THE SCENIC HOUR.
When the curtain rose, it discovered the representation of a private street, very rudely painted upon a sort of hanging screen at the back of the stage, with a couple of wings to match, and upon a board or placard was also written in good-sized characters an intimation for the benefit of the spectators, worded thus:—"Scene during the greater part of the play in Verona; once in ye-fifthe act, at Mantua," a flourish of trumpets meantime rung out as the stage was displayed, and one dressed in character as "Prologue," entered, and bowing low towards the royal box, delivered the well-known but now omitted argument of the piece:—
"Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Do, with their death, bury their parents' strife.
The fearful passage of their death mark'd love,
And the continuance of their parents's rage
Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage:
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."
"Methinks, my Lord of Essex," said the Queen, who had listened with great interest to the words, "Master Prologue promiseth well. Marked you how much was contained in those few lines? And lo, here begins the piece."
As the Queen spoke, Sampson and Gregory, with their swords and bucklers, and clad pretty much after the fashion of serving men of their own day, entered, and instantly commenced their animated dialogue.
Not, however, be it understood "slubbered over" by inferior actors, as in our times, but with exceeding humour, and with force and emphasis in every word; for even these minor characters were performed by actors of great talent.
Nothing could exceed the curiosity and interest in the audience even at this, the very commencement. The lively and sharp dialogue, the action so suited to the times in which the spectators lived; the animosity of the Capulet underlings towards the servitors of the Montagu family—and which bore so hardly upon several nobles present, whose followers frequently brawled and fought in the streets—produced a great effect; till, at length, as the lie was given, and Gregory, being prompted to remember his swashing blow, drew out his weapon, and the whole four engaged, the excitement, especially in the pit, was extraordinary. A murmur of delight was heard, and whilst some clapped their hands upon their rapiers, others shouted and seemed half inclined to jump upon the stage, and "fight on part and part." The entrance of Benvolio and Tybalt, however, produced a deep and silent attention.
"What, art thou drawn amongst these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death."
There was, indeed, now amongst the audience no inclination to pursue their accustomed practical jokes—no mewling of cats, squeaking of pigs, and tickling each other's ears with the rushes. The wondrous words of the poet held them in a state of enchantment. The nobles of the Court for the moment forgot the accustomed homage of eye and ear. Their bearded faces betrayed their interest, and the templars and students, as they stood leaning upon their heavy-hilted rapiers, sent their eyes upon the stage as if they could have devoured each line.
Indeed, to have any ideas of the interest created, we most again call to the reader's remembrance how great was the contrast between that which had been and that which was; and if the melody of the verse of Shakespeare can, in the present day, make such an impression whilst we have so many and such varied productions suited to the hour and the time, in how much more was it likely to strike the senses of all present, when it seemed to have descended at once, in all its glorious beauty, like the music of the spheres!
There is that in theatrical representation, it has been observed by one of the greatest writers of our day, which perpetually awakens whatever of romance belongs to our characters. The comic wit, the strange art that gives such meaning to the poet's lightest word, the fair exciting life that is detailed before us, crowded into some little three hours—all that our most busy ambition could desire, love, enterprize, war, glory, the exaggeration of the sentiments which belong to the stage—like our own boldest movements.
Meanwhile the interest increased momentarily. The audience, from the Queen down to the meanest person there, seemed held in a state of enchantment as the piece proceeded. How different was it already from anything they had ever conceived of theatrical representation! It was a picture of life, such as is in the order of nature; there was the buoyant spirit of youth in every line! The Knight of Charlecote even became young again; he cast his eyes for a moment around, and was edified at beholding the deep, the breathless attention of the audience. The royal Tudor, "with eye and ear attentive bent," the lovely faces of her attendant ladies, each thrust forward and eager to catch the words of the poet, and the fine features of the attendant cavaliers, lighted up and animated with an expression of deep interest; the whole assemblage seeming, he thought, to hang upon each word.
As the eye of Sir Thomas again turned from the audience and rested upon the stage, he observed that the scene had been fresh placarded, and was now "a street in fair Verona." Indeed the serving-man who had announced to Lady Capulet, in the preceding scene, that "supper was served, Juliet asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity," had before his own exit changed the placard, and the next moment, as a gay party of revellers filled up the back of the stage, Romeo, Mercutio, and Benvolio, clad in masking costume, vizors in their hands, entered.
The masquing robes of Mercutio were partially dashed aside as he spoke the few words which constitute his opening speech.
"Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance."
At the same moment, too, the vizor which had bean held before his face was lowered, and as the glance of the torch-light fell upon his rich Italian dress and elegant figure, Sir Thomas started, whilst a murmur of applause ran through the theatre, gradually breaking into load plaudits, for in Mercutio they beheld the author of the piece—Shakespeare was on the stage.
The applause, however, was hushed almost at its commencement in the interest of the scene, and then came those startling lines which have since become as household words:—
"O, then, I see Queen Mab has been with you."
They came from the tongue of him who composed them, now uttered to an audience for the first time. Who shall attempt to describe their impression upon the hearers? Who shall describe the manner—the look—the utterance of him who then gave them? Shall we go too far if we say the world had since nothing to compare with that representation? The life, the brilliancy, the style of the character was suited to the actor. He was all fire, energy and spirit,—Mercutio was Shakespeare's self,—the most mercurial and spirited of the production of his comic muse; and the impressive manner in which he gave the words of the character, and their fire and brilliancy, his exquisite intonation, nay, the very dash of his look was irresistible.
The Queen, as he finished his speech, glanced around her. "'Fore Heaven, my Lord of Essex," she said, "but is not this exquisite?"
The answer of Essex was drowned in the applause which at the moment burst from all around as the graceful actor continued his part.
To ourselves, perhaps, at this moment, it would appear extraordinary that even greater approbation and louder plaudits had not followed. Shakespeare upon the stage, and speaking his own words, would seem to call forth acclaiming shouts within the walls of that old monastic playhouse which should almost have rent its roof in twain. To ourselves it would seem that the spectators should have almost expired with their enthusiasm; that "throats of brass, inspired with iron lungs," should have greeted him. But, be it remembered, that, exquisite as the whole performance was, as yet the audience knew little of the man, that the consideration of years had to mature the judgment of the world. He was actually giving them that which was too exquisite for the rudeness of the age in which they lived.
And so the play went on, new beauties every moment coming over the ears of that courtly audience, and at the same moment filling with delight those of inferior degree.
Amongst the audience constituting the Court circle were two spectators who stood somewhat apart, and beneath the arched entrance which admitted to the rude gallery constituting the dress-circle. With folded arms they watched the performance with, if possible, greater interest than any there.
They were an old and a young man, who had been drawn to see this performance from having heard the name of the author on their arrival in London. Both were from the neighbourhood of Stratford-upon-Avon, and (albeit they could scarce believe this play was the production of one whom they had long lost sight of), still they came.
As the play proceeded they became convinced from the language that it was indeed the production of the youth they had formerly known.
"By 'ur Lady," said Walter Arderne, "this must be our sometime friend!"
"No man else could have written even what we have already heard," said Sir Hugh Clopton.
"I am amazed," said Walter; "and yet I ought not, for well do I remember what the lad was."
"Hist," said Sir Hugh, "the scene is changed. Ah! and see, too, yonder masquer just now speaking those lines of fire. Is it not he?"
"It is himself!" said Walter. "O glorious fellow!"
"Soft, good Walter," said Sir Hugh. "In God's name let us hear."
As Mercutio finished his speech, the uncle and nephew looked at each other. The tears were in the eyes of Sir Hugh. "My poor Charlotte prophesied this," he said. "Rememberest thou her words about this Shakespeare when we first became acquainted with him?"
"I do," said Walter; "and she was indeed the only one amongst us who fully appreciated his merits. Nay, from the very first, an you remember, she said he would one day surprise us."
All further attempt to describe the progress of this play, and its effect upon the minds of the spectators, we feel to be a mere impertinence. It seems indeed to ourselves, as in imagination we after eye it, a play within a play—where all is like romance. The audience, that theatre, the players, that "foremost man of all the world" speaking his own words; all is like the fabric of some vision seen before,—a shadowy recollection of some brilliant hour set apart from the dull stream of life, and that too, during a glorious epoch.
As the play proceeded, and the progress of Romeo's sudden passion developed itself, the thoughts of that stately Queen returned to her early youth, ere the sterner feeling of pride and power had obliterated all gentler sensations. She thought upon the days when she loved the handsome Sudley, with all the violence of a first passion.
And if the royal Tudor and all around her were delighted with the delicious picture presented before them, in the halls of old Capulet, and the masque held there, they were still more charmed with the garden scene. They felt enchanted whilst they listened to the images of beauty which appear to have floated in such profusion before the poet's mind.
The richness of that glorious Italian picture held them in a state of enchantment. It had the sweetness of the rose, and all its freshness in every line. All was bright as the moonlight which tipped with silver the fruit-tree tops of the orchard, and yet all was soft as a southern spring. The very air of that garden seemed to breath a transport of delight; one almost expected to hear the language of the nightingale's song. And then the refinement and delicacy of the author's conception of the female character delighted the hearers as they listened to the words of Juliet.
"Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain deny
What I have spoke—but farewell compliment;
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, ay,
And I will take thee at thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries,
They say Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or, if thou think I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay
So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light;
But trust me gentleman, I'll prove move true
Than those who have more cunning to be strange."
"The world hath nothing like this," said Raleigh to Southampton.
"'Tis heaven on this base earth," returned Southampton. "Said I not the master-mind of this man would produce wondrous matter?"
"Nay," said Sir Courtley Flutter, who was an ancient fop of the first water, "'Fore Gad, my lords, 'tis indeed perfect paradise sent down upon us poor worldlings here. I feel inspired altogether—repaired as it were; my heart palpitates—my blood circulates! Ha! I am young again, positively in love myself. Look, how these exquisite ladies, with the Queen there, are overcome. Nay, my Lord Burleigh seems to have forgotten the cares o' the state, and Bacon his gout. An we have another such masque as that just now represented, Sir Christopher Hatton will assuredly fling out amongst the dancers, and give us a coranto."
"By 'ur Lady!" said Sir Christopher, "I would ask no more beatitude in life, during the mighty changes of the world, than what appears in this changing drama, and the stuff of which it is composed. This lower world hath no such bliss. Let me see how went it:—'A hall, a hall,—give way, and foot it, girls!' Oh, 'twas exquisite stuff!"
The limits of the chapter we have dedicated to a description of "the play" permits not of a full dilation upon all therein enacted, neither can we describe the particular excellence of each actor; for each and all performed their parts with a richness and appreciation of the author's meaning the very tradition of which seems to have worn out from the stage.
To the want of scenery during this period we are perhaps indebted for many of those glorious descriptions with which the author has favoured the world in his works.
One thing, and which with a more modern audience would have gone far to take from the delight experienced, was the circumstance of Juliet's being personated by a youth of some sixteen years of age. This, together with the shambling clowns, who, with loose gait and slippery tongue strolled about and vented their sourril jests amongst the audience,—one moment tagging idle rhymes together, and the next venting truths deep as the centre, shewing a most pitiful ambition to make themselves prominent. These circumstances, in some sort, took from the effect.
As for Mercutio, the fire and dash of his character so excited the spectators that they could hardly contain themselves within bounds. He was like some bright exhalation, lending fire to the sphere in which he moved. And when, with the foot and hand, he gave the speech ending "Ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay!" the Court gallants, the benchers of the temple, and the citizens, shouted with delight. His death took all by surprise, and his absence from the scene was felt as a shock of reality. It was an age of bright deeds and fierce doers, and accordingly there was a murmur of disapprobation and disappointment when "Tybalt, alive, in triumph," made his exit,—till, as Romeo breaks through his apathy, and, assuming some of the fire of his kinsman's spirit, fiercely encounters and kills "the envious Capulet," a shout of gratified vengeance filled the house. Queen Elizabeth had herself been delighted with Mercutio. "That was a character, my Lord of Essex," she said, "after my own heart. But he was too brilliant to last. His were the faults that travellers give the moon,—
"He shone too bright. But died, alas! too soon."
"'Fore heaven, Sir Christopher Hatton," she continued, "we will not let Mercutio altogether die. An he was so brilliant that the author was enforced to kill him thus early, we will ourself raise him up. Go round, Sir Christopher, and summon that Shakespeare to our presence, in order that we may express to him our approbation of his efforts. What think ye, ladies," she continued, turning to her female attendants, "we will have both the character and the creator of the character beside us."
Shakespeare accordingly, by royal command, entered the royal stand or box, where he knelt and kissed the Queen's hand. After which he remained beside her.
And thus he stood on the right hand of the Queen with his face turned towards the royal countenance, his side towards the stage, and as the play proceeded, he received the compliments of Elizabeth, and answered the various questions she put to him. Nay, she ordered back whoever came so close as to inconvenience the poet, and seemed altogether delighted at having him so near her.
"We will keep you beside us, Master Shakespeare," said she, "and whilst your play proceeds, you shall act as chorus, explaining what may seem wanting to our duller senses."
Shakespeare bowed his thanks. "I attend your Highness," he said, "with all true duty,"—and thus he remained immovable as a statue during the remainder of the play, the mark of more than one bright glance from the fair bevy in attendance. This was the poet's triumphant hour, and yet the mind of the man was too great to be elevated beyond bounds.
He knew "the art o' the Court," and the uncertain favour of the great; and that there was—
"Between that smile, he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears, than wars or women have."
Amongst the audience, there was a female bright and exquisite as one of the creations of that author's after years. She stood with an attendant, and almost concealed beneath one of the gothic arches of the building, and wore (as was indeed not uncommon at that period) a sort of masking costume. Her features, indeed, were so completely concealed by her mask that only her brilliant eyes were visible.
It was one who, even at this early period of the poet's career, fully appreciated his genius and talents, and (like Charlotte Clopton) at once saw what the world would take years to discover. And what a sight was it for that private friend to behold! She saw him, to whom she owed so much, in his hour of triumph, and marked his expressive countenance as he stood beside the Queen. She marked, too, the surprise and delight pourtrayed upon the countenance of Walter Arderne and Sir Hugh Clopton, as they looked upon the poor player thus honoured in the presence of the mighty Tudor; and then she beheld with a smile, for she knew his story, the astonishment of Sir Thomas Lucy, as the knight's eyes wandered to the stage, and again returned to the figure of the sometime deer-stealer; and whilst his ears drank in the honeyed words of that poet, Sir Thomas felt he could forgive all his juvenile delinquencies, and longed to grasp him by the hand.
"Pshaw," he said, "I have been an ass. I am an ass—ergo, we are all asses in comparison to this one man, this Shakespeare."