Lord Verulam listened attentively and meditated. “Give me a few days’ time to consider this, Baron. I believe it can be adjusted—not so easily, perhaps, but it can be.”
He looked at me, his round eyes blinking a little. We understood each other. He glanced at his watch which hung around his neck by a golden chain, also my gift. Then, once more philosopher and man of the world, Bacon directed the conversation into other channels.
“Ah, it is time for the play. Is the Baron interested in the theater?”
“Life’s distorted reflection in the mirror of art always amuses me.”
“Will Shakespeare of the Globe Theater is putting on ‘Romeo and Juliet’ today, a charming play, though too sentimental. Master Willie Hewes is positively enchanting as Juliet. So consummate is his acting one can hardly believe he’s a boy. Would you care to see the performance?”
I accepted the invitation.
The play pleased me mildly. The plot which I had read in several Italian stories, was hackneyed, the end decidedly stupid. But Master Willie Hewes was exquisite.
When had I seen a youth so handsome, so delicately fashioned? Where had I heard so musical a voice? Who in my memory compared with him? Walhallath? John? Damis? He was as beautiful as they, but more piquant. Perhaps it was the rôle he was playing or the glamor of the lights that enhanced his fascination.
Who was Willie Hewes? Suddenly some one or something tugged at my sleeve and whispered into my ear: “Toni.”
“Toni!” I repeated aloud. But Toni’s hair had been black. He was a Toni whose hair had turned to gold.
His Lordship looked at me, chafing a little in the stiff ruffle about his neck. He noticed my agitation.
“How do you like the lad, Baron?” he asked with a smile.
“Willie Hewes, my Lord, resembles a younger brother of mine who died years ago.”
“Should you desire it, Baron, I shall ask Willie to join us over the punch bowl. He is quite a manly fellow, swears, drinks, fences, and makes love to the wenches. If the lad were less enamored of Shakespeare, he could choose a titled lady for his bride. But his strange passion– —”
“A youth’s whim, my lord. Besides, is not this Shakespeare the playwright?”
“Yes, of course. Willie’s love may be a reflex of his admiration. Meanwhile, however, the scandal sears his character. I told him so, but he would not listen to me. He recited the sonnets Shakespeare dedicated to him. They are not shocking to a classical scholar, but they make ribald tongues wag in London. However,” Bacon laughed, “I nearly fell in love with the lad myself.”
“The youth intrigues me, my Lord.”
Lord Verulam called Willie. He jestingly admonished the youth about his morals, pinched his cheek and prophesied the gallows for him.
“There is more romance and less pain upon the gallows, my Lord, than in a lingering death upon a bed,—the fate of great magistrates.”
“Wretch!” the Lord exclaimed.
“I shall tie the noose around your neck myself.”
“What, my Lord, could be sweeter! The honor robs death of its sting.”
The Lord laughed, pinched Willie’s check again, shook my hand and left.
“Your acting was inimitable,” I said.
Willie smiled and thanked me.
“I have not seen your equal on the stage.”
The lad blushed a little, closed and opened his eyes slowly. I looked intently at him. Was it Antonio or Antonia? Had they mingled at last into one?
“You will forgive me, my lad,” I said, “if I scrutinize your face. You resemble most strangely a brother of mine whom I loved exceedingly.”
Willie looked at me. “Your eyes are like mine.”
“My brother—Antonio—resembled me.”
“Antonio! What a pretty name!”
“Will you allow me to call you by that name?” I asked. “It thrills me—the memory.”
“Do please call me Antonio. It’s delicious. And since you are my brother, how shall I call you?”
“Cartaphilus.”
“Cartaphilus? What a strange and beautiful name!”
“It means the Much Beloved in Greek, Antonio.”
He winked slightly. “Is it merited?”
“You are wicked, Antonio. His lordship tells me that your reputation is scandalous. The other Antonio,” I added jestingly, “was a good and virtuous youth.”
The boy looked at me sadly.
“Forgive me, Antonio. I did not mean to hurt you.” I pressed his hand, small and white, almost a child’s.
“I thought that being my brother, you would know me better, Cartaphilus.”
I remained silent.
“Why do people misinterpret everything, Cartaphilus? Even so wise a man as Lord Verulam. Only Master Will knows the soul. He knows– —”
Piqued by a sudden sense of jealousy, I said, “Cartaphilus knows his brother better than Master Will.”
He shook his head.
“Yes!” I insisted. “And to make amends for his awkwardness and folly, he will buy his brother the finest cloak in London—a silver sword, and a bracelet of gold.”
The lad clapped his hands gleefully.
‘Antonia,’ I thought.
His face clouded suddenly. “My brother is mocking my poverty. Yes, I am but an actor—an outcast from respectability, and my cloak is neither over-beautiful nor over-new.” He made a step away from me.
“Antonio!” I exclaimed. I looked deeply into his eyes, as if piercing his very soul.
“What is the meaning of this?”
He returned the look, the long lashes of his black eyes touching and parting slowly. He sighed.
“Why do you wish to buy presents for me?”
“Are you not my brother? Shall I not celebrate our reunion after such a long absence? Give me your hand and tell me that you too rejoice that we have found each other again.”
He squeezed my hand.
We walked arm in arm, discussing the theater, morals, life. I had never met so precocious a youth. Antonio? Yes, but more still. Antonia? Yes, but more still. The two combined,—boy and girl, man and woman. Thus must Salome have been in the first bloom of her loveliness! Thus she must be again, if she overcomes the moon!
Behind us, two boys carried the things I had bought for my new friend.
“But I have known you only a few hours, Cartaphilus.”
“Really? Do you believe in your heart that you have known me only a few hours?”
“I do not know. Just now, I had the feeling that you were indeed my brother—What do I say? Dearer than a brother—one I had known not only from the moment I drew breath, but from some distant endless past, from the beginning of all things.”
“You are right. You have known me always, for always I thought of you, Antonio,—always—and in my mind you were born centuries before you drew your first breath.”
What strange emotion indeed drew me to this boy? He seemed dearer to me than Damis, more lovable than John. I pressed his arm which, though firm, had the soft contours of a girl’s.
“Who are you, Cartaphilus?” he asked me, almost in a whisper.
“Your brother, Antonio.”
“My brother is the strangest man I have ever laid my eyes upon. He is more beautiful than the moon which lies upon the crystal pillow of the lake. His language is as sugared as Shakespeare’s.”
“Do not speak of Shakespeare, Antonio!”
“You are jealous, Cartaphilus,” he laughed.
“I am.”
“I am happy that you are jealous! I see that you are, after all, a man.”
“And you, Antonio?”
“I am…a…woman.”
“What did you say, Antonio?”
He laughed uproariously. “Should it not be so—a man—a woman?
Always that. All plays, comedies, tragedies—what are they but a man and a woman, seeking or avoiding each other?”
“You are an actor always.”
“And you, Cartaphilus, are you not an actor?”
“Yes. You have guessed my nature. I am an actor, with many parts.”
“And your latest—the brother of Antonio. Is it not so?”