said.
“Friendship as between Palamon and Arcite,” continued WS almost wistfully, and appearing not to notice that I had said anything. “Or Aeneas and Achates from Troy.
‘Fidus’ Achates, as Vergil calls him. Faithful Achates.”
“Yes . . .”
“I ask you whether that steady-burning friendship is not a truer emblem of that eternal and stainless love which we are enjoined to believe in, I mean the love which dwells above – a
truer emblem than the passion of Aeneas for Dido, and hers for him, which ended in all the fury of the funeral pyre.”
I wondered to hear WS make a comparison like Jack Horner had made, between man-and-woman’s love and a violent fire.
“In the olden times, such friendship between men was no doubt possible,” he continued.
“But no longer?” I said.
“Olden times become golden times to men’s eyes, but our own age is always leaden. Or iron. Heavy, hard.”
“But ready to be transmuted?” I said.
“Why yes, Nick,” said WS, appearing to notice me again. “Everything can somehow be transmuted, the base metal turned to gold. Or if not, we can make it seem so.”
He motioned with his hand at the room, in which lights flared and business-like yet excited activity and talk flowed around us.
“Still, Nick, this is not exactly what I wanted to say to you. In the beaten way of friendship. I have a particular request to make . . .”
Friendship! The word rang in my mind . . .
And while we’re on the subject of friendship I might as well tell the tale of my dealings with Mistress Isabella Horner. No, not might as well but must. It’s
connected with what you’ve just heard, it has to do with what follows. And I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep quiet about it. Guilt, I suppose, the need to get it off my
chest.
So before I reach my midnight rendezvous in Hart Street with Nemo, here is what we players call . . .
An Interlude
It started one afternoon in the late autumn in the tiring-house. Or, to be precise, it started earlier that day. I was going about my lawful business walking riverwards up
Long Southwark. Ahead I could glimpse Great Stone Gate framing the entrance to the Bridge. On either side was a parade of houses and shops which were well enough on this side of the Thames –
that is, they were without the airs and graces which might have afflicted them on the other bank. I was glancing vacantly at one when I noticed Master WS slipping out of a doorway. By
‘slipping’ I don’t necessarily mean to imply stealth. Quietness and unobtrusiveness characterised Shakespeare’s gait and manner.
I was about to wave or cry out in greeting when I saw that the playwright wasn’t alone. A woman followed him close at heels out of the door. She was small and dark-haired. In complexion
she was almost swarthy. The two stood together for a moment in the entrance before the woman closed the door behind her. Even then I might have called out but something about the way Master WS
inclined his head to catch the words coming from her lips made me think that they would rather not be interrupted at this moment. Not that there was anything secretive about the occasion. I
didn’t get the impression that either WS or the dark lady was anxious to avoid being seen; neither so much as glanced up or down the thinly peopled street. It was more the easiness that each
appeared to have in the other’s company, the mutual familiarity, which suggested that any third party was bound to be an intruder.
I picked up all this in a long sideways glance and a few forward paces. (Perhaps it is the player’s training which imparts to one the ability to read posture and attitude so quickly.)
Afraid of being caught out in curiosity, I did not look back to see which direction they were moving in or whether they were even walking together. But as I continued up Long Southwark the image of
the two – William Shakespeare and the unknown dark lady – floated through my mind, together
“Friendship as between Palamon and Arcite,” continued WS almost wistfully, and appearing not to notice that I had said anything. “Or Aeneas and Achates from Troy.
‘Fidus’ Achates, as Vergil calls him. Faithful Achates.”
“Yes . . .”
“I ask you whether that steady-burning friendship is not a truer emblem of that eternal and stainless love which we are enjoined to believe in, I mean the love which dwells above – a
truer emblem than the passion of Aeneas for Dido, and hers for him, which ended in all the fury of the funeral pyre.”
I wondered to hear WS make a comparison like Jack Horner had made, between man-and-woman’s love and a violent fire.
“In the olden times, such friendship between men was no doubt possible,” he continued.
“But no longer?” I said.
“Olden times become golden times to men’s eyes, but our own age is always leaden. Or iron. Heavy, hard.”
“But ready to be transmuted?” I said.
“Why yes, Nick,” said WS, appearing to notice me again. “Everything can somehow be transmuted, the base metal turned to gold. Or if not, we can make it seem so.”
He motioned with his hand at the room, in which lights flared and business-like yet excited activity and talk flowed around us.
“Still, Nick, this is not exactly what I wanted to say to you. In the beaten way of friendship. I have a particular request to make . . .”
Friendship! The word rang in my mind . . .
And while we’re on the subject of friendship I might as well tell the tale of my dealings with Mistress Isabella Horner. No, not might as well but must. It’s
connected with what you’ve just heard, it has to do with what follows. And I’m finding it increasingly difficult to keep quiet about it. Guilt, I suppose, the need to get it off my
chest.
So before I reach my midnight rendezvous in Hart Street with Nemo, here is what we players call . . .
An Interlude
It started one afternoon in the late autumn in the tiring-house. Or, to be precise, it started earlier that day. I was going about my lawful business walking riverwards up
Long Southwark. Ahead I could glimpse Great Stone Gate framing the entrance to the Bridge. On either side was a parade of houses and shops which were well enough on this side of the Thames –
that is, they were without the airs and graces which might have afflicted them on the other bank. I was glancing vacantly at one when I noticed Master WS slipping out of a doorway. By
‘slipping’ I don’t necessarily mean to imply stealth. Quietness and unobtrusiveness characterised Shakespeare’s gait and manner.
I was about to wave or cry out in greeting when I saw that the playwright wasn’t alone. A woman followed him close at heels out of the door. She was small and dark-haired. In complexion
she was almost swarthy. The two stood together for a moment in the entrance before the woman closed the door behind her. Even then I might have called out but something about the way Master WS
inclined his head to catch the words coming from her lips made me think that they would rather not be interrupted at this moment. Not that there was anything secretive about the occasion. I
didn’t get the impression that either WS or the dark lady was anxious to avoid being seen; neither so much as glanced up or down the thinly peopled street. It was more the easiness that each
appeared to have in the other’s company, the mutual familiarity, which suggested that any third party was bound to be an intruder.
I picked up all this in a long sideways glance and a few forward paces. (Perhaps it is the player’s training which imparts to one the ability to read posture and attitude so quickly.)
Afraid of being caught out in curiosity, I did not look back to see which direction they were moving in or whether they were even walking together. But as I continued up Long Southwark the image of
the two – William Shakespeare and the unknown dark lady – floated through my mind, together
Similar Books
