Shakespeare's daughters : A fantasy in one scene

By George Henry Trader

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Title: Shakespeare's daughters
        A fantasy in one scene

Author: George Henry Trader


        
Release date: March 8, 2026 [eBook #78148]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Samuel French, 1910

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78148

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Eleni Christofaki and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


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Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. Formatting and special
characters are indicated as follows:

  _italic_




                             SHAKESPEARE’S
                               DAUGHTERS

                         A Fantasy in One Scene

                                   BY
                          GEORGE HENRY TRADER


                   COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY SAMUEL FRENCH

                                NEW YORK
                             SAMUEL FRENCH
                               PUBLISHER
                          25 WEST 45TH STREET

                                 LONDON
                          SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD.
                         26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET
                                 STRAND




SHAKESPEARE’S DAUGHTERS.


_Being a fantasy, in one scene (a glade in which appear as many of
Shakespeare’s female characters as practicable. It may be noted with
regret, that they have been associating with the ordinary, their
tongues no longer distributing the grace and wisdom they uttered when
at home)._

OPHELIA

_Is found seated, unhappy, with a packet of letters tied with a ribbon.
She may be well to the front of the picture to the players’ left hand._

CORDELIA

_May be found to the right hand of the players, but much in the
background. She is disconsolate beyond measure and does not appear to
be aware that there are other characters present._

ROSALIND, PORTIA, VIOLA, IMOGEN

_Are generally seen near the centre of the picture; they are at present
discussing a weighty matter with avidity, as follows:--_

IMOGEN. For me? I would endure such shame twice told for one I love.

ROSALIND. Ay, it would take more than wearing of doublet and hose to
give my cheek the blush.

PORTIA. In tender questions, pride will ofttimes drown kind modesty
with satisfaction in one’s seeming.

Looked we in truth’s mirror our blush would be no flush but one
continued fever, so frequent do we err in our deportment. For myself,
if occasion should demand that I inhabit my person as a man, I would
assume the guise of one who wears a gown or cowl or ample cloak: thus
may our sex while feigning man, retain their modesty.

VIOLA. Dear Portia, were you a man in truth, you’d soon turn judge.

IMOGEN. No cowl nor ample cloak for her but gown I’ll warrant. For,
secret, hark, it was, but yesterday I spied a weighty tome of Venice
law bear down her lap.

ROSALIND. What color gown? That’s _first_ determined is it not?

PORTIA. So? Indeed! ’Twere worthier fondling books upon my lap than the
senseless men I’ve seen upon the knees of Rosalinda here.

IMOGEN. Men!

VIOLA. Upon her knees!

ROSALIND. It is not true.

PORTIA. Their voices more tuneful, than in some men I have heard,
in--that they were silent; their manners more gentler, in--that they
were still; their dress of highest design, for they were modes of
fashion, with that added virtue, that they could be put easily aside,
being but on paper.

IMOGEN. Only pictures, penned and painted?

PORTIA. Ay, but of _men_, mark you, not girls, nor flowers, nor sheep;
but men, whose outlines she scanned with eye of starveling.

VIOLA. She determined then from _fashion’s_ whim, that long hose and
jacket were wisest wear for women bent on playing man?

PORTIA. Our Rosie scorned the fashions. She did not so decide.

ROSALIND. Did not? What was my measure then?

PORTIA. You give me leave to speak?

ROSALIND. Judge on, oh lady-judge, we hunger for thy wisdom.

PORTIA. If I am too bold, Viola and Imogen silence me. But listen
thirstily to my reasons. Our Rosalind here hath no present need to mask
in man’s attire; _why_ then should she desire to don it? Because, odds
paticakes, she hath discovered it doth become her. One morning early
risen, she observed herself upon the sunlit wall and her shadow did
beguile her. Thence, I see, she is determined that the occasion shall
appear. For “why” sighs she, “should a proper ankle waste, for always,
its outline in the darkness of a skirt.”

VIOLA. Well? well? well? If this indeed be true of Rosalind, is her
reasoning then immodest?

IMOGEN. If of the garb one is not conscious, that itself is answer.

PORTIA. Ho, ho! You sing in tune! Are well poised ankles so plenty that
they crowd forth to be basked on?

ROSALIND. Not too plenteous, Portia, for we do know a maid, who, if
occasion opportuned her to play in man’s attire, would choose to hide
her in “gown or cowl or ample cloak.” No, no, a comedy face is no
guarantor for a dainty limb, they stand not on every corner.

PORTIA. Alone, they are a weak possession, a pointed ankle often bears
a dull wit.

ROSALIND. They bear enough to trip the wit of many men.

ROSALIND. A truce about men, say I, whose giddy sight is hindrance to
their reason.

IMOGEN. So say we all of us.

VIOLA. Here comes one whose youthful skirt our question puts to flight.

_Enter_ JULIET _from their right_

IMOGEN. Why so breathless, Julietta?

JULIET. I am come to tell you, I am no longer a child. I have bade
farewell to all my dolls. Soon there’ll be for me, one whom I, like
you, may name “my own dear lord.” No longer will your secrets be too
grown for me to share.

PORTIA. Why then confide to us the charm, that brings to blossom thus
suddenly the youngest of our buds.

JULIET. In twenty days, my mother gives a wondrous ball, to which will
come all the gallants of our house of Capulet.

ROSALIND. And know you who are named?

JULIET. None but one I know already, the County Paris. I would you all
were bidden.

VIOLA. So, alas, do we!

ROSALIND. Our habitations are so distant.

IMOGEN. Did ever father’s favorite daughters meet so little as we?

JULIET. Are you his favorite daughter too?

VIOLA. I know I am. Such love as he bears me, if held for all, would
lift him off the earth.

PORTIA. He hath bequeathed us each a special virtue, which we must
emphasize as the flowers theirs.

JULIET. Why does Ophelia sit alone and heed us not? I’ll share my news
with her.

VIOLA. Do not; she hath been curtly dealt with by Prince Hamlet or
perchance her father. Contrast not thy happiness with her sorrow.
Comparisons are steps to pain.

PORTIA. Thoughts unmoved, like dead water, disease their confines.
Therefore stir thou her sad thought, lest, becoming clogged, it
o’erslough her like to Cordelia here.

IMOGEN. What words of ours can heal her heart?

ROSALIND. I will hazard, one from Hamlet could send more sunshine to
her dark life than a thousand moonbeams of our cold comfort.

JULIET. In twenty days, I sure shall see the dear, kind lord, who is to
give me comfort all my days.

PORTIA. Ay, those whom we know not to-day may give us joy to-morrow.
But, infant-woman, do not forget the touch of thy nurse’s apron string
before thou canst walk.

ROSALIND. Peace, torrential adviser, here comes the newly wedded
Beatrice who will o’erwash thee with advice as utterly as the Amazon a
desert spring.

JULIET. Oh, my ears are unstrung with her re-echoed wisdom. Come, I
have a store of sugared rose leaves, enough for all. I would rather see
them pass in through your lips, than proverbs pass out.

IMOGEN. Is Desdemona shallow or deep that she proves so good a listener?

PORTIA. Neither, but like a plate of gold, shines broad again the
brightness she receives.

ROSALIND. Then I will stand where she can shine on me, some of her news
concerning man’s attire.

PORTIA. Oh! Another day. For this instant, let Juliet’s rose leaves
silence us awhile.

_They exeunt together towards their right_

_Enter_ BEATRICE _and_ DESDEMONA _another way_

BEATRICE. I tell thee ’Mona, to keep thy lord after thou hast won him,
do not show him too oft thy back, lest some other woman standing face
to face, he find her smile a better picture than the nape bone of thy
neck. No, when thou hast let the man thou hast chosen, catch thee,
stand thenceforth, where, if he run, he will fall into thy arms; and
not where, he slipping by, thou wilt have to run, ignominiously, after
him.

DESDEMONA. But, I am still a maid.

BEATRICE. Then life to thee remains a maze.

_Enter_ LADY MACBETH, _who stands apart_

BEATRICE. Your unmarried woman is without a ship whereon to trim the
sails of her ambition.

LADY MACBETH. And if her ship sail a restless tide, like to my Macbeth,
what the advantage of wedlock? Notwithstanding, find some ground to
plant thy faith where it may thrive. Choose thee a husband who may lift
thee, or thou canst lead to thy level; then raise thyself and him again
till death find thee higher, more exalted than thy birth. Thus action
giving thee life, thou wilt ’scape stagnation, which proves to be the
food of death.

DESDEMONA. Tell me, Beatrice, doth the outer man have ought to do with
wedded peace; as if, he be fair or dark? and if being dark, how dark
for proprieties’ satisfaction?

BEATRICE. Young love is color blind. Within the month I swore my Ben as
perfect as Apollo, but now my love, being saner placed, mine eyes can
note the tawney of his skin and peering deeper to the better man, my
love doth tighten.

DESDEMONA. But were he more than common brown, past Spanish tan?

BEATRICE. Were he burnt as to a Moor and know him as I now do, my love
could know no change.

DESDEMONA. Yet if his blood were dark from birth, an Indie or a Moor?

BEATRICE. Not all the sultry blood of Africa could stain the true
strong heart of Benedict.

DESDEMONA. Couldst thou then marry a Moor?

BEATRICE. Had he the soul of Benedict and I the eyes
of Beatrice, subtlest lies of Satan could not part us.
Father,--mother,--duty,--time,--space,--all, methinks, could find no
chink for needle point to scratch an entrance ’twixt our loves.

DESDEMONA. As I listen to thy feeling, my heart doth preen for flight.
How is’t, since wedded, thou dost talk more sober?

BEATRICE. The yoke of marriage, curbing speed, combines the power and
so gives ballast to the mind. Does my assurance make you happy?

DESDEMONA. More than I dare think. O I could tell thee battle stories I
have lately heard, but so well told, that I fear recounting would spoil
their memory. And yet what is to fear, come tell me again.

_Exeunt_ BEATRICE _and_ DESDEMONA

LADY MACBETH. “Ballast to thy mind”? Conceited plaything! thy ballast
is but pride. These lambkin loves are sweetened honey to my taste.

_She peruses a letter_

OPHELIA

_Clasping her package of letters and weeping_

Alone, alone, alone! My father’s present harshness gives more
loneliness to my heart than leagues of distance from my gentle brother.
And Hamlet, motive of my thoughts and acts, art thou worlds away or
nearer than an hour ago? I cannot tell. Love and cruelty so much
commingled in his words. I know not where I rest. I do not rest,--I am
at sea. O who can give me peace?

LADY MACBETH _moves away_

He says I am not true, yet bade me hide my purity in solitude. His
words spake hate, his voice told love. I cannot think. I cannot move.
Each drop in me is chaos.

CORDELIA

_For the first time is seen to move. She looks stonily and for a long
time at_ OPHELIA

If she can pity me ’twill ease her heart.

_Arises and comes quietly to_ OPHELIA, _then covering her face with her
hands, she kneels and rests her head in_ OPHELIA’S _lap_

OPHELIA. It is Cordelia. Look up. Why, thou art wretched too and yet
thine eye is dry. Come you to me for comfort? If so, I can but hold
thee close and if thou seest tears, translate them as for thee, for
sympathy in words I know not how to give.

CORDELIA. Place thine ear to mine, so,--and we will listen for each
other’s thoughts.

OPHELIA. I would not have thee hear my miseries, for then thou too must
weep.

CORDELIA. To weep is best of all. Could I do so, ingratitude would melt
away, would have no power, I’d feel my father’s presence. O teach me
how to weep.

OPHELIA. Cordelia, why hast thou long been silent, is’t for thy father?

CORDELIA. O precious silence! Ophelia, in a world where little truth
is spoken, silence less evil there obtains. These maidens are all kind,
but should I unstop my pain to them, a scatter of advice unsuited,
would fall like winter’s leaves about mine ears. Each day they chatter
up a house of words and when the day is spent, it leaves no trace
behind. For pastime, they do weave a happy future round some ne’erborn
man of their conceiving. Thy Hamlet is the dearest, sanest man of all,
yet him they do consider to be mad.

OPHELIA. I had a mind to ask their thoughts concerned with Hamlet, but
now thy words dissuade.

CORDELIA. I’ll tell their answer e’er thou ask them. This day their
remedy for troubled love lies these ways. Thou shouldst mask thee
in the habiliments of a man and so engage as Hamlet’s servant, then
learning all his moods, thou mayest wisely soothe him. One will ’vise
thee how to dress, another how demean thyself, a third shall give
thee points at law and preach to thee of modesty. Coaxing, pleading,
baiting, all shall be proposed to bring him out and when their talk is
run, why, a riddle hath been asked thee.

OPHELIA. Cordelia, Prince Hamlet is so vast a man the world can scarce
comprise him, and yet his dear simplicity did link his tastes to mine.
Now, now he is estranged, oh am I so to lose him?

CORDELIA. If I had held thy place and live as near to such a thought as
Hamlet, and then there came a void between our loves, wouldst know my
course?

OPHELIA. O tell it me.

CORDELIA. I’d fill my silence full with love and sitting quiet watch
and wait, not tiring with sad looks, but simply and with hope await my
place, then as some ground for tiny seed and deed of love appear, it
should be sown, until some day he’d turn and find my garden grown, a
place wherein to rest.

_They hold each other close._ OPHELIA _weeps_

CORDELIA. I giv’st thee my best counsel, dear, Hast ought to solve _my_
hardened ache?

PORTIA _enters, looks on_ OPHELIA, _then to her enter_ ROSALIND,
IMOGEN, BEATRICE, DESDEMONA,--_they stand together_

PORTIA. Poor child, see how she clings unto Cordelia.

ROSALIND. Of sorrow she’s too much now, we dare not give her more.

DESDEMONA. How did her father die!

BEATRICE. ’Tis not yet given out.

LADY MACBETH _and_ REGAN _enter_

LADY MACBETH. See, Regan, there she sits and broods upon Cordelia.

REGAN. I’ll tell her straight.

LADY MACBETH. ’Twere better not, too much of anguish may undo her.

REGAN. An overflow of bitterness will sure, then, taint Cordelia, and I
be some avenged. In any wise she soon must hear, and to later tear raw
the half healed wound were worse. I’ll tell her now.

_She approaches_ OPHELIA

Daughter of Polonius, turn thee from my father’s stain and heed my
news, thy tears do prove her comfort worthless. I do bring thee further
cause for grief, yet am I kind, in that I make thy present tears do
double duty. Thy father hath been murdered;--and by the mad lord Hamlet.

PORTIA _and her friends draw a sudden breath and hold to one another_

CORDELIA _draws_ OPHELIA _close to her while looking with pity upon_
REGAN

ROSALIND. Said she by Hamlet?

PORTIA. The gentlest of all gentlemen?

BEATRICE. Can nature be upset?

IMOGEN. A rose give poison?

VIOLA. Or the sun freeze?

LADY MACBETH. All humankind seem not what they are. In truth his deed
is deeper still. He sought and thought not her arras-hidden father to
destroy, it was, so runs the hint, the husband of his mother.

BEATRICE. The king!

PORTIA. God save him then.

VIOLA. Look to Ophelia, she scarce can stand, yet wills to stand alone.

IMOGEN. Shall we humor her?

DESDEMONA. Peace to her. Our _master_, now, alone can make her new.

ROSALIND. O, Regan, why wast ever born?

LADY MACBETH. They all condemn thee.

REGAN. For doing what thou durst not. Where I am unloved, I leave. I’ll
have more news and better liking there.

REGAN _exits_

OPHELIA _moves uncertain, distraught_

IMOGEN. Her words have beat her to a living death.

OPHELIA

_Has ceased to weep, has released herself from the embrace of_
CORDELIA. _We see her put her finger to her lips as she walks across
to the other side, then passing through the others, who make way for
her. She is about to go--they are about to follow--she returns and with
gesture indicates that she does not wish them to. She then speaks_

I must gather flowers by the river--they are best.--Do not come. I will
bring enough for all.

_She listens_

The little river is very quiet, but I can hear it. It has a message for
me. I am going to put my ear so close that I shall lose not a whisper.

_She bows_

Be kind. Always be kind.

_She smiles and leaves them_

ROSALIND. Shall we not follow?

LADY MACBETH. ’Twould but distress her.

VIOLA. Is she feigning that she suffers less than we?

PORTIA. She died at Regan’s word.

BEATRICE. Let us to the cloister and there think on immortality, not
death.

DESDEMONA. Dear Cordelia, will you come?

CORDELIA

_With head thrown back and eyes closed, spreads, like wings, her arms
with palms turned backward,--the others perceiving that she wishes them
to go, they accede to her wish. When alone she covers her face with her
hands, there is a tumult within her and at last, she weeps_

Unwelcome, welcome tears. I weep for her, that could not for myself.
Thus not feeding on another’s woes, by pity we do lose our own.

_She follows the way_ OPHELIA _went_

THE ACTRESS

_Who has performed_ CORDELIA _now returns, bows a little, then speaks,
as follows_:--

My eyes are washed and now I do perceive that all the world’s a stage,
from whence, at end of day, we look inquiringly at those who looked on
us.

If we have read our author’s plot aright, our reward should be, to spy,
with ours, some brighter, fonder eyes, who flash us thanks, and who in
turn do work and watch and play; while we in turn do dream new action
for the morrow.

MUSIC _is heard_

O all’s not done. We’ve another here to thank and love and I must have
my share.

THE ACTRESS _hurries away_

Then after brief interlude, is seen,--WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

It may be that he appears personified, or in the form of a statue,
bust or painting. Then come to him (or he along with them) all the
characters in this fantasy; or even as many of the female characters in
all his plays as may be.

Now is to be performed a pantomime, to music, which indicates “love and
thanks” to Shakespeare.

So let the artist who directs this scheme, use all the arts he may
command and with a generous and active eye, paint his action tunefully.


THE END

When the time is scant, in which to arrange a pantomime especially
suited to the material at hand, let the following be performed to
Mendelssohn’s music from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” the fairy theme
especially. This music should commence pianissimo when the actress who
plays Cordelia, says: “action for the morrow,” and becomes mezzo-forte
as she hurries away.

After a slight pause, TITANIA trips on with her fairy wand, and
listens right and left, then apparently hears something and tripping
up to some bushes in the background in the centre, she peers through
and dances with delight at her discovery, she comes forward and
beckons right and left;--then dance on the four little fairies
PEAS-BLOSSOM--COBWEB--MOTH--and MUSTARD SEED, two from each side, they
turn about in little circles until they come together in the centre,
forming a little picture with their backs to the audience, stooping
with their hands on their knees and their heads together. Now TITANIA,
who has been up in the centre, trips down and points up to the bushes
and putting her head close to theirs whispers to them, at which they
all dance up and down on their toes and clap their hands with glee.
TITANIA beckons that she wishes to whisper to them again, thereupon
they form the little picture again, this time with faces towards the
audience and TITANIA with her back to it. She whispers to them, at
which they all trip off right and left to the music, TITANIA meanwhile
waving her wand over them and when they are gone she goes to the bushes
at the back and waves a salutation over it. Now the little fairies, two
from each side, come dancing on backwards, beckoning on from near and
far AS MANY OF THE FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS AS MAY BE
OBTAINED.

They come on singly, excitedly, shrugging their shoulders in
interrogation, asking in pantomime, what it is all about. TITANIA
trips among them forming them into a half circle, the open side to the
audience, she bades, with her wand, look up at the bushes,--they turn
half away from the audience and await in saucy attitude, with their
hands on their hips, the surprise they have in store for them. TITANIA
directs the little fairies, who trip up to the bushes, carefully
draws them away and discovers SHAKESPEARE asleep on a green bank, an
old-fashioned book lying loosely in his hand.

At sight of him all the characters express joy, kneel with their
hands outstretched in reverence, then they rush to him on their toes,
extending their hands to him. TITANIA placing her wand horizontally,
keeps them away, the little fairies also stand on guard. They try to
peep at him but back away, while he still sleeps. TITANIA comes forward
to the centre with the four little fairies, she encircles them with
her wand, at this they all proceed to trip an elaborate “grand right
and left,” taking bouquets from their belts they strike them as they
pass one another,--they do not take one another’s hand but simply tip
the fingers as they dance past, with their hands held high. They all
keep glancing at SHAKESPEARE, who finally awakens, at which they, each
in turn, dance up and lay the bouquets at his feet, tripping up from
one side and returning the opposite side and forming the original half
circle right and left. SHAKESPEARE rises much pleased and kisses his
hands to them, when they have all arrived in the half circle he raises
his hands as if in benediction, at which they all kneel on one knee,
their hands stretched toward him in appeal.

The MUSIC at this point descends to a pianissimo,--then SHAKESPEARE
speaks as follows:

  Children of my dreams, how I love thee!--
  Yet more than dream-children; for, down the ages shall ye live as
  jewels to adorn those artist souls, painters, players, writers, who
  love thee.
  Then as _they_ pass to other spheres and other poets, some per
  chance, to meet with me again, thou shalt remain to entrance and
  cheer and give ambition to the ages soon to come.--
  Play on sweet children, thy joy is mine, mine is thine. Would my arms
  were great enough to crush thee all, like to a bouquet of sweetest
  flowers.
  My heart is thine, thine is mine.
  Play on. Play on.

They now all sing “Good-night” (words from Romeo and Juliet, music by
Howard Glover). And as SHAKESPEARE retreats amongst the foliage (or
disappears by special light effects), descends the


CURTAIN



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