| CONTENTS | |
|---|---|
| I | |
| A Shakespearean Fantasy | 1 |
| II | |
| The Merchant of Venice | 49 |
| Act Sixth. | |
| Note by William J. Rolfe, Litt.D. | 63 |
I
A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY
A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY
Scene I.
An island in the Middle Seas. A cave is seen on the right and before it, under a palm tree, Caliban is discovered sleeping.
[Enter Trinculo and Stephano, quarreling.
Trinculo. Since the day when the old gentleman they call Prospero took it into his bald pate to disappear into air along with a most goodly company beside, there’s not a bottle to be found i’ this isle, as I am a good Christian, and, what is more, a good Christian man’s son.
Stephano. Bottle me no bottles, Trinculo. Had we ne’er shared a bottle betwixt us we had not been left to bide by ourselves in this whoreson isle in the hard service of the man-monster, Caliban, but might be in fair Naples at this very hour.
Trinculo. Sagely said, Master Stephano. Thou wast ever wise enow i’ the tail o’ the event. An’ thou could’st have looked it thus wisely i’ the mouth, thou hadst been a made man, Stephano, a made man, and a householder, to boot.
Stephano. By mine head, a scurvy trick o’ the King to give us over to a dog’s life in this heathen isle with a man-monster for a master, and none other company beside.
Trinculo. More wisdom from that mouth of thine, most sage Stephano. Thou art indeed become a second Socrates for sober conclusions.
Caliban [awaking] What, Trinculo! Get me some food, I say, or thy bones shall pay thy jape. Get thee hence at once, for a mighty hunger is come upon me and I would eat. [To Stephano] Sing thou, and caper nimbly the while.
Stephano [sings and dances clumsily]
Ariel [invisible] sings.
Stephano. What is this same that sings i’ the air without lips or body?
Trinculo [returning with food which he places before Caliban] Master Nobody is at his ancient tricks. An’ he be a devil, he hath an angel’s voice.
Caliban. Retire ye both, for I would be alone.
[Exeunt Trinculo and Stephano.
Ariel plays softly on a tabor, scatters poppy
leaves and departs, leaving Caliban asleep.
Scene II.
A room in the palace at Naples.
[Enter Ferdinand and Miranda.
[sleeps.
[sleeps.
Scene III.
The island in the Middle Seas.
Ferdinand and Miranda discovered sleeping on
a grassy mound. Soft music heard.
[Caliban approaches, groveling
[Trinculo and Stephano approach.
Trinculo. Behold us, gentles, two as unhappy wights as ever ’scaped a hanging, or death by attorney.
Stephano. He speaks very true, as ’t were, now and then, and we two honest men from Naples be now in most wretched case—slaves to the man-monster, Caliban.
Thunder heard. Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo disperse by several ways and Ferdinand and Miranda retire to a cave near by.
Scene IV.
Another part of the same.
[Enter Prospero.
[Exit.
Scene V.
Another part of the same.
A grassy space shaded by palms, before a cave at whose entrance Ferdinand and Miranda are discovered playing chess.
[Enter Nurse and Peter.
Nurse. Peter!
Peter. Anon.
Nurse. Take my cloak, Peter. Truly the sun’s heat hath made me all of a quiver, as they say. Marry I would e’en taste a little food before I go a step more. I’ll warrant you we are many a mile from Verona by this.
Peter. A good mile, I take it, for I was never in this place before that I wot of.
Nurse. Say’st thou so, Peter?
Peter. Marry, that do I, and will answer to ’t before any of womankind, and any of mankind too, that be less lusty than I.
Nurse. Peter!
Peter. Anon.
Nurse. Some food, Peter, and presently.
Peter. Here be strange fruits whose use I know not. A serving man of the young county Paris’s did to my knowing eat an apple that was brought from afar in a ship’s stomach, being a lusty youth and tall and much given to victual, and he did swell to bursting and died thereof while one might count thirteen by the clock. He made a fearsome dead body, as the saying is.
Nurse. Peter.
Peter. Anon.
Nurse. Thou shalt taste these fruits for me singly and in order, good Peter, and if no such harm come to thee as thou pratest of, then will I eat likewise.
Peter. Nay, but nurse, good nurse, good lady nurse—
Nurse. Hold thy peace, thou scurvy knave. Would’st suffer me to go nigh to death for lack of food and thou stand by the while like a jack o’ the clock when his hour has struck? Out upon thee, and do my pleasure quickly.
[Enter Mercutio and Romeo.
Mercutio. Here’s fine matter toward. Thy Juliet’s nurse, and her man Peter, quarrelling.
Nurse. God ye good den, gentlemen.
Mercutio. God ye good morrow, most ancient, and most fair ancient lady. Thy five wits, meseems, are gone far astray the whiles.
Nurse. Is it but good morrow? I had sworn ’twere long past noon, but, indeed, in this strange place, as one may say, there’s no telling so simple a circumstance as the time of day.
Romeo. Many things there be of which there’s no telling, such as the number of times a maid will say no, when her mind is to say yes; how many days the wind will sit i’ the east when one would desire fair weather; and how many years the toothless grandsire will wither out a young man’s revenue.
Nurse. That is all very wisely said, good sir. Are you that he they call the young Romeo?
Mercutio. He is rightly called Romeo, but as for his youth, if knavery be not left out of the count, why then was Methusaleh a very babe to him, a suckling babe.
Nurse. Say you so? Then will I tell my lady Juliet so much, an’ I can come by her in this heathen place.
Mercutio. Most ancient lady, yon Romeo would deceive the devil himself.
Nurse. Beshrew my heart. Then were my young mistress (who, to be sure, is no kind of a devil at all, saving your presences), led straight to a fool’s paradise. She shall know, and presently, what a piece of man he is.
[He seems about to approach Miranda, but
is withheld by Mercutio.
[Enter Ophelia, strewing flowers.
Romeo. She makes as if to speak to us, poor soul.
Ophelia. This is All Hallow Eve. They say to-night each Jill may see her Jack that is to come. But these be idle tales to juggle us poor maids, withal, for I no Jack have found. Cophetua, they say, was a king who was wed to a beggar maid; a pretty tale is’t not? But there’s no truth in’t; there be no such happenings now, for my love was a prince indeed, but we were never wed, and now he is gone. [Weeps] He was a goodly youth to look on, but he is dead by this and burns in hell. [Sings]
I cry your pardon, good people all. But there’s something lost, I think, and ’twill not be found for all my searching.
[Enter Hamlet.
Hamlet. The fair Ophelia. Sweet maid, do you not know me?
Ophelia. No, forsooth; I did never see you before, and yet methinks your eye hath a trick of Prince Hamlet’s in it. But that’s all one, for the Lord Hamlet is dead, and they say his soul is in hell for cozening us poor maids. [Sings]
[Enter Constance, with hair unbound.
Ophelia. I do not know you, but you weep and so do I, and surely that doth make us sisters in grief, and so because of that I’ll follow you whither you list, and you will let me.
Ophelia. Sad lady, I will go with you, weep when you weep, and be your humble pensioner in grief.
Ophelia. Love? I know what that doth signify. Is not love what we poor maids are fool’d with? Thus have they told me, and therefore I’ll not listen to you, for indeed I never saw you before, that I remember, and yet there’s something not so strange lurks within your speech. But go your ways, sweet sir. My Hamlet he is dead, and so I care for none of mankind now. [Sings]
He is dead, perdy.
[Exeunt Constance and Ophelia.
[Sad music heard]
[Exit Hamlet slowly.
Enter Launce leading a dog.
Launce. What a very dog is this my Crab here for a stony-hearted cur! Why but now there met us two distressed females weeping their hearts out at their eyes, and sighing, moreover, as ’twould move a very Turk to pity, and yet this cur took no more note on ’t than they had been two sticks or stones. Why, the Woman of Samaria would have plucked out her hair in pity of the twain, nay, so would I have done the same in her stead,—yet what say I, for there’s not so much hair on my head as my mother’s brass kettle has of its cover. A vengeance on ’t, now where was I? O, truly, I was e’en at the Woman of Samaria. Now, good sirs, and gentles all, the Woman of Samaria had for ruth plucked out her hair, but did not my dog Crab, who by your leaves is as hairy a dog as goes on one-and-twenty toes, shed even one hair in sorrow for the twain: not e’en the smallest hair on ’s nose. And the matter of the meeting was on this wise. This small stone, with the crack in ’t, is the maid, she with the flowers; and I think there be a crack in her wits, but no matter for that; this stone, a something bigger, ay, and with a crack in ’t, too, shall be the lady with her hair all unbound; this tree shall be the dog; nay, that’s not so neither, for I am the tree and the tree is me, and this stick is the dog, and thus it is. Now doth the small stone weep as ’twere a fountain gone astray, and may not speak for weeping; now doth the something bigger stone weep too, yet with a difference, and she doth not speak for weeping either, and truly I did weep likewise and no more could speak for my weeping than the poor distressed females might, yet there came all the while no word of comfort from this dog’s mouth, not even one tear from his lids. Pray God, gentles all, there be no such hard hearts among any of you, or ’twere ten thousand pities. ’Tis an ill thing to have a sour nature like my dog Crab’s, and no good comes on ’t.
Nurse. Beshrew my heart, and that is so. My Mistress Juliet hath the tenderest and the most pitiful heart that lives in a maid’s body, I do think, for she will weep by the hour together if she but behold a fly caught by the wings in a spider’s web.
Mercutio [to Romeo] No, Juliet, but a Niobe. Eh, man?
[Enter Falstaff.
Falstaff. This were a goodly place enow, and there were sack to be had.
Trinculo [aside] The fat fellow is verily in the right on’t, but since the old gentleman Prospero did give us here the sack there’s no sack here for the wishing.
Falstaff [calls] Francis.
Trinculo. I think there be none here by that name.
Falstaff. ’Tis no matter for the name; the play ’s the thing, the name is mere hollowness and sound. Here, you fellow with the dog, you whoreson shaveling of a man, what is thy name?
Launce. They call me Launce, an’ it doth please you, sir.
Falstaff. How if I do not please? Marry, and what is then thy name? Answer to that.
Launce. I could never i’ the world tell that, sir, and no more, indeed, sir, could my dog Crab that’s here, who, saving your presence, is the most hard-hearted cur alive.
Falstaff. No exceptions, good Launce; exceptions are the devil’s counters, therefore, beware of exceptions. But hark you, good man Launce. Fetch me here some sack, and let it o’erflow the tankard, too, for I’ve a thirst upon me such as Hercules came most honestly by after his twelve labours.
Launce. Please you, sir, I do not know the meanings of sack and Hercules. I did never see either of the gentlemen you speak of.
Falstaff. ’Tis no matter for Hercules, but, God’s pity for ’t, to be unacquainted with sack is to have lived as a dead man liveth. Sack, good Launce, is the prince of roystering blades; the pearl of price; the nonpareil of the world, the—nay, there’s no fit comparison to be made. Ambrosia and nectar together were but ashes i’ the mouth to ’t.
Trinculo [coming forward] You speak nothing aside the matter, sir, as I’m a true man. There’s nought to be named i’ the world before sack, and herein, of all places i’ the world, there’s no inn, no sack, no sack within. So you’ll e’en have to stomach that, though you’ve small stomach to’t.
Falstaff. Small stomach, say you? An’ you denominate this belly of mine a small stomach, there’s no truth in your tongue.
Trinculo. And no sack in your stomach, either.
Launce. These be as fine words as ever I heard.
Falstaff. Now, Sir Shaveling, and who bade you to speak?
Launce. None, sir. I speak but when I have a mind, sir, and I am silent when I have a mind, likewise.
Falstaff. Have a mind to silence and let bigger men speak for you.
Launce. Then I can tell who will do all the tongue-wagging, sir, for I spy none here that is bigger i’ the girth than yourself.
Falstaff. As for the girth, Shaveling, that cometh of sack.
Trinculo. And pillage of the larder, too, or I’m no true woman’s son.
Falstaff. No inn within this heathen isle, no sack within the inn! Is this a fit place to bring a good Christian knight? ’Twere enough to make a man of my sanguine and fiery composition turn Muscovite on the instant, for your Muscovite, as I take it, is a most ungodly knave, and an infidel to boot, and without a moderate deal of sack, such as is needful for a man of my kidney, how is Christendom to be kept on its legs? What gives the justice discretion? Why, sack! What gives the lover whereby to gain the hand of his mistress? Why, sack! What gives the young man a merry heart and the old man a sanguine favour? Why, sack! What gives the soldier courage in the day of battle? Why, sack! Marry, then, he that hath his bellyful of sack hath discretion, courage, a ruddy visage, a merry heart and a nimble tongue.
Launce [aside] The discretion that cometh with what he calls sack is e’en but a scurvy kind of discretion, to my thinking, for all of the stout gentleman’s saying. Here’s Crab, my dog, and he be not so niggard of his tongue, could tell so much as that comes to, on any day i’ the week.
Falstaff. What be these folk that forswear sack? Why, lean anatomies with not so much blood in their bodies as would suffice for a flea’s breakfast. The skin hangs upon their bones for all the world like a loose garment. You may feel the wind blow through their bodies. ’Twere a simple abuse of terms to call such starvelings men: your poor forked radish would become the name better.
Soft music heard.
[Exeunt Falstaff, Launce, Mercutio,
Romeo, Nurse and Peter by twos. A
mist arises, and after a little vanishes.
Trinculo. A murrain light on all unsociable folk. They might have bidden us to be of their company, methinks.
Stephano. Why, man, these are but ghosts come from nowhere. By the bones of my dead grandsire, I’ve small mind to turn myself into a ghost even thereby to leave this isle and Caliban’s hard service. But, look you, Prospero’s daughter and her prince are stayed behind; an’ they be not ghosts of the same feather I marvel where they have bestowed themselves on this isle since Prospero forsook it.
Stephano runs away, crying out loudly the while.
[Enter the Fool and Lear.
Fool. Good nuncle, here be Christian folk; let’s bide. The night cometh when a rotten thatch, even, is a more comfortable blanket than a skyful of little stars.
Lear [pointing to Miranda] What, in Goneril’s palace? Did she not with her own hands push her old father out of door? [To Miranda] Nay, mistress daughter; I’ll not bide with you. A million murrains light upon thy unnatural head; ten million plagues burn in thy blood; a million pains lurk in thy wretched bones, thou piece of painted earth whom ’twere foul shame to call a woman.
Fool. Good nuncle, methinks the sun hath made of thee a very owl, for she whom thou callest upon so loudly is not so eld by twenty summers as thy daughter Goneril.
Lear. ’Tis no matter for that. She is a woman and the daughter of a woman, therefore she will spin foul lies for her pleasure and bid her father out of sight when he is old.
Fool. Fathers that give away all their substance ere they be dead and rotten are like to see strange things come to pass. An’ thy bald crown had been worthy thy golden one it had worn thy golden one still and thou wert warm in thy palace.
Lear. This daughter! O this daughter, Goneril.
Enter King Richard II.
Fool. Lo! here’s another wight that has given away his crown. [To Richard] Art thou a king, too?
King Richard. I am, and England was my sovereignty.
Fool. Then thou liest abominably, for a king that lacks wit to keep his crown on ’s head is no king, and that’s a true saying.
Fool. Then have we here a pair of kings lacking both crowns and kingdoms to wear ’em in. These be but evil times for kings or fools either; and to my thinking there’s not so great a difference betwixt a fool and a king, save that the fool may chance be the wiser man of the two. Of a surety there was little wit a going begging when these twain put their golden crowns from off their simple skulls. Though I’m but a fool, and no wise man, I were but a fool indeed were I to change places with a king.
Enter King Henry VI.