elizabeth. These three are signed. Take them to Burleigh. This I’ll not grant. Tell him so! [The man bows and goes out.]

Hawker [nearer].   Cress! Buy cress!

Elizabeth.  There! Put the papers by!

The girl at the window comes down to the table and begins to sort them.

Another Hawker.   Strawberries! Ripe strawberries!

Girl.      Why, that I will!

Elizabeth.  Then you must sit in it daily. Where’s Mary Fitton?

Girl.      In waiting, Madam, and half asleep. She was up early to-day. I saw her from my window by the little garden door and called to her. She had been out to pick roses, as you bade her, ere the dew dried on them.

Elizabeth.  As I bade her?

Girl.      Yes, Madam, she said so.

The girl goes out by the little door. As she does so, Elizabeth takes her purse from a drawer and going to the window, throws out a coin.

Elizabeth flings out another coin.

There was a boy that ran away, and Henslowe the Queen’s man, and a third—

[Pg 109] Elizabeth lays down the purse on the table as the girl comes back.

Girl [distressed].   Madam—

Elizabeth.  It was here. That cress seller has a sweet voice. Fling her a coin and ask her where she lives!

Girl [going to the window].   Hey, beggar!

Hawker.   Bless you, lady!

Girl.       Where do you come from with your green stuff?

If any ask to speak with me, let me know it!

Girl.      Why, Madam, Henslowe, the old player, has been waiting since noon, and Mr. Shakespeare with him.

Elizabeth.  The name’s not written here. Whose duty?

Girl.      Mary Fitton’s.

Elizabeth.  Send Henslowe! And when I ring let Mary Fitton answer!

Girl.      I’ll tell her, Madam.

She goes out. Elizabeth rises and goes slowly across the room to the dais and seats herself. There is a pause. Then a page throws open the big door facing the dais and Henslowe enters. [Pg 110]

Henslowe.  He waits without.

Elizabeth.  Then he too was at Deptford last night.

Henslowe.  None knows it.

Elizabeth.  That’s well! But was it he, Henslowe—he?

Henslowe.  No, no, no! I’ll swear it.

Elizabeth.  But will he swear it?

Henslowe.  There was no woman with them. [Pg 112]

Elizabeth.  So I hear; but a boy!

Henslowe.  Unknown.

Elizabeth.  Did you see him?

Henslowe.  Not his face. He was past me in a flash, crying “Hurry!”

Elizabeth.  Well, I’ll see Shakespeare.

Henslowe.  Madam—

Elizabeth.  I thread my own needles, Henslowe, being a woman. [Mary Fitton enters.] Send Mr. Shakespeare to me! [Then, as Mary turns to go—]   Mary!

Mary. Madam?

Elizabeth.  Bid him hurry! [Mary turns to the door.] Mary!

Mary. Madam?

Elizabeth.  What did I tell you but now?

Mary. Madam, to bid him hurry.

Henslowe [recognising the voice]. “Hurry!”

Elizabeth.  Wait. Daylight, Henslowe? Girl, you’re slow. You go heavily. Have you not slept? Let Henslowe do your errand! [To Henslowe.] Let him wait at hand!

Mary. Madam, I can well go.

Elizabeth.  No hurry now. [Henslowe goes out.] D’you guess why I send for your teller of tales?

Mary. No, Madam.

Elizabeth.  He has told a tale, it seems, that I’d hear told again.

Mary. Told?

Elizabeth.  Why are you not in black, Mary?

Mary. I, Madam?

Elizabeth.  Marlowe is dead.

Mary. I grieve to hear it.

Elizabeth.  When did you hear?

Mary. Why, Madam, now—you tell me!

Elizabeth.  Then I tell you wrong. He is alive and has told all. [Pg 113]

Mary. Alive? They lie to you, Madam! What has he told? Who says it?

Elizabeth.  Why, yes, there’s the window! You may cast down and be done with it all—done with it all! I’ll not stop you. Who am I to keep a man from his sweet rest? And yet—what of me, my son, before you do it? What of me and this England that I am?

Shakespeare. Madam, I have not slept these five nights. I do not know what you say.

Elizabeth.  Or care?

Shakespeare. Or care, Madam, forgive me! God’s pity, Madam, open the door!

Elizabeth.  It shall not serve you.

Shakespeare. I know it.

Elizabeth.  She has sold you, man.

Shakespeare. I know it. Open the door! [Pg 118]

Elizabeth.  Come here, my son! Why do I hold you here, think you?

Shakespeare. Marlowe—

Elizabeth.  Tell me nothing! I’ll know nothing! Mr. Shakespeare, where is the work I should have from you? Where is the new play? You sold and I bought. Give me my goods! Then go!

Shakespeare. A play? You are Queen, Madam, you do not live our lives; so I call you not pure devilish to keep me here for so little a thing.

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

January, 1920—April, 1921.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WOODS AND SONS, LTD., LONDON, N.1.