I wish I could hear what he says as he walks in the garden. I wish I could hear what he says when it comes to that reckoning.
Chapter Sixty-Four More
These were William Shakespeare's earliest plays, all written and performed between 1587 and that terrible year of '93 when Marlowe was murdered and the plague caused the shutting of the playhouses:
The Two Gentlemen of Verona 1 King Henry VI The Comedy of Errors 2 King Henry VI Titus Andronicus 3 King Henry VI The Taming of the Shrew Richard II Romeo and Juliet Love's Labour's Lost
It will be seen that his rate of production ran from the start at about two plays a year - which is something I know he counted professional, unlike on the one side the torrent of thin stuff that was pouring from such as the amiable Thomas Heywood, and on the other side the costiveness of Mr Ben Jonson who seemed able only to squeeze out his 'humours' at long intervals and after much grunting and straining.
However, in these first years of Mr Shakespeare's industry there was more. Pardon me, gentles, I pun unpardonably. I mean that to this period we should also ascribe his original workings on that Hamlet play which haunted him a good half of his working life, growing longer and longer in the process, until some of our Company considered it unplayable; and also that other white elephant, the play they called More.
Before getting into that, though, a word about WHITE ELEPHANTS. Here is an image Mr Shakespeare would not have known, but which I find useful. I have it from a translation of Pinto's Travels published three years ago. It seems that the King of Siam makes a present of a white elephant to such of his courtiers as he wishes to ruin on account of their obnoxiousness. Your white elephant, you see, being a huge and a delicate creature, costs so much to keep that none but a king can afford it. Thus, by extension, a man might beggar himself by wasting all his fortune on some pet article. For example, a person moving is determined to keep a rich and expensive carpet, so hires too grand a house just to fit the carpet. There are, as I say, such WHITE ELEPHANTS to be found among the works of William Shakespeare.
The More play (since this morning I feel like mixing my metaphors to spice my gruel) could also be said to have been a WHITE ELEPHANT which turned into a POISONED CHALICE. Several playwrights had a hand in it. It was a waste of all their time.
The idea was Anthony Munday's. He sketched out the plot. Henry Chettle then took over, taking out some of the religious polemic which had disfigured Munday's draft. The play was to be called More (more or less), and it was to chronicle the main events in the life of Sir Thomas More, King Henry VIII's chancellor, from his rise to favour, through his friendship with Erasmus and opposition to the King, to his fall and his death on the scaffold.
Frankly, I could have told them that this would not do. An historical drama in praise of her father's martyred arch-enemy was hardly likely to give much pleasure to Queen Elizabeth. As it turned out, the play was refused a licence to be performed. Most of it disappeared into the strongbox of Sir Edmund Tilney, censor and Master of the Revels, and was never seen again.
Here, in my own 64th little strongbox, I have William Shakespeare's contribution to this More, the only example I know to survive of his work as a cobbler and patcher of other men's plays. I am quite sure that the original idea could not have been his - religious and political controversy being a hurly (patience, madam!) which he always went out of his way to avoid. But at some point he was called in by old Mr Burbage to write the most difficult scene, in which More, as sheriff of London, uses his eloquence to quell the riot of the apprentices who wish to drive all foreigners out of the city.
The passage is passionate Shakespeare, a paean in praise of the necessity of respect for order and degree. It was a concept he worked out most completely in the great speech of Ulysses in Troilus and Cressida.* The scene as a whole has much in common with another he wrote later - that scene where Menenius Agrippa calms the plebs in Rome in Coriolanus. As there, you can see him shifting sympathy from the rioters to the man who masters them by dint of just and reasoned argument. Not only the style but some of the words of Coriolanus are prefigured. Without law, says More, 'men, like ravenous fishes / Would feed on one another'. Coriolanus upholds the rule of the senate who 'Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else / Would feed on one another'. The shouts of the rioters in More are identical with those later used in Julius Caesar, and Shakespeare begins More's speech with what sounds to me like a clumsy throat-clearing rehearsal for Mark Antony's Friends, Romans, countrymen! when he has the sheriff address the mob as Friends, masters, fellow-citizens!
If you look closer at the vocabulary which Mr Shakespeare deploys in this lost scene of the suppressed play More then there is even (forgive me) more that rewards attention. Here are to be found such phrases as 'in ruff of your opinion clothed', and 'stale custom', and 'unreverent knees', as well as 'self-right' and 'self-reason' - all expressions dear to WS and which he alone employed. His use of the word SHARK as a verb ('would shark on you') is a peculiarity which I have encountered nowhere else save in his own Hamlet.
Another idiosyncratic thing of interest here is that in the More manuscript fragment the word SILENCE is spelt as scilens. The late Mr Shakespeare always spelt that word that way. It is the old-fashioned way. (You will find it thus in Caxton.) Usually the printer corrected these ancient spellings when it came to setting the plays in type, but not invariably. In the Quarto of 2 King Henry IV, for example, you will find Justice Silence called Scilens not once or twice but eight times!
Is this too bibliotic? I apologise. But the world is a book, sir.