by L E Pembroke
Past halfway and a further hour to go. John began to speak.
‘Do you remember, Susanna, when and where we met?’
‘I do. Father and I were visiting Paris seven years ago. I lost my way one evening and you appeared from out of the dark and offered to escort me home. I trusted you at once and gratefully accepted your offer.
‘Yes, I had been studying at Cambridge and transferred to Paris to do my medical studies. I admired your appearance that night Susanna and I took an instant liking to your father. I was aware that you did not return my admiration, indeed the reverse. You looked at me as if from a great distance. I could tell that you had a pre-conception of what I was and that did not please you.’
She wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I was but seventeen years. Young people make instant rash judgements.’
‘That is what I want to speak about with you tonight. Has your opinion of me changed at all? I sense perhaps it has.’
‘John, you embarrass me. You must be well aware that I now regard you as a good friend. I believe you are a fine man. My father has told me that the fact you are of the Puritan faith is of no importance to him and shouldn’t be to me. He says all that matters is to have a belief in Jesus Christ and to try to follow his example. My father believes how we practice our faith is a personal matter. It has been difficult for me, John, as a child I was taught differently.’
‘It sounds as if your venerable father has been encouraging you to look favourably on me, Susanna.’
‘No, not at all,’ her face was hot with embarrassment. ‘My father is fond of you, perhaps he thinks of you as a son. After all, he first met you soon after my brother’s death. Also, father loves to be in the company of intelligent and well-read people.’
‘Susanna, I am eleven years younger than your father and eight years older than you and yet I feel like a clumsy child each time we meet at the home of one of our sick or frail Stratford residents. I search for an encouraging look from you and I rarely find it. I say often to myself, forget this woman. Susanna Shakespeare is barely aware of your existence. And yet, other times when you look at me, I imagine I see something in your eyes, a softness which tells me not to give up hope. Am I wrong?’
How can she speak of the yearning she has known?
‘John, I know next to nothing about the feelings men and women have for one another. I simply know that at times I want you to touch me, but you never do, you are always pleasant, yet withdrawn, perhaps unwilling to risk rejection. I feel irrationally dissatisfied when days pass and we do not meet, what does that tell you?’
He pulls the horse to a stop, climbs down from the gig and holds out his hands to assist her to the ground. They face one another. He runs an exploratory finger gently along the outline of her face and lips.
‘That tells me how stupid I am. I wait, hope and do nothing. From a distance I desire you. I now believe you desire me, my dearest Susanna.’
John enfolds her in his arms. She feels her body relax against his. She feels safe enclosed in his arms. Safe as fishermen feel when they find shelter in a harbour after a night of “tempestuous rage” at sea. Or safely awake after a night of terrifying dreams.
Standing together, she is certain she has come home after a long and difficult journey. A surge of love shudders through her whole body. She holds fast to him and whispers. ‘It is a wondrous thing John, I now believe I have loved you from the time we first met.’
*
John and Susanna marry just weeks later in the Holy Trinity Church in Stratford, the church to which neither subscribes but nevertheless the one that legitimises their union in the eyes of the law.
William, delighted to have another son, frequently visits their home, Halls Croft in Stratford. And, whenever William can persuade him John returns with his father-in-law to London for a short time. Not only do they enjoy one another’s company and talk late into each night, but John loves to see and discuss the tragedies written by his father-in-law in the first ten years of the seventeenth century.
During those short stays with William in London, John has another matter on his mind. William, he observes, is easily fatigued, he suspects Susanna’s father is losing weight and notices that at times, he possessed an irksome cough. Could his good friend be showing the first signs of consumption?
ACT 4 - 2
These were good times and bad times for Susanna Hall. Her youngest brother Edmund died, aged only twenty-seven years. Edmund, who had always hoped to go to London and join the prestigious King’s Men, never left his home town. Perhaps Mary, his mother was fortunate to die that same year without knowing that two more of her sons were to die in the following four years.
John and Susanna’s little girl, Elizabeth was born in 1608 and William returned to Stratford to be present for the birth of his first grandchild. Their home, Hall’s Croft, situated near to the Shakespeare home, was a haven for William, a place where he was always welcome, a place for congenial conversation and stimulating repartee.
‘Perhaps you should consider retirement,’ said John, ‘forty-six is a good age to slow down and now you have a granddaughter you might consider sharing your time and your erudition with her.’
‘I will think on it, I had little enough time with my own children and I am sorry for it. And I am bound to admit I am more easily fatigued these days.’
‘As your physician, I must speak plainly. I believe your health will deteriorate if you stay for much longer in London.’
‘You are probably correct, but the time has not yet come. I am at the moment planning my final performance which I hope will be a fitting farewell to my theatrical career.’
‘William, you haven’t done any major acting since I have known you. I honestly believe you are asking too much of yourself.’
‘Nevertheless, I am determined. I have no wish to simply fade away, I wish to leave with a farewell soliloquy and the sound of alarums. I will confide in you John. The play I am writing, will be my last. I write of a master of illusion (and I humbly believe that is what I am, myself). This man, I call him Prospero, manipulates those who play the dominant roles in his life just as I have done with my writings these last twenty or more years. When the time is right Prospero will conjure up his last illusion and retire into obscurity, just as I will do.’
‘That is one thing you will never do, William, retire into obscurity.’
‘Thank you my friend, performers need to hear, time and time again, words of reassurance. It is the nature of the job and the nature of those who expose themselves to the whims and fancies of an audience - I am afraid we are a self-centred lot. And, John, concerning the matter of my health, I am aware there is some slow deterioration in my condition. So, I have decided to return to be with you in Stratford soon after my play is launched.
I have a new vision which is to spend my days in subdued conviviality with my brother. I wish to stroll by the river with our little Elizabeth and attempt to entertain her. And, I look forward to participating in delightful discourse with you and my beloved daughter. That is if you and Susanna have time to spare for a fellow living in the feebleness of old age.’
He and Susanna would make the time. He was not certain just how as most days they travelled together visiting the sick. That was one blessed thing that had happened since the birth of Elizabeth. Anne, Susanna’s mother had never been close to her older daughter. John thought Anne was intimidated by the girl’s education as she was intimidated by her husband’s fame and fortune. However, Anne wanted to be close to her granddaughter, at least while she was a little child and had asked if she could care for Elizabeth when Susanna went with her husband to do what she saw as her vocational work.
*
‘Man proposes, God disposes,’ William muttered to himself in the dark of winter 1612. They had had such little time together - the brothers William and Gilbert. Hardly more than a year in which to relive the time when they were together as young men.
In 1611, they were just two ageing men who,
throughout the summer were to be seen sitting on the river bank, their fishing lines slack and unnoticed, while William talked and Gilbert, often spellbound, listened. Quiet, shy Gilbert like most of those who lived hard-working lives and rarely moved away from their own milieu, knew little of the world and even less about the foibles of human behaviour. He found it almost impossible to comprehend the fame his brother had attained. Strange, he often thought, how genius could rise from a humble family as Phoenix rose from the ashes. Gilbert could never get enough of William’s stories which told of the fun he had experienced writing and performing for Londoners who paid their pennies and clustered around the stage cheering his heroes and booing his villains. And William’s other tales of England’s ruling class who, dressed in silken brocades, ermine and other furs, sat in opulent surroundings paying close attention to his brother’s creations. It was only to his beloved brother that William revealed his secret love.
‘Have no regrets, brother,’ William began. ‘If it was meant to be you would have found your beloved. You are better off on your own than with the wrong woman, one who gives such transient satisfaction - believe me, I know. Better to spend your days in the jovial company of your brother and friends and your nights in warm and dreamless sleep.
It is a fact, Gilbert, few of us ever meet the one we will truly love. In Venice I had the good fortune to do so. We met, we loved and we were torn apart by her death. For twelve years I have yearned for her. You, my brother will understand more than most that soon you and I will go to a heavenly place. Fear it not, Gilbert, it will be wondrous for you. For me, in this world there is nothing I desire as much as the leaving of it. So that once again I can be with my love.’
William said just a few weeks later, in February 1612, ‘I must have been given a glimpse into the future. I believe that day when Gilbert and I spoke of another life, I knew he was not long for this world. I lost my best friend when I lost Gilbert Shakespeare.’
‘I am amazed he has outlived all his brothers. There is no known cure for consumption, nothing more we can do than what is being done. I believe your mother is keeping him alive by preparing the appropriate nourishment for him, she cares for him with much devotion. It is a pleasure to visit New Place each day and see the deep friendship that has grown between your parents since his retirement. Nevertheless, he assures me he is anxious to leave us, he is tired of leading the life of an invalid and is anxious to begin the life to come. When I consider the way he lived in London for all those years, the disease, stench and damp of that vile city, I marvel that he is still with us. Well, it is God’s will and we can only accept the date and time He has ordained for us.’
‘John, be honest with me, I believe my father’s health is failing fast, what do you say?’
‘Yes, you are right, Susanna. I doubt if he will live much past his next birthday.’
‘Then, it seems to me that we should arrange a celebration of his life. I have been thinking of how best it can be done and I believe I have the answer. My father loves you like a son, John, so I will leave you to make the arrangements. You will need to go to London and meet with The King’s Men.’
‘I think I can guess what you are thinking, dearest Susanna. It is a thought that I too have been considering. You would like me to ask his close friends and colleagues to arrange a special performance in honour of him. A performance that he will remember and cherish for his last days or weeks on earth; for nothing gives him as much happiness as being with his friends and listening to their theatre talk or being part of the audience when The King’s Men are performing.’
‘What have I done to deserve you John? You know intuitively how to please me and my father. I am confident I can happily leave you to make the necessary arrangements.’
‘I can only put our idea to them, I am certain they will come up with the most suitable manner in which to celebrate William Shakespeare’s life.’
*
During the following month, the March winds howled and the April daffodils flowered late, early spring was taking its time to arrive in Warwick and both John and Susanna feared that William would leave them before arrangements were completed. Fortunately, his time had not come.
They chose The Swan Inn for the celebration. The players arrived the evening before and took up temporary residence there. They had chosen well. Richard Burbage, England’s and The King’s Men’s leading actor came and was accompanied by four others of high repute. Henry Condell, John Heminges, Nicholas Tooley and Alexander Cooke (the latter, known for his women’s roles) wished to play for the Bard of Avon. With the actors came Ben Jonson, playwright, friend and literary rival of William.’
‘Those two will want to sit together to watch England’s best players and share their memories,’ said John who despite his otherwise Puritanical views, was becoming greatly excited by the imminence of the forthcoming production.
The townspeople of Stratford-on-Avon and district were agog with excitement when they learnt of the special performance that was to be held on the afternoon of the festival of St. George to honour their most famous son.
Soon after midday, in the centre of the courtyard of The Swan, a platform was raised, and just within its perimeter, chairs were placed well apart. Within minutes the courtyard was filled with an audience from town and district. Upon the gallery of the inn building that surrounded the courtyard they placed chairs for the notables of the district and a couch for the weak and frail William with rugs to protect him from the brisk air.
As they planned, Ben Jonson arrived unannounced at New Place. He said he would stay for the midday meal. William, who had been half asleep in his bed, came to life and insisted on putting on his outer clothing and eagerly came to table with his old friend. ‘Tell me all the news from London and The King’s Men,’ he demanded, ‘I hunger for news of them.’
‘Indeed, I will and perhaps a little later we might adjourn to The Swan and have a small glass of wine together before I return to London.’
That is how William came to The Swan that day. He sat overlooking the courtyard and feasted his eyes upon the spectacle of the raised platform, a surge of groundlings surrounding it and his closest colleagues seated around the platform gravely waiting for the signal for the entertainment to begin. He was, for once, lost for words.
ACT 5 - 1
John Heminges, friend of William since those first days when they played together with The Lord Chamberlain’s Men, is now one of England’s most experienced players. He rises from his chair on the improvised stage. He walks to its centre, bows to the gallery and in a ringing voice, begins.
“My dear friends and ladies and gentleman of the fair county of Warwickshire, we will now travel through time to Rome in the days of Senator Julius Caesar.
Envy, my dear people, begets hatred. And one Caius Cassius with others, envy Senator Julius Caesar. They are cunning, my friends. They trick and cajole one of Caesar’s closest friends, Marcus Brutus, into believing that Caesar cares only for his own advancement. They say there is proof Caesar intends to snatch total power by ending the Republic and creating a monarchy with himself as its head. They say that Caesar must be assassinated to save Rome. Brutus, my friends, is duped. Julius Caesar is set upon by his fellow senators, including Brutus, and stabbed to death.”
John pauses to allow this inexperienced audience to fully comprehend the horror and immensity of the actions in the play. Heminges continues his narration, exactly as rehearsed.
“In a speech justifying the assassination, Brutus attempts and does convince Roman citizens that it was for their benefit that it was necessary for Caesar to lose his life. Brutus, wrongly believing he has convinced Mark Antony of the rightness of their action, permits him to eulogise over Caesar’s body. Brutus stipulates the conspirators will not tolerate any criticism of their actions in Antony’s eulogy.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, may I present the greatest player in our nation, Mr Richard Burbage, to deliver the oration of Mark Antony.”
> Burbage, enveloped in a floor-length cloak which he will flourish to emphasise several telling points in his exhortation, walks to centre stage. He addresses the Romans in ringing tones.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest -
For Brutus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men -
come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me.
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransom did the general coffers fill.
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was that ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And sure he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause.
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason.
He weeps
Bear with me