by Celia Rees
Obeisances done, Will followed Burbage into the left-hand mansion. They would emerge as Duke Orsino and his gentleman, Curio. The play had begun.
Violetta sat with Stephano, watching from the third tier. She gripped Stephano’s hand more tightly than ever, her eyes wide, and watched, fascinated, as the story that she had told Master Shakespeare, the story of her mother’s arrival in Illyria, took place before her eyes.
A rolling, rumbling crash broke from the thunder sheet and brought her back to the play. From out of billowing blue-green folds stepped Viola.
Violetta felt the catch of tears in her throat. He had taken the story that she had woven for him, and he had cut and stitched and made it his own. Here was her mother. Alive again for all to see. As long as the play had life, then so did she.
‘What country, friends, is this?’
‘This is Illyria, lady.’
‘And what should I do in Illyria?’
Her mother had come from the sea. Violetta had returned to her country by the same means, but not to be wrecked on the shore. She had sailed from Venice with a powerful fleet of galleys. They had defeated the usurper Sebastian and the pirate Antonio in a great sea battle. She and Stephano, riding on the splendid horses given to them by the Lord and Lady of the Wood, had been welcomed into Illyria. They had gone straight to the cathedral, where they had returned the relic to its rightful place on the high altar. A few days later they had knelt before it to be united in marriage and been anointed as the rightful Duke and Duchess of Illyria, the coronets of office placed on their heads.
But that was a story for another day. Violetta’s attention was claimed by the play.
Will stepped forward, dressed as a sea captain in salt-stained gabardine, a battered hat pulled low. He turned as he spoke, his arm outstretched, circling slowly round as if to describe Illyria was to indicate the world. Usually he looked for nobody, not even the Queen, but his eyes searched each tier until he found Violetta. She was sitting next to her handsome young husband and was much changed from the wandering girl in a stained blue dress of poor stuff, darned at the elbow, frayed at the cuffs. She was now a duchessa, as rich in apparel as any lady there, excepting the Queen. She wore silk and velvet, with ermine on her collar. Her dark hair was caught up in a golden net crusted with gems. His eyes met hers and held them. He expressed his thanks and begged a poet’s forgiveness for using her life to feed his art. She gave it freely and in turned thanked him for the grace of his choice. Then his gaze moved on. The moment was gone.
Maria watched, peeping round the tiers of seating, almost forgetting to hand out the props she had ready, to help the actors in and out of their cloaks and gowns. She heard Feste’s words again: Do you remember, Maria, when we were young? And here they all were: herself when she was full of fun and mischief, Sir Toby when he was hale and strong, Sir Andrew a gullible fool again, not a traitor with his head on the gatehouse of London Bridge.
The play went on, scene after scene. Even the Queen was laughing, until the end when all eyes were on the joining of the couples.
No one noticed when one clown was replaced by another of similar height and stature. It was as easy as passing on a coat of motley. Suddenly it was over. All the other actors were gone, melted to the margins, or into one of the mansions. The floor was empty, except for Feste. He sat cross-legged, his lute across his knees, to begin his last song.
‘When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain . . .’
He rose slowly to his feet, still singing, his long coat trailing behind him and Little Feste dangling from his belt in his own little coat and jester’s cap. He wandered as he sang, circling the mansions of Duke Orsino and Countess Olivia, their curtains closed now, weaving about the miniature shrubs and trees of the make-believe garden as though treading a maze. Sometimes he sang loud and danced as he went; sometimes he sang soft, his voice as light as his step. At length, he stopped and looked up to where Violetta was sitting with Stephano, and she knew it was the real Feste. Her Feste. Her eyes filled with tears as he began the last verse of his song and she knew how very much she had missed him.
A great while ago the world began,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
He turned, sweeping down low before the Queen. Violetta smiled as, behind his back, Little Feste gave her a little bow.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am most grateful to the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust and the Globe Theatre for their thoughtful and illuminating displays of Shakespeare’s life and work and for the helpfulness of their staff. Further afield, I would like to thank the staff at the Museum in Dubrovnik and the Ducal Palace in Mantua. I have seen some wonderful productions of Twelfth Night over the years staged by the Royal Shakespeare Company, but I am most indebted to York University Drama Society for their exuberant and spirited outdoor production, which I saw one hot summer day by the river in Stratford and started me thinking, what if . . .
There are very few indisputable facts known about the life of William Shakespeare. Even the date of his birth is uncertain. I have ventured an explanation that, since nobody knows, is as valid as any. Much of his life is open to speculation in this way, which leaves the writer a certain latitude. Despite this lack of documented detail, very many books have been written about him. It is impossible to list all the books that I have consulted, but I am grateful for the scholarship and insights offered by the following writers: Germaine Greer, Shakespeare’s Wife (Bloomsbury, 2007), Jonathan Bate, Soul of the Age (Viking, 2008), Peter Ackroyd, Shakespeare: The Biography (Chatto and Windus, 2005) and James Shapiro, 1599 (Faber and Faber, 2003). Also, Leslie Hotson, The First Night of Twelfth Night (Rupert Hart-Davis, 1954), George Morley, Shakespeare’s Greenwood, (David Nutt – At the Sign of the Phoenix, 1900). For other aspects of Elizabethan life: Judith Cook’s Roaring Boys – Shakespeare’s Rat Pack and her book on Doctor Simon Forman. The A to Z of Elizabethan London, compiled by Adrian Proctor and Robert Taylor was as invaluable as its modern counterpart. For Illyria, I made considerable use of guidebooks for Croatia and Dubrovnik, Venice and the Italian City States, but I also found Jan Morris’s The Venetian Empire very helpful, Mary McCarthy’s Florence and Venice Observed (Penguin Classics, 2006) and Rebecca West’s account of her travels in Yugoslavia: Black Lamb and Grey Falcon (Macmillan, 1942).
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Author Note
Twelfth Night is my favourite Shakespeare play. The plot has similarities to Gl’Ingannati, a story by Matteo Bandello, but it is not quite the same. If Shakespeare did borrow the tale, he turned it into something else, with different characters, in a different time and setting. I was caught by the idea of Illyria, not just as a fantasy world, but as an actual place. What could happen to these people if Illyria was a real country on the Adriatic Sea? What might happen in Illyria after the end of Shakespeare’s play?
To tell the story in the way I wanted, Shakespeare would have to be in the book. In the past I have avoided including real historical figures, especially the very famous, who have libraries of books written about them. There are few absolute facts about Shakespeare’s life. This allowed me to think that I could include him in the story. I wanted to write about Shakespeare before he was Shakespeare, when he was just Will from Warwickshire, trying to make a living in the competitive and precarious world of Elizabethan Theatre.
To write a book that includes such a revered and famous figure is still a daunting prospect. My agent, Rosemary Sandberg, gave me the extra impetus to do it. She loves Twelfth Night as much as I do and loved the idea. I am grateful for her enthusiasm and encouragement, not just for this book, but for all the others. This book is for her.
Table of Contents
Cover
Imprint
Also by Celia Rees
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Author Note
