'An actor in this theatre,' she replied. 'But they only sing trivial songs and dance in this theatre, and you look to me like one of Shakespeare's imaginations. Henry the Eighth, almost any one of the Henries. King John.'
'Not Romeo,' Dick interposed.
'Perhaps not Romeo. Romeo was but sixteen or seventeen, eighteen at the most. But when you were eighteen….'
'Yes,' Dick answered, 'I was thin enough then.'
'But you must not disparage yourself. Heroes are not always thin. Hamlet was fat and scant of breath. I can see you as Hamlet, whereas to cast you for Falstaff would be too obvious.'
'I've played Falstaff,' Dick replied, 'but I never could do much with the part, and I never saw anyone who could. The lines are very often too high-falutin for the character, and they don't seem to come out, no matter who plays it; the critics look on it as the best acting part, but in truth it is the worst.'
'Macduff would fit you, no; Lear,' the lady cried.
Dick thought he would like to have a shot at the king, and they were soon talking about a Shakespearean theatre devoted to the performance of Shakespearean plays. 'A theatre,' she said, 'that would devote itself to the representation of all the heroes in the world; those who spoke noble thoughts and performed noble deeds, thought and deed encompassing each other, instead of which we have a thousand theatres devoted to the representations of the fashions of the moment. So I'm forced to come here at midday, for at midday there is solitude and sacred silence, or else the clashing of waves. Here at midday I can fancy myself alone with my heroes.'
'And who are your heroes, may I ask?' said Dick.
'Many are in Shakespeare,' she answered, 'and many are here in this manuscript. The heroes of the ancient world, when men were nearer to the gods than they are now. For men,' she added, 'in my belief, are not moving towards the Godhead, but away from it.'