They approach a blue dwelling.
JAMIE
Aye, but apart from that, it’s all like in yon book.
DOCTOR
Yes. History is on its proper course
Once more. I must remember to make sure
That Shakespeare writes it straight, next time we meet.
ZOE
Next time? Next time? You’ve met Shakespeare before?
The DOCTOR opens the door to the dwelling and enters.
JAMIE
Aye. Who is this Shakespeare fella, anyway? I’ve never heard of him.
ZOE
[entering] Oh, Jamie, you have so much left to learn.
JAMIE
[entering] Hey, at least I know my own history.
DOCTOR
[entering] That’s what began our troubles, don’t forget . . .
Trumpet. Wheezing, groaning. The DWELLING vanishes – leaving the DOCTOR, JAMIE and ZOE standing where it once stood.
JAMIE & ZOE
Oh, Doctor!
Wheezing, groaning. And then the DOCTOR, JAMIE and ZOE vanish, bound for another adventure.
* * *
Friends, Daleks, Cybermen . . .
* * *
CYMBELINE
Another early draft of a scene, this time from the play Cymbeline.
While in Rome, Posthumus, son-in-law to Cymbeline, King of the Britons, accepts a drunken wager from an Italian nobleman, Iachimo. Iachimo proposes to test the loyalty of Imogen, daughter of Cymbeline and wife to Posthumus. He travels to the British city of Lud’s Town, where he asks Imogen to guard a box of valuables. Imogen takes the box into her chamber. Iachimo has concealed himself inside it, and plans to emerge at midnight to collect evidence that he has spent time in her room: notes on the furnishings, and the bracelet that Imogen always wears – a love token from Posthumus.
SCENE II
Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s palace: a trunk in one corner of it. IMOGEN in bed, reading; a Lady attending
IMOGEN
Who’s there? My woman Helen?
LADY
Please you, madam.
IMOGEN
What hour is it?
LADY
Almost midnight, madam.
IMOGEN
I have read three hours, then: mine eyes are weak:
Fold down the leaf where I have left: to bed.
What is’t, Helen? Fold down the page, I say.
LADY
Excuse the fancy, madam.
IMOGEN
Speak, Helen.
LADY
’Twas but a shadow dancing on the wall. The light, madam.
Fitfully it burns.
IMOGEN
Take not away the taper, leave it burning;
And if thou canst awake by four o’ the clock,
I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly.
Exit Lady
To your protection I commend me, gods.
From fairies and the tempters of the night
Guard me, beseech ye.
Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk
IACHIMO
The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken’d
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,
How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss; one kiss!
DOCTOR comes from the trunk.
IACHIMO
But soft! Who’s this?
DOCTOR
I would not do that deed if I were you.
There is a word for chaps who play such tricks
And judges say it in a court of law.
IACHIMO
The Doctor who attends the Britons’ Queen!
Concealed within the trunk! How is this so?
I saw you not when I was ’prisoned there.
DOCTOR
I know about your filthy little game;
Your plot to thieve the bracelet from her wrist.
This wager that you made with Posthumus
To test the faith of Lady Imogen
Shames you and he, not her. I don’t suppose
You’ve antiseptic hand-rub in that purse?
IACHIMO
I prithee, gentle Doctor, hold thy peace.
She will awake and then we both are lost.
DOCTOR
Oh are we, now? Tell me, Iachimo –
Iachimo – I like the ring of that –
’Tis very like a word I like to cry
When jumping into dangers unexplored –
Tell me who sleeps before us in this room.
What do you see?
IACHIMO
Rubies unparagon’d,
How dearly they do’t! ’Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o’ the taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids,
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows, white and azure laced
With blue of heaven’s own tinct.
DOCTOR
Blimey, Iachimo, you do go on.
And now you’re taking notes. You’re quite
The thorough villain.
IACHIMO
I will write all down:
Such and such pictures; there the window; such
The adornment of her bed; the arras; figures,
Why, such and such; and the contents o’ the story.
DOCTOR
What story do you mean, Iachimo?
IACHIMO
There o’the wall, Doctor. It is the tale
Of Tereus the tyrant King of Thrace
And the unhappy sister to his wife
Told in a tapestry. See, here she is,
Fair Philomel, before the gods assuaged
Her mortal pain by strange transformation
Into the bird that makes its song by night
I’faith! What’s here? What mockery is this?
There is but woven air where she once stood.
DOCTOR
Ah, that’s not good. In fact, it’s very bad.
I saw this happen on Trafalgar Square –
Or under it, at least – and then the world
Was nearly blown to pieces that same day.
Perhaps you ought to climb back in the box
Close up the lid; pray for deliverance.
IACHIMO
Hide in a cask, affrighted by a void
On an arras? My role is not yet played.
My wager lies unwon. Here is the prize:
The band of treasure wrapp’d about her wrist.
DOCTOR
I really would stand back, Iachimo!
IACHIMO
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off:
(Taking off her bracelet)
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!
’Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To the madding of her lord.
IMOGEN
Who is’t? What ho?
DOCTOR
His name’s Iachimo. He’s come from Rome.
In Italy. The country like a boot.
IACHIMO
My lady, I profess with all my heart –
IMOGEN
Your heart, methinks is not so bounteous.
Why stand you here within my private rooms?
IACHIMO
Into this chamber, madam, we intrude.
Though in the royal court of Cymbeline
It seems we left our manners at the door.
DOCTOR
But so did you, I think, fair Imogen.
IACHIMO
Sweet doctor hold thy peace. Keep thou this thought:
This lady holds us both within her power.
DOCTOR
She’s no lady. She’s not even from earth.
Her habitation was a torrid world
Of seas and lakes and swamps wherein which dwelt
Great milky worms they called the Skarasen.
Those roaring beasts that were all boiled like eels
When stellar blasts screamed through her tract of space.
Is that not right?
IMOGEN
Thou speak’st a bitter truth.
And now this jay of Italy has robbed
The bracelet from my arm, I am
Obliged to cast this form into the air
And bid adieu to honest Imogen.
IACHIMO
God’s wounds! Mine eyes! She melts into the air.
Where is the daughter of the Britons’ king?
The lady Imogen hath not the mien
Of some abomination dredged up from the deep.
What is this creature stands before us now?
Some great soused gurnet upright o’the land,
Skin like calvered salmon, all o’erwrought
With crimson veins and stinking barnacles.
Two eyes like coals new fallen from the fire,
Which even now are burning ’pon my skin.
Doctor, prepare some draught that might relieve
The sickness that has overpowered my sight.
DOCTOR
I have no herb for this, Iachimo.
IACHIMO
Release me, sir, from my delusions!
DOCTOR
You do not dream. There is no spell to break.
IACHIMO
O lamprey, spare me. Hath I offended thee?
IMOGEN
The paltry human thing begs for his life.
He would not beg if he could see my mind;
The fortune that I conjure for his world:
Italy drowned, the world a brackish lake,
Rank weeds splitting the stones of old Lud’s town;
Hot steam above the Thames; and there,
Pushing its way through river’s warm expanse,
The fatal body of the Skarasen.
Answering its mistress’ royal call.
DOCTOR
You lot are fixed on feudal circumstance.
Dukedoms, lairdships, empires and the great throne
Of Tulloch’s Golden Haggis Lucky Dip.
Iachimo, may I toss this your way?
Within this little chamber, as you see
A greater war is just about to bloom.
Remember I said get back in that box?
It might be time to think on this again.
IACHIMO
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear;
Though this was heavenly angel, hell is here.
Clock strikes
One, two, three: time, time!
Goes into the trunk.
DOCTOR
Adieu, Iachimo. Remain inside,
Crouched on your frowsty bed of Roman coin.
IMOGEN
’Tis best he does not see the final act.
The next scene, gentle Doctor, is our own.
When it concludes, Britain shall be my realm.
The scene closes
* * *
Blow Time Winds and crack reality.
* * *
DIARY EXTRACT
The following extract, apparently transcribed into the Notebooks from William Shakespeare’s personal diary for late 1601 (exact date not recorded) describes a meeting to discuss plans for the play that became Twelfth Night. Richard Burbage was the leading player of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, and (together with his older non-acting brother Cuthbert) owned the Globe theatre where they performed.
The identity of the third member of the group – referred to in Shakespeare’s notes only as ‘He’ or ‘that man’ – has never been established. The implication is of course obvious from the fact that Shakespeare included it in the Notebooks.
Finally, Burbage did agree to discuss my outline for the play which we hope to perform come Candlemas, and so we retired to a nearby hostelry thinking ourselves to be well received and accorded some privacy.
But He was there again. Methinks that man doth follow me like a shadow some times. He is everywhere, and always where least expected. Though I must confess His company is agreeable, His conversation witty, and His insights oft-times display a depth of perspicacity that belies His outward demeanour. Burbage seemed content to allow Him to join our table, and who was I to offer objection.
‘Why wear you celery on your coat?’ Burbage asked as we awaited our ale. He is never one to hold back when he could speak his mind.
‘I think it’s rather fashionable, don’t you?’ He replied. Seeing Burbage’s perplexity, His expression changed. ‘Oh, you don’t. Well, never mind.’ And so He turned to me. ‘So what’s this next play all about?’
I made a study of contemplation, as if gathering my thoughts, and then explained, ‘I have a mind to write of a woman who is shipwrecked. Fearing her brother is lost at sea and anxious for her own safety, she doth counterfeit her own brother in character and apparel. I draw inspiration,’ I confided, ‘from the story “Of Apollonius and Silla” by one Barnabe Rich.’
He made a face at this, and not by cause of sour ale. ‘I prefer the original. By Matteo Bandello. I met him once, you know. Dreadful table manners.’ He glanced at Burbage who was quaffing his ale with gusto. ‘Not a problem here, I see.’
‘So, what is the plot?’ Burbage asked, belching vapours and wiping his mouth with his hand.
‘The woman, who I shall name Viola, is therefore dressed as a man . . .’
‘Always gets laughs, that,’ Burbage said.
I pressed on. ‘She is employed to carry favours of love between two estranged lovers. And doing so, she her self doth fall in love with the man. And the woman doth fall in love with Viola, thinking her to be a man also.’ I let them consider this, and continued. ‘I have in mind also a grotesque. A great fat man fond of ale, who is in conflict with the upright servant of the woman in love. His name shall be –’ I paused to think of a suitable nomenclature. In the silence, Burbage again gave vent to the wind, and bestowed upon me the very name I sought. ‘Belch. Sir Toby Belch. There will be great bating and amusement. The fat man, Belch, will make it seem that the officious servant is mad for love of his mistress. And there is another too, a coward who is coerced into duelling.’
Burbage clapped his hands at this. ‘And a fool. There must be a fool.’
‘Assuredly,’ I told him.
‘Um, sorry,’ He said. ‘But, well, that all sounds rather complicated to me. Don’t you think?’
‘Complicated?’
‘Yes. And it doesn’t make much sense either, does it? I mean who’d mistake a woman dressed as a man for the real thing?’
‘She will be played,’ Burbage pointed out, ‘by a boy.’
He frowned at this, lifted his ale, then replaced it without drinking. ‘Sorry, it’s probably me, but you will present a boy playing a woman who dresses as a man who then falls in love with a man who I assume is really a man, but while still pretending to be a man. And then the woman the man loves, who is also I assume in reality a boy, falls in love with the man who is actually a woman played by a boy pretending to be a man.’
‘Pretending to be her own brother,’ I added, by way of clarification. ‘You have it exactly.’
‘And who is the brother pretending to be?’ He asked.
‘Why no one. He is himself.’
He shook his head. ‘Still not sure,’ He admitted. ‘So what happens when the real brother turns up? If he does turn up.’
‘He must,’ Burbage agreed.
‘Then won’t that be confusing? For the audience but also for all the characters. What if someone me
ets the brother and thinks it’s the boy being a girl who’s pretending to be the brother but is actually the sister?’
‘That must happen too!’ Burbage exclaimed, slamming down his empty tankard. ‘Confusion, thy name is . . .’ He broke off. ‘Confused,’ he decided, signalling for another draught.
‘I think you’ve had quite enough for today,’ He said, removing Burbage’s tankard from out of reach.
As could be predicted, Burbage was all of a rage at this. ‘Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?’
I made a small note of this on my papers. And also of His response – ‘Oh the whirligig of time,’ He murmured.
‘What’s it called, this comedy of yours?’ Burbage demanded. ‘It is a comedy?’
‘It is a comedy,’ I assured him. ‘And I have decided to name it “Twelfth Night”.’
There was pause at this as both the company made contemplation of the title.
‘“Twelfth Night”?’ Burbage said at last. ‘“Twelfth Night”.’
‘Why?’ He asked – ever my buggbear.
‘Forsooth, because the play doth explore the misrule of the fat man, Belch.’
‘Fair enough, But why “Twelfth Night”?’
‘There shall be songs and mummery and riotous disorder,’ I told Him, my exasperation growing by the moment.
‘No, I still don’t see what “Twelfth Night” has to do with a love triangle between a man, a woman, and a cross-dressing woman played by a boy.’
Feeling my blood begin to boil at this, I left Him and Burbage to debate the matter. ‘“Twelfth Night” is the name I have given my play,’ I told them with authoritie as I took my leave. ‘But I am merely the playwright, and you may call it what you will.’
THE DREAM
One of the strangest sections of the Shakespeare Notebooks comprises a form of ‘dream diary’, in which he apparently recorded characters, situations and images that had come to him in his sleep.
Of particular interest is the entry for 24 June 1594 – the midsummer night’s dream that inspired one of his well-loved plays, which appears to have been born entirely from his imagination . . .
Last night, I had the most wonderful and strange vision, of foreign worlds and marvellous beasts, in the most fantastical comedy. I must set it down before the memory fades. It may make, with some changes, a most excellent play. I must also remember not to drink the ale at the Elephant again as my head feels like it’s had an elephant sitting on it.
The Shakespeare Notebooks Page 4