The high official with whom William Shakespeare conferred shook his head sadly over the whole matter. It was very ugly, he said, and was strongly inclined to deprecate the player’s interest in it. He gave him a word of advice. Let him dismiss the subject from his thoughts as soon as possible. It was one of those dark things in which no man who set a value upon his life and liberty could afford to concern himself.
The man to whom this excellent advice was given well knew that it was sound enough. But he was pledged too deeply; besides, he was not a man to count the cost. He bore the news back to Gervase, who was fretting out his heart in his hiding-place in the player’s lodging on the Bankside, and told him he could possess his soul in patience, at least, until Thursday.
The three intervening days were fraught with much anxiety for Shakespeare. The fate of the new comedy hung in the balance. The absence of Parflete from the cast was felt by all, except the author himself, to be an irreparable blow to its prospects. And the announcement that the all-important part of Rosalind was to be intrusted to one who had absolutely no experience of the theater filled the other players with dismay.
Burbage alone knew the true identity of the Italian music master’s son. And even in such a crisis as this, he was too loyal to his friend to make others a party to his knowledge. But the great actor was sorely uneasy. His misgivings were many, not only as to the fate of the comedy, but also as to that of the author himself, now that he had taken this unlucky resolve to concern himself with treason.
A rehearsal of the play was called for Tuesday afternoon. And here a surprise awaited those who were prophesying disaster. Complete tyro as the young Signor Arrigo was known to be, his impersonation of Rosalind showed a most surprising talent. Anne had been strung up to a high pitch of excitement. She brought all her high courage and her quick woman’s faculties to bear upon the task and the result was far beyond all expectation. There was no denying such grace, such beauty, such natural aptitude. Not once did she falter in her lines. And then the voice was so clear and musical, that it might have been that of Rosalind herself.
Indeed, had not the other players known the new Rosalind to be the Italian music master’s son, they must have been convinced that she was a woman! They were bound to agree with the author that young Signor Arrigo was born to play the part. And their spirits rose accordingly. Even the staunchest adherents of Parflete were compelled to admit that fortune had provided them with a substitute of quite remarkable powers. That gifted young player himself could not have surpassed the new Rosalind.
It was only promise, to be sure. Let them withhold the verdict until Thursday. These were men of experience, who knew that the happy augury of the rehearsal was not always borne out by the performance itself. But they were put in excellent heart by the brilliant aptitude of the young Signor Arrigo, which so far transcended their expectations. John Heming, one of the Company’s managers, a man of parts with a well-developed faculty of criticism, was particularly delighted. He had never seen such a precocious genius for the stage. And he could not help admiring the perspicacity which had enabled the author to take a step so bold, which had led to a discovery of such importance.
All now promised well for the momentous day. If the new Rosalind fulfilled the promise of the first rehearsal, there need be no fears for the success of the piece. The author had yet to know failure. It was true the subject-matter of the new comedy might be flimsy enough, but Burbage and Heming declared, and these were men of ripe judgment, that it had all the qualities which had made the playwright famous.
Still, before that fateful Thursday dawned, there happened a sinister thing. Late in the evening of Wednesday, Shakespeare returned alone to his lodgings. He had been ceaselessly occupied during the day with the final preparations for the morrow. Everything was now in readiness for the journey to Richmond, a few hours hence. The playwright was feeling dog-tired and had a longing for rest, as he turned the key in the door of his dwelling.
He was surprised to find a light showing through the shutters of the little parlor in which he wrote and read. The room, it was true, had been placed at the service of Heriot and Mistress Feversham. But the hour was so late, that he had supposed they had retired long ago to their rest.