by L E Pembroke
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me...........”
Burbage pauses for a minute of silence then turns towards the gallery. He bows to the playwright. He then walks slowly back to his seat at one side of the acting area.
Ben Jonson turns to William. ‘Once again, William you have the audience in the palm of your hand. See how even the residents of your own town murmur against Marcus Brutus.’
‘Oh yes, Ben, I see. Both you and I have been given this gift, an ability to reach into the minds of our audiences and bring forth their emotions. I thank God for it and for this opportunity to see once more my peers and close friends in performance. What is next on the programme? I hope my poor old body can withstand the intemperate beating of my heart. Observe, John Heminges takes centre stage again, I wonder who will next pull upon our heart-strings?’
Heminges again addresses the audience, he strides around the stage perimeter, like a king himself to address the audience who look up to him entranced.
“Our warrior king, my friends, will now entertain you. Henry V, the king who led and inspired our English lads when they fought the French Army at Agincourt. Henry who has heard one of his commanders express the wish that the English had a bigger force of fighting men. The French outnumber the English by five to one. Henry chastises his commander and then rallies his troops with his words. Against the odds, decisively, the English win the battle.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present our next player, Mr Henry Condell, a man who will fire your patriotism.”
William turns to his friend, ‘Oh he is right there. Henry knows how to stir an audience.’ His eyes become transfixed upon the centre stage.
Heminges retreats to his former position and Henry Condell rises from his chair and strides in kingly fashion to centre stage.
“If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘Tomorrow is Saint Crispian’;
then will he strip his sleeve and show his scarfs,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day’.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered;
This story shall the good men teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
for he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”
Henry Condell turns to the gallery and bows to the playwright who is once again plainly overcome with emotion.
‘How much more can I bear? Every word, every inflexion stirs up my memories and makes me weep like a child.’
‘Hush Will, young Nicholas Tooley approaches centre stage and see how he envelops himself in a dark cloak, he carries a black hat and slithers into position.’
‘He has already embraced the character with his shuffle, I know full well the fellow he will become.’
Nicholas Tooley, in a whining voice, introduces his own role. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am a money lender. I believe my rates are fair. All and sundry come to me when they are in need and yet I know they despise me. This man, Antonio, has made it known to all that he too despiseth me. He now asks me to lend him three thousand ducats, have I not the right to demand a pound of his flesh if he defaults on payment?’
“Signor Antonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my money and my usances.
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,
for suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever, cut throat, dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gabardine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears you need my help.
Go to, then. You come to me, and you say
“Shylock, we would have moneys” - you say so,
You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold. Moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say
“Hath a dog money? Is it possible
A cur can lend three thousand ducats?” Or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key,
With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness
Say this: “Fair sir, you spat on me on Wednesday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You called me dog; and for these courtesies
I’ll lend you thus much moneys?”
“...He hath...laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies and what’s his reason? - I am a Jew.
Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is?
If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the execution.”
Nicholas turns to the gallery, bows and shuffles back to his chair. The audience is silent. Their eyes follow this person, this Jewish moneylender who states he is no different from them. Almost reluctantly, they begin to clap.
‘For the only time in their lives, they pity a Jew. Once again, William, you have wrought a miracle.’
‘It is our young friend Nicholas Tooley who has wrought a miracle. He played the part as if he, himself was of that tribe. What now, see how quickly the y
oung player divests himself of his long, black gabardine and returns to centre stage to introduce the next player.’
Tooley, no longer in the garb of Shylock, introduces young Alexander Cooke.
“Dear friends, I pray you, allow me to present to you the vile and vicious woman who with her husband plans to murder Duncan, Scotland’s king. Macbeth and his Lady have yielded to wicked ambition. Macbeth writes to his wife, he tells of meeting three witches who predict he will become king. Brimming with thoughts of her soon-to-be exalted position as queen, the lady immediately makes her plans. They must kill Duncan who is imminently expected to visit their castle. She fears her husband may not have the stomach to murder the king. She begs for the strength of will to convince Macbeth that Duncan must die while he is staying under their roof. Never, she says, will they again have such an opportunity.
A messenger arrives and says King Duncan will arrive within hours.
Nicholas Tooley waits near centre stage. He has a small role to play in the next scene. Alexander Cooke takes centre stage.
‘I have seen young Cooke play Juliet, I think this role will truly test his versatility.’
‘I agree Ben. To play a woman being a woman is one thing. To play a woman divesting herself of all feminine traits is quite another matter.’
“ He brings great news.
The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood;
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
the effect and it. Come to my woman’s breasts
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances,
You wait on nature’s mischief. Come, thick night,
and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
To cry, ‘Hold, hold!’
Enter Macbeth (Tooley)
Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both by the all-hail hereafter!
Thy letters have transported me beyond
this ignorant present, and I feel now the future in the instant.”
Macbeth: “My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight.”
Lady M: “And when goes hence?”
Macbeth: “Tomorrow, as he purposes.”
Lady M: “O never Shall sun that morrow see!
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters. To beguile the time
Look like the time, bear welcome in your eye,
Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming
Must be provided for; and you shall put
This night’s great business into my dispatch,
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.”
Macbeth: “We will speak further.”
Lady M; “Only look up clear:
To alter favour ever is to clear.
Leave all the rest to me.”
Both young actors bow to the gallery and return to their former positions.
‘What say you, William?’
‘I say, they have not let me down, heard you the audience howl with anger as the lady departed centre stage? But I am beginning to tire, Ben. My mind says listen, enjoy for perhaps the last time. My body says close your eyes and rest.’
‘Close your eyes and listen, I see John Heminges is returning to introduce Richard. This is the penultimate performance, William, they tell me we are going to Denmark. Might it be the young Prince deliberating about his future?’
‘No, Richard is too old to play that part these days. I hope to hear old Polonius give advice to his son. Those words resonate with me, if my boy had not died with the plague, I like to think that is how I would have advised him.’
John Heminges speaks: Polonius, ladies and gentlemen, Lord Chamberlain at the court of Elsinore, farewells his son, Laertes, who goes to France. He gives Laertes some sound advice.
Richard Burbage moves to centre stage. John Heminges retires.
“Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stayed for. There - my blessing with thee,
And these few precepts in thy memory
Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel,
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgement.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy,
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulleth edge of husbandry.
This above all, to thine own self be true,
And it must follow as the night the day
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell. My blessing season this in thee!
Richard Burbage, with a sweeping bow to his playwright and friend, departs centre stage.
William is clearly overcome. ‘That man, Ben, for nigh on twenty years my closest colleague and friend. I pray to God...’ His voice has weakened. He coughs, glances at his handkerchief. It is stained with blood. His voice is a whisper. ‘I pray to God for a little more time - time to say farewell to my players before I shuffle off this mortal coil.’
‘We are about to see the final performance, my old friend, here, put the rug more closely about you. Close your eyes and listen to your inspirational words proclaimed by your close friend, John.’
John Heminges takes the stage. He addresses the audience.
“Finally, my dear friends, we travel to the court of King Richard II to hear the old and dying John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and uncle to King Richard, chastise his nephew for bringing the kingdom into disrepute by succumbing to evil avarice. So near to death, John of Gaunt does not fear retribution. He speaks plainly, but before doing so, poignantly, he describes to his brother, the Duke of York, England as it had been before the accession to the throne of their corrupt nephew.”
“Methinks I am a prophet new-inspired,
And thus, expiring, do foretell of him.
His rash, fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
For violent fires soon burn out themselves.
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short.
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes.
with eager feeding food doth choke the feeder.
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, th
is little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the enemy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Feared by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home
For Christian service and true chivalry
As is the sepulchre, in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out - I die pronouncing it -
Like to a tenement or pelting farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of wat’ry Neptune, is now bound with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!”
All players come to centre stage. They bow to the audience. They turn towards the playwright who has barely enough strength in him to open his eyes. They lift their right arms to him in homage.
‘Help me in Gods name, Ben.’ He struggles to his feet and claps the players. The audience claps thunderously.
John and Susanna appear from nearby, her face is tear-stained. ‘We think it is time you rested in your bed, father.’
‘What, to sleep, perchance to dream, I think not Susanna. John give me your hand, I will have a glass of wine with my friends and then I will rest and relive this afternoon’s enactments.’
He begins to cough - dry, hacking, painful. He brings his handkerchief to his mouth.
‘It goes hard with you, William.’
His reply is vocally hesitant, but the words show he will have his way.
‘Not so hard, that I cannot speak softly to my dearest friends. Come Ben, lead me to them.
ACT 5 - 2
For seven years John has been both his physician and friend. That night all his observations point to the fact that William’s end is near.
William whispers to John, ‘Send Anne to me, I will bid her farewell and after that a short word with dear Susanna.’