by L E Pembroke
‘How could she be, she will never see you again?’
‘My grandmother will be pleased that I have found a way to serve God. She has often said she wished I had a vocation. Well, I have and God has revealed it to me.’
‘You are too young to recognise a vocation.’
‘That is not so father. I am pleased that at last we have been able to speak about this matter because I have been worrying about precisely how I would reveal my decision to you. I have been praying that you will agree to come to the nunnery and sign the paper which will enable me to enter the religious life. Also father, I would be most grateful if before that we attended Mass at the Basilica together so you can share with me my joy knowing that soon I will be a chosen and special member of our church on earth.’
He knew it was necessary for him to use all his powers of persuasion. Susanna was an emotional, hot-headed and impulsive young woman.
‘Susanna, this is not a decision to be rushed. Why don’t we continue our journey and if you still wish to become a nun we will go home so that you can say goodbye to members of our family. Is this a Closed Order you wish to join?’
He hoped not for if it was there would be little chance of ever seeing her again.
‘It is a cloistered order where our lives are spent in prayer and contemplation. No, I will not return to England, I am convinced the family will applaud my decision.’
This sounded like a Closed Order to him. What was the difference? He didn’t really know.
‘Father, are you aware that if they accept me, the Mother Superior might expect a dowry?’
‘No, I have never given the matter any thought. A generous dowry, I expect.’
‘I believe so, educated ladies must pay for the privileges they receive. The money, jewellery or other gifts you might be inclined to give to the nunnery will ensure that I will be permitted to devote my whole life to prayer and contemplation. Young girls from poor families become Lay Sisters, they do not provide such gifts but do the hard physical work in the Community, the cleaning, cooking and farming. They have very little time for prayer. Their work for the Choir Sisters is the best offering they can make to God. Of course if it is necessary for me to become a Lay Sister, I will do so willingly’.
He watched silently and she seemed to be deliberating.
‘Perhaps that is what God plans for me, to attain humility by working for Him in the fields. Pride, you may know father, is one of the Deadly Sins and I have been proud of my educational achievements. Perhaps as a penance I should spend my life with the illiterate nuns?’
He could tell she wasn’t being deliberately disingenuous.
‘If you enter the convent, you will enter as a Choir Sister.’
He thought momentarily of that piece of land on which his Company was planning to create the best theatre in London. It very much looked as if that project might be considerably delayed. ‘Oh very well, but Susanna, I will need a day or two to consider my finances. Please make arrangements for us to see your Mother Superior three days from now. In the meantime, I beg you to consider deeply before you make any commitment.’
She wasn’t listening. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Oh father, how can I ever express to you my deep love and gratitude for your understanding and generosity. God will reward you for your selflessness.’
He wasn’t so sure about that. God didn’t seem to have rewarded those who dedicated their lives to him, Edward Campion, Robert Southwell and so many others hadn’t received rewards, certainly not on earth. Perhaps God kept all his rewards for the next life? Perhaps God decided that people in this world were responsible for procuring their own temporal rewards through dedication and hard work. And if one was fortunate, there was love of a woman. Would he ever experience what it was like to love a charming and intelligent woman? Real love, not just shallow, light-hearted flirtatious attraction about which he had written so many times.
ACT 2 - 5
Within a week Susanna was firmly ensconced in the convent located adjacent to St. Augustine’s Church and very near to St. Peter’s Basilica. The entrance to the house of this Augustinian Order of nuns was through a discreet door in the church which opened into a small cloistered area surrounding a diminutive garden comprised only of three or four flowering shrubs.
Susanna beamed with delight as her father farewelled her. He had the definite feeling she was glad to see the back of him so enthusiastic was she to begin her new life of prayer and glorifying God. He had now lost two of his three children and feared he alone was entirely to blame. How can one be an effective father while living, for ten months of each year, more than one hundred miles from one’s family and how would Anne react to the news of Susanna’s so-called vocation?
Certainly theirs, from the first days of their enforced marriage, had been an unsatisfactory relationship. Was it entirely his fault though? He had never really loved her. A few moments of desire would have resulted in a life of imprisonment for both of them if he hadn’t followed his fortune to London. And, now it seemed, she was about to lose her older daughter as well as her only son. Well, he had done all that his conscience demanded and purchased for her the best house in Stratford. That should be some compensation. And, anyway, at forty-four years what woman desires the company of a loving husband? Security is all most women require at that age.
*
William left the convent to begin the next section of his journey through Europe. His thoughts slid from his wife and daughter and fastened onto his own life of personal frustration. All very well to be praised for his creative skills. Once he believed that writing poetry and plays was all he wanted in life. Now, he knew better. He was a lonely man. He wanted someone to love.
There had been a time, he tried not to think about it, when he was captivated, charmed, imagined he loved - a forbidden love - but the object of his inspiration was now married and with children. That man admired his poetry, but despite his bisexuality, had no wish for a close relationship with the playwright and poet. William’s frustration had increased throughout the nineties, only to be lessened by the pleasure he gained from the creation of an overwhelming number of fictitious characters and, as well, by the implementing of his plans, with other members of the company, to build their own theatre. Then the tragic loss of his son followed by months of grieving laid waste to his plans.
Nevertheless, financially, he was reasonably secure. As well as his house in Stratford, he owned property in the district and immediately prior to this tour, had purchased a large dwelling near Blackfriars - a dwelling occupied by recusants seeking safety and shelter when they came to inhospitable London and also big enough to hide an underground priest or two if necessary. Ever since his good friend, Father Robert Southwell was recognised as he hurried through the city, and subsequently hanged, William wanted in some way to contribute to the well-being of Christians who were persecuted in England. The answer came when the Blackfriars house came up for sale just at the time he was looking for property in London. His reasons were not entirely altruistic. He had the money and believed this was the least he could do for the faith of his parents. Not only that, such an action might help to balance his personal ledger with God. Not that he would ever attend a Mass in that house, silly to risk it. At the Court he was considered “a safe Catholic” and that’s the way he wanted it to be.
The overland journey to Venice took ten days and included a stopover in Verona. This was a city he longed to see. Only recently had he completed his romantic tragedy set in that city. It would be fascinating to see how similar or dissimilar the city actually was from the one he imagined. Not that it was necessary to see Verona, his story was not about the city. It concerned a pair of young star-crossed lovers within the city.
The countryside between the towns on his journey north was dry, relatively flat and unremarkable. He had never been one who aspired to country life and whenever he travelled he hastened from one city to another.
On reaching his ultimate destination, William gazed with
fascination. Nothing had quite prepared him for the unique city of islands that was Venice. It was the two principal islands of San Marco and Rialto, separated by the Grand Canal, that most astounded and fascinated him, and he rarely left them. San Marco featured the Doge’s magnificent palace and beside it the Basilica of St. Mark - a byzantine hugely ornate building dating back to the eleventh century with many domes, columns, friezes and arches. He marvelled at the outside walls where there were many mosaics of Old Testament stories; while inside were mosaics of scenes from the New Testament. How different from anything still left standing back in England. During those first days in Venice, he spent hours examining the intricate decor of San Marco. Religious matters were something he rarely pondered over. He left that to the rest of the family, yet when he first saw St. Peter’s in Rome and St. Marco, he felt something of the resentment of the recusant families in England as they watched the dissolution of the monasteries during the previous fifty years.
He took rooms on San Marco Island, not too close to the main canal though. The pervasive stink of rubbish and human and animal waste drifted from one side of the canal to the other and was imprisoned in the humid atmosphere above it. He had no wish to glide in a gondola through that sewer and he noticed the windows of the homes of the wealthy on the San Marco side of the canal were firmly shut.
The contrast with the poverty-stricken area on the other side of the canal was astounding and down near the Rialto Markets the stench of rotting vegetables and fish that littered the narrow alleys, turned his stomach. Narrow winding alleys, squares, waterways, humidity and unpleasant smells would always be his lasting impressions of this city. No fine roadways on these islands, no room for them. Men and children poured out of their cramped dwellings into the alleys. Women clustered and gossiped in them, children played in them and old men sat on the steps of the front doorways hoping one of their peers would come along and play a game of draughts with them. The women attended the fish and vegetable markets and returned home in plenty of time to cook the midday meal. Siesta during the afternoon; after which, again they emerged to gossip as the sunlight faded.
As the housewives emerged so did the prostitutes (hundreds of them in this male-orientated city of merchants and fishermen) commencing their evening stroll for business. Dogs and cats (all skin and bone) defecated at will and searched the alleys for fish heads thrown from upper windows.
In a way he was glad he found Venice unappealing, it was obviously an unhealthy atmosphere for him to be in. The perennial moist, sticky and germ-laden atmosphere soon gave rise to troublesome coughing fits similar to those he had suffered as a boy and again on several occasions in London, especially while he lived on the south side of the river.
Nevertheless, his two rooms in Venice were adequate and the owner of the boarding house, a pleasant enough widow of a successful fisherman, cooked a tasty meal. The house, fronting a curved alley half way between the main canal and the square of San Marco, was the bolt-hole from which he rarely emerged. He was working with intensity on his latest comedy - the story of a usurer who plied his trade on the Venetian waterfront where merchant ships from most of the known world arrived with cargoes of spices, silks and more recently tea and tobacco. It was five months since he’d put pen to paper, so he worked with a will, free at last to resume his story-telling.
William, however was a gregarious fellow and occasionally when his muse left him, he sought the company of his performer friends from Rome who with others of that ilk regularly appeared in Venice. After all, this was the city of masques and carnival and the favourite haunt of actors, musicians and artists most of whom earned their bread and butter in the squares of Venice both day and night. Often masked, they, for a coin, serenaded Venetian ladies as they strolled near to the Doge’s Palace in their flamboyant clothing. These ladies, he soon discovered, were not ever to be confused with the many courtesans within this nobility-laden state. Courtesans proudly wearing what had become a signature of their position in society - their badge of honour. They all wore extravagant hats, heavily brocaded blouses with extreme décolletage and tight fitting trousers with high-heeled boots.
Under the patronage of the many members of the local nobility the players often performed in grand and elegant salons for the cosmopolitan and privileged of Venice. William didn’t take part. He had a job to do and that was to write new scripts for his Company.
It would be only a matter of weeks before his departure for Rome. Would they allow him to see Susanna or would he see merely the shadow of her face through a grille in a door? How was she coping with her life of prayer? Susanna had always been an outspoken girl. Would she be able to meekly obey the nuns who would be keenly observing the new postulant, searching for weaknesses, acts of disobedience and signs of self-pride?
He had a daily routine and had always found it necessary to work regular hours. Eager as ever to create his stories, each day he pushed a small table towards the window of his bedroom and by the time the sun had risen, was fully engrossed with the doings of the people in his mind. In those times the first meal of the day comprised ale, bread and cheese. Now, he sampled a new arrival in Europe and found the tangy taste of tea most satisfying. Six hours of work was about as much as he could handle at one time. So after luncheon - usually fish and vegetables - he left his rooms while many in the population took to their beds in the quiet of the hours immediately after midday. His route rarely varied; winding past and through narrow alleys, he was soon in the square of San Marco. Time for a drink and possibly a chance meeting with an acquaintance. Not that he felt the need for company; now that he was back at work, he had little time or desire for polite conversation.
After stopping for a few moments to admire and occasionally say a quick prayer in the basilica, William sometimes ventured through the other end of the square to gaze with admiration at the vista before him. The cobalt blue often choppy sea was crowded with fishing boats and larger cargo vessels riding the wavelets or moored next to small specks of land. These were some of the islands of Venice - over a hundred of them - many uninhabited.
William didn’t care much for the sea. He had a deeply imbedded fear of drowning and like so many others of his contemporaries, had no idea how he would stay afloat in the event of a catastrophe at sea. Even the thought of a gondola ride made him shiver with fear, what if that narrow-hulled boat turned over and he drowned after choking on the disgusting debris floating in the canals?
It was quite cool that day in November. He walked along the pathway encircling San Marco, stopped for a few minutes to admire the Murano glass on display on one of the stalls and watched fishermen hauling in nets. Very few people were about although behind him, sheltered from the wind, a sedan chair had been placed and its former occupant, a lady, stood adjacent to it. The bearers stood apart from her awaiting the order to move on.
She beckoned to him, this young, tall, imperious woman protected from the wind by fur outer clothing. He drew closer. She held out a gloved hand. He took it. She spoke in English with an accent he was unable to place.
‘Yes, I thought so, Mr. William Shakespeare, I believe.’
He said he did not have the honour of knowing who was addressing him. He gazed frankly at her face. Her skin as pale as a white swan, her hair shining like satin, ebony black and worn in the latest fashion, coiled in ringlets framing her face. Tall too, at the same level, her eyes met his.
‘Please forgive me, I am Ismene Savelli. I saw you first five years ago at the palace of Whitehall. On that evening the audience had the privilege of watching your Company perform your play - King Richard III. How much we enjoyed it. What an ambitious, brutal and despicable murderer Richard was. And, how the Queen clapped when Richmond did slay him. I am thrilled to meet you, Mr Shakespeare. King Richard III was not the first of your plays I have seen, but it was my favourite. Since that time I have always wanted to see your company perform more of your plays. But my circumstances have changed and I no longer travel.’
; ‘I wish you had madam; the story of the murdering Yorkist is not one of my best. In my quest to display the victory of good over evil, I fear I simplified the character of my protagonist. Nevertheless, that particular play was possibly a wise choice for the granddaughter of Henry, the Tudor who brought about the end of the Plantagenet line of kings. Perhaps someday you may have the opportunity to see a performance of the two parts of Henry IV. I believe that play, which I have only recently completed, demonstrates an improvement in my understanding of character and structure and unlike Richard, Henry IV is a play interspersed with a little light relief.’
‘I doubt I will see it in performance. Yet, I am interested to know how one successfully juxtaposes comic relief with history. One more word of King Richard if I may: did that dreadful man in truth have so many members of his family murdered for the sake of his ambitions?’
‘As far as I know, Madame.’
‘Well then, I feel bound to say I believe you do yourself an injustice Mr. Shakespeare, I have heard nothing but praise for your play King Richard III. I have also been told your comedy of multiple mistaken identity is hilarious.’
He felt she had such vivacity and yet such pallor, eyes the blue of the sea on a cloudless day. He was immediately charmed, felt compelled to extend their meeting.
‘”Ismene”, if you will permit me to remark, is a name that conjures up in my mind several stories from Greek mythology. Was Ismene not the gentle sister of Antigone and daughter and sister of the tragic Oedipus?’
‘Indeed she was Mr Shakespeare. Yes, my parents are Greek, we are from Athens and my name is a favourite with Athenians. My father has for many years moved in Court circles and as I have no siblings I have been outrageously spoilt and most fortunate in travelling with my parents throughout my childhood. They insisted that I be educated as if I were a son and I am thankful for it.’
She shivered, turned up the collar of her fur coat. ‘How very much I would like to stay here and continue our fascinating conversation, however I fear the chill of November and should soon seek the protection of my sedan chair.’