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From the offices of: Felidae Etc.,
Shakespeares Cats
(Believe what you will.)
An article by: Mark St Jefferson.
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The contents of this document are purely the workings of the
deranged and deluded imagination of the Author. Any mention
of persons and places in this ariticle is the work of fiction.
Also any relationship to anyone or anywhere: either : living
or deceased (Or is that Corporally Challenged? In this Politically
Correct World) Is purely coincidental.
(Honest... You believe me don't you?)
Back to the Index
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The Shoppe:
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| Whilst attending an anual Abbyssininian Cat Show, in Stratford
on Avon one summer. We (That is my wife Cathrin and I) were at
something as a loss as to how to while away those couple of hours,
when owners are banned from the hall, whilst judging takes place.
We wandered through the standard 'tourist' shops and arcades
looking through the book stalls, hoping to find something a
little different (ie. and not priced through the roof to catch
the loony tourists). We stopped for coffee and were about to
wander back. When, Cathrin noticed a small medeival style ally
leading off behind the coffee shop. Curiosity over took us and
we wandered up, expecting to find a dead end. The Alley turned
sharply and there before us was an old bookshop.
The character was typical of the style of building that surrounded
it. With tiny windows and crossed oak beams, and one of those
doors that you know you are going to bang your head on. As we
entered the tinkle of the small bells announced our arrival.
Inside there was hardly room for us both to turn round. (We
are not the slimmest of couples.) Stacks upon stacks of old
leather bound books littered the shelves, and that wonderful
smell that only seems to come when you have enough old books.
I stared at the shelves and then at my wife.
'We have to be back in another hour.' She stated.
'But, but look...' I stammered. It was no use though it would
have taken days to go through this lot.
'What is it your looking for?' Came the voice from no-where.
We both looked round slightly startled, the only sign of life
was the large black, long haired cat, with a white spot on one
ear. That chose that moment to jump on the counter.
'Oh superb.' The only Bookshop in the country run by a cat.'
My wife quipped, as she stroked him.
'Actualy Old Bill tends to think of it that way.' Replied the
old man who appeared from behind the counter. 'I was just down
in the cellar cataloging some recent arivalls when you came
in.' He was what you might say the A-Typical Bookseller. (If
there is such a thing.) Slightly plump, with a round face, grey
hair, nearly bald, wearing round specticles and a leather apron.
I tried not to grin to widely, as he did look straight out of
a book, himself.
'I expect your looking for something on Shakespeare.' He stated
to me, with an amused smile on his face.
'Well I do have a couple of sets of his complete works.' I replied.
'Complete?' He asked I was somehow stumped by the tone of the
question.
'Well I like to think so..' I continued 'I was realy hoping
for a somthing a little more unusual. You know somthing...'
'Something that told you more of the man than his work.' He
interjected, and then to my wife, who was still stroking Old
Bill. 'He had cats you know.'
'Who Wiliam Shakespeare?' She asked somewhat increadeously.
'Oh, yes, three I believe, he was quite fond of them.'
'But I thought cats weren't very popular in Elizabeathen Times?'
'Ah, but, William wasn't always a very popular man.' he said
'A good actor and writer but somewhat eccentric in his time.'
He paused for a moment, looked at Bill who looked back at him
before continuing.
'Actualy I believe I may have something that may interest you.'
With that he vanished back down the steps, only to return a
few moments later carrying a large fragile looking book, which
he handed to me.
Gingerley I opened it and started to glance at the pages.
Pages, they were more like indivdual pieces of paper bound with
ribbon or silk. Most of it was in Olde English, some of the
content I could just about make out. I closed it and made to
hand it back.
'Sorry, It's wonderful, but I couldn't afford this it must be
positivley antique.' But the old man didn't take it from me,
instead he replied.
'But you don't know how much I am asking for.'
'But we only have about thirty pounds with us, I wasn't expecting
to actually find anything of value left in Stratford.'
'Thirty Pounds? That sounds like a fair price. Lets just say
business has been a bit slow, we don't seem to get that many
customers.' I was about to add that I was hardley surprised
being stuck down the end of a dark alley without so much as
a signpost. When my wife nudged me, and handed him the money.
I stared wistfully at the piles of books, imagining what other
wonders this shop held secret. As my wife almost dragged me
out the shop screaming that it was now Three O Clock and that
we had now been gone for three hours.
We have been back to Stratford about three times now, and we
have yet to find that alley again or the shop.
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The Booke:
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On closer examination it became obvious that this was not a
book as such. More of a collection or almost an early scrapbook.
The pages were nearly all individual sheaths, bound in sections
with silk ribbon, many of them were damaged faded (even burnt)
and all handwritten. The language was 16th centuary. (Similar
to that found on the Speede Maps.) and took quite some deciphering.
I suppose we could have taken it to a proffesional, but something
made us want to keep it for ourselves.
As we worked through the pages it became apparent that this
was the keepsake of a young lady, who lived in Stratford and
knew and admired Young William. Who himself was only an up and
coming actor and play-write. Who still wrote and performed in
Stratford.
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Tuesday the eighth
daye of April -
Dide see Juliias Ceaser at the theatre in Stratforde,
Williame dide play Brutus, himselfe and was wonderfulle
- I could feel his woe and sense his strength.
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It also seems as though Sarah (That is what we
shall choose to call her,) Knew Shakespeare himself. Frequently
visiting him, and looking after his cats whilst he was away in
London. Her admiration for him extended to copying notes, (And
borrowing others.) From his own Journals.
Heres an Example: |
These Cats are both
the best and worst of critiques.
Why only the other morning,
when I was working on my speach for Act iv of Richard III
(which I was not happy with,)
Othello dide sit on my parchment and smudge the inke.
So I dids't start again, this time it was goode and Othello didst
leave it alone. |
It apears as though he did have three cats. The first being Macbeth
a scrawney Ginger Tom, who appears to have turned up on Williams
doorstep and was kept on due to his mousing abilities. - An important
atribute when your, livelyhood is stored on pieces of paper and
parchment - Not forgetting the majority of dwellings in these
times were thatched. Which were notorious for the rodents they
housed.
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Oh Macbeth he doth
lead me toward insanity.
He doth scream at my door untill I sucome and let him in.
Then like royalty he doth complete but one turn of the room before
protesting to go out again.
If I put down a plate of the finest Pike, he will ignore it.
Then he will protest untill I give him some of mine.
(Even though it is but what he had).
If I stroke his fur he will bite and scratch me,
Yet when I am working he will come upon me and protest untill
I stroke him.
Methinks he doth protest too much. |
Macbeth's mousing abilities are attested to in this next sample.
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| Macbeth is the best
mouser in the whole of Englande. And dide save my plays from becoming
their nest. To watch him hunt down a mouse, is to watch a master
hunter track his prey. As for all his scrawn, his ill looks and
his nervous nature. When a mouse is within his grasp he is perfection
in motion. He hath insired me to write again for my amusement
a selection from the Scottish Play I do work on. |
It seems William had his own brand of humour, in which he proceeded
to Filk his own work:
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Is this a rodent I
see before me?
It's tail towards my paw?
Come let me clutch thee:
- I have thee not, and yet, I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal
vision, servible to stray?
Do I feel thee in my sights?
Or art thou but a rodent of the mind:
A false creation,
Temptation from a heat oppressed brain? And yet I see thee.
In form most palatable.
And so I reach out to thee.
For one last time. One last embrace. |
Next there was Othello a huge black tom. Who refused to catch
mice (The reason Shakespeare obtained him, being assured that
he was a superb mouser by a man from a local farm.
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John Browne didst assure
me that this cat didst clear his whole barn of Mice in but one
Afternoon. And Yet I have never seen a cat less inclined to chase
mice.
Why last week I did see with my own eyes. A fat brown mouse did
walk past Othellos nose, and did stop to jeste and mocke him.
And this he watched and did not lift one paw to stop him. He doth
eat me out of house, Although he will notte touch pork. But did
verilly steal the last of my venison for his supper the other
night. And for surely he was too fleet of foot for me to catch.
Leaving me but a piece of cheese and some bread to dine on. |
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It also appears that this cat suffered from a strong steak of
jealousey as when Shakespeare obtained Ophelia a beautiful cream
longhaired cat that Shakespeare obtained from a quite wealthy
Merchant. In exchange for some sonnets written for a young lady
whose affections he was trying to win over.
Shakespeare adored Ophelia who was a sweet-natured queen with
large yellow eyes. He spoilt her rotten (Much to the annoyance
of Othello who took the tip of her ear off in a fit of jealousy
before disappearing for some weeks. This upset Shakespeare who
spent some time and effort in trying to get him back.It was
then that he made various copies of the following document and
posted them around the town.
Is this the first 'Lost Cat' Advertisment?
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Lost
on the Eleventh day of November....
One black cat
with a white spotte on his left ear..
Is known by the name of Othello...
Likes venison but doth notte like Porke....
Rewarde for his return or
worde of his location....
Williame Shakspear....
Stratford Upone Avon....
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Othello returned of his own free will some three weeks later.
To be made much fuss of by William. Othello soon took his place
back at Shakespeare's Desk, helping with his work. Whilst Ophelia
just took his heart, ever demanding his attentions then spurning
him for some small misdemeanour.
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| Her sudden moods do
tear at my heart, she whilst for no goodley reason that I can
understand: spurn my affections for her as though I hast committed
some mortal sinne. Her cries doth eat at my soul for I know notte
her desire. So much of late that I did even write wrongly a soliloquy
in Act iv for I doth work upon called Hamlet. |
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And this we believe to be the Soliloquy in question.
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To feed, or not to
feed, That is the Question. Whether it is nobler in the mind
To suffer the screams of anguish and outrageous falsehoods;
Or to take her in my arms, awhile and see her troubles,
And will appeasing her, end them? -To try, for peace,
- No, for sure; and by that peace, can say we end?
The heartache and the thousand unnatural looks
That fish is for her, -'tis for her consumption
To be devoured, and then:-
Oh sweet Ophelia!
To Lie, -to sleep; -
To sleep! Perchance to dream; aye there's the rub;
For in that sleep of yours, what dreams may come?
When you have shuffled off, and lay asleep in coil,
Must give us pause: to earn your respect,
That which makes calamity of our life:
For who would bear those rips and claws of thine?
For you're oppressor's wrongs, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of desired love, the claws delay,
The innocence of offence, - and the spurns
That patient merit of those unworthy purrs,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare cupboard?
Who would run the risk?
Rather to grunt and sweat under a weary life;
Than that dread of something that may displease,
- That Undiscovered Country,
From whose scorn No traveller returns; -
It puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear ills to others,
Than let others bear ill to yourself,
Thus conscience does make cowards or heroes of us all;
And thus the naive hue of resolution
Is fussed over without care of thought;
And realise those moments of pith and torment,
With this regard, we cast our cares to the wind,
And lose myself in thy fur.
Soft you are now! The fair Ophelia: -
Nymph in my dreams
Be my sins remembered, forever? |
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After his success in 'The Dome Theatre' in London.
William was eventualy forced to spend more and more time living
in London. He consequently asked Sarah to take care of the cats.
But whenever he was back in Stratford he would stop by to see
them all.
It is withe great
sadness that I leave my beloved cats behind. Butte I would feare
for theme in London for it is such a dirty place. At times One
is tempted to give up this worke, and retire back to Stratforde.
Where at least my Cats doth apreaciate my talents.
For here I am but one of many.
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For those who can't make their minds up on all of this. I managed
to carefully scan these two pages in from the book You can see
them here.
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