Chapter 4
THE MAN. "For a while" _[he corrects it]._ Good! _[Ardently]_ And now be mine neither for a space nor a while, but for ever.
THE LADY. Odds my life! Are you by chance making love to me, knave?
THE MAN. Nay: tis you who have made the love: I but pour it out at your feet. I cannot but love a lass that sets such store by an apt word. Therefore vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman--no: I have said that before somewhere; and the wordy garment of my love for you must be fire-new--
THE LADY. You talk too much, sir. Let me warn you: I am more accustomed to be listened to than preached at.
THE MAN. The most are like that that do talk well. But though you spake with the tongues of angels, as indeed you do, yet know that I am the king of words--
THE LADY. A king, ha!
THE MAN. No less. We are poor things, we men and women--
THE LADY. Dare you call me woman?
THE MAN. What nobler name can I tender you? How else can I love you? Yet you may well shrink from the name: have I not said we are but poor things? Yet there is a power that can redeem us.
THE LADY. Gramercy for your sermon, sir. I hope I know my duty.
THE MAN. This is no sermon, but the living truth. The power I speak of is the power of immortal poesy. For know that vile as this world is, and worms as we are, you have but to invest all this vileness with a magical garment of words to transfigure us and uplift our souls til earth flowers into a million heavens.
THE LADY. You spoil your heaven with your million. You are extravagant. Observe some measure in your speech.
THE MAN. You speak now as Ben does.
THE LADY. And who, pray, is Ben?
THE MAN. A learned bricklayer who thinks that the sky is at the top of his ladder, and so takes it on him to rebuke me for flying. I tell you there is no word yet coined and no melody yet sung that is extravagant and majestical enough for the glory that lovely words can reveal. It is heresy to deny it: have you not been taught that in the beginning was the Word? that the Word was with God? nay, that the Word was God?
THE LADY. Beware, fellow, how you presume to speak of holy things. The Queen is the head of the Church.
THE MAN. You are the head of my Church when you speak as you did at first. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! Can the Queen speak thus? They say she playeth well upon the virginals. Let her play so to me; and I'll kiss her hands. But until then, you are my Queen; and I'll kiss those lips that have dropt music on my heart. _[He puts his arms about her]._
THE LADY. Unmeasured impudence! On your life, take your hands from me.
_The Dark Lady comes stooping along the terrace behind them like a running thrush. When she sees how they are employed, she rises angrily to her full height, and listens jealously._
THE MAN. _[unaware of the Dark Lady]_ Then cease to make my hands tremble with the streams of life you pour through them. You hold me as the lodestar holds the iron: I cannot but cling to you. We are lost, you and I: nothing can separate us now.
THE DARK LADY. We shall see that, false lying hound, you and your filthy trull. _[With two vigorous cuffs, she knocks the pair asunder, sending the man, who is unlucky enough to receive a righthanded blow, sprawling an the flags]._ Take that, both of you!
THE CLOAKED LADY. _[in towering wrath, throwing off her cloak and turning in outraged majesty on her assailant]_ High treason!
THE DARK LADY. _[recognizing her and falling on her knees in abject terror]_ Will: I am lost: I have struck the Queen.
THE MAN. _[sitting up as majestically as his ignominious posture allows]_ Woman: you have struck WILLIAM SHAKESPEAR.
QUEEN ELIZABETH. _[stupent]_ Marry, come up!!! Struck William Shakespear quotha! And who in the name of all the sluts and jades and light-o'-loves and fly-by-nights that infest this palace of mine, may William Shakespear be?
THE DARK LADY. Madam: he is but a player. Oh, I could have my hand cut off--
QUEEN ELIZABETH. Belike you will, mistress. Have you bethought you that I am like to have your head cut off as well?
THE DARK LADY. Will: save me. Oh, save me.
ELIZABETH. Save you! A likely savior, on my royal word! I had thought this fellow at least an esquire; for I had hoped that even the vilest of my ladies would not have dishonored my Court by wantoning with a baseborn servant.
SHAKESPEAR. _[indignantly scrambling to his feet]_ Base-born! I, a Shakespear of Stratford! I, whose mother was an Arden! baseborn! You forget yourself, madam.
ELIZABETH. _[furious]_ S'blood! do I so? I will teach you--
THE DARK LADY. _[rising from her knees and throwing herself between them]_ Will: in God's name anger her no further. It is death. Madam: do not listen to him.
SHAKESPEAR. Not were it een to save your life, Mary, not to mention mine own, will I flatter a monarch who forgets what is due to my family. I deny not that my father was brought down to be a poor bankrupt; but twas his gentle blood that was ever too generous for trade. Never did he disown his debts. Tis true he paid them not; but it is an attested truth that he gave bills for them; and twas those bills, in the hands of base hucksters, that were his undoing.
ELIZABETH. _[grimly]_ The son of your father shall learn his place in the presence of the daughter of Harry the Eighth.
SHAKESPEAR. _[swelling with intolerant importance]_ Name not that inordinate man in the same breath with Stratford's worthiest alderman. John Shakespear wedded but once: Harry Tudor was married six times. You should blush to utter his name.
THE DARK LADY. | Will: for pity's sake-- | _crying out_
| | _together_
ELIZABETH. | Insolent dog-- |
SHAKESPEAR. _[cutting them short]_ How know you that King Harry was indeed your father?
ELIZABETH. | Zounds! Now by--
| _[she stops to grind her teeth with rage]._
THE DARK LADY. | She will have me whipped through
| the streets. Oh God! Oh God!
SHAKESPEAR. Learn to know yourself better, madam. I am an honest gentleman of unquestioned parentage, and have already sent in my demand for the coat-of-arms that is lawfully mine. Can you say as much for yourself?
ELIZABETH. _[almost beside herself]_ Another word; and I begin with mine own hands the work the hangman shall finish.
SHAKESPEAR. You are no true Tudor: this baggage here has as good a right to your royal seat as you. What maintains you on the throne of England? Is it your renowned wit? your wisdom that sets at naught the craftiest statesmen of the Christian world? No. Tis the mere chance that might have happened to any milkmaid, the caprice of Nature that made you the most wondrous piece of beauty the age hath seen. _[Elizabeth's raised fists, on the point of striking him, fall to her side]._ That is what hath brought all men to your feet, and founded your throne on the impregnable rock of your proud heart, a stony island in a sea of desire. There, madam, is some wholesome blunt honest speaking for you. Now do your worst.
ELIZABETH. _[with dignity]_ Master Shakespear: it is well for you that I am a merciful prince. I make allowance for your rustic ignorance. But remember that there are things which be true, and are yet not seemly to be said (I will not say to a queen; for you will have it that I am none) but to a virgin.
SHAKESPEAR. _[bluntly]_ It is no fault of mine that you are a virgin, madam, albeit tis my misfortune.
THE DARK LADY. _[terrified again]_ In mercy, madam, hold no further discourse with him. He hath ever some lewd jest on his tongue. You hear how he useth me! calling me baggage and the like to your Majesty's face.
ELIZABETH. As for you, mistress, I have yet to demand what your business is at this hour in this place, and how you come to be so concerned with a player that you strike blindly at your sovereign in your jealousy of him.
THE DARK LADY. Madam: as I live and hope for salvation--
SHAKESPEAR. _[sardonically]_ Ha!
THE DARK LADY. _[angrily]_--ay, I'm as like to be saved as thou that believest naught save some black magic of words and verses--I say, madam, as I am a living woman I came here to break with him for ever. Oh, madam, if you would know what misery is, listen to this man that is more than man and less at the same time. He will tie you down to anatomize your very soul: he will wring tears of blood from your humiliation; and then he will heal the wound with flatteries that no woman can resist.
SHAKESPEAR. Flatteries! _[Kneeling]_ Oh, madam, I put my case at your royal feet. I confess to much. I have a rude tongue: I am unmannerly: I blaspheme against the holiness of anointed royalty; but oh, my royal mistress, AM I a flatterer?
ELIZABETH. I absolve you as to that. You are far too plain a dealer to please me. _[He rises gratefully]._
THE DARK LADY. Madam: he is flattering you even as he speaks.
ELIZABETH. _[a terrible flash in her eye]_ Ha! Is it so?
SHAKESPEAR. Madam: she is jealous; and, heaven help me! not without reason. Oh, you say you are a merciful prince; but that was cruel of you, that hiding of your royal dignity when you found me here. For how can I ever be content with this black-haired, black-eyed, black-avised devil again now that I have looked upon real beauty and real majesty?
THE DARK LADY. _[wounded and desperate]_ He hath swore to me ten times over that the day shall come in England when black women, for all their foulness, shall be more thought on than fair ones. _[To Shakespear, scolding at him]_ Deny it if thou canst. Oh, he is compact of lies and scorns. I am tired of being tossed up to heaven and dragged down to hell at every whim that takes him. I am ashamed to my very soul that I have abased myself to love one that my father would not have deemed fit to hold my stirrup--one that will talk to all the world about me--that will put my love and my shame into his plays and make me blush for myself there--that will write sonnets about me that no man of gentle strain would put his hand to. I am all disordered: I know not what I am saying to your Majesty: I am of all ladies most deject and wretched--
SHAKESPEAR. Ha! At last sorrow hath struck a note of music out of thee. "Of all ladies most deject and wretched." _[He makes a note of it]._
THE DARK LADY. Madam: I implore you give me leave to go. I am distracted with grief and shame. I--
ELIZABETH. Go _[The Dark Lady tries to kiss her hand]._ No more. Go. _[The Dark Lady goes, convulsed]._ You have been cruel to that poor fond wretch, Master Shakespear.
SHAKESPEAR. I am not cruel, madam; but you know the fable of Jupiter and Semele. I could not help my lightnings scorching her.
ELIZABETH. You have an overweening conceit of yourself, sir, that displeases your Queen.
SHAKESPEAR. Oh, madam, can I go about with the modest cough of a minor poet, belittling my inspiration and making the mightiest wonder of your reign a thing of nought? I have said that "not marble nor the gilded monuments of princes shall outlive" the words with which I make the world glorious or foolish at my will. Besides, I would have you think me great enough to grant me a boon.
ELIZABETH. I hope it is a boon that may be asked of a virgin Queen without offence, sir. I mistrust your forwardness; and I bid you remember that I do not suffer persons of your degree (if I may say so without offence to your father the alderman) to presume too far.
SHAKESPEAR. Oh, madam, I shall not forget myself again; though by my life, could I make you a serving wench, neither a queen nor a virgin should you be for so much longer as a flash of lightning might take to cross the river to the Bankside. But since you are a queen and will none of me, nor of Philip of Spain, nor of any other mortal man, I must een contain myself as best I may, and ask you only for a boon of State.
ELIZABETH. A boon of State already! You are becoming a courtier like the rest of them. You lack advancement.
SHAKESPEAR. "Lack advancement." By your Majesty's leave: a queenly phrase. _[He is about to write it down]._
ELIZABETH. _[striking the tablets from his hand]_ Your tables begin to anger me, sir. I am not here to write your plays for you.
SHAKESPEAR. You are here to inspire them, madam. For this, among the rest, were you ordained. But the boon I crave is that you do endow a great playhouse, or, if I may make bold to coin a scholarly name for it, a National Theatre, for the better instruction and gracing of your Majesty's subjects.
ELIZABETH. Why, sir, are there not theatres enow on the Bankside and in Blackfriars?
SHAKESPEAR. Madam: these are the adventures of needy and desperate men that must, to save themselves from perishing of want, give the sillier sort of people what they best like; and what they best like, God knows, is not their own betterment and instruction, as we well see by the example of the churches, which must needs compel men to frequent them, though they be open to all without charge. Only when there is a matter of a murder, or a plot, or a pretty youth in petticoats, or some naughty tale of wantonness, will your subjects pay the great cost of good players and their finery, with a little profit to boot. To prove this I will tell you that I have written two noble and excellent plays setting forth the advancement of women of high nature and fruitful industry even as your Majesty is: the one a skilful physician, the other a sister devoted to good works. I have also stole from a book of idle wanton tales two of the most damnable foolishnesses in the world, in the one of which a woman goeth in man's attire and maketh impudent love to her swain, who pleaseth the groundlings by overthrowing a wrestler; whilst, in the other, one of the same kidney sheweth her wit by saying endless naughtinesses to a gentleman as lewd as herself. I have writ these to save my friends from penury, yet shewing my scorn for such follies and for them that praise them by calling the one As You Like It, meaning that it is not as _I_ like it, and the other Much Ado About Nothing, as it truly is. And now these two filthy pieces drive their nobler fellows from the stage, where indeed I cannot have my lady physician presented at all, she being too honest a woman for the taste of the town. Wherefore I humbly beg your Majesty to give order that a theatre be endowed out of the public revenue for the playing of those pieces of mine which no merchant will touch, seeing that his gain is so much greater with the worse than with the better. Thereby you shall also encourage other men to undertake the writing of plays who do now despise it and leave it wholly to those whose counsels will work little good to your realm. For this writing of plays is a great matter, forming as it does the minds and affections of men in such sort that whatsoever they see done in show on the stage, they will presently be doing in earnest in the world, which is but a larger stage. Of late, as you know, the Church taught the people by means of plays; but the people flocked only to such as were full of superstitious miracles and bloody martyrdoms; and so the Church, which also was just then brought into straits by the policy of your royal father, did abandon and discountenance the art of playing; and thus it fell into the hands of poor players and greedy merchants that had their pockets to look to and not the greatness of this your kingdom. Therefore now must your Majesty take up that good work that your Church hath abandoned, and restore the art of playing to its former use and dignity.
ELIZABETH. Master Shakespear: I will speak of this matter to the Lord Treasurer.
SHAKESPEAR. Then am I undone, madam; for there was never yet a Lord Treasurer that could find a penny for anything over and above the necessary expenses of your government, save for a war or a salary for his own nephew.
ELIZABETH. Master Shakespear: you speak sooth; yet cannot I in any wise mend it. I dare not offend my unruly Puritans by making so lewd a place as the playhouse a public charge; and there be a thousand things to be done in this London of mine before your poetry can have its penny from the general purse. I tell thee, Master Will, it will be three hundred years and more before my subjects learn that man cannot live by bread alone, but by every word that cometh from the mouth of those whom God inspires. By that time you and I will be dust beneath the feet of the horses, if indeed there be any horses then, and men be still riding instead of flying. Now it may be that by then your works will be dust also.
SHAKESPEAR. They will stand, madam: fear nor for that.
ELIZABETH. It may prove so. But of this I am certain (for I know my countrymen) that until every other country in the Christian world, even to barbarian Muscovy and the hamlets of the boorish Germans, have its playhouse at the public charge, England will never adventure. And she will adventure then only because it is her desire to be ever in the fashion, and to do humbly and dutifully whatso she seeth everybody else doing. In the meantime you must content yourself as best you can by the playing of those two pieces which you give out as the most damnable ever writ, but which your countrymen, I warn you, will swear are the best you have ever done. But this I will say, that if I could speak across the ages to our descendants, I should heartily recommend them to fulfil your wish; for the Scottish minstrel hath well said that he that maketh the songs of a nation is mightier than he that maketh its laws; and the same may well be true of plays and interludes. _[The clock chimes the first quarter. The warder returns on his round]._ And now, sir, we are upon the hour when it better beseems a virgin queen to be abed than to converse alone with the naughtiest of her subjects. Ho there! Who keeps ward on the queen's lodgings tonight?
THE WARDER. I do, an't please your majesty.
ELIZABETH. See that you keep it better in future. You have let pass a most dangerous gallant even to the very door of our royal chamber. Lead him forth; and bring me word when he is safely locked out; for I shall scarce dare disrobe until the palace gates are between us.
SHAKESPEAR. _[kissing her hand]_ My body goes through the gate into the darkness, madam; but my thoughts follow you.
ELIZABETH. How! to my bed!
SHAKESPEAR. No, madam, to your prayers, in which I beg you to remember my theatre.
ELIZABETH. That is my prayer to posterity. Forget not your own to God; and so goodnight, Master Will.
SHAKESPEAR. Goodnight, great Elizabeth. God save the Queen!
ELIZABETH. Amen.
_Exeunt severally: she to her chamber: he, in custody of the warder, to the gate nearest Blackfriars._
AYOT, ST. LAWRENCE, _20th June_ 1910.
Notes on the editing: Italicized text is delimited with underlines. Punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text. Shaw intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard system. For example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe), "Dr." is given as "Dr" (without a period at the end), and "Shakespeare" is given as "Shakespear" (no "e" at the end). Where several characters in the play are speaking at once, I have indicated it with vertical bars ("|"). The pound (currency) symbol has been replaced by the word "pounds".
End of Project Gutenberg's Dark Lady of the Sonnets, by George Bernard Shaw