^3^ 2^ /y^ GOMEDIA SERIES THE SPELL OF THE PAST (A FANTASY) — BY — JOHN TOWER and AUGUST DE GREZOLLE **Gomedia" 2920 Cottage Grove Ave. Ghicago PRICE 25 CENTS NET THE PAST A FANTASY »^t> . (BASED ON AN OLD FRENCH PLAY) /9^ A ^ JOHN TOWER and AUGUSTUS DE CREZOLLE DRAMATIS PERSONAE. RlCHABD Pbindle, an author. LomsE Peindle, his wife. WrcxiAM Shakespeaee. LoBD Robert Essex, favorite of Queen Elizabeth. MAEQtris OF Winchestee, first treasury admimstrator. Tom Hath a WAT, brother of Ann. LOED Eglamotje. LoBD Bbisk. LOED FASTIDIOTTS. Sib Habbington, called Mr. Critic, editor of the Mercwry. Sib Dogbebey, merchant. Henslowe, manager of the Blackfriars theatre. Ouvio. QtTEEN EIJZABETH. Ann, wife of Shakespeare, Jtjdith, daughter of Shakespeare. Susanna, Comedians, guardsmen, ambassador, ushers, constables, landlord, waiters, trades-people, courtiers, etc. PROLOOUE Room in the Temple, London. ACT I. Oreenroom of Blackfriars theatre, London. ACT II. Entrance to Blackfriars theatre. ACT III. Study of Marquis of Winchester, Hampton Court. ACT IV. Tom Hathaways house, at Stratford. ACT V. Mansion-house of Count Essex, London. ACT VI. Library of Queen Elizabeth. EPILOGUE Same s^fne as i^j^J'ROLOOUE. 0) CI D 4 5 G 1 4 Copyrighted 1916 £y AUGUSTUS Db CRfeZOLLE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED NOV 22 1916 PROLOGUE. ACTION Takes place in England. Boom in the Temple, London. A door at left leads to private apart- ments; the door at right opens into a hall. At hack, a window shows a patch of violet, all that is left of daylight The walls have shelves filled with books. There is a grate at left. At center, a plain tahle sustains a clutter of books, and writing materials. A shaded lamp casts a funnel of light downwards, leaving the remaindw of the room^ in semi-darkness. EiCHABD Pbindle, o man of forty, sits at the table, vyriting and meditate, ing. He looks daggers at his work, and crumples discarded sheets into snowballs, which he drops gently on the floor. At length, hi^ leans back, taps absently at the desk with his pen, relights his pipB, and stares at the ceiling. Louise Pbindle, a charming woman of thirty-five, enters at left. She is dressed for the theatre, and coos indulgently at the abstracted writer. Lou. Ah, Richard . . . Working after supper again? Rich. Oh! It's you, Louise? Hum . . . {He slips back into r every.) Lou. You know what I told you. Rich. What was it you told me? Lou. That you would get indigestion. Working after supper does that. Rich. Humph, I wouldn't be at all surprised if I had a paralytic stroke before this scenario is done. Lou. Why? What's the matter? Rich. Everything. I've messed at the whole thing so long that I can't make anything out of it, and neither could a dab hand at riddles. I'm completely baffled. Lou. O, drop the perplexing writing for a while and go to the theatw with me. Rich, To the theatre? Not much. I must finish this scenario before I go to bed . . . My! how nice we look . . . Jove! London would ha'VS to go to America again to get a better looking lady than you are, Louise. Say, isn't that so? Lou. Hush, child. You mustn't work after supper, I tell you. It's dan- gerous. It might lead to . . . (She pauses to think of some aioful con- sequence.) . . . insomnia. Richard, can't you go? Rich, No. I'd like to do anything you ask, but if I go the ghost of this unfinished scenario would accompany me, and that's a fine sort oi companion to take on a trip. Besides, when I once get out of this chaiT, I find it difficult to get back into it. Ah, but I'm in a muddle . . . (Srt glares at the manuscript.) Damn . . . Lou. Richard . , , Rich. Yes, Louise, I mean it. Plays are not subjects of prayer. A littte Billingsgate helps them along wonderfully. Lou, But what is the trouble? You were saying this morning that Loo- don fairly incited one to make plays. Rich, That's true, I did. And now, my Characters have all gone on a strike, and tied up my play-mill. I don't know why it is, I've set all my traps but have caught no birds. Every line I write is as dull as a counting-house index. Lou. Cease writing, then, and look about you. Rich, (looking at her.) All right. I will look about me. My gaae is focused six feet away. I see something superb, Lou. No, let the memories of this old building we live in lure your imagination, these old walls that have seen many little dramas in th& days that are no more. Rich. These walls are old. Our kitchen ceiling is old. It stays Tip on trust. Lou. It seems that you are forgetting how we came to the Tenajjle because it deemed like an evocation from the past. Rich. Well, the London of the present is a little supercilious of ancienJ things. She tears down her historic buildings to make room for modem ugliness, she widens the street to suit the quantity of drays, sllB straightens crooked streets. All this for the sake of expediency. Lou. Old buildings get unsafe. 3 Rich. Yes, but the government can spare a fund to protect the ancient landmarks, and I think it is no mere sentimentalism to wish to preserve it? some of the delightful old things of the past. What do you think about Lou. I find that the London of the present has a few romantic features. Rich. You are right, Louise. It is the mixture of present and past that makes us love London. Commerce, industrialism, tradition, and ghosts of other years dominate these few miles along the Thames. We'll make the most of our London as we find her. Lou. Charm is necessary to the existence of us women. If none exists, we invent it. (A remote ohurch-bell tolls eight o'clock.) Lou. We were speaking of romance. There it is, coming to us through the air. Eight o'clock, the magic hour when a practical day is gone and romance begins. Eight o'clock, the magic hour when curtains rise in play-houses, eight o'clock when fellows go forth on romantic calls from East End to Hyde Park. Eight o'clock, when impatient girls listen for the ring of the door-bell. Rich. Louise, for example. Lou. Eight o'clock, when Richard sits in his room imagining plays and eight o'clock when I start forth to see a play. Isn't all that charming enough ? Rich. Eight o'clock, when Louise, the most gracious of Londoners, stands defiantly in front of me, in the latest gown, dilating on the oldest subject. Lou. Richard, I'll be late for the theatre. Rich. Eight o'clock. The overture is ended, and the bell for the cur- tain rings, Eight o'clock, the curtain goes up, and Louise is not there. Lou. It's not strange, with such a nuisance. Rich. Eight o'clock, the moment of final adjustments of wigs, of last daubs from the rouge-pot, of last love-messages from the stage manager, the moment when rage and despair come out of the bottle together, and the author bolts toward the neighboring bar and drinks whiskey straight. A romantic moment. Lou. Well, now I must go. Rich. Well, if you must go, then go. Lou. I'll see you after the play, Richard. Rich. Don't fail me. I expect to read you what I have written. Can you get to the theatre all right? Lou. Yes. The Peytons are coming for me with their auto. Rich, What's on the bill? Lou. Romeo and Juliet. Rich. I never knew they gave that play, not since its premiere at the Blackfriars several centuries ago. Romeo and Juliet. Look through the window, Louise. There is the site where the Blackfriar stood. Lou. Just think of it, Richard. And I suppose the Mermaid wasn't far away. Rich. The Mermaid was several .blocks toward the Tower. Lou. The old Blackfriar theatre. I almost imagine I see it looming out of the fog. [An auto-horn toots.) But there are the Peytons, now, with the auto. I must not keep them waiting. Good-by, Richard. After Shakespeare, remember, I'll listen to you. {The door-hell rings.) Rich. Shakespeare is an awful competitor. Lou. Now, I am going, in reality. Goodby. Rich. Good-by, Louise, until after the play. (Louise, goes out at right. Richard looks toward the debris of manu- script on the table, shrugs his shoulders, stirs the fire in the grate, lights his pipe, then a little distraught draws a chair near the window and gazes out, gradually yielding to a mood of revery. Twilight deepens and he* doesn't move. A hand-organ begins to play in a neighboring street. Rich- ard rouses himself, draws his chair to the table, and begins to write.) End of the PROLOGUE. 4 ACT I. Green-room at BLAGKFRIARS theatre, London. Window at right, doors left and rar. Table at right, Uttered mth books, bound in paper. SCENE I. Sir DOGBERRY, Sir HARRINGTON, then OLIVIO. Dog. Hey, boy!... you Olivio... inform the manager of the Black- friars we would speak with him. Ol. Your names, gentlemen? Has. Sir Harrington and Sir Dogberry. Ol. I'll announce you. Hab. Tell him to make haste. . . we are men of affairs Dog. Why, so we are ... Say that to Mr. Henslowe . . . Men of affairs large affairs. Ol. I'll tell him. (^Exit Olivio) Hab, That boy's too handsome. Dog. Aye, so he is ... His good looks line his pockets ... He plays the female roles, and plays them in a fashion most amazing womanly. You'd scarcely call him boy . . . His speech is nicely treble, with feminine mutes and stops. . . . Hab. His presence is right delicate. Dog. He's most delusive ... So softly feminine is he, that eyes of amorous fellows sparkle when they see him come. (Olivio returns.) Hab. (to Olivio) What says the manager? Ol. Nothing . . . He's at rehearsal, sir ... Shall I announce you there? Hab. Of course. Ol. I'll go, then. Dog. Not at rehearsal . . . That's the unluckiest time of all ... Angels protect us ! ... A man's inhuman then . . . Not at rehearsal ... A melancholy time to talk . . . Now, boy, if you could give our message. Hab. I'm willing. Ol. I'll do it, gentlemen. Hab. But first a question. Does your troupe give Marlowe's plav next Saturday? ^ ^ Ol. Aye ... "The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew." Dog. a fearsome title. Ol. It treats of fearsome affairs. Hab. It's bruited in the streets that the queen expects to attend. Is that her purpose? Ol. We're so informed. Dog. Now, fancy that ... the queen. Hab. Bespeak two seats of Henslowe, good ones, mind, for Sir Har- rington, critic of the Mercury. For Saturday . . . You know of me, no doubt. Ol. 0, yes. Your articles are famous for their style ... I trust you see the plays you criticise. Hab. 0, often. Ol. You jolly well impale poor strolling players and starved dram- atists. Hab. They mostly need it. Ol. You slay by means of epigrams. Hab. I'm fond of massacres. I count on "St. Bartholomew." Ol. Henslowe should give you a seat in the tumbrel. Dog. Be tender to the critic. Ol. O, we poor actor folk are bland enough to critics. Dog. Well, save us out some seats for the "Massacre." Here's my money. (He hands him coin.) I'm Sir Dogberry, the hosier in Lombard, near York Arms. Ol. Thank you. I'll arrange. Dog. (to Olivio) If you do play, I like the thing still more. Dost play, Olivio. Ol. Aye. Dog. Velvet-eyes, I think I'll like that play. Hab. (to Olivio) Dogberry's cracked. His head is packed with paltry stuffing . . . Velvet-eyes. f j Dog. You've never seen Olivio in ladies' finery. "Bar. Tut! The whole affair's an affectation. Masculine virtiies shovif through feminine faults, and manly legs in female frocks. Pathetic sight. Dog. There's truth, now. Lads without their beards make likely dames, but whiskers mean disaster. The other eve Queen Catherine forgot to shave. The management was most perplexed. Hab. I've writ an article about those whiskers. Dog. We laughed the tragedy into comedy. Hab. a most depressing incident. Dog. It entertained us all. Hab. Well, I shall come to see Olivio. Dog. You'll see him beat the ladies at coquetry, with boyish, excuse me, girlish graces. Ol. 0, I'm no marvel, Sir Dogberry. Hab. {to Olivio) Dogberry's compliments will get him a seat in the best location. You'll read my compliments in the Mercury . . . after the performance. Ol. I'll read them not. And now, good sirs, I'll go, else I shall miss my cue. I'll get your seats at the play. (Eooit Olivio.) SCENE II. Sir DOGBERRY, Sir HARRINGTON. Hab. Pah ! A man in a woman's role. Dog. The stage is not fit for women. Hab. Well, is it fit for anyone? Dog. It helps to pass the time. Hab. If T could see a woman in the role of man 'twould please me more. Dog. Aye, that would be a sight, old pepper-box. Hab. a gallant sight, old sugar-bowl. Dog. Well, Olivio is a pleasnnt lad of parts. Hab. He's a lad with a nice complexion and manners rather pert. Dog. Your profession, Mr. Critic, has roughed you up with enmity for all. Har. Your character's rather dulcet, Mr. Public. Dog. Kothins: you praise. Ha.r. Nothing you hate snve the genuine. Dog. Your opinions fall like December sleet. Hab. You have no opinions, Mr. Public. Dog. I'm built of them. You're built of dogma. Hab. You do not have to regulate the public taste like me. You do not have to say yea and nay like an executioner, and be impassive when heads fall. You are not a critic. Dog. Verily, thou hangman masterful, but I am the public. Hab. Yes, London calls you that. Dog. Don't flatter yourself. Your business is a business just like mine. You sell phrases by the yard, as I sell hosiery, ribbons, yarn, and gay necessities for the body of man and maid. God knows which trade is honester. Hab. There are flaws in your flannels but you see them not. Dog. There are flaws in your phrases and all can see them. Hab. You can't tell a rule in rhetoric from a draper's yard-stick. Dog. I can tell a draper competitor as far as I can see him. Har. Come, Mr. Public, let's be friends. Dog. I'm everybody's friend. It's good for business. Hab. Can Henslowe tell a play from a dream-book? Dog. Henslowe's a genius. Har. So I said in the Mercury. You remembered that. The public repeats my phrases as though they were his own. I tell you now that Henslowe's daft to think to get a play from Marlowe. The only things you get from Marlowe are fumes of rum. Dog. I heard a play of Marlowe's once, a brave tragedy full of lofty things. Hae. Yes, they're crammed with pompous matter. He writes them in reeking taverns, 'mid the pools of beer. Dog. Of course I'm blind and deaf and dumb, but Marlowe's play did make me sad and tender with fine magical words, and the actors spake their lines with nice discrimination. And when the play was ended I stamped and shouted with the rest to see the villian get his due. That was at Blackfriars here. Hab. What sort of man is Henslowe? Dog. He's mild and courteous. SCENE III. Sir DOGBERRY, Sir HARRINGTON, HENSLOWE. Hen. (entering suddenly,) Damnation! May the foul fiend take these playwrights ! Har. {turning.) Who's cursing? Dog. God calm you, Mr. Henslowe, what's the matter? Hen. I'm ruined, friends. Hab. It happens every day, and the sun still rises. Hen. Beshrew these frivolous writers. Dog. What's happened, now? Hen. Black misfortune. You can have no seat on Saturday, Sir Critic Hab. Why not? Hen. And here's your money, Mr. Public. Dog. Well, this is strange. A manager refunding entrance-money. Hen. My announcements are upset. Hab. Then set up others. Dog. Wliat's wrong? Hen. There's to be no performance. Dog. But the queen is to come. Hen. Aye, and Henslowe will be dishonored. Dog. Nay, not that. Hen. Yes, that. I ordered a play. God pity me, I ordered a tragic piece from Marlowe. Hae. That^ pot-house bard? Dog. "The Massacre?" Har. a pretty topic for a play. Hen. Well, Marlowe has thrown me down, the scribbling hound. Har. I suppose he's in his cups. I understand why there's to be no performance. Dog. These writers are uncertain as the temper of the queen. Hen. h rom the evil dregs of his ink-horn, he wrote the first two acts, two thumping acts, as brave as any I've read, and then he told me his unmentionable miseries, in eloquent voice, and I grew soft, and advanced him money. Hae. Unmentionable error. Hen. Damnable error. I'm still waiting for the final acts. Marlowe went God knows where, writing poems on ale-tables celebrating grapes and bar-maids, spending money on roystering fellows everywhere, the money for unwritten acts. Today he's flat in the hospital with a fever, and couldn't scrawl a worthy line. Har. I'll avenge you, Henslowe, by denouncing him in the Mercury. Hen. No play ... no play for Saturday . . . and the queen comes. Dog. Can't you arrange a sprightly pageant, miracle, or tricksy com- position as will please her Majesty? Hen. Such things take time. Har. Well, polish up soifie ancient commonplace, revamp the lines, a spatter here and there of tragedy and wit, and Henslowe will be saved. Hen. Henslowe will be hanged, and all his theatre wrecked. The queen is fretful when her will is crossed, and dramatists are naught but wooden pawns, whose sacrifice prevents the queen from capture by King Ennvii. Dog. But Henslowe, beauty aiid wit may save the day. \^ou miss the wit, that's true. . . . Har. Dogberry is a fool. Hen. But', gentlemen ... 7 Dog. You musn't cower on the eve of battle. A little strategy, and so you'll win. HEJf. But queens, like dramatists, are unreliable. Dog. I'll avenge you, Henslowe, in the Mercury. Dog. And if you lack for costumes, call on me in Lombard St, Hen. (absently.) Thank you, gentlemen. Hab. And if your hanged . . . (Henslowe vnnces.) I'll write a nice epitaph that will soften Marlowe. Hen. Don't be in a hurry. (Exeunt Ear. and Dog.) Hen. I'll not be hanged . . . (He calls.) Hey, gentlemen of the Blackfriar troupe . . . Hey . . .AH hands on deck. SCENE IV. HENSLOWE, OLIVIO, BURBATRICK, TARLETAN, CANDELL, Comedians, then WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Hen. Gentlemen: your manager is beset with perils. Of course he always gets the blame for what you do, or do not do. I am the creature that's responsible for all your crimes. You merely act, and aut provok- ing bad . . . But I am most indulgent . . . (Groans) I humor you . . . pay your salaries . . . (Gestures of negation.) More than you are worth . . . Today we face a task . . . (More groans.) We are all here? ... Is everyone here? Bub. All here save one. Hen. Who's missing? Bub. Will Shakespeare. Hen. Him we could spare, but call him, some one. Ol. I'll call him, Mr. Henslowe. Bub. He was looking through the window at the kites. Hen. Tell our truant we have business to discuss. (Exit Olivio:) Hen. Looking at kites, when Henslowe is to hang. All. Hang ! Hen. I see you're cheerful. Bub. What's your ofl'ence? Hen. I'll tell you. . . . (Enter Olivio and Shakespeare.) Hen. Here's Mr. Shakespeare . . . I'm to be hanged, my boy. Sha. Ah! Who takes the role of hangman? Is that my part? Hen. You show a pleasant eagerness. Sha. Hangmen do serve the state as I serve Henslowe, cheerfully or gaily dutiful. Hen. That's faithfulness. Ol. We'll rehearse the execution. Sha. I'm fair in minor roles. Perhaps I'd be effective. . . . Hen. My role is not inviting. Ol. Shall we rehearse? Hen. Hanging is entertaining to all but one. But this is not a court of justice. . . . Ol. We've found that out. Hen. It's a den of crooks. And though as actor, Will, you've never scored a hit, you have a practical mind that's fertile at suggestion. We're in a fix. Sha. I'm good at dodging apple-cores, to keep the audience, likewise, from scoring hits. Bub. But apples meant for you, hit me, and I was most capable. Sha. And incapable at dodging. Hen. You're rather handy, Will. With parts of masks, and ghosts, you can be both dumb and dreadful. And your advice is often good, and now I need all counsel I can get. We're in a mess. Sha. What's the matter, Henslowe? Hen. Why, Marlowe is drunk again, and the "Massacre of Paris" will not take place. Sha. No "Massacre?" Hen. And Saturday, the queen comes. Sha. Yes. Queens love massacres. Hen. What's to be done, thou man of invention? Sha. What's in the repertory that's not too tiresome? Hen. We've pieces that are good enough for common folk but not for queens. Our plays are out of date. We have no novelties, nothing to wheedle smiles or tears from queens. Sha. The medicine-chest at Blaekfriars is rather low on drugs. But we must see what's there. What sort of plays are suitable to queens . . . Historical pastorals? . . . Hen. Not those . . . Sha. Well, something rather tragic . . . "The Battle of Alcazar/* there's a bloody row in that ... or "the Moor's Revenge," with harrow- ing scenes ... Ol. These are too well known Sha. There is "Gammer Gurton's Needle," and there's "The King and the Beggar." Hen. We have no beggar. Bub. I once played the beggar. Ol. It must have been before you got your beard. A bearded lady would scarcely charm a king. Bub. Olivio can take the part. Ol. (warningly.) Sh! Sha. There's "The Persecution of the Christians." Nym made a hit in that as the tyrant^ and later died of indigestion. When he spoke the hall rocked. Bub. I filled his place . . . Hen. You would fill anything. You are too fat for a tyrant. Leai* tyrants are more reasonably unjust. We had a red costume for the part. Is it still in the wardrobe? Sha. Aye, but it's yellow, now. Hen. Let it stay there till it turns to purple. Have we the wigs oi the play? Sha. Nay, the rats have them. Hen. We could play without the wigs. Sha. How about the bald actors? Hen. Let them wear turbans. Sha. In a Roman play? Hen. In anything. I don't care what they wear. Hoity, toity, it seems remarkable that we haven't one amusing comedy among our wares. What was that play about pulverized bones in a pastry? Ol. Mr. Henslowe, I know of a play that will amuse queens. Hen. Let's see the thing. Ol. I'll get it. (Exit Olivio) Sha. There's a play in which a prevaricating judge is skinned alive on the stage. It's most exciting. The false skin is in the store-room. Hen. Good. Leave it there. Sha. There's another play in which a tender mother devours her chil- dren after boiling them. It has lyric beauty. We stood the stew-pot in the center of the stage. Hen. I remember that stew-pot. It was a tearful tragedy of abnormal appetite. And, by the way, that play might cause a queen to smile. Who was the author of the piece? Sha. Marlowe. Hen. Out upon him! The scamp! We'll play nothing of his. I'll be skinned alive first. What's Olivio got? (Enter Olivio with marmscript.) Hen. What's that? A play? Ol. It is. I bring saltation to Blackfriar. Hen. a comedy? Ol. a comedy that is most tragic. It's about some lovers. Hen. Nothing original in that. We've had plays about such things be- fore. Is it modern? Ol. Most modern. As modern as the pyramids, and shot like silken tapestry with gold threads of to-day. Hen. Is it one we know? Ol. We've never played it. Hen. Fie, lad. Take these lovers back to the archives. We'll have noth- 9 ing that requires rehearsals. We'd like something, modern, but not new to us. Take the play back. Ol. But this one we have all rehearsed. Hen. How's that? Ol. Each of the Blackfriar players has learned his part in secret. Hen. a conspiracy against the management. I didn't know there was secrecy among actors. Who wrote the play? Ol. One of our troupe. Hen. Rubbish! Give me the script. (Olivio passes manuscript to Henslowe.) Ol. 'Tis a tender story, as full of poetry as skies are filled with stars. Hen. I'll- see the script. What's the title? Ah! {He reads.) "The Tragic History of Romeo and Juliet." Is this Italian? Ol. An Italian story by an Englishman. Hen. What Englishman? {Reading) "William Shakerpeare." Is this ooir Will? Ol. Aye. Hen. I'll have none of it. No experiments here you understand. I'm much too old for that. This is no school for playwrights. I'm an expe- rienced producer. Ol. But the lines are learned and ready for rehearsal. Hen. That's something gained, and yet methinks I smell a plot to liiek me into doing a thing that's fateful. . Ol. Well, do it. Hen. I must reflect. The title tells me naught. I'll scan the text. jSnd now, to spend the time to profit, I think the company had best re- •ftearse some shaky portions of their catalogue of plays. Though plays be bad, it's always good to try your elocution on rickety rhythms and caa banal business. You may go, my children, to rehearsal. Ol. We were rehearsing when you called us. Hen. Go to rehearsal. Always rehearse. You need it. What were you rehearsing? Ol. The third act of "The Massacre." Hen. Zounds! There are but two. Ol. We found another in our heads. Hen. a clever flock, a gallant bright impromptu company of talents. My compliments. We'll hear what you have improvised. Ha! Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare, at Blackfriars. Ho, ho, ho. A dram- atist is born. {He is much abused.) {Exeunt all except Olivio and Shake- speare. ) Sha. Thanks, comrade. Ol. That man would do to bait the bears in Shore Ditch, but actor folk could spare him. Sha. He risks his fortune on uncharted seas, and managers, after sev- eral wrecks, become a timid breed. Ol. And poets also do some foundering in uncharted seas. Sha. That's their occupation. Ol. The elements are needless. Sha. So are poets. Let's talk of something pleasant. Ol. Of Romeo and Juliet? Sha. That has an unpleasant end. Ol. We'll shut the book before we reach the end. Sha. If that were possible. Ql. The lovers in the play did shut the book themselves. Sha. Capricious twain they were. Ol. a protest to the Capulets and Montagues. That was their jest, a pathetic jest. Sha. Well, life is fidl of piquancy and stings. There's a deal of pep- per in it, and little sweets, though most prefer the sweets. Ol. We women reach for sweets, and get the other seasoning. Sha. Well, you, Olivio, are the rarest of confections. The play was writ for you. Ol. My Romeo has made a play for me. Sha. Plays are frail things, Olivo, and mostly made of words, and mostly poorly wrought, but you are the fairest subject that ever tempted author. ^ 10 Ol. I'm spiteful as the wind in March, You'd best take care, lest I do nip you when I'm not in balmy disposition. Sha. I'll get a cloak, when the weather is unruly. Ol. I see you're reckless like other bards and take no heed of the weather till the frost comes. Sha. O, I can tell a sunny day from one when the rain falls and love runs to shelter. Ol. I would hide with thee from the storms of ourselves that threaten. Sha. You shall. We'll be a chilly pair together when boughs drip on our wayward backs, and the paths we go are packed with trouble. What moots the pain if we're there together. Ol. Why, we'll sing in the rain to forget the cold and the wet and the woe, if sing we can. Sha. But I must warn you, sweet Olivio, to be a little negligent of my curt ways, my lips fhat grow sardonic, and my speech that's often crisp with queer hostilities, and spleen. Ol. I'll call them poet's raptures. Sha. My rapture is Olivio, when all is said. Ol. I'm quite content. And now, farwell. I'll go to look me in a mir- ror to see a girl that's happy. Sha. Look for my' happiness in your mirror. Farewell, thou great- heart, Juliet. * (Exit Olivio, Shakespeare goes to window and is soon lost in abstrac- tion. Henslowe enters hurriedly mth a comedian.) Hen. (to comedian) This is my plan. Marlowe is a scoundrel. I've told you that. But wherever he is, you may depend on it that he is writing lines that would enchant the devil. Marry, sir, it's true, and here is my arrangement. Marlowe, I trust him not, but he's no debutant. (To Shakespeare.) Do you hear that, Mr. Ghost? Sha. (without taking his gaise from the street) Marlowe's a genius. Hen. Oood, and so am I, for I am bound to get the "Massacre," but if I fail I'll use your play. I'm in a trap and can't do otherwise. This is no breeding-place of playwrights. First plays are trash. And would-b^ dramatists are something worse than trash. What think you, Mr. Shake- speare ? Sha. My play is trash, and Marlowe's Massacre is trash. Most enter- taining trash. Hen. And the queen comes. Sha. Well, I could write no better lines for queens than for one named Henslowe. Hen. If Marlowe cannot save me from the noose, I hope 'twill be your lines. Who's this? (Tom Hathaway appears.) Hen. Who are you? Tom. Tom Hathaway. Hen. That tells me naught. Whom seek you? Tom. That fellow yonder. Hen, O! Well, take him. There he is. I'll look for Marlowe. (Exit Henslowe.) SCENE V. SHAKESPEAEE, TOM HATHAWAY, Tom. Ah, ha, friend poet. Sha. (turning from window) Best you merry, Tom Hathaway. Tom. Aye, to be sure, and come direct from Stratford at my sister's mute behest, to tell you what he thinks of poets and their ways. Sha. I expected you. Tom. I'll mince no words. You did a villainous thing to leave my sis- ter Ann. Sha. How fares she? Tom. She doesn't fare at all, thanks to the tribe of ballad-mongers. She's ill these days. Sha. 'Tis pity. Tom. Yea, her youth you spoiled by idleness, and broke her heart. She's ailing. 11 Sha. You know why I left Stratford, you and she. You wished to be respectable. I left your respectability, and came to London. Tom. a pretty poet's trick, to spoil a likely home. Sha. You wanted your salvation and I gave you that. Tom. I gave you good advice. Sha. Brother-in-law's advice. Tom. You would not quit your idle life. Ah, why did you ever meet my sister? 'Twas an ill-omened friendship. Sha. I happened to be born in Stratford, and so did Ann. My kins- men had some fields and orchards there. The Hathaways had their acres, too, and Ann and I strolled in flowered lanes of Warwick, and heard the bells ring and saw the Avon slip between the storied downs. Our families wanted us to wed. We wedded, Ann and I. Tom. An excellent day it was for Ann, to wed a man without a trade save that of filching other people's pheasants. You could easily have got a clerkship in the town, for you were fair at mathematics. Sha. Your ways and mine are not the same. Tom. Ah, idling is an easier trade. To sing tumultuous songs with Bedford tipplers, to browl with Sucy's wardens, to scale a park wall and run down a buck. That's easier. Sha. It keeps one rather busy. Tom. To sit for hours by the hedge doing nothing and then to scratch some words about it, while people in the town are hard at work at desk and bench, while people in the great champaigns slice the tall grain and tend to England's herds. A poetaster. Sha. You had your revenge. Tom. I did my duty. Sha. Thou man of duty. Stratford let loose her scandalous tongue, the sheriff hooted me dov/n in cheerful parlors, the justice told pleasant, confidential stories, my brother-in-law libelled me leader of gypsies and renegades, my wife did worse. Stratford was much amused. At last I wandered forth. And that is all. I came to London. Tom. To fall still lower. Sha. Silence! Do those who drove me from Stratford, drive me from London, too? Tom. Here's one to do the driving. (Enter Ann) SCENE VI. SH AKEPPEARE, TOM HATHAWAY, ANN HATHAWAY. Sha. Ann! Rest you merry. Ann. ''11 rest, but not merry. Sha. Ilie road from Stratford is an affliction. Are you weary I Ann. Aye, and dusty. Sha. You c^me by post-chaise? Ann. Of poiirse. Sha. 1 wilkrd T know the road is dusty. Ann. 'Tis n vile trip, walking or riding. Sha. 'f <^i e mood is vile, the rof^d is vile. The scenery is rather fine. Ann. ' irtl" ' saw save clouds of dust. Sha. ''(HI «' pi'lfl walk. Ann ''"' ' n' myself with minstrels, strolling fellows, and players. A gon'l' ''tit But thank you, no. The chaise is bad, but I prefer the chais' i\ r' ' .- • o^rne to town with gloomy business to perform. A^'^ • ' " v divorce. Sw V ■ ■■■■■•' von mv ^id, such as it is. A'^' ' '•" r-ost kind, unusually kind, in one who had so many wav *■ • -"T ' Tii+o. S ' 1 ' ; o" this from spite. Is there some one who can annul the p"<5 of Winchester will break the bonds. it done. ' nnil farewell. 's ended, sister, we'll t"ke a stroll in Fleet Street, 12 and look at London. It's a most demoralizing town, they say {Exit Ann and Tom.) (Explosion of hurrahs outside.) SCENE VII. SHAKESPEARE, OLIVIO, COMEDIANS, THEN HENSLOWE. Ol. Ah, poet I bring you news to glad your heart. The play's to be given Saturday before the queen. f j y^ uv Sua. (absently) Ah, yes, the play. The Massacre has noble lines. _ Ol. The Massacre. No Massacre that night. We give a play of love immortal. Why are you sad, friend poet? 1' jr uve Sha An ugly dream in the day. But among my comrades 111 put away that dream. What was it you said? 0, yes. The play. What play? Ol. Why, "Romeo and Juliet." xp^^J' ^i^tl \°^^ *^^^ ^^^ *^ y^"' ^^^^ friends, and thank you for it God send the lines embarrass you not with too much rhetoric and break-neck cadences to glut you with a mess of verbiage. If the lines fail, your art will not falter, for that ig of the best. ^ (Enter Henslowe.) xx^f^^Jh^"^^ *^ ^^°°^^ ^ ^^^^y author or a debutant. We give your plav. Will What's-your-name, on Saturday night before the queen and court and here s my grave suspicion that I hang, and that you will hang t^ keep me cheerful. ^ Sha. . Aye, we'll hang together, then, and the gallows shall keep us from quarrelling. ^ « 5^^" \f^ ^^^ *^^ ^*^* ^^^^°- ^''"^ Tartin, play the Romeo, you Can- neld are Mereutio, Burbatrick is Tybald. Who's Juliet' Sha. Olivio. Hen. 0, surely, then, we're ready for rehearsal. Sha. On the stage, fellow players, on the stage. Ol. Now Marlowe will be jealous. End of Aet I. ACT. II. In front of the Blackfriars theatre, London. The theatre itself is a hricb- colored octagonal structure at right. Alove the main entrance, a red silk flag on a gilded staff. The walls hear a gigantic poster, toith the name of the play, "Romeo and Juliet." At back, a view of London, and the nver Thames. At left,