Chapter III: Act II: Scene I

_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.

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?

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?

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.

HENSLOWE. A lesser man? Marlowe the lamp, say you?
He’s conflagration, he’s “Armada!” flashed
From Kent to Cornwall! But this lesser man,
He’s the far world the beacons can out flare
One little hour, but, when their flame dies down,
High o’er the embers in the deep of night
Behold the star!

ELIZABETH. I forget if ever I saw him.

HENSLOWE. Madam, if ever you saw him, you would not forget--
A small, a proud head, like an Arab Christ,
And noble, madman’s fingers, never still--
The face still though, mouth hid, the nostril wide,
And eyes like voices calling, shrill and sad,
Borne on hot winds from fairyland or hell;
Yet round the heavy lids a score of lines
All criss-cross crinkle like a score of laughs
That he has scribbled hastily down himself
With his quick fingers. No, not tall--

ELIZABETH. But a man!

MARY. Like other men.

ELIZABETH. Ah?

MARY. It was easy.

ELIZABETH. Tell!

MARY. He came like a boy to apples. Marlowe now--

ELIZABETH. More than a man, less than a man, but not
As yet a man then? Well, I’ll see your Shakespeare:
Marlowe--some other time.

HENSLOWE. I’ll fetch him to you.

HENSLOWE _goes out._

ELIZABETH. To you, Mary--to you!

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 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!

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?

SHAKESPEARE. You should not laugh. I tell you such a thought,
Such fiery lava welling from a heart,
So crystalled in the wonder-working brain,
Mined by the soul and rough-cut into words
Fit for a poet’s faceting and, last,
Strung on a string of gold by a golden tongue--
Why, such a thought is an immortal jewel
To gild you, living, in men’s eyes, and after
To make you queen of all the unjewelled dead
Who bear not their least bracelet hence. For I,
Eternally I’d deck you, were you my own,
Would you but wear my necklaces divine,
My rings of sorcery, my crowns of song.
What chains of emeralds--did you but know!
My rubies, O my rubies--could you but see!
And this one gem of wonder, pearl of pearls,
Hid in my heart for you, could you but take,
Would you but take--

MARY. Open your heart!

SHAKESPEARE. Not so.
The god who made it hath forgot the key,
Or lost or lent it.

MARY. Heartless god! Poor heart!
Yet if this key--(is there indeed a key?)

SHAKESPEARE. No lock without a key, nor heart, nor heart.

MARY. --were found one day and strung with other keys
Upon my ring?

SHAKESPEARE. With other--?

MARY. Keys of hearts!
What else?
Tucked in the casket where my mortals lie--
Sick pearl, flawed emerald, brooch or coronet--

SHAKESPEARE. God!

MARY. Why, Jeweller?

SHAKESPEARE. Then what they say--

MARY. They say?
What do they say? And what care I? They say Pembroke?

SHAKESPEARE. They lie! You shall not speak. They lie!

MARY. So little doubt--and you a man! It’s new.
It’s sweet. It will not last. We spoke of keys--
This heart-key, had I found it, would you buy?
Come, tempt me with immortal necklaces!
Come, purchase me with ornaments divine!

SHAKESPEARE. I love you--

MARY. Well?

SHAKESPEARE. I love you--

MARY. Is that all?

SHAKESPEARE. I love you so.

MARY. Why, that’s a common cry,
I hear it daily, like the London cries,
“Old chairs to mend!” or “Sweet, sweet lavender!”
Is this your string of pearls, sixteen a penny?

SHAKESPEARE. D’you laugh at me? I mean it.

MARY. So do they all.
Buy! Buy my lavender! Lady, it’s cheap--
It’s sweet--new cut--I starve--for Christ’s sake, buy!
They mean it, all the hoarse-throat, hungry men
That sell me lavender, that sell me love.

SHAKESPEARE. I put my wares away. I do not sell.

MARY. O pedlar! I had half a mind to buy.

SHAKESPEARE. Too late.

MARY. Open your pack again! What haste!
What--not a trinket left me, not a pin
For a poor lady? Does not the offer hold?

SHAKESPEARE. You did not close.

MARY. I will.

SHAKESPEARE. Withdrawn! Withdrawn!

MARY. Renew!

SHAKESPEARE. Too late.

MARY. You know your business best;
Yet--what care I?

SHAKESPEARE. Or I? Yet--never again
To buy and sell with you!

MARY. Never again.
Heigh-ho! I sighed, sir.

SHAKESPEARE. Yes, I heard you sigh.

MARY. And smiled. At court, sir--

SHAKESPEARE. Yes, they buy and sell
At court. But I know better--give and take!

MARY [_evading him_].
What will you give me if I let you take?

SHAKESPEARE. If you will come with me into my mind--
How shall I say it? Still you’ll laugh at me!

MARY. Maybe!

SHAKESPEARE. My mind’s not one room stored, but many,
A house of windows that o’erlook far gardens,
The hanging gardens of more Babylons
Than there are bees in a linden tree in June.
I’m the king-prisoner in his capital,
Ruling strange peoples of a world unknown,
Yet there come envoys from the untravelled lands
That fill my corridors with miracles
As it were tribute, secretly, by night;
And I wake in the dawn like Solomon,
To stare at peacocks, apes and ivory,
And a closed door.
And all these stores I give you for your own,
You shall be mistress of my fairy-lands,
I’ll ride you round the world on the back of a dream,
I’ll give you all the stars that ever danced
In the sea o’ nights,
If you will come into my mind with me,
If you will learn me--know 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 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,
Honey and heart-ache, and a lovers’ moon.

SHAKESPEARE. I read of lovers once in Italy--
She was like you, such eyes of night, such hair.
God took a week to make his world, but these
In four short days made heaven to burn on earth
Like a great torch; and when they died--

MARY. They died?

SHAKESPEARE. Like torches quenched in water, suddenly,
Because they loved too well.

MARY. Oh, write it down!
Ah, could you, Will? I think you could not write it.

SHAKESPEARE. I can write Romeo. Teach me Juliet!

MARY. I could if I would. Was that her name--Juliet?

SHAKESPEARE. Poor Juliet!

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.

MARY. But a new flame! Will it take long to write?
It must not.

SHAKESPEARE. Shall not.

MARY. What shall we call it, Will?
The Tragical Discourse? The Famous End?
The Lovers of Verona?

SHAKESPEARE. No, no! Plain.
Their two names married--Romeo and Juliet.

_As they lean towards each other still talking_

THE CURTAIN FALLS.