by L E Pembroke
She looked towards her bearers; they approached her. He couldn’t let her go as soon as this. Already he could tell that Ismene Savelli was his ideal of womanhood - charming, elegant, sensual and cultured. She was the sort of woman he had rarely encountered, on second thoughts, he had never before encountered. He had to see her again.
‘Forgive my selfishness, I should have realised you had no chair.’
‘Standing for a short while does me no harm. Mr. Shakespeare. I wonder, could I prevail upon you to visit me in my home. I would consider it a privilege if you came for tea one afternoon. My husband is, I am afraid, currently conducting business in England. Giovanni travels extensively, and is rarely in Venice. Sadly, I am no longer able to accompany him.
Joy mingled with unreasonable disappointment. He was of course, grateful for the invitation to meet her again, but to be told there was a husband, Giovanni. He should have guessed. Not many women, with looks and charm such as hers, remained unmarried. Already he hated her husband. How could it be that the man travelled the world, leaving his wife alone for what might be months each year, a wife who had inferred that she had some illness. He had, in the past, met many a man who not content with an angelic wife, pursued women in every country they visited. Amazing thought that one married to a lady such as Ismene should spend so much of his life apart from her.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ All previous thoughts about writing throughout each day vanished. She reached into the sedan and drew out a small handbag in which was a cluster of cards. She handed one to him, embossed on it were the words “Countess Ismene Savelli” and the address was one he immediately recognised, an imposing residence only a five-minute stroll from his rooms.
He should have waited, he had learnt how these matters were conducted, but he could not. He should have waited at least two or three days, called at her home and having left his card with one of the servants, awaited her response, which, when it came, would say some such thing as “Countess Ismene Savelli, At Home, Four until Five Thursday November 27, 1598.”
Instead, he said, ‘do we have to go through this rigmarole? May I visit you tomorrow?’
She laughed. ‘Of course Mr. Shakespeare, but only if I may call you William. Please come tomorrow at midday. We shall have luncheon together. I will look forward to it immensely.’
‘As will I, how will I address you Countess?’
‘How else but Ismene. That is my name.’
‘Until tomorrow then.’
He assisted her into the chair and seconds later the bearers had turned the corner into San Marco Square. Such boundless joy, never before had Eros struck him so suddenly and so deeply into his heart. Today, he was certain, was a turning point in his life, and fortune was favouring him. There could be no thought of leaving Venice in the immediate future. Somehow, some day, some way, they would be together. He was certain he had finally found the woman who would come to mean more to him than any other. More to him than his profession, more to him than his family. Yes, he was an emotional man, he knew that. It had been said on many occasions. How could he write his poems and plays without such emotion, without perception of human character? Miraculously, in the few moments they were together he had sensed that she too thought of him as a kindred spirit. Why else would she have invited him to visit her home?
He had carried several hand-written manuscripts with him on this journey knowing that Venice had a fine reputation for printers. Only two weeks before he had the romantic tragedy, Romeo and Juliet printed. This would be his gift to her. He had no wish to discuss Prince Hal and Falstaff, but instead the tragic love between Juliet Capulet and Romeo Montague. He was convinced that if he read with her the words he wrote five years before, concerning the star-crossed lovers from nearby Verona, she would sense the depth of his sudden and deep love for her. This love that had come unbidden, this love that had shaken him to the very core of his being. Already he was planning how the business of her husband could be overcome.
William knew he would change his plans. There would be no hastening back to London to oversee the building of the Globe with his partners from the Lord Chamberlain’s Men and certainly no hastening back to Rome with the intention of removing Susanna from the convent. Previously he had hoped, indeed suspected that her months as a postulant would convince her that what she had imagined was a vocation, was nothing of the sort; merely one of the emotional responses to which young girls were prone. Now all of that would have to wait.
It was imperative that, at their next meeting, he discover more about the marriage between Ismene and Giovanni Savelli. If, impossible to believe, theirs was a happy union, he would leave Venice at the end of the year as previously planned and submerge himself and his feelings in his writing. If she revealed or merely hinted that hers was a loveless marriage - as was his - then he would remain with her here or wherever she desired.
The hours crawled by. His muse had departed. He roamed the alleys and byways. Back in his rooms, he picked up his newly-printed book. Impetuously, he wrote on the fly leaf.
“When I wrote this tale of star-crossed love we had not met. A glimmer of hope that we would do so, somewhere, sometime, inspired my mind to write this story of burning love.
Dearest one, I dedicate myself and my play to you.
Your devoted servant. W.S.”
How much he wanted to take the story of Romeo and Juliet with him that day. It was too soon. Sanity prevailed; she could well be shocked, although he doubted it, by such an outpouring of his feelings. He had to ascertain exactly how the land did lie.
ACT 2 - 6
They showed him into her private parlour, small, daintily furnished and secluded. The front hall and the sitting room he glimpsed were, by contrast, furnished in the grand and opulent style of European palaces. Not that he had seen many of them, just enough to know that it appeared as if Ismene and her husband were a wealthy couple.
She had been sitting but as soon as he appeared, she gave him a most delightful smile of welcome that lit her whole face and immediately walked to the doorway thrusting out her hand. He took hold of it and brushed it with his lips.
‘I have been looking forward to this meeting since the moment we parted yesterday.’
‘Have you really? I too, the hours between dragged like days - no, like weeks.
‘Come, sit in this chair next to me. I so want to hear what it is like to be such a renowned playwright and poet. You see I have read some of your poetry William, I believe I am a most privileged person to be given this time to spend in your company. ‘
‘I think it is I who is the privileged one.’
She sat in an upright golden brocaded chair which faced a similar one although one with a more luxurious depth, to which she directed him. She explained that she was more comfortable sitting fully upright. Once again he noticed her extreme pallor and also, for the first time, her shallowness of breath and as if to confirm his newly-awakened foreboding, she told him she suffered with a disease that limited her manner of living and would shorten her life.
‘But, no more of that, William, I am most interested to know all about you, what is it that gave you your poetic skills? Why do you think you have been blessed in this way? Did you have the advantage of being born into a family of scholars, literary giants?’
She coughed and he became aware that speaking more than a few words at one time was causing her some difficulty.
‘What is it, Ismene. Do you have some problem with your lungs? Does the air of Venice disturb you?’
‘No not that, I had a disease when I was quite young, a disease of the bones, the doctors said. And, a few years later I began to suffer with my heart. Somehow the two seem to be related. As you have observed...’ she paused to take a breath. ‘These days, I am more of a listener than a speaker. In spite of that, I have, I assure you, a percipient mind.’
‘I am already well aware of that. Shall I tell you a story? But first in answer to your question. No, my father was ill-
educated and my mother, not educated at all. In all humility, I must say what I have been given is a gift from God.’
‘You are most blessed then. Now, I hope you will have a glass of wine with me, and then we will eat our luncheon here in the privacy of my small salon; after that, if you will be so kind, please tell me one of your stories of loyalty, courage love and bravery.
She rang the bell and ordered for him a fine white wine from Bordeaux.
‘Is it impertinent if I ask why you are living alone?’
‘It is entirely my fault. I married a man who loves the good things of life. For three years we travelled together; we danced, we partied, we joined others for weekends in various chateaux. We thought of nothing but our own pleasure until the onset of my illness. That was four years ago.
I do not blame Giovanni. He was only thirty years when we were forced to return to this home, I was just twenty-six. He tried to come to terms with our new way of living but it was not within his power. Giovanni loves life and cannot bear to stultify in this small city. He needed companions other than me. He is a congenial man and I am now very much an invalid. Giovanni needs the physical love of a woman, perhaps of many women.’
‘You loved your husband, didn’t you Ismene?’
‘Of course, but I couldn’t give him the love he wanted without risking my life. Giovanni had to leave me.’
‘Love is such a complex word. In an ideal world, the love between a wife and her husband should be far more than the act of love. The love between wife and husband should be based on mutual admiration, respect and a desire to care for that person. Without respect, physical love fades very quickly, I know this well. I believe the greatest joy one can experience is to give love without qualification. I believe if one does that, one will be repaid a hundredfold. I have to say with honesty, I do not speak from experience.’
‘If I may say so, you, William, are an idealist and a dreamer. Few couples experience love as you describe it. Good does not always conquer evil and the triumph of good does not always follow acts of evil.
‘But it does, ultimately it does. You must believe that, Ismene. Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection is the perfect example. My own daughter watched the hideous murder of a priest and because of that she is now completely happy serving and praising God in a convent in Rome. That is, I think she is happy. I can give you a thousand examples of the triumph of good over evil. Nevertheless, I will not as I am hungry for my luncheon.’
‘Forgive me, how inhospitable I am. We will eat immediately.’
Again, she rang the bell and the servants brought in a dish containing aromatic, tender pieces of veal cooked in a wine sauce. The spicy aroma he was not familiar with, but he savoured the piquant taste. He thought perhaps a product of the Eastern Mediterranean. No wonder people called Venice the cosmopolitan capital of Europe. Merchants brought to this city of islands spices and beverages as yet unheard of in England.
After luncheon, he could see she was rapidly tiring. He suggested it was time he left. She said, no, she didn’t want him to leave as she was eagerly awaiting his story.
She sat in her upright chair. In his, he leant forward. He took her hands in his. He began.
‘In this very city of Venice, Antonio, a merchant, lived. His closest friend was Bassanio and his greatest enemy was a usurer with the name of Shylock. Bassanio is desperately in love with Portia, a woman of great wealth. He asks his friend to lend him money for a short time so that he can woo the fair Portia. He says:
“In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages.
Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued
To Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia;
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,
For the four winds blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors,............”
Antonio does not hesitate for a moment.’ He replies:
“Thou knowest that all my fortunes are at sea,
Neither have I money or commodity
To raise a present sum. Therefore go forth -
Try what my credit can in Venice do;
that shall be racked even to the uttermost
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
Go presently enquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make
To have it of my trust or for my sake.”
‘What a generous friend and does Bassanio win the love of Portia?’
‘Yes, indeed he does. After the two friends approach Shylock the Jewish money lender.’
He paused, looked directly into her face, her eyes had closed, her head slumped forward, she had fallen into tranquil sleep. Gently he placed her hands upon her lap, quietly pushed his chair backwards, stood up, moved towards her and brushed her hair with his lips.
Quietly, he opened the door and stepped out of the room.
‘Madame is sleeping,’ he said to a servant. ‘Please tell her I will call again the morning after next.’
ACT 2 - 7
He went to a tavern and sat on a bench in the corner while his mind teemed with thoughts of Ismene, the loving, lonely, charming dark-haired beauty he had come to adore in the twinkling of an eye, and her husband, obviously a man who cared only for his own sexual fulfilment. How could she be so forgiving? That man thought nothing of her. Instead of supporting her in her need, instead of staying true to his marriage vows, he had departed Venice and continued to live his life of lechery and lustfulness.
William wanted to smash him to a pulp, kill him, and free her so she could be with him forever. He would not mind that she was not well enough to consummate their relationship. Theirs would be a higher form of love, akin to the love of God. They would be twin souls. Just to be with her, his ideal woman, was all he required, all he had ever dreamed of. Together, sharing the delights of loving one another and engaging in conversations, intelligent discussion that would inspire him to write plays more distinguished than ever before. She was his muse, she would guide him to write as never previously. Never had he felt such fire of passion together with the warmth of gentle love. He would willingly lay down his life for her.
Yet, the heartburning jealousy and hatred he felt for Giovanni Savelli was poisoning his mind. What if, unthinkable, but, what if she still loved him? He had heard of such characteristics in women. Women beaten both mentally and physically by brutish husbands. Women who tolerated the courtesans who flaunted themselves amongst the nobility of England and Europe.
He would feed on the hatred that seethed through his mind. Already, it had prompted the elementary outline of a story in his brain - a story of consummate evil, of tragic jealousy and uncontrollable rage.
His plans were made. By day he would visit her and having given her his newly-printed copy of Romeo and Juliet, if she preferred it, he would read to her this tragic play. She said that she was nowadays a listener, passive rather than active because of her illness; but she was not entirely passive. He recognised her innate honesty. From her he would receive constructive criticism. Through her he would gain insight. With her he would possess contentment and happiness for the remainder of his life.
William left the tavern, he knew there would be little sleep for him that night. He rushed to his rooms and, immediately, sitting by the lamp light, made his first notes concerning a most passionate tale of love, jealousy, envy and hatred.
*
The following morning her note was delivered to him.
“Dearest William,
Can you ever forgive me? What a tedious person I am. Your story of the friends, Antonio and Bassanio entranced me. If you can bear to spare the time, please visit me again. I am anxious to see you, hear your soothing voice and to learn of the outcome to your story.
Your new and dear friend. Ismene”
Immediately, he sent his reply
with the bearer of Ismene’s note. It was his copy of Romeo and Juliet with the unrestrained dedication, and he attached to the package a few words only. “I will come in the morning, tomorrow, to be with you while you are fully rested. W.S.”
A further twenty-four hours to wait until they were together again. It would be made partly bearable by his compulsion to continue writing his latest story of the terrible jealousy and tragic love of the General from Morocco towards his wife, the ill-starred Desdemona.
He arrived at ten. Ismene was bright, alert and eagerly awaiting him. ‘Shall I continue with the tale of the Merchant?’
‘By all means, if that is your wish. Although I think I would prefer it if you read to me from your most moving play of Romeo and Juliet. You see, William I have already finished reading it. From the moment it came into my hands a day ago, I was unable to put it down and it is finished. Is it sinful of me to want to read it again with you today - to play the part of poor dear Juliet while you assume the role of Romeo?’
‘To read a play, how can that be sinful?’
He ignored what he knew to be the truth. On many occasions he had seen audiences sigh, weep and moan when they heard the words of love and passion he had created for the young lovers. He knew those words had the power to evoke unbridled passion. He wasn’t able to ignore such an opportunity. Through saying to her the words written five years before he would be telling her of his love for her. And, her responses, he hoped, would reveal the intensity of her love for him.
No need for him to say, ‘Ismene, I love you, do you love me enough for us to go away together, leave your husband, leave your marriage which has already lost all meaning?’ He wouldn’t need to say any of those things because he would know the answer from her voice and the role she was about to play.
He said the words again. ‘To read a play, how can that be sinful?’