Anne Feversham

by J. C. Snaith

The unlucky Gervase Heriot, lying in the shadow of a peril that would have wrecked the strongest will, had come upon this man in an hour when nothing seemed beyond the scope of his invention. The tragic history of this young man, and of the noble girl who had forfeited all in order to save his life, had wrought deeply upon the player’s pity.

Shakespeare had resolved to help the fugitives to the utmost of his power. Such a decision in circumstances of such grave peril and difficulty could only have sprung from the large generosity of a great nature. He had all to lose by mingling in the affairs of one in this grim pass. Nothing could be more perilous than to help a convicted traitor to escape his doom, but in spite of the solemn warnings and even the earnest prayers of his devoted friend, Burbage, the playwright’s mind was now set upon this task.

It was easier, however, to form this resolve than to give it practical expression. But the outcome of much anxious thought upon the matter was to make one fact clear. If the life of Heriot was not to be spared at the expense of a man as blameless as himself, an appeal must be made to the Queen. And in order to do that with the smallest hope of success, the young man must be able to adduce a strong proof of his innocence and, at the same time, engage the Queen’s sympathy.

There lay the crux of the whole matter. And as soon as this conclusion had been reached, the keenly practical mind of the playwright began to grapple with this sore problem. At first, it seemed hopeless to do anything. There appeared to be no means of obtaining the all-important proof of Gervase Heriot’s innocence, without which it would be the height of imprudence to bring the matter to the notice of the Queen. For none knew better than William Shakespeare, that she was a woman of harsh and imperious temper.

Thus was it beyond all things necessary that a proof of Heriot’s innocence should be found. The playwright sat late that evening in a secluded corner of the inn parlor, anxiously discussing with “Signor Bandinello” every aspect of his unhappy case. It was true that he deemed it wise to withhold all mention of the falconer’s visit and the sinister news he had brought. Shakespeare was convinced that such information had only to come to the ears of Gervase Heriot for the fugitive to give himself up at once. This was not the kind of man to allow another to suffer in his place.

Many were the questions with which the player plied Gervase, in the hope of finding some way out of this tragic coil. The natural starting point of this search for a means of escape was the presence in that inn of the man Grisewood. In a sense, it would almost seem that the hand of providence lurked in such a coincidence. But how to turn it to account, that was the problem.

Would it be possible to make him play false his ignoble partner, the man Simon Heriot? A very little reflection convinced Shakespeare that any such hope was vain. To begin with, nothing was less likely than that Grisewood would run the risk of putting his neck in a noose by confessing the truth; again, having very recently experienced the thrust of the sword of “the Italian music master,” he had now the best of reasons for nursing an implacable hatred against the man whose life he had sworn away.

From a consideration of the man lying upstairs sick with the pain of an ugly wound, it was a natural transition to the sole author and inspirer of the whole tragic business. The house of Simon Heriot was but ten miles away. And if hope of any kind was to be derived from the nearness of the chief actors in the sordid drama, it seemed to lie in this fact.

Quite apart from the pass of Sir John Feversham, the playwright was too wise a man to approve the wild scheme that Gervase had formed, which indeed was the cause of his return to Oxford. The risk would be great, the gain slight and uncertain. But indirectly, it was Gervase’s crude plan which now set the subtle brain to work. Many were the questions Shakespeare asked touching the character, the habits, the mode of life of Simon Heriot.

Among other things he learned was that this man was of a morbid imagination, holding himself aloof from his kind. Of late, he had mixed but little in the world. It was even thought by some that his mind had at last turned against itself, and that it had begun to show signs of a failing sanity.