SHAKESPEARE
AND HIS LOVE

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE MAN SHAKESPEARE and His

Tragic Life Story. Demy 8vo., 7s. 6d. net.

THE ELDER CONKLIN and other Stories.

Demy 8vo, 5s. net.

MONTES THE MATADOR and other

Stories. Demy 8vo, 5s. net.

THE BOMB: A Novel. Crown 8vo, 6s.

THE WOMEN OF SHAKESPEARE.

In the Press.

SHAKESPEARE

AND HIS LOVE

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS

AND AN EPILOGUE

BY

FRANK HARRIS

(Author of “The Man Shakespeare,”

“The Women of Shakespeare,” etc.).

LONDON:

FRANK PALMER,

RED LION COURT, E.C.

First published November, 1910.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Copyrighted in the United States of America

INTRODUCTION

The National Shakespeare Memorial Committee, it is announced, is about to produce a new play by Mr. Bernard Shaw entitled “The Dark Lady of the Sonnets.” Fourteen years ago, provoked by the nonsense Mr. Shaw was then writing about Shakespeare in The Saturday Review, I wrote some articles on Shakespeare in the same paper, in which I showed in especial that Hamlet was a good portrait of Shakespeare, for the master had unconsciously pictured Hamlet over again as Macbeth and Jaques, Angelo, Orsino, Lear, Posthumus, Prospero and other heroes. With admirable quickness Mr. Bernard Shaw proceeded to annex as much of this theory of mine as he thought important; in preface after preface to his plays, notably in the preface to “Man and Superman,” he took my discovery and used it as if it were his. For instance, he wrote:—

“He (Shakespeare) must be judged by those characters into which he puts what he knows of himself, his Hamlets and Macbeths and Lears and Prosperos.”

And again:—

“All Shakespeare’s projections of the deepest humanity he knew have the same defect”—and so forth and so on.

In the preface to “Three Plays for Puritans” Mr. Shaw gave me a casual mention, just sufficient to afford him a fig-leaf, so to speak, of covering if the charge of plagiarism were brought against him: “His (Shakespeare’s) genuine critics,” he wrote, “from Ben Jonson to Mr. Frank Harris, have always kept as far on this side idolatry as I.”

Six or seven years ago I wrote a play called “Shakespeare and his Love,” which was accepted by Mr. Beerbohm Tree. As Mr. Tree did not produce the play at the time agreed upon, I withdrew it. Some time afterwards, on the advice of a friend, I sent it to the Vedrenne-Barker management. They read it; but Mr. Barker, I was told, did not like the part of Shakespeare. I wrote, therefore, asking for the return of the play. Mr. Vedrenne, in reply, told me that he admired the play greatly, and still hoped to induce Mr. Barker to play it. He asked me, therefore, to leave it with him. A little while later I met Mr. Shaw in the street; he told me that he, too, had read my play which I had sent to the Court managers, and added, “you have represented Shakespeare as sadder than he was, I think; but you have shown his genius, which everyone else has omitted to do....”

Last year I published a book entitled The Man Shakespeare, which was in essence an amplification of my articles in The Saturday Review. A considerable portion of this book had been in print ten years. The work had a certain success in England and America. This year I have published in The English Review a series of articles on The Women of Shakespeare, which one of the first of living writers has declared marks an epoch in English criticism.

Now Mr. Shaw has written a play on the subject, which I have been working on for these fifteen years, and from what he has said thereon in The Observer it looks as if he had annexed my theory bodily so far as he can understand it, and the characters to boot. After talking about his play and Shakespeare’s passion, and using words of mine again and again as if they were his own, he acknowledges his indebtedness to me in this high-minded and generous way:

“The only English writer who has really grasped this part of Shakespeare’s story is Frank Harris; but Frank sympathises with Shakespeare. It is like seeing Semele reduced to ashes and sympathising with Jupiter.”

This is equivalent to saying that all the other parts of Shakespeare’s story have been grasped by someone else, presumably by Mr. Shaw himself, and not by me. It is as if Mr. Cook had said, “the only American who really knows anything about Polar exploration is Captain Peary, though he uses his knowledge quite stupidly.” One can imagine that such testimony from such an authority would have been very grateful to Captain Peary.

This precious utterance of Mr. Shaw shows further that in his version of the story he is going to take the side of Mary Fitton against Shakespeare; he will therefore defend or at least explain her various marriages and her illegitimate children by different fathers, none of whom happened to be married to her.

Mr. Shaw’s sole contribution to our knowledge of Shakespeare is the coupling of him with Dickens, which is very much the same thing as if one tried to explain Titian by coupling him with Hogarth. This, in my opinion, is Mr. Shaw’s only original observation on the subject, and its perfect originality I should be the last to deny.

I have not yet read or seen Mr. Shaw’s play: I only wish here to draw attention to the fact that he has already annexed a good deal of my work and put it forth as his own, giving me only the most casual and grudging mention. From the larger acknowledgment in The Observer, I naturally infer that in this new play he has taken from me even more than he could hope to pass off as his own.

All this in the England of to-day is looked upon as honourable and customary. If Mr. Shaw can annex my work it only shows that he is stronger than I am or abler, and this fact in itself would be generally held to absolve and justify him: vae victis is the noble English motto in such cases. But if it turns out in the long struggle that Mr. Shaw is only more successful for the moment than I am, if my books and writings on Shakespeare have come to stay, then I can safely leave the task of judging Mr. Shaw to the future.

In any case I can console myself. It amused me years ago to see Mr. Shaw using scraps of my garments to cover his nakedness; he now struts about wearing my livery unashamed. I am delighted that so little of it makes him a complete suit. My wardrobe is still growing in spite of his predatory instincts, and he is welcome to as much of it as I have cast off and he can cut to fit.

But is this the best that Mr. Shaw can do with his astonishing quickness and his admirable gift of lucid, vigorous speech? Will he, who is not poor, always be under our tables for the crumbs? Why should he not share the feast, or, better still, make a feast of his own? Why does he not take himself in hand, and crush the virtue out of himself and distil it into some noble draught? The quintessence of Shaw would be worth having.

I can afford on this matter to be wholly frank and ingenuous, and admit that I am gratified by the ability of my first disciples. Any writer might be proud of having convinced men of original minds like Mr. Arnold Bennett, Mr. Richard Middleton, and Mr. Bernard Shaw of the truth of a theory so contrary to tradition as mine is and so contemptuous of authority: Shakespeare himself would have been proud of such admirers. And if Mr. Bernard Shaw has done his best to share in the honour of the discovery, one must attribute his excess of zeal to the intensity of his admiration, and to the fact that he was perhaps even a little quicker than the others to appreciate the new view, or perhaps a little vainer even than most able men. In any case, Mr. Shaw’s method of dealing with a new master must be contrasted with that of the professor who also annexed as much as he could of my early articles, and coolly asserted that he had had my ideas ten years before, leaving it to be inferred that he had concealed them carefully.

After all, the chief thing is, here is my play, and Mr. Shaw’s will shortly make its appearance, and in time a true deliverance and judgment on the respective merits of them will be forthcoming.

A few words about this play of mine may be allowed me. It suffers from an extraordinary, and perhaps extravagant, piety: I did not set out to write a great play on the subject. I wanted to give a dramatic picture of Shakespeare and his time; but above all a true picture. It seemed to me that no one had the right to treat the life-story, the soul-tragedy of a Shakespeare as the mere stuff of a play. Within the limits of the truth, however, I did my best. The play, therefore, as a play is full of faults: it is as loosely put together as one of Shakespeare’s own history plays, and the worst fault of it is not poverty of plot and weakness of construction; it is also academic and literary in tone. Much of this is due to my love of the master. I have hardly put a word in Shakespeare’s mouth which I could not justify out of his plays or sonnets. My excessive love of the man has been a hindrance to me as a playwright.

I daresay—in fact, I am sure—that it would be possible to write a great play on the subject, and tell even more of the truth than I have here told; but that could only be done if one knew that the play would be played and had leisure and encouragement to do one’s best. The evil of our present civilisation, from the artist’s point of view, is that he is compelled by the conditions to give of his second best, and be thankful if even this is lucky enough to earn him a living wage.

My book on Shakespeare was many years in type before it found a publisher; my Shakespeare play was printed six years ago and has not yet been acted.

FRANK HARRIS.

London, 15th November, 1910.

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

ROBERT CECIL, LORD BURGHLEY

THE EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON

LORD WILLIAM HERBERT (afterwards Earl of Pembroke).

KINGSTON LACY, EARL OF LINCOLN, an Euphuist

SIR JOHN STANLEY

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

“ FRANCIS BACON

“ BEN JONSON

“ FLETCHER

“ RICHARD BURBAGE

“ MARSTON

“ CHETTLE, the prototype of Falstaff.

“ DEKKER

“ WILLIE HUGHES

“ SELDEN

DR. HALL, Shakespeare’s son-in-law

MASTER FRY, the Host of the “Mitre”

QUEEN ELIZABETH

LADY RUTLAND, Sidney’s sister

LADY JANE WROTH

LADY CYNTHIA DARREL

LADY JOAN NEVIL

MISTRESS MARY FITTON, Shakespeare’s Love

“ VIOLET VERNON

“ QUINEY }

“ HALL, } Shakespeare’s daughters

COURTIERS AND SERVANTS

SHAKESPEARE AND HIS LOVE

ACT I

Scene I.

The tiring-room behind the stage of the Globe theatre after a performance of “The Merchant of Venice.”

[As the curtain goes up an attendant is discovered listening at door L. There is a noise to be heard as of persons leaving the theatre: as the door is thrown open the attendant moves aside. The Earl of Southampton, Lord Lacy, Sir John Stanley, Chapman, Dekker, Marston, Fletcher, John Selden and Burbage enter.]

Sir John Stanley:

[Flinging in.] What a foolish play! And what a spendthrift merchant!

Chapman:

Trivial, I found it. Trivial and silly.

Lacy:

[With graceful gesture.] Most excellent in invention, liberal in conceit. The Jew a gem, a gem, I say—a balass ruby of rich Orient blood!

Dekker:

Pretty, perhaps, but tedious! Tedious—as a rival’s praise, eh, Chapman?

Southampton:

Ah, Master Burbage, you outdid yourself as Shylock. When you sharpened the knife, we all shivered.

Burbage:

I’m much beholden to your lordship.

Fletcher:

[To Lord Lacy] The scene between the lovers in the moonlight was not ill-conceived. That Lorenzo had something of Shakespeare in him.

Lacy:

And Jessica! The name’s a perfume. A flower, Jessica, of most rare depicture, dear to fancy, responsive to a breath!

Dekker:

[Aside to Fletcher.] Has the gull any meaning?

Selden:

His words, Dekker, are like his dress: too choice for ease, too rich for service: but he’s of great place, and friend to Essex.

Fletcher:

[To Southampton.] The end’s weak, and the merchant too much the saint.

Dekker:

Saints are always tiresome unless they’re martyred.

Southampton:

And detractors, unless they’re witty.

Lacy:

[Reproachfully.] A cannon-ball as a retort! Fie, fie, my lord Southampton. A little salve of soft disdain obliterates the sting, and no one shoots at midges.

[Enter Shakespeare, who takes a seat apart.]

Southampton:

[Moving aside, with Lacy, waves his hand to Shakespeare.] Good! good!

Sir John Stanley:

Give me an English play. Why can’t we have a play where we thrash the Spaniards? Curse Venice! What’s Venice to me! [Exit, accompanied by Marston and Dekker; Fletcher and Chapman follow.]

Scene II.

Chettle:

[To Shakespeare.] Did ye hear that?

Shakespeare:

No! What?

Chettle:

The truth, Will—the truth in the mouth of a suckling! They all want an English play and Falstaff. Without him, my lad, the spirit’s out of the sack—all stale and flat.

Shakespeare:

Would you have onions with every dish, Chettle, even with the sweets?

Chettle:

In faith ’tis a seasoning and healthy weed—and provokes thirst, go to! But why can’t you be gay, lad, gay as you used to be and write us another comedy with Falstaff and his atomy page?

Shakespeare:

Laughter and youth go together, Chettle, and I am too old for comedies.

Chettle:

It makes my flesh creep to hear you; but I’ll not be sad: I’ll not think of age and the end, I’ll not—. Ah, lad, you’ll never be popular without Falstaff.

Shakespeare:

And why not?

Chettle:

’Tis his wit pleases the many.

Shakespeare:

Wit!—when wit buys popularity, honesty shall win fortune, and constancy love: the golden days are long past, I fear. [Turns from Chettle, who goes out, taking Burbage and Selden with him.]

Scene III.

Southampton:

The play was excellent.

Lacy:

A carcanet of diverse colours—of absolute favour.

Southampton:

But the playwrights are not your friends.

Shakespeare:

I have befriended most of them.

Lacy:

A double reason for repugnance—ingratitude the point, envy the barb!

Southampton:

[To Shakespeare.] A fine play, Shakespeare, but you seem cast down. Is all well with you in your home?

Shakespeare:

Thanks to you: more than well. My father’s debts all paid; the best house in the village bought for my mother——

Southampton:

Come, then, throw off this melancholy—’tis but a humour.

Lacy:

And let the wit play like lightning against the clouds. Or, better still, exhort him, my lord, to seek a new love; ’tis love that lifts to melody and song, and gives the birds their music.

Southampton:

You are often with Herbert, are you not?

Shakespeare:

Yes.

Southampton:

Don’t build too much on him! You’ll be deceived.

Shakespeare:

To me he’s perfect. In beauty a paragon, in wit unfellow’d.

Southampton:

I would not trust him; he’s selfish.

Lacy:

Most insensitive-hard.

Shakespeare:

[Turns to Lacy.] Youth, youth, my lord! We do not blame the unripe fruit for hardness; a few sunny days will mellow it, and turn the bitter to juicy sweet.

Southampton:

What a friend you are, Shakespeare! You find excuses for everyone.

Lacy:

But those who trust too much are like the rathe flowers, frost-blighted.

Southampton:

Here comes Mistress Violet—we’ll take leave of you. I was telling Shakespeare, lady, how fair you are.

Scene IV.

Violet:

[Curtseying.] I thank you humbly, my lord.

[Exit Southampton and Lacy bowing low.]

Shakespeare:

[Smiling.] At last, Violet.

Violet:

[Moving to him and giving her mouth.] Am I so late? Did I wrong to come?

Shakespeare:

No, no!

Violet:

There was such a crowd I did not dare to come at first, and yet I could not stay away; I could not. I wanted to tell you how wonderful it all was.

Shakespeare:

I am glad it pleased you.

Violet:

“Pleased me!” What poor, cold words. The play was entrancing; but you were the Merchant, were you not? And so sad. Why are you always sad now?

Shakespeare:

I know not. As youth passes we see things as they are, and our high dreams of what might be become impossible.

Violet:

Never impossible, or we could not dream them.

Shakespeare:

I hoped so once; but now I doubt. How golden-fair you are!

Violet:

You are always kind; but it’s not kindness I want. I’d rather you were unkind and jealous. But you are never jealous, never unkind.

Shakespeare:

You’d rather I were jealous—unkind?

Violet:

Much rather. ’Twould prove you care!

Shakespeare:

Why do you shiver?

Violet:

We women feel the winter before it comes, like the birds.

Shakespeare:

Women! You sensitive child.

Violet:

Not a child when I think of you. I used to look at myself and imagine that some day a man would kiss me and play with me and make a toy of me, and I wondered whether I should like it; but I never dreamed that I would ever want to touch a man. But now, I love to be near you; my King, how good it is to be with you. But the winter’s coming. [Shivers.]

Shakespeare:

You must not think that, Violet, nor say it. It’s your love breeds those fears.

Violet:

[Pouting.] Why did you not put me in this play?

Shakespeare:

I did: you know I did. You were Jessica, happy, loving Jessica, and I, Lorenzo, ran away with you and talked of music and the stars by moonlight in front of Portia’s house.

Violet:

How kind you are! What a pity you don’t love me! But then love is always one-sided, they say. Ah, some day—— Who’s Portia?

Shakespeare:

Portia?

Violet:

[Rouses herself.] Yes, Portia. Who were you thinking of when you described Portia? She’s one of your new friends, I suppose, one of the great Court ladies. H’m! They’re no better than we are. Some of them were at the play but now talking with Kempe, the clown. Ladies, indeed! trulls would behave better.

Shakespeare:

My gentle Violet, in a rage.

Violet:

Oh, they make me angry. Why can’t they be noble? I mean pure and sweet and gentle, instead of laughing loud and using coarse words like those women did to-day. Was Portia one of them?

Shakespeare:

No, Violet, no. I meant Portia to be a great lady. Her carriage and manner I took from someone I once saw at a distance—a passing glance: but the wit and spirit I had no model for, none.

Violet:

You will love one of them, I know. Perhaps, by speaking of it, I put the thought into your head, and bring the danger nearer; but I cannot help it.

Shakespeare:

Love is its torment.

Violet:

Oh, dear, dear! You will not leave me altogether, will you? Even if you love her, you will let me see you sometimes. No one will ever love you as I do. I only love myself because you like me, and when you leave me, I’ll fall out of conceit with my face, and hate it. Hateful face, that could not please my lord.

Shakespeare:

[Puts his hand on her shoulder.] Vain torment! In this frail hooped breast love flutters and bruises herself like a bird in a cage.

Violet:

When you are near, the pain turns to joy.

Shakespeare:

I know; I know, so well. I’m making you the heroine of the new play I told you of—“Twelfth Night”; your name, too, shall be hers, Viola; but now you must go: I hear them coming.

Violet:

Farewell, Farewell. If I could only be a dozen women to please you, so that you might not think of Portia, hateful Portia! [Exit Violet.]

Scene V.

Burbage:

[Entering hurriedly.] Farce and tragedy and escape. A play within a play.

Fletcher:

[Enters just behind him, followed by Dekker, Marston, Chettle and Hughes.] A great scene! The revolt of the groundlings. Didn’t you hear them shouting, Shakespeare?

Shakespeare:

I heard nothing.

Fletcher:

Self-absorbed as ever.

Dekker:

[Sneeringly.] Lost on Parnassus!

Shakespeare:

What was it, Fletcher?

Fletcher:

A scene for Dekker. The orange-girls have been pelting the ladies in their rooms. The ladies gibed at them, and they replied with rotten fruit. The ladies shrieked, and hid themselves; all but one, who stood in front and outfaced the furies—a queen!

Shakespeare:

Are they safe? Where are they now?

Burbage:

The lords Southampton and Lacy are bringing them: here they come.

[Enter three ladies, masked, and Lords Southampton and Lacy, followed by Selden.]

Scene VI.

Lacy:

At length Beauty’s piloted to the safety of the stage. And without straining extolment I proclaim that never did lady [bowing to the tallest] show more innocence of fear, more exornation of composure.

Miss Fitton:

Why should one fear an orange or an angry slut! Is this part of the stage? [Looking round.]

Lacy:

The veritable and singular stage of the renowned Globe, where actors, playwrights, poets fleet the hours with rich discourse and jewelled melodies.

Miss Fitton:

And naughty stories, I’ll be sworn.

Southampton:

If you’ll unhood, ladies, we’ll present new courtiers to you, Princes of this realm. [The ladies hesitate.]

Miss Fitton:

[Stands out and swings back her hood.] That’s soon done! Ouf! [Lets her eyes range.]

Lady Jane Wroth:

’Tis easy for you, Mary, but I’m all in a twitter, and red like a cit’s wife.

Lady Rutland:

Mary’s right: if you’re going into the water you may as well jump in. [Throws back her hood.] But how they stare!

Lacy:

Pray, my lord, officiate.

Southampton:

As Master o’ Ceremonies, then, I make it known to all that Lady Rutland and Lady Jane Wroth, and Mistress Mary Fitton, the youngest and bravest of the Queen’s maids of honour, are new come to the Globe. Ladies, this is Master Burbage, who counterfeits kings with such nobility, and lovers with such reverence, that ladies lend him their lips in either part. And this is gentle Shakespeare, the wittiest of poets, whose sugared verses make all in love with sweets. And this is Master Chettle, playwright and Prince of Laughter. Here, too, is grave young Selden, and Masters Fletcher, Dekker, Marston, the glories of our stage.

Lacy:

And now, gentlemen, with what most cunning art or inviolate mystery will you charm the visiting fair? Thrones, there, thrones, the ladies will sit.

Miss Fitton:

[As they sit down.] But where is Master Kempe, the clown? I want to see him dance. I swear when he takes the floor in the Coranto and mimics dignity, I could die of laughing. He did not come with us! Oh, what a lack: we might have seen him jig.

Lacy:

Shall we seduce your ears with vocal harmonies, fair lady, or chant in the round to lute or viol?

Southampton: