William Shakespeare as he lived Part 56

"If it is so, please your Majesty, I did not," he returned.

"'Fore Heaven, then, thou hadst a great loss. You heard of it?

peradventure."

"Truly, your Majesty, we hear not of such matters in Warwickshire as these your London plays," said Sir Thomas drily.

"But you have heard of Master Shakespeare, and seen his verse? Nay, methinks you must have seen his verse."

Sir Thomas coughed (he glanced at her Majesty in order to see if she was bantering him), "His verse, your Majesty," he said.

"Truly so," said the Queen. "How like you Master Shakespeare's verse, Sir Thomas."

"Very scurvily, in verity, what I have seen of it, that is to say.

Ahem!"

"That is singular," said the Queen. "Methinks there could hardly be a double opinion upon Master Shakespeare's verse. It is most exquisite and unmatchable."

"I cannot say I have seen anything I particularly admire in it nevertheless," said Sir Thomas, drily.

"What verse have you seen?" inquired the Queen. "Can you repeat a stanza?"

"Ahem! Your Majesty," said Sir Thomas, "I am not altogether good at repeating poetry. I like it not. Sir Philip Sydney was about to observe something,--he understands these matters."

"I am but saying to my Lord of Leicester," said Sir Philip, "that according to the present system, those stage matters are managed in a somewhat more rapid style than was wont to be the custom. Now, for instance, we must tax our imagination. For look ye, if in the play the ladies walk forth before one's eyes and gather flowers, what skills it but your Majesty is forthwith to imagine the stage a garden. By-and-by two wet mariners speak of shipwreck in the same place. Then indeed, are we to blame an we accept it not for a barren sand or rock. Upon the back of that cometh out a hideous monster with fire and smoke issuing from his nostrils; and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a cave, whilst in the meantime two armies flying in are represented by some half-a-dozen swords and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive it for a pitched field?"

"By my fay, Sir Philip," said the Queen, "we must then have imaginations as fertile as him who writeth these changeful varieties."

"Truly so, your Majesty," said Sir Philip, who was rather affected in his ordinary style. "Doubtless such sights are edifying, but then of time, madam,--of time,--we must be even more liberal, for look ye, if (as is not uncommon) two royal persons fall in love, we may see these lovers become parents of a chubby boy. Then, your Majesty, such boy becomes stolen and lost, and after many traverses he groweth to man's estate, falleth in love in time, and _in time_ is ready to marry and all this (an it so please ye) in some two hours' s.p.a.ce."

"Nay, Sir Philip," saith the Queen, " methinks you are now taking some pains to appeal to our imagination yourself, lest we should weary ere the performance commences. But, look ye, in good time the drums have ceased and the curtain rises."

CHAPTER L.

THE SCENIC HOUR.

When the curtain rose, it discovered the representation of a private street, very rudely painted upon a sort of hanging screen at the back of the stage, with a couple of wings to match, and upon a board or placard was also written in good-sized characters an intimation for the benefit of the spectators, worded thus:--"Scene during the greater part of the play in Verona; once in ye-fifthe act, at Mantua," a flourish of trumpets meantime rung out as the stage was displayed, and one dressed in character as "Prologue," entered, and bowing low towards the royal box, delivered the well-known but now omitted argument of the piece:--

"Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows Do, with their death, bury their parents' strife.

The fearful pa.s.sage of their death mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents's rage Which, but their children's end, nought could remove, Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage: The which if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."

"Methinks, my Lord of Ess.e.x," said the Queen, who had listened with great interest to the words, "Master Prologue promiseth well. Marked you how much was contained in those few lines? And lo, here begins the piece."

As the Queen spoke, Sampson and Gregory, with their swords and bucklers, and clad pretty much after the fashion of serving men of their own day, entered, and instantly commenced their animated dialogue.

Not, however, be it understood "slubbered over" by inferior actors, as in our times, but with exceeding humour, and with force and emphasis in every word; for even these minor characters were performed by actors of great talent.

Nothing could exceed the curiosity and interest in the audience even at this, the very commencement. The lively and sharp dialogue, the action so suited to the times in which the spectators lived; the animosity of the Capulet underlings towards the servitors of the Montagu family--and which bore so hardly upon several n.o.bles present, whose followers frequently brawled and fought in the streets--produced a great effect; till, at length, as the lie was given, and Gregory, being prompted to remember his swashing _blow_, drew out his weapon, and the whole four engaged, the excitement, especially in the pit, was extraordinary. A murmur of delight was heard, and whilst some clapped their hands upon their rapiers, others shouted and seemed half inclined to jump upon the stage, and "fight on part and part." The entrance of Benvolio and Tybalt, however, produced a deep and silent attention.

"What, art thou drawn amongst these heartless hinds?

Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death."

There was, indeed, now amongst the audience no inclination to pursue their accustomed practical jokes--no mewling of cats, squeaking of pigs, and tickling each other's ears with the rushes. The wondrous words of the poet held them in a state of enchantment. The n.o.bles of the Court for the moment forgot the accustomed homage of eye and ear. Their bearded faces betrayed their interest, and the templars and students, as they stood leaning upon their heavy-hilted rapiers, sent their eyes upon the stage as if they could have devoured each line.

Indeed, to have any ideas of the interest created, we most again call to the reader's remembrance how great was the contrast between that which _had been_ and that which _was_; and if the melody of the verse of Shakespeare can, in the present day, make such an impression whilst we have so many and such varied productions suited to the hour and the time, in how much more was it likely to strike the senses of all present, when it seemed to have descended at once, in all its glorious beauty, like the music of the spheres!

There is that in theatrical representation, it has been observed by one of the greatest writers of our day, which perpetually awakens whatever of romance belongs to our characters. The comic wit, the strange art that gives such meaning to the poet's lightest word, the fair exciting life that is detailed before us, crowded into some little three hours--all that our most busy ambition could desire, love, enterprize, war, glory, the exaggeration of the sentiments which belong to the stage--like our own boldest movements.

Meanwhile the interest increased momentarily. The audience, from the Queen down to the meanest person there, seemed held in a state of enchantment as the piece proceeded. How different was it already from anything they had ever conceived of theatrical representation! It was a picture of life, such as is in the order of nature; there was the buoyant spirit of youth in every line! The Knight of Charlecote even became young again; he cast his eyes for a moment around, and was edified at beholding the deep, the breathless attention of the audience.

The royal Tudor, "with eye and ear attentive bent," the lovely faces of her attendant ladies, each thrust forward and eager to catch the words of the poet, and the fine features of the attendant cavaliers, lighted up and animated with an expression of deep interest; the whole a.s.semblage seeming, he thought, to hang upon each word.

As the eye of Sir Thomas again turned from the audience and rested upon the stage, he observed that the scene had been fresh placarded, and was now "a street in fair Verona." Indeed the serving-man who had announced to Lady Capulet, in the preceding scene, that "supper was served, Juliet asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity,"

had before his own exit changed the placard, and the next moment, as a gay party of revellers filled up the back of the stage, Romeo, Mercutio, and Benvolio, clad in masking costume, vizors in their hands, entered.

The masquing robes of Mercutio were partially dashed aside as he spoke the few words which const.i.tute his opening speech.

"Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance."

At the same moment, too, the vizor which had bean held before his face was lowered, and as the glance of the torch-light fell upon his rich Italian dress and elegant figure, Sir Thomas started, whilst a murmur of applause ran through the theatre, gradually breaking into load plaudits, for in Mercutio they beheld the author of the piece--Shakespeare was on the stage.

The applause, however, was hushed almost at its commencement in the interest of the scene, and then came those startling lines which have since become as household words:--

"O, then, I see Queen Mab has been with you."

They came from the tongue of him who composed them, now uttered to an audience for the first time. Who shall attempt to describe their impression upon the hearers? Who shall describe the manner--the look--the utterance of him who then gave them? Shall we go too far if we say the world had since nothing to compare with that representation? The life, the brilliancy, the style of the character was suited to the actor. He was all fire, energy and spirit,--Mercutio was Shakespeare's self,--the most mercurial and spirited of the production of his comic muse; and the impressive manner in which he gave the words of the character, and their fire and brilliancy, his exquisite intonation, nay, the very dash of his look was irresistible.

The Queen, as he finished his speech, glanced around her. "'Fore Heaven, my Lord of Ess.e.x," she said, "but is not this exquisite?"

The answer of Ess.e.x was drowned in the applause which at the moment burst from all around as the graceful actor continued his part.

To ourselves, perhaps, at this moment, it would appear extraordinary that even greater approbation and louder plaudits had not followed.

Shakespeare upon the stage, and speaking his own words, would seem to call forth acclaiming shouts within the walls of that old monastic playhouse which should almost have rent its roof in twain. To ourselves it would seem that the spectators should have almost expired with their enthusiasm; that "throats of bra.s.s, inspired with iron lungs," should have greeted him. But, be it remembered, that, exquisite as the whole performance was, as yet the audience knew little of the man, that the consideration of years had to mature the judgment of the world. He was actually giving them that which was too exquisite for the rudeness of the age in which they lived.

And so the play went on, new beauties every moment coming over the ears of that courtly audience, and at the same moment filling with delight those of inferior degree.

Amongst the audience const.i.tuting the Court circle were two spectators who stood somewhat apart, and beneath the arched entrance which admitted to the rude gallery const.i.tuting the dress-circle. With folded arms they watched the performance with, if possible, greater interest than any there.

They were an old and a young man, who had been drawn to see this performance from having heard the name of the author on their arrival in London. Both were from the neighbourhood of Stratford-upon-Avon, and (albeit they could scarce believe this play was the production of one whom they had long lost sight of), still they came.

As the play proceeded they became convinced from the language that it was indeed the production of the youth they had formerly known.

"By 'ur Lady," said Walter Arderne, "this must be our sometime friend!"

"No man else could have written even what we have already heard," said Sir Hugh Clopton.