Doubtless the Queen spoke in mockery, since at heart she was a despiser of most men and of all women. Mr. William Shakespeare, however, was fully prepared to take her at her word.
The poet, in order to give full effect to his narrative, rose from the chair upon which he was seated. With perfect self-possession and an air of supreme mastery which it is given to few men to attain, he stood to confront the Queen and the expectant and critical throng of her courtiers.
The lives of Gervase Heriot and of Anne Feversham were at stake. And instinctively the poet knew that his own life was at stake also. No hazard could have been more perilous than that upon which he now proposed to embark. He was about to take a very grave liberty with an august personage who was notoriously quick to resent even a minor one.
The mind of such a man, however, moves on a plane where the mere personal equation is of very little account. Had the least thought of self entered it, such a hazard had not been for a moment possible. His own safety and freedom were as nothing. The whole force of his mind was centered in the hope of preserving the lives of these hapless children of destiny.
“I will give the plot of the play as briefly as I can, your grace. And under your grace’s favor and that of the ladies and gentlemen of your court I will beg you to devise a fitting and proper conclusion for it and thereby spare the poor author many a sleepless night.”
The playwright spoke in a clear and measured tone. His voice was raised so that all might hear every word distinctly. The air of the man, which was far too much infused with the play of a noble mind to bear any suggestion of effrontery, had already made a profound impression upon all. Such a voice, such a demeanor made it clear to the Queen, no less than to the youngest page within earshot, that the recital of this story involved issues far deeper, far more complex than the mere idle gratification of an author’s vanity.
“An extraordinary man,” whispered the Lord Treasurer in the ear of his friend, Pembroke. “I have heard much of his plays of late, but I cannot pretend to be a judge of ’em. But if they are as remarkable as the writer, it is no wonder they stand so high in the public esteem.”
Pembroke made no reply. For one thing he was sadly uneasy. He had grave fears as to the course the story would take, for he had reason to suppose that Shakespeare had actively concerned himself in the affairs of Gervase Heriot, and that by hook or by crook he was determined to bring them to the notice of the Queen. In Pembroke’s view it would be the height of folly to introduce such a perilous topic in such circumstances, but poets were a peculiar race, apt to be carried away by an idea. And the subtle significance of the man’s manner in the telling of the story led my lord to anticipate the worst.
An expectant silence fell on this assembly. The playwright had begun his narrative, and except for the inflections of the clear, yet low and gentle voice, there was not a sound to be heard within the precincts of the pavilion.
“A certain young man,” the playwright began, “well born, well favored, well endowed, with every grace of mind and heart, fair of form as a young god, a very Antinous among his kind, a beautiful youth who has thought ill of none, much less having performed it against any, has yet been born to one signal disadvantage. And the disadvantage is so uncommon in itself that it seems strange that he should suffer it. It is merely that he is too much the favorite of fortune. And yet I would have your grace remark, for that is the essence of my story, how this one faint cloud in the fair heaven of this youth’s tranquility is enough to contrive his overthrow, to dim all his glories, to rob him of all hope of peace and happiness in this life.”