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