“‘The pens, my lady! An eagle’s pinion, and this story you have told shall we give wing! But note you! three stories have you taken and woven into two instead of one. So shall it stand. Two stories shall we tell, the one within the other held.’[2]
“And straightway were pens and paper brought and he did write—steadily and seemingly without thought of form or rounded sentences, but surely without stop—and as the pen went gliding o’er the parchment, and page on page were turned aside, the fair young girl did seize and greedily did read, with pen in hand to make an alteration, although but slight, and her cheeks did burn and now and then she sighed and raised her hands. But the young man, he looked not up, but with calm face and steady hand the work went on; and as he held the pen in his right hand, his left hand moved, as though unknown to him, across the narrow table, and gently did she hold it fast—and still the work went on. A few more nights—the play was done and to the judges sent. They read aloud. Some wondered, others sniffed the air, one said: ‘What rubbish is this sent to us? What folly! and written by a big peasant boor!—use it to light the fire. Here, servant, you, bring on the next so to quickly get this horrid taste out of our mouths.’
“The young man heard the sentence, smiled softly, and to himself did say, ‘Oh man, proud man, clothed in a little brief authority, doth cut such fantastic tricks before high heaven as does make angels weep! Now for myself I do not care, but the lady forsooth, whose play it is, or was before ’twas burned—shame on them!—how can I tell her?’ And so he wandered forth and met but who? Why, Harriette, who sought the youth full far and wide, for she had heard the news and grieved she was and sick, fearing the blow might prove too much for him whose play it was. ‘I care not for myself,’ she said; ‘but how—how can I tell him?’ They met—each read full in the other’s eyes what each would say. Both smiled and walked away.”
[CHAPTER XVII.
THOSE TWO.]
“The disappointment caused by the harsh rejection of this first play of William Shakespeare and Harriette Bowenni was not great. Each had had a more than speaking acquaintanceship with sorrow, and trouble is only comparative anyway; so they looked upon the matter rather as a thing to be expected, an amusing circumstance. They knew the play was better than the one accepted, and that was enough. ‘Is not William Shakespeare just as great as though his name was on the bill board?’ the lady said. Another reason that made them look on the matter lightly was that each read their fate in the other’s face, and as long as no separation is threatened love not only laughs at locksmiths but at all disaster. No awkward love-making scene had ever come between them, no formal declaration. As he wrote that first night, the young man unconsciously reached out his hand toward the girl. She took it, and held it lovingly between her own. When they parted he stooped and their lips met.
“When next they walked along the street, among other things he said, ‘I love you, dear.’ The young woman made no sign of surprise, but when she wrote to him the following day (strange how lovers find excuse to write so often!), there were terms of endearment, all inserted without apology. No wooing—no effort at winning—no affected coyness. They loved, and true love need not be ashamed, for ’tis God’s own gift, and given only to the worthy.
“Each day she wrote a letter to her lover—each day he wrote to her. These messages were often in verse, and part of them are preserved in the sonnets of Shakespeare, one hundred and fifty-four in number. These sonnets, it will be noticed, have no special relation one to the other. Part, it can be seen, are written by a woman to her lover. Mixed in with these are others written by a man. You will notice that in those written by the woman she entreats the young man to marry, and expresses much regret and surprise that though he loves her well he will not wed.
“These sonnets were first published in 1609, and were dedicated—