Scene X.
Herbert:
[Enters,R.;walks to Raleigh.] Was my name taken to the Queen, Captain?
Raleigh:
[Very courteously.] Yes, my lord, some time since, when first you entered.
Herbert:
An hour agone, surely!
Raleigh:
[Laughing.] Not half, my lord. Time lags when we wait.
Herbert:
Time! Time is for slaves: an hour for this, an hour for that. Curse time, a slut that lends herself to every basest use. [Throws himself into a seat. Insolently.] What was the answer?
Raleigh:
Answer! my lord!
Herbert:
[Insolently.] Yes, when my name went in.
Raleigh:
There was no answer. [Long pause, while Herbert beats his leg with his glove.]
Herbert:
[Rising.] Prithee send in again, Captain, to say I wait. I’ve ridden fast to be in time, and now—I’m chilled.
Raleigh:
The Queen’s in Council, my lord, with Lord Burghley and the Spanish ambassador; I dare not interrupt her!
Herbert:
Dare is for a servant, not for a Raleigh.
Raleigh:
A Raleigh is proud to serve his Queen.
Herbert:
A very proper spirit in him. But prithee, send in my name again—I like not waiting.
Raleigh:
I pray you not to ask that.
Herbert:
[Rising.] But I do ask it, man, I do. I’m sick of waiting. On me be all the blame. I’ll bear you out in it.
Raleigh:
I’m on duty here, my lord, and may not yield my office to another!
Herbert:
[Going to him.] Don’t lesson me, but do your office.
Raleigh:
You may be sure I shall.
Herbert:
[Making as if to push past him.] Then remove, remove, or go in.
Raleigh:
[Bars the way.] I’m here to protect the Queen’s privacy, not to annoy her.
Herbert:
Servants should obey, not talk.
Raleigh:
To be pert is a boy’s privilege.
Herbert:
Damn your privilege. [Strikes him. Raleigh’s sword flashes out: Herbert draws too. At this moment the door opens and discovers the Queen.]
Queen Elizabeth:
Fighting! Here! [Raleigh bows composedly, and steps back. Herbert flings his sword on the ground and throws himself on one knee before her.]
Herbert:
What better thing on earth to fight for, than a sight of you, my Queen! [Queen lifts him, smiling as the curtain falls.]
ACT II
Scene I.
At the Mermaid. Ben Jonson is standing at the end of the room,L.,Fletcher and Lord Lacy near him. Marston and Dekker are with Chapman in the middle. Chettle is seated,R.,facing Jonson. Shakespeare enters behind Chettle, doorR.
Jonson:
[Stretching.] It’s good to be free—free to feast, and not feed like a dog—free! That prison was killing me. [Calling out as Shakespeare enters.] Ho, Will! here’s your chair, yawning till you come.
Chettle:
Here’s one with jaws as thirsty-wide, my lad, and dry to boot. Will you fill ’em?
Shakespeare:
[Passing Chettle with a smile.] The stranger first, Chettle, then the drink. I’ve not seen Ben for months and months. [Goes to Jonson and takes both his hands.]
Ben Jonson:
[Pushing a chair towards Shakespeare.] And now little poet, what will you drink? Canary or sack. [Claps his hands.] Here, Drawer!
Shakespeare:
I’m ill with thirst, and for that disease there’s no medicine like small beer.
Jonson:
[To drawer.] Bring beer.
Chettle:
Have sack, Shakespeare, sack’s the drink: when sack goes in, wit comes out. Beer’s cold and thin, fit for young girls, who quake to think of lovers; but sack’s rich and generous, breeds courage and self-content; equals the poor man to kings, and kings to gods.
Shakespeare:
[To Jonson.] A little more, and he’d rise into measure.
Jonson:
Out of measure, you mean; the verse is my part. Curious how abstinence breeds desire, anddesire song. Try prison for six months, Will, and your mouth will drip with longing for wine, women and good company. Ah, the leaden hours!
Chettle:
Ho! ho! my lad of the mountain. No prison needed by the godly. Without provocation or incitement I want women often, good company always, wine perpetually. It’s very strange: I’ve often had too much sack, often; but enough, never. Read me that riddle, Shakespeare!
Shakespeare:
That desire, Chettle, still outlives performance, is no riddle. [Turning to Jonson.] Your punishment punished all of us, Ben.
Dekker:
And all for killing an actor.
Selden:
In fair duello, too: allowed since the Norman time.
Lacy:
[With gestures.] Was it a punto, Ben, or areverso, an imbrocato or a montanto that reached the throne of life?
Dekker:
[Half maliciously.] Or did a meredownrightpassada thrust poor Spencer from the stage?
Jonson:
[Menacingly.] ’Twas a cudgel Downright used on Bobadill: don’t forget that, Cobbler!
Dekker:
’Tis as good a trade as bricklaying, and gives more time for thought.
Marston:
Was it a Toledo, Ben, or alongFleming gave the mortal wound?
[Jonson rises, crying“You dog!”Lord Lacy on one side, and Shakespeare on the other, hold him back, and constrain him to sit.]
Lacy:
Amity, friends, amity!
Shakespeare:
Every man in his humour, Ben; who should know that better than you?
Jonson:
[Sits again, grumbling.] The curs, who bark and run.
Lacy:
Let’s have a hanap, friends, to cool the embers of strife.
Chettle:
One cup of sack, Shakespeare, to chase your melancholy and start your wit.
Shakespeare:
Not one. Sweet wine on bitter beer would make me Chettle. [Turns to Jonson.] So you became a Catholic in prison, Ben. Was it the loneliness, or fasting?
Jonson:
Loneliness, perhaps: in solitude one listens to the heart.
Marston[Interrupting.]
That’s weak, Jonson, childish-weak. Solitude breeds religion as the dark breeds devils—out of fear.
Dekker:
Religion’s a trade to the priest, an intrigue to women, to men a laughing-stock.
Chettle:
Don’t say that, don’t blaspheme, don’t attack the Faith, mad lads! I always mean to repent, but put off the evil day of reformation so long as health lasts. Conscience and sack struggle in me for the mastery, and the conflict makes me thirsty and so sack wins. But no scorners or blasphemers, say I.
Shakespeare:
We’re all godly at heart; eh, Chettle? We all wish other men virtuous, so that there’ll be more frolic for us.
Chettle:
Ha! Ha! You’re right, lad! [To the drawer.] Another cup, you bodkin, you radish, you—Ah, we are all sinners, Will, villainous sinners! [He drinks.]
Selden:
I incline to the new faith. These puritans are much in earnest, though they go too far. One ofthem told me of late that actors should be outlawed, for they were not mentioned in the Bible. [Laughs.]
Chettle:
[Interrupting.] Why didn’t you reply that tailors weren’t mentioned there, either, and so the crophead knave himself should go naked.
Marston:
Wonder of wonders! Chettle is learned in the Scriptures.
Lacy:
Our catechist in pious phrases, man, our doctor of divinity.
Dekker:
He knows more of tavern reckonings! He! He!
Chettle:
Why not, lad, why not? The animal man must keep a balance.
Selden:
Religion is like the fashion; one man wears his doublet slashed, another laced, another plain, but every man has a doublet and a religion.
Chapman:
[Pompously.] ’Tis easy to mock at things sacred; but without religion there’d be no society. Be Protestant or Catholic, as you will; but without either we’d fall into anarchia.
Jonson:
Hum! I don’t know—What do you say, Shakespeare?
Shakespeare:
If all our rushlights went out, the sun would still be shining.
Lacy:
Oh, Shakespeare! What a blessed union of wit and poetry like virtue and beauty in a maid or a Toledo blade hafted to one Chrysolite.
Chettle:
I have a story, Ben, my bully boy, that you’ve not heard yet, a story of Will Shakespeare. Dick Burbage knows it. Ha! Ha!
Marston:
If new, let’s hear it.
Dekker:
If old, it’s better than Chapman’s mouthing.
Chettle:
The pretty mercer’s wife, who often has a room to see the play, made a meeting with King Richard III, Dick Burbage, there. Quiet Will overheard the appointment, and after the play followed the lady. Poor Dick, having to change his robes, came late, and knocked. “Who’s there?” asked Will, from the inside. “Richard III,” whispered Dick. “Ah,” quoth Will, “Richard III comes after William the Conqueror.” Ho! ho! ho!
Selden:
So the sportive blood of youth beflecks the dignity of manhood!
Dekker:
’Tis too pat to be true.
Fletcher:
We poets are all given to Venus.
Chapman:
How true that Venus story is, and how beautiful.We shall never equal the Greeks; never; they were our masters in everything.
Chettle:
Masters indeed! Here’s Shakespeare would put down any of them in anything.
Jonson:
I’m not sure of that, Chettle. The Agamemnon’s a great play.
Chettle:
Ay, but what say you to Henry IV.! That’s the play for me. I warrant the Greeks had nothing like Falstaff. What d’ye say, Shakespeare? Stand for your own, my boy!
Jonson:
He lacks the language, the window through which the Greeks must be studied.
Chettle:
It’s wit, man, ye want, not knowledge. Come, Will. Put the Briton above the Greek: I’ll tarre you on.
Shakespeare:
I think the Greeks are over praised. Fancymaking Love an inferior goddess, born of salt water. [“Ho! Ho!”laughs Chettle.] Love’s born of summer air and light; flowers are her footprints and the stars sing to her coming: Venus, not Jupiter, reigns in Heaven and Earth.
Jonson:
[Interrupting.] Good, old Knowell, good! But let’s have a toast, or you’ll talk us all to death. Here’s to the ever-sacred memory of our great Queen, who lets players and playwrights live in spite of Puritans and preachers.
Fletcher:
To the Virgin who beat the Spaniards, and made Britain mistress of the seas.
Dekker:
In the same way the dog made the dinner, for he looked on, while men feasted.
Selden:
Hush, hush! No disloyalty!
Chettle:
[Puts down the empty pot.] I’ll drink to no virgin, my roaring boys, not even in name.Obstruction’s twin brother to Destruction—I’ll none of it. Long live life! Here’s to the Queen’s great father, Henry VIII. There’s a man for you: could eat like a man, and drink like a man, and love like a man. He was a king, if you like. Here’s to his memory!
Jonson:
You can have him all to yourself, Chettle, your many-wived hero.
Chettle:
Tut, man, he was the eighth Harry, and had a right to eight wives. ’Tis the Scripture. [Drinks.]
Dekker:
Chettle’s drunk.
Shakespeare:
Chettle’s right: here’s to the memory of Henry VIII, who gave wine to the laity, and women to the clergy.
[All drink, laughing. Messenger enters, and speaks to Jonson, who rises hastily.]
Jonson:
Here’s my friend, Francis Bacon, come to see us.
Chettle:
Bring him in, lad: Shakespeare here’ll [Exit Jonson] teach him what he can’t find in law-books.
[Jonson meets Bacon at the door.]
Bacon:
[To Jonson, with hand outstretched.] Hearing of your discharge, I hastened to find you and share your joy, though alack! I was too weak to obtain your release.
Jonson:
That’s kind of you. Let me present my friends. This is young Fletcher, the poet, and Burbage whom you know, and Master Shakespeare, the best playwright of us all. And this, gentlemen, is Master Francis Bacon, the great philosopher.
Shakespeare:
And friend to my lord of Essex.
Bacon:
[Turning to Shakespeare.] Yes: do you know the Earl?
Shakespeare:
By the kindness of Lord Southampton, so far as a poor poet may.
Jonson:
He’ll win Lord Burghley’s place or fall to ruin. But I fear his violence and wild courses.
Bacon:
When Lord Essex comes to power, he will act more soberly. Great men are like the heavenly bodies; they move violently to their places, and calmly in their places.
Shakespeare:
True, true! His violence is all of quick feeling: at heart he is most generous-kind.
Bacon:
You do not overpraise him; yet on troubled sea, small sails of will and temper are the safest.
Shakespeare:
Lord Essex is too great to think of safety; he dreams of noble deeds, and does them.
Bacon:
[After pausing.] Your praise does you credit;it shall be reported to the Earl. But I came to greet Jonson, and hear his new song: I must soon be on my way.
Selden:
[To Fletcher.] Curious, the two masters can neither wrestle nor embrace: Bacon’s on earth, Shakespeare in the clouds.
Fletcher:
[Not listening.] Let us go into the inner room: we shall hear the music better. [All go inside save Shakespeare and Jonson. Music is heard through the open door.]
Jonson:
[Turning to Shakespeare.] So you are in love, I hear. Oh, that urchin, Cupid! But beware, Will, beware; his darts are all poisoned.
[Takes Shakespeare’s arm, and draws him towards the inner room.]
Shakespeare:
What sweet poison!
Scene III.
In the grounds of St. James’s Palace by moonlight. A marquee in centre of stage with throne. Miss Fitton moves about in garden,L.,as if looking for something till Shakespeare enters,L.
Shakespeare:
[Taking both her hands.] At last! at last, I see and hold you, [Holding both her hands to his heart.] and all is well again; the pain is gone.
Miss Fitton:
Pain?
Shakespeare:
Intense pain—the misery of doubt and fear; the agony of disappointment—all vanished now, lost in a sea of pure delight. Ah, what a life ecstatic after death——
Miss Fitton:
Death!
Shakespeare:
[Gravely.] Worse. On Monday you wereto be at Lady Rutland’s; you had promised; I went; you were not there; I fell into the abysm of despair. Why, my queen, why?
Miss Fitton:
[Smiling and seating herself.] “Affairs of state” would sound well for a queen; but I prefer the truth. [Solemnly.] A three-piled ruff, the newest thing in neckgear, made me forget your coming. You see your queen is very woman. [He kisses her hand and she pushes his head up gently.] One of Eve’s unnumbered daughters.
Shakespeare:
[Kneeling.] The wittiest of all, the most adored, the fairest! Your hand [lifting it in his] is warm ivory, so firm and smooth [looks up at her]—the eyes like wells o’erhung with shadow—and oh, the rubious lips. [Puts up his hand and draws down her head; she bends and kisses him; then rises.]
Miss Fitton:
You must rise; we might be seen: we have only half an hour; be careful; someone might come.
Shakespeare:
[Rising.] What a fate is mine! I see you but for a moment and then lose you. It is a week since we met and now I may not kiss you. I long for you night and day; my flesh aches for you; I am parched with fever and may not quench my thirst.
Miss Fitton:
Those high fevers have no long continuance; I prefer enduring affection—tenderness——
Shakespeare:
Still the fever and you will find the tenderness. Each time I meet you I have to win you anew, and that exasperates desire; but give yourself freely to me, and I will love you better than you love yourself.
Miss Fitton:
Violent desire soon burns itself out.
Shakespeare:
When I am burnt out and dead—not before. Do not distrust desire, sweet; ’tis the spring of life, the wing that lifts the clay [Takes her in his arms and kisses her. She draws herself free.]
Shakespeare:
Again you move away.
Miss Fitton:
Men and women love differently, I think. You would kiss and kiss while I draw back half shrinking, half because I would taste this new joy sweet by sweet. There! You make me say too much.
Shakespeare:
Never too much, you great heart! You unveil your soul, and the beauty of it fills me with reverence. [Takes her in his arms.]
Miss Fitton:
You do love me, then? You are sure?
Shakespeare:
Very sure.
Miss Fitton:
You will love me always?
Shakespeare:
Always. I loved you before we met, always, through dateless ages. I never loved before, shall never love again. You were made for me. I love your courage, truth, pride, and most of all I love you when you yield. [They kiss.]
Miss Fitton:
Ah, love is easy when one can trust. I must tell you something, though I hate to: I’m very jealous.
Shakespeare:
You, jealous!
Miss Fitton:
[Nods her head.] Jane Wroth told us of the dance at the Globe Theatre, and I was angry; that’s why I did not go to Lady Rutland’s to meet you. I was jealous, mad!
Shakespeare:
You had no reason. I was not at the dance. I came past you here and wandered in Chelsea meadows.
Miss Fitton:
In truth? How strange!
Shakespeare:
I have always loved to be alone. In unfrequented woods I used to build myself a world of dreams and hold a court of fancied creatures. But now the dreams have changed to memories; youcome to me and I recall your words and looks and beauties; kiss your hands and eyes and lips. Oh, my thought-world is paradise with you as goddess-queen.
Miss Fitton:
You must never make me jealous. Heal that at once as you would heal a pain of mine. It makes some women love more, I think; it would kill all love in me. I am too proud to endure its sting.
Shakespeare:
I will never give you cause, sweet, for jealousy, never! I love your pride too well.
Miss Fitton:
[Rising and going to the spinet.] You promised me a song. Did you forget?
Shakespeare:
[Following her.] Could I forget a promise to you! [He puts the roll on the spinet before her.]
Miss Fitton:
I cannot sing it, you know. I have none of women’s little graces.
Shakespeare:
Being grace itself, you can forego graces. But I have Hughes without, if you will hear him.
Miss Fitton:
Willingly; but he must not stay long. [While Shakespeare goes away,L.,she reads the words aloud.] “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.”
[Shakespeare returns with Hughes, who bows to Miss Fitton. Miss Fitton nods negligently, and leaves the spinet, taking a seat,L.C.Shakespeare stands at her side, facing the audience, while Hughes sings.]
Hughes[Sings.)
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain;No more now, no more now, fond heart, withpride should we swell,Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raiseforces enough to rebel.“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain;No more now, no more now, fond heart, withpride should we swell,Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raiseforces enough to rebel.“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain;No more now, no more now, fond heart, withpride should we swell,Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raiseforces enough to rebel.
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain;
No more now, no more now, fond heart, with
pride should we swell,
Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raise
forces enough to rebel.
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
Miss Fitton:
[After the first verse.] So you would rebel if you could. Hm. [Nods her head.]
Shakespeare:
Like all rebels in order to taste the sweets of sovereignty.
Hughes[Sings the second verse.]
“For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate,To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin,And love those that hate.I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
“For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate,To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin,And love those that hate.I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
“For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate,To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin,And love those that hate.I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,Since I am myself, my own fever,Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
“For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate,
To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin,
And love those that hate.
I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
[As Hughes finishes Miss Fitton rises. Hughes, bowing, goes out.]
Miss Fitton:
[Seats herself at the spinet.] Why did you write that—“to make us seek ruin and love those that hate”?
Shakespeare
I fear you don’t love me as I love you; sometimes, even——
Miss Fitton:
I don’t hate you, or I shouldn’t be here, should I?
[Hums the words, “fever and pain,” playing the tune.]
Shakespeare:
How I envy even the dead things about you; the dress your body warms, the bracelets that clip your wrists; even the jacks that leap to kiss the tender inward of your hand.
Miss Fitton:
[Stops, and holds it to him.] You may kiss it, too.
[He kisses her palm, then draws her to him and kisses her lips. She rises.] But now you must go: they’ll be coming.
Shakespeare:
[Rising.] And when am I to see you again—when? [Watching her face.] To-day? [She shakes her head.] To-morrow? Next day? When? These hours of absence make me hunger for you till I faint. Be pitiful, sweet. The touch of your hand gives me life. When you go, my heart shrinks and lies here aching-cold till I see you again.
Miss Fitton:
[Listening.] I’m afraid they’ll come in and——
Shakespeare:
[Imploringly.] You have not told me when I may see you again.
Miss Fitton:
To-morrow I’m busy. Thursday? Yes, Thursday, at Lady Rutland’s. She’ll be in waiting here.
[Gives her hand, which Shakespeare holds against his heart.]
Shakespeare:
[Taking out some tables in ivory.] I’ve brought you tables to mark our meetings in. Will you use them?
Miss Fitton:
How pretty, and here’s a posy too in golden letters:
[Reads.]
“Doubt that the stars are fire,Doubt that the sun doth move,Doubt truth to be a liar,But never doubt I love.”
“Doubt that the stars are fire,Doubt that the sun doth move,Doubt truth to be a liar,But never doubt I love.”
“Doubt that the stars are fire,Doubt that the sun doth move,Doubt truth to be a liar,But never doubt I love.”
“Doubt that the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”
That’s because I doubted your sudden-deep affection.
Shakespeare:
Write down the day we are to meet, will you? now; and all the time between shall die and be a void.
Miss Fitton:
[Archly.] Suppose I said to-night—here?
Shakespeare:
What wine of life you pour! My blood’s aflame and shaken into blinding colours. To-night and night is here! I feel the minutes throbbing past. To-night, my night of nights. O Sweet, make me atone this ecstasy, or—To-night, you Queen of Night—You heart of joy!
Miss Fitton:
I shall be late, you know. It will be midnight——
Shakespeare:
Midnight!
Miss Fitton:
[Listening.] Hush.
Shakespeare:
To-night, at mid of night. Ah, now I know that men are richer than the gods. Midnight!
Miss Fitton:
Hark! They are coming! Quick! [Shakespeare kisses her hand and hurries up the stage,L.A bevy of girls enter,C.,talking, accompanied by gallants and preceded by Lacy.]
Lacy:
[As Shakespeare passes.] Ho, Ho! Master Shakespeare doth fly from yon miracle of Nature, as from a dire portent. Methought her most brave strain of wit, and peremptory grace, would have charmed your nice fastidity.
Shakespeare:
One may admire stars, my lord, at a distance.
Lacy:
Do we adorate because of the distance? Ha! Ha! [Bows with gesture. Shakespeare bows and goes out. Lacy turns to Miss Fitton.] So the Queen of gipsies has enslaved the player-poet, and violet eyes will lose their blue with weeping.
Miss Fitton:
Violet eyes?
Lacy:
Violet eyes and honey-coloured hair—a nymph of the morning!
Miss Fitton:
Whom are you talking about?
Lacy:
Is it a secret? The dark lady, then, has her rival in the fair maid, and courage and wit on the one side contend with downcast eyes and shrinking modesty on the other.
Miss Fitton:
Do you jest, or am I to believe you? Who is she—a lady?
Lacy:
Her name—Violet. Her rank—youth and beauty. I know no more; put the culprit to the question.
Miss Fitton:
Where did you see them?—When?
Lacy:
At the playhouse, one afternoon.
Miss Fitton:
Ha, ha! Now, if I had believed a man’s oaths how I should hate myself. But, thank Heaven! I was not befooled by his vows and protestations. The player may go to his trull, some orange-girl, I suppose, and brag; but, thank God! I am not his dupe. Violet, indeed! [Laughs.]
Lacy:
Do not be hasty-rash: I know nothing; she may be but his friend and genteelly propagated: I only saw them together once.
Miss Fitton:
You would have me a credulous fool: a laughing-stock for the player and his patch. No, no! I am schooled in time. Who stoops, suffers: the man who would win me, must have no Violet.
Lacy:
It is nobler to trust too much than too little.
Miss Fitton:
I do wrong to be angry. Let us join the others, my lord, and take my thanks for your warning. [Walking towards the others.] Violet is a pretty name!