The Play was first acted at the Shaftesbury Theatre, London, on
November 17th, 1921, by the Reandean Company, with the following
cast:--
WILL SHAKESPEARE Mr. Philip Merivale
ANNE Miss Moyna Macgill
Mrs. HATHAWAY Miss Mary Rorke
HENSLOWE Mr. Arthur Whitby
QUEEN ELIZABETH Miss Haidee Wright
MARY FITTON Miss Mary Clare
KIT MARLOWE Mr. Claude Rains
A CHILD ACTOR Master Eric Spear
A SECRETARY Mr. Arthur Bawtree
A STAGE HAND Mr. Gilbert Ritchie
A BOY Master Spear
A LANDLORD Mr. Ivor Barnard
A LADY-IN-WAITING Miss Joan Maclean
_Shadows in Act I._
Ophelia Miss Lennie Pride
Desdemona Miss Gladys Jessel
Othello Mr. Herbert Young
Queen Margaret Miss Flora Robson
Prince Arthur Mr. Eric Crosbie
Rosalind Miss Phyllis Fabian
Shylock Mr. Gilbert Ritchie
Clown Mr. Ivor Barnard
Hamlet Mr. Neil Curtis
Caesar Mr. Arthur Bawtree
Cleopatra Miss Mai Ashley
King Lear Mr. Fred Morgan
{ Miss Nora Robinson
The Three Fates { Miss Gladys Gray
{Miss Beatrice Smith
_Strolling Players, Beefeaters, Stage Hands, Drinkers, Court
Attendants, etc._
The Production by BASIL DEAN.
The Music by THOMAS WOOD.
Designs for the Scenery and Dresses by GEORGE HARRIS.
ACT I.
_The curtain rises on the living room of a sixteenth
century cottage. The walls and ceiling are of
black beams and white-washed plaster. On the left
is a large oven fireplace with logs burning.
Beyond it is a door. At the back is another door
and a mullioned window half open giving a glimpse
of bare garden hedge and winter sky. On the right
wall is a staircase running down from the ceiling
into the room, a dresser and a light shelf
holding a book or two. Under the shelf is a small
table piled with papers, ink-stand, sand box and
so on. At it sits_ SHAKESPEARE, _his elbows on
his papers, his head in his hands, absorbed. He
is a boy of twenty but looks older. He is dark
and slight. His voice is low, but, he speaks very
clearly. Behind him_ ANNE HATHAWAY _moves to and
fro from dresser to the central table, laying a
meal. She is a slender, pale woman with reddish
hair. Her movements are quick and furtive and she
has a high sweet voice that shrills too easily._
ANNE [_hesitating, with little pauses between the sentences_].
Supper is ready, Will! Will, did you hear?
A farm-bird--Mother brought it. Won’t you come?
She’s crying in for the basket presently.
First primroses! Here, smell! Sweet, aren’t
they? Bread?
Are the snow wreaths gone from the fields? Did you
go far?
Are you wet? Was it cold? There’s black frost in
the air,
My mother says, and spring hangs dead on the boughs--
Oh, you might answer when I speak to you!
SHAKESPEARE _gets up quickly._
Where are you going?
SHAKESPEARE. Out!
ANNE. Where?
SHAKESPEARE. Anywhere--
ANNE. --away from me! Yes! Say it!
SHAKESPEARE [_under his breath_]. Patience! Patience!
ANNE. Come back! Come back! I’m sorry. Oh, come back!
I talk too much. I crossed you. You must eat.
Oh! Oh! I meant no harm--I meant no harm I--
You know?
SHAKESPEARE. I know.
ANNE. Why then, come back and eat,
And talk to me. Aren’t you a boy to lose
All day in the woods?
SHAKESPEARE. The town!
ANNE. Ah! In the town?
Ah then, you’ve talked and eaten. Yes, you can talk
In the town!
_He goes back to his desk._
More writing? What’s the dream to-day?
_He winces._
Oh, tell me, tell me!
SHAKESPEARE. No!
ANNE. I want your dreams.
SHAKESPEARE. A dream’s a bubble, Anne, and yet a world,
Unsailed, uncharted, mine. But stretch your hand
To touch it--gone! And you have wet your fingers,
Whilst I, like Alexander, want my world--
And so I scold my wife.
ANNE. Oh, let me sail
Your world with you.
SHAKESPEARE. One day, when all is mapped
On paper--
ANNE. Now!
SHAKESPEARE. Not yet.
ANNE. Now, now!
SHAKESPEARE. I cannot!
ANNE. Because you will not. Ever you shut me out.
SHAKESPEARE. How many are there in the listening room?
ANNE. We two.
SHAKESPEARE. We three.
ANNE. Will!
SHAKESPEARE. Are there not three? Yet swift,
Because it is too soon, you shrink from me,
Guarding your mystery still; so must I guard
My dreams from any touch till they are born.
ANNE. What! Do you make our bond our barrier now?
SHAKESPEARE. See, you’re a child that clamours--“Let me taste!”
But laugh and let it sip your wine, it cries--
“I like it not. It is not sweet!”--and blames you.
See! even when I give you cannot take.
ANNE. Try me!
SHAKESPEARE. Too late.
ANNE. I will not think I know
What cruelty you mean. What is’t you mean?
What is’t?
SHAKESPEARE. How long since we two married?
ANNE. Why,
Four months.
SHAKESPEARE. And are you happy?
ANNE. Will, aren’t you?
SHAKESPEARE. I asked my wife.
ANNE. I am! I am! I am!
Oh, how can I be happy when I read
Your eyes, and read--what is it that I read?
SHAKESPEARE. God knows!
ANNE. Yes, God He knows, but He’s so far away--
Tell Anne!
SHAKESPEARE. Touch not these cellar thoughts, half worm, half weed:
Give them no light, no air: be warned in time:
Break not the seal nor roll away the stone,
Lest the blind evil writhe itself heart-high
And its breath stale us!
ANNE. Oh, what evil?
SHAKESPEARE. Know you not?
Why then I’ll say “Thank God!” and never tell you--
And yet I think you know?
ANNE. Am I your wife,
Wiser than your own mother in your ways
(For she was wise for many, I’ve but you)
Ways in my heart stored, and with them the unborn
I feed, that he may grow a second you--
Am I your wife, so close to you all day,
So close to you all night, that oft I lie
Counting your heart-beats--do I watch you stir
And cry out suddenly and clench your hand
Till the bone shows white, and then you sigh and turn,
And sometimes smile, but never ope your eyes,
Nor know me with a seeking touch of hands
That bids me share the dream--am I your wife,
Can I be woman and your very wife
And know not you are burdened? You lock me out,
Yet at the door I wait, wringing my hands
To help you.
SHAKESPEARE. You could help me; but--I know you!
You’d help me, in your way, to go--your way!
ANNE. The right way.
SHAKESPEARE. Said I not, sweetheart--your way?
So--leave it!
_He begins to write_. ANNE _goes to the window_
_and leans against it looking out._
ANNE [_softly_]. Give me words! God, give me words.
SHAKESPEARE. Sweetheart, you stay the light.
ANNE. The pane is cool.
_She moves to one side._
Can you see now?
SHAKESPEARE. That’s better.
_The twang of a lute is heard._
ANNE. The road dances.
A VOICE [_singing_]. Come with me to London,
Folly, come away!
I’ll make your fortune
On a fine day--
ANNE. A stranger with my mother at the gate!
_She opens the door to_ MRS. HATHAWAY, _who enters._
THE VOICE [_nearer_]. Daisy leave and buttercup!
Pick your gold and silver up,
In London, in London,
Oh, London Town!
ANNE. What have you brought us, Mother, unawares?
MRS. HATHAWAY. Why, I met the man in the lane and he asked his
way here. He wants Will.
ANNE. Does he, and does he?
SHAKESPEARE [_at the window_].
One of the players. In the town I met him
And had some talk, and told him of my play.
ANNE. You told a stranger and a player? But I--
I am not told!
THE VOICE [_close at hand_].
For sheep can feed
And robins breed
Without you, without you,
And the world get on without you--
Oh, London Town!
SHAKESPEARE _goes to the door._
ANNE [_stopping him_]. What brings him here?
SHAKESPEARE. I bring him!
To my own house. [_He goes out._]
MRS. HATHAWAY. Trouble?
ANNE. Why no! No trouble!
I am not beaten, starved, nor put on the street.
MRS. HATHAWAY. Be wise, be wise, for the child’s sake, be wiser!
ANNE. What shall I do? Out of your fifty years,
What shall I do to hold him?
MRS. HATHAWAY. A low voice
And a light heart is best--and not to judge.
ANNE. Light, Mother, light? Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother!
I’m battling on the crumble-edge of loss
Against a seaward wind, that drives his ship
To fortunate isles, but carries me cliff over,
Clutching at flint and thistle-hold, to braise me
Upon the barren benches he has left
For ever.
SHAKESPEARE _and the player_, HENSLOWE, _come in talking._
MRS. HATHAWAY [_at the inner door_].
Come, find my basket for me. Let them be!
ANNE. Look at him, how his face lights up!
MRS. HATHAWAY. Come now,
And leave them to it!
ANNE. I dare not, Mother, I dare not.
MRS. HATHAWAY. It’s not the way--a little trust--
ANNE. I dare not.
MRS. HATHAWAY _goes out at the door by the fire._
HENSLOWE [_in talk. He is a stout, good-humoured, elderly man,
with bright eyes and a dancing step. He wears ear-rings, is
dressed shabby-handsome, and is splashed with mud. A lute is
slung at his shoulder_]. Played? It shall be played. That’s why
I’m here.
ANNE [_behind them_]. Will!
SHAKESPEARE [_turning_]. This is my wife.
ANNE [_curtseys. Then, half aside_]. Who is the man?
Where from? What is his name?
HENSLOWE [_overhearing_]. Proteus, Madonna! A poor son of the god.
SHAKESPEARE _laughs._
ANNE. A foreigner?
HENSLOWE. Why, yes and no! I’m from Spain at the moment--I have
castles there; but my bed-sitting room (a green room, Madonna) is
in Blackfriars. As to my means, for I see your eye on my travel
stains, I have a bank account, also in Spain, a box-office,
and the best of references. The world and his wife employ me,
the Queen comes to see me, and all the men of genius run to be
my servants. But as to who I am--O Madonna, who am I not? I’ve
played every card in the pack, beginning as the least in the
company, the mere unit, the innocent ace, running up my number
with each change of hand to Jack, Queen, King, and so to myself
again, the same mere One, but grown to my hopes. For Queen may
blow kisses, King of Hearts command all hands at court, but Ace
in his shirt-sleeves is manager and trumps them off the board at
will. You may learn from this Ace; for I think, sir, you will end
as he does, the master of your suit.
ANNE. A fortune-teller too!
HENSLOWE. Will you cross my palm with a sixpence, Madonna?
ANNE. With nothing.
HENSLOWE. Beware lest I tell you for nothing that you--fear
your fortune!
SHAKESPEARE [_spreading his hand_]. Is mine worth fearing?
HENSLOWE. Here’s an actor’s hand, and a bad one. You’ll lose your
words, King o’ Hearts. Your great scenes will break down.
SHAKESPEARE. Then I’ll be ’prenticed direct to the Ace.
HENSLOWE. Too fast. You must come to cues like the rest of us,
and play out your part, before you can be God Almighty in the
wings--as God himself found out when the world was youngish.
ANNE. We’re plain people, sir, and my husband works his farm.
HENSLOWE. And sings songs? I’ve been trying out a new play in the
provinces before we risk London and Gloriana--
ANNE. What! the Queen! the Queen?
HENSLOWE. Oh, she keeps her eye on poor players as well as on
Burleigh and the fleet. _There’s_ God Almighty in the wings if
you like! But as I say--
Whatever barn we storm, here in the west,
We’re marching to the echo of new songs,
Jigged out in taverns, trolled along the street,
Loosed under sweetheart windows, whistled and sighed
Wherever a farmer’s boy in Lover’s Lane
Shifts from the right foot to the left and waits--
“Where did you hear it?” say I, beating time:
And always comes the answer--“Stratford way!”
A green parish, Stratford!
SHAKESPEARE. Too flat, though I love it. Give me hills to climb!
HENSLOWE. Flat? You should see Norfolk, where I was a boy. From
sky to sky there’s no break in the levels but shock-head willows
and reed tussocks where a singing bird may nest. But in which?
Oh, for that you must sit unstirring in your boat, between still
water and still sky, while the drips run off your blade until, a
yard away, uprises the song. Then, flash! part the rushes--the
nest is bare and the bird your own! Oh, I know the ways of the
water birds! And so, hearing of a cygnet on the banks of Avon--
ANNE. Ah!
HENSLOWE. You’re right, Madonna, the poetical vein runs dry. So
I’ll end with a plain question--“Is not Thames broader than Avon?”
SHAKESPEARE. Muddier--
HENSLOWE. But a magical water to hasten the moult, to wash white
a young swan’s feathers.
SHAKESPEARE. Or black, Mephisto!
HENSLOWE. Black swans are rarest. I saw one when I was last in
London. London’s a great city! Madonna, you should send your
husband to market in London, and in a twelvemonth he’ll bring you
home the world in his pocket as it might be a russet apple.
ANNE. What should we do with the world, sir, here in Stratford?
HENSLOWE. Why, seed it and sow it, and plant it in your garden,
and it’ll grow into the tree of knowledge.
ANNE [_turning away_]. My garden is planted already.
HENSLOWE [_in a low voice_],
The black swan seeks a mate, black swan.
SHAKESPEARE. A woman?
ANNE [_turning sharply_]. What did he say to you?
HENSLOWE. Why, that a woman can make her fortune in London as
well as a man. There’s one came lately to court, but sixteen and
a mere knight’s daughter, without a penny piece, and you should
see her now! The men at her feet--
ANNE. And the women--?
HENSLOWE. Under her heel.
ANNE. What does the Queen say?
HENSLOWE. Winks and lets her be,
A fashion out of fashion--gipsy-black
Among the ladies with their bracken hair,
(The Queen, you know, is red!)
SHAKESPEARE. A vixen, eh?
HENSLOWE. Treason, my son!
ANNE. God made us anyway and coloured us!
SHAKESPEARE. And is he less the artist if at will
He strings a black pearl, hangs between the camps
Of day and day the banner of His dark?
Or that He leaves, when with His autumn breath
He fans the bonfire of the woods, a pine
Unkindled?
HENSLOWE. True; and such a black is she
Among the golden women.
SHAKESPEARE. I see your pine,
Your branching solitude, your evening tree,
With high, untroubled head, that meets the eye
As lips meet unseen kisses in the night--
A perfumed dusk, a canopy of dreams
And chapel of ease, a harp for summer airs
To tremble in--
ANNE. Barren the ground beneath,
No flowers, no grass, the needles lying thick,
Spent arrows--
SHAKESPEARE. Yes, she knows--we know how women
Can prick a man to death with needle stabs.
ANNE. O God!
HENSLOWE. Your wife! She’s ill!
SHAKESPEARE. Anne?
ANNE. Let me be!
SHAKESPEARE. Come to your mother--take my arm--
ANNE. I’ll sit.
I have no strength.
SHAKESPEARE. I’ll call her to you. [_He goes out._]
ANNE. Quick!
Before he comes, what is her name? her name?
Her mood? her mind? In all the town of Stratford
Was there no door but this to pound at? Quick!
You know her? Did you see his look? O God!
The last rope parts. He’s like a boat that strains,
Strains at her moorings. Why did you praise her so?
And talk of London? What’s it all to you?
Tall, is she? Yes, like a tree--a block of wood--
You said so! (Is he coming?) Tell me quick!
I’ve never seen a London lady close.
She’s lovely? So are many! How?
HENSLOWE. She’s new!
She’s gallant, like a tall ship setting sail,
And boasts she fears no man. Say “woman” though--
ANNE. What woman does this woman fear?
HENSLOWE. The Queen.
I’ve seen it in her eye.
ANNE. I should not fear.
HENSLOWE. You never saw the Queen of England smile
And crook her finger, once--and the fate falls.
ANNE. I’ve seen her picture. She’s eaten of a worm
As I am eaten. I’d not fear the Queen.
Her snake would know its fellow in my heart
And pass me. But this woman--what’s her name?
HENSLOWE. Mary--
ANNE. That’s “bitter.” I shall find her so.
SHAKESPEARE _comes in with_ MRS. HATHAWAY.
Look at him! Fear the Queen? Did not the Queen,
My sister, meet a Mary long ago
That bruised her in the heel?
HENSLOWE. Man, your wife’s mad!
She says the Queen’s her sister.
ANNE. Mad, noble Festus?
Not I! But tell him so--he’ll kiss you for it.
HENSLOWE. I’ll meet you, friend, some other time or place--
SHAKESPEARE. What’s this? You’re leaving us?
HENSLOWE. Your wife’s too ill--
SHAKESPEARE. Too ill to stand, yet not too ill to--[_Aside_] Anne!
Why does he stare? What have you told my friend?
ANNE. Your friend!
SHAKESPEARE. My friend!
ANNE. This once-met Londoner!
What does he want of you, in spite of me?
This bribing tramp, this palpable decoy--
SHAKESPEARE. Be silent in my house before my friends!
Be silent!
ANNE. This your friend!
SHAKESPEARE. Silent, I say!
ANNE. I _will_ not! Blows? Would you do that to me,
Husband?
SHAKESPEARE. I never touched you!
ANNE. What! No blow?
Here, where I felt it--here? Is there no wound,
No black mark?
MRS. HATHAWAY. Oh, she’s wild! I’ll take her. Come!
Come, Anne! It’s naught! I know the signs.
[_To_ SHAKESPEARE].
Stay you!
ANNE. O Mother, there befell me a strange pang
Here at my heart--[_The two go out together._]
SHAKESPEARE. O women! women! women!
They slink about you, noiseless as a cat,
With ready smiles and ready silences.
These women are too humble and too wise
In pricking needle-ways: they drive you mad
With fibs and slips and kisses out of time:
And if you do not trip and feign as they
And cover all with kisses, do but wince
Once in your soul (the soul they shall not touch,
Never, I tell you, never! Sooner the smeared,
The old-time honey death from a thousand stings,
Than let their tongue prick patterns on your soul!)
Then, then all’s cat-like clamour and annoy!
HENSLOWE. Cry, “Shoo!” and clap your hands; for so are all
Familiar women. These are but interludes
In the march of the play, and should be taken so,
Lightly, as food for laughter, not for rage.
SHAKESPEARE. My mother--
HENSLOWE [_shrugging_]. Ah, your mother!
SHAKESPEARE. She’s not thus,
But selfless; and I’ve dreamed of others--tall,
Warm-flushed like pine-woods with their clear red stems,
With massy hair and voices like the wind
Stirring the cool dark silence of the pines.
Know you such women?--beckoning hill-top women,
That sway to you with lovely gifts of shade
And slumber, and deep peace, and when at dawn
You go from them on pilgrimage again,
They follow not nor weep, but rooted stand
In their own pride for ever--demi-gods.
Are there such women? Did you say you knew
Such women? such a woman?
HENSLOWE. Come to London
And use your eyes!
SHAKESPEARE. How can I come to London?
You see me what I am, a man tied down.
My wife--you saw! How can I come to London?
Say to a sick man “Take your bed and walk!”
Say to a prisoner “Release your chain!”
Say to a tongue-slit blackbird “Pipe again
As in the free, the spring-time!” You maybe
Have spells to help them, but for me no help.
London!
I think sometimes that I shall never see
This lady in whose lap the weed-hung ships
From ocean-end returning pour their gold,
Myrrh, frankincense. What colour’s frankincense?
And how will a man’s eye move and how his hand,
Who sailed the flat world round and home again
To London, London of the mazy streets,
Where ever the shifting people flash and fade
Like my own thoughts? You’re smiling--why?
HENSLOWE. I live there.
SHAKESPEARE. Oh, to be you!
To read the faces and to write the dreams,
To hear the voices and record the songs,
To grave upon the metal of my mind
All great men, lordlier than they know themselves,
And fowler-like to fling my net o’er London,
And some let fly, and clip the wings of some
Fit for my notes; till one fine day I catch
The Governess of England as she goes
To solemn service with her gentlemen:
(What thoughts behind the mask, beneath the crown?)
Queen! The crowd’s eyes are yours, but not my eyes!
Queen! To my piping you shall unawares
Strut on my stage for me! You laugh? I swear
I’ll make that thrice-wrapped, politic, vain heart
My horn-book (as you all are) whence I’ll learn
How Julius frowned, and Elinor rode her way
Rough-shod, and Egypt met ill-news. I’ll do it,
Though I hold horses in the streets for hire,
Once I am come to London.
HENSLOWE. Come with us
And there’s no holding horses! Part and pay
Are ready, and we start to-night.
SHAKESPEARE. I cannot.
I’m Whittington at cross-roads, but the bells
Ring “Turn again to Stratford!” not to London.
HENSLOWE. Well--as you choose!
SHAKESPEARE. As I choose? _I! I_ choose?
I’m married to a woman near her time
That needs me! Choose? I am not twenty, sir!
What devil sped you here to bid me choose?
I knew a boy went wandering in a wood,
Drunken with common dew and beauty-mad
And moonstruck. Then there came a nightshade witch,
Locked hands with him, small hands, hot hands,
down drew him,
Sighing--“Love me, love me!” as a ring-dove sighs,
(How white a woman is, under the moon!)
She was scarce human. Yet he took her home,
And now she’s turned in the gross light of day
To a haggard scold, and he handfasted sits
Breaking his heart--and yet the spell constrains him.
This is not I, not I, for I am bound
To a good wife and true, that loves me; but--
I tell you I could write of such a man,
And make you laugh and weep at such a man,
For your own manhood’s sake, so bound, so bound.
HENSLOWE. Laugh? Weep? No, I’d be a friend to such a man! Go to
him now and tell him from me--or no! Go rather to this wife of
his that loves him well, you say--?
SHAKESPEARE. Too well!
HENSLOWE. Why, man, it’s common! Or too light, too low,
Not once in a golden age love’s scale trims level.
SHAKESPEARE. I read of lovers once in Italy--
HENSLOWE. You’ll write of lovers too, not once nor twice.
SHAKESPEARE. Their scales were level ere they died of love,
In Italy--
HENSLOWE. But if instead they had lived--in Stratford--there’d
have been such a see-saw in six months as--
SHAKESPEARE. As what?
HENSLOWE. As there has been, eh?
“See-saw! Margery Daw!
She sold her bed to lie upon straw.”
And so--poor Margery! Though she counts me an enemy--poor Margery!
SHAKESPEARE. What help for Margery--and her Jack?
HENSLOWE. None, friend, in Stratford.
SHAKESPEARE. Do I not know it?
HENSLOWE. Then--tell Margery!
SHAKESPEARE. Deaf, deaf!
HENSLOWE. Not if you tell her how all heels in London
(And the Queen dances!)
So trip to the Stratford tune that I hot-haste
Am sent to fetch the fiddler--
SHAKESPEARE. Man, is it true?
True that the Queen--?
HENSLOWE. I say--tell Margery!
What! is she a woman, a wife, and will not further her man? I say
to you--tell Margery, as I tell you--
SHAKESPEARE. You do?
HENSLOWE. I do. I do tell you that if you can come away with us
now with your ‘Dream’ in your pocket, and teach it to us and
learn of us while you teach, and strike London in time for the
Queen’s birthday--I tell you and I tell her, Jack’s a made man.
See what Margery says to that, and give me the answer, stay or
come, as I pass here to-night! And now let me go; for if I do not
soon whip my company clear of apple-juice and apple-bloom, clear,
that is to say, of Stratford wine and Stratford women, we shall
not pass here to-night. [_He goes out._]
SHAKESPEARE. To-night! [_Calling_] Anne! Anne! [_He walks up and
down._] Oh, to be one of them to-night on the silver road--to
smell the steaming frost and listen to men’s voices and the ring
of iron on the London road! [_Calling_] Anne!
ANNE [_entering_]. You called? He’s gone? You’re angry?
Oh, not now,
No anger now; for, Will, to-night in the sky,
Our sky, a new star shines.
SHAKESPEARE. What’s that? You know?
ANNE. I know, and oh, my heart sings.
SHAKESPEARE. Anne, dear Anne,
You know? No frets? You wish it? Oh, dear Anne,
How did you guess and know?
ANNE. My mother told me.
SHAKESPEARE. She heard us? Did she hear--they’ve read the play,
And the Queen’s asked for me! London, Anne! London!
I’ll send you London home, my lass, by the post--
Such frocks and fancies! London! London, Anne!
And you, you know? and speed me hence? By God,
That’s my own wife at last, all gold to me
And goodness! Anne, be better to me still
And help me hence to-night!
ANNE. It dips, it dies,
A night-light, Mother, and no star. I grope
Giddily in the dark.
SHAKESPEARE. What did she tell you?
ANNE. No matter. Oh, it earns not that black look.
London? the Queen? I’ll help you, oh, be sure!
Too glad to see you glad.
SHAKESPEARE. Anne, it’s good-bye
To Stratford till the game’s won.
ANNE. What care I
So you are satisfied? The farm must go--
That’s little--
SHAKESPEARE. Must it go?
ANNE. Dreamer, how else
Shall we two live in London?
SHAKESPEARE. _We_, do you say?
They’d have me travel with them--a rough life--
ANNE. I care not!
SHAKESPEARE. --and you’re ailing.
ANNE. Better soon.
SHAKESPEARE. You’ll miss your mother.
ANNE. Mothers everywhere
Will help a girl. I’m strong.
SHAKESPEARE. It will not do!
I have my world to learn, and learn alone.
I will not dangle at your apron-strings.
ANNE. I’ll be no tie. I’ll be your follower
And scarce your wife; but let me go with you!
SHAKESPEARE. If you could see but once, once, with my eyes!
ANNE. Will! let me go with you!
SHAKESPEARE. I tell you--no!
Leave me to go my way and rule my life
After my fashion! I’ll not lean on you
Because you’re seven years wiser.
ANNE. That too, O God!
SHAKESPEARE. And if I hurt you--for I know I do,
I’m not so rapt--think of me, if you can,
As a man stifled that wildly throws his arms,
Raking the air for room--for room to breathe,
And so strikes unaware, unwillingly,
His lover!
ANNE. I could sooner think of you
Asleep, and I beside you with the child,
And all this passion ended, as it must,
In quiet graves; for we have been such lovers
As there’s no room for in the human air
And daylight side of the grass. What shall I do?
And how live on? Why did you marry me?
SHAKESPEARE. You know the why of that.
ANNE. Too well we know it,
I and the child. You have well taught this fool
That thought a heart of dreams, a loving heart,
A soul, a self resigned, could better please
Than the blind flesh of a woman; for God knows
Your self drew me, the folded man in you,
Not, not the boy-husk.
SHAKESPEARE. Yet the same God knows
When folly was, you willed it first, not I.
ANNE. Old! Old as Adam! and untrue, untrue!
Why did you come to me at Shottery,
Out of your way, so often? laugh with me
Apart, and answer for me as of right,
As if you knew me better (ah, it was sweet!)
Than my own brothers? And on Sunday eves
You’d wait and walk with me the long way home
From church, with me alone, the foot-path way,
Across the fields where wild convolvulus
Strangles the corn--
SHAKESPEARE. Strangles the corn indeed!
ANNE. --and still delay me talking at the stile,
Long after curfew, under the risen moon.
Why did you come? Why did you stay with me,
To make me love, to make me think you loved me?
SHAKESPEARE. Oh, you were easy, cheap, you flattered me.
ANNE [_crying out_]. I did not.
SHAKESPEARE. Why, did you not look at me
As I were God? And for a while I liked it.
It fed some weed in me that since has withered;
For now I like it not, nor like you for it!
ANNE. That is your fate, you change, you must ever be changing,
You climb from a boy to a man, from a man to a god,
And the god looks back on the man with a smile,
and the man on the boy with wonder;
But I, I am woman for ever: I change not at all.
You hold out your hands to me--heaven: you turn
from me--hell;
But neither the hell nor the heaven can change me:
I love you: I change not at all.
SHAKESPEARE. All this leads not to London, and for London
I am resolved: if not to-night--
ANNE. To-night?
SHAKESPEARE. As soon as maybe. When the child is born--
When will the child be born?
ANNE. Soon, soon--
SHAKESPEARE. How soon?
ANNE. I think--I do not know--
SHAKESPEARE. In March?
ANNE. Who knows?
SHAKESPEARE. Did you not tell me March?
ANNE. Easter--
SHAKESPEARE. That’s May!
It should be March.
ANNE. It--should be--March--
SHAKESPEARE. Why, Anne?
ANNE. Stay with me longer! Wait till Whitsuntide,
Till June, till summer comes, and if, when you see
Your own son, still you’ll leave us, why, go then!
But sure, you will not go.
SHAKESPEARE. Summer? Why summer?
It should be spring, not summer--
ANNE. I’ll not bear
These questions, like coarse fingers, prying out
My secrets.
SHAKESPEARE. Secrets?
ANNE. Secrets? I? I’ve none--
I never meant--I know not why the word
Came to me, “secret.” Yet you’re all secret thoughts
And plans you do not share. Why should not I
Be secret, if I choose? But see, I’ll tell you
All, all--some other time--were there indeed
A thing to tell--
SHAKESPEARE. When will the child be born?
ANNE. If it were--June? My mother said to-day
It might be June--July--This woman’s talk
Is not for you--
SHAKESPEARE. July?
ANNE. Oh, I must laugh
Because you look and look--don’t look at me!
June! May! I swear it’s May! I said the spring,
And May is still the girlhood of the year.
SHAKESPEARE. July! A round year since you came to me!
Then--when you came to me, in haste, afraid,
All tears, and clung to me, and white-lipped swore
You had no friend but Avon if I failed you,
It was a lie?
ANNE. Don’t look at me!
SHAKESPEARE. No need?
You forced me with a lie?
ANNE. Now there is--now!
SHAKESPEARE. You locked me in this prison with a lie?
ANNE. I loved you.
SHAKESPEARE. And you lied to me--
ANNE. To hold you.
I couldn’t lose you. I was mad with pain.
SHAKESPEARE. Are you so weak,
So candle-wavering, that a gust of pain
Could snuff out honour?
ANNE. ’Ware this hurricane
Of pain! The deserts heed it not, nor rocks,
Nor the perpetual sea; but oh, the fields
Where barley grows and small beasts hide, they fear--
And haggard woods that feel its violent hand
Entangled in their hair and wrestling, shriek
Crashing to ruin. What shall their pensioners
Do now, the rustling mice, the anemones,
The whisking squirrels, ivies, nightingales,
The hermit bee whose summer goods were stored
In a south bank? How shall the small things stand
Against the tempest, against the cruel sun
That stares them, homeless, out of countenance,
Through the day’s heats?
SHAKESPEARE. Coward! They see the sun
Though they die seeing, and the wider view,
The vast horizons, the amazing skies
Undreamed before.
ANNE. I cannot see so far.
I want my little loves, I want my home.
My life is rooted up, my prop is gone,
And like a vine I lie upon the ground,
Muddied and broken.
SHAKESPEARE. I could be sorry for you
Under the heavy hand of God or man
But your own hand has slain yourself and me.
Woman, the shame of it, to trap me thus,
Knowing I never loved you!
ANNE. Oh, for a month--
In the spring, in the long grass, under the apple-trees--
SHAKESPEARE. I never loved you.
ANNE. Think, when I hurt my hand
With the wild rose, it was then you said “Dear Anne!”
SHAKESPEARE. I have forgotten.
ANNE. On Midsummer Eve--
There was a dream about a wood you told me,
Me--not another--
SHAKESPEARE. I was drunk with dreams
That night.
ANNE. That night, that night you loved me, Will!
Oh, never look at me and say--that night,
Under the holy moon, there was no love!
SHAKESPEARE. You knew it was not love.
ANNE. O God, I knew,
And would not know! You never came again.
I hoped, I prayed. I hoped. I loved you so.
You never came.
And must I go to you? I was ashamed.
Yet in the wood I waited, waited, Will,
Night after night I waited, waited, Will,
Till shame itself was swallowed up in pain,
In pain of waiting, and--I went to you.
SHAKESPEARE. That lie upon those loving lips?
ANNE. That lie.
SHAKESPEARE. There was no child?
ANNE. The hope, the hope of children,
To bind you to me--a true hope to hold you--
No lie--a little lie--I loved you so--
Scarcely a lie--a promise to come true
Of gifts between us and a love to come.
SHAKESPEARE. You’re mad! You’re mad!
ANNE. I was mad. I am sane.
I am blind Samson, shaking down the house
Of torment on myself as well as you.
SHAKESPEARE. What gain was there? What gain?
ANNE. What gain but you?
The sight of your face and the sound of your foot
on the stair,
And your casual word to a stranger--“This is my wife!”
For the touch of my hand on your arm, as a
right, when we walked with the neighbours:
For the son, for the son on my heart, with your
smile and your frown:
For the loss of my name in the name that you gave when
you said to him--“Mother! your mother!”
For your glance at me over his head when he brought
us his toys or his tears:
Have pity! Have pity! Have pity! for these things
I did it.
SHAKESPEARE. Words! Words! You lied to me. Go your own road!
I know you not.
ANNE. But I, but I know you.
Have I not learned my god’s face? Have I not seen
The great dreams cloud it, as the ships of the sky
Darken the river? Has not the wind struck home,
The following chill wind that stirs all straws
Of omen? You’re to be great, God pity you!
I’m your poor village woman; but I know
What you must learn and learn, and shriek to God
To spare you learning, if you will be great,
Singing to men and women across fields
Of years, and hearing answer as they reap,
Afar, the centuried fields, “He knew, he knew!”
How will they listen to you--voice that cries
“Right’s right! Wrong’s wrong! For every sin a stone!
“Ye shall not plead to any god or man--
“‘I flinched because the pain was very great,’
“‘I fell because the burden bore me down,’
“‘Hungry, I stole.’” O boy, ungrown, at judgment,
How will they listen? What? I lied? Oh, blind!
When I, your own, show you my heart of hearts,
A book for you to read all women by,
Blindly you turn my page with--“Here are lies!”
SHAKESPEARE. Subtle enough--and glitter may be gold
In women’s eyes--you say so--though to a man,
Boy rather (boy, you called me) lies are lies,
Base money, though you rub ’em till they shine,
Ill money to buy love with; but--I care not!
So be at ease! My love’s not confiscate,
For none was yours to forfeit. Faith indeed,
A weakling trust is gone, for though you irked me
I thought you honest and so bore much from you--
Your jealous-glancing eye, officious hand
Meddling my papers, fool’s opinion given
Unasked when strangers spoke with me, and laughter
Suddenly checked as if you feared a blow
As a dog does--it made me mad!
ANNE. Go on!
SHAKESPEARE. For when did I use you ill?
ANNE. Go on!
SHAKESPEARE. What need?
All’s in a word--your ever-presence here
As if you’d naught in life to do but watch me--
ANNE. Go on!
SHAKESPEARE. All this, I say, I bore, because at heart
I did believe you loved me. Well--it’s gone!
And I go with it--free, a free man, free!
Anne! for that word I could forgive you all
And go from you in peace.
ANNE [_catching at his arm_]. You shall not go!
SHAKESPEARE. Shall not? This burr--how impudent it clings!
ANNE. You have not heard me--
SHAKESPEARE. Let me go, I say!
My purse, my papers--
ANNE. Will!
SHAKESPEARE. Talk to the walls,
For I hear nothing!
ANNE. Why, a murderess
Has respite in my case--and I--and I--
What have I done but love you, when all’s said?
You will not leave me now, now when that lie
Is certain truth at last, and in me sleeps
Like God’s forgiveness? For I felt it stir
When you were angry--I was angry too,
My fault, all mine--but I was sick and faint
And frightened, so I railed, because no word
Matched with the strong need in me suddenly
For gentlest looks and your beloved arms
About this body changed and shaking so;
But why I knew not. But my mother knew
And told me.
SHAKESPEARE. O wise mother!
ANNE. Will, it’s true!
SHAKESPEARE. Practice makes perfect, as we wrote at school!
ANNE. I swear to you--
SHAKESPEARE. As then you swore to me.
Not twice, not twice, my girl!
ANNE. O God, God Son!
Pitiful God! If there be other lives,
As I have heard him say, as his books say,
In other bodies, for Your Mother’s sake
And all she knows (God, ask her what she knows!)
Let me not be a woman! Let me be
Some twisting worm on a hook, or fish they catch
And fling again to catch another year,
Or otter trapped and broiled in the sun three days,
Or lovely bird whose living wing men tear
From its live body, or of Italy
Some peasant’s drudge-horse whipped upon its eyes,
Or let me as a heart-burst, screaming hare
Be wrenched in two by slavering deaths for sport;
But let me not again be cursed a woman
Surrendered to the mercy of her man!
_She sinks down in a crouching heap by the hearth. There has
been a sound of many voices drawing nearer, and as she ceases
speaking, the words of a song become clear._
THE PLAYERS [_singing_]. Come with us to London,
Folly, come away!
We’ll make your fortune
On a summer day.
Leave your sloes and mulberries!
There are riper fruits than these,
In London, in London,
Oh, London Town!
For winds will blow
And barley grow
Without you, without you,
And the world get on without you--
Oh, London Town!
_The voices drop to a low hum_. HENSLOWE _thrusts his head in at
the window._
HENSLOWE. The sun’s down. The sky’s as yellow as a London fog.
Well, what’s it to be?
SHAKESPEARE. London! The future in a golden fog!
HENSLOWE. Come then!
SHAKESPEARE. I’ll fetch my bundle. Wait for me! What voices?
HENSLOWE. The rest of us, the people of the plays.
We’re all here waiting for you.
SHAKESPEARE. Come in, all! all!
HENSLOWE. Does your wife say to us--“Come in!”?
SHAKESPEARE. What wife?
_He hurries up the stairs and disappears._
HENSLOWE [_opening the outer door_].
May we come in?
ANNE. You heard him.
HENSLOWE. We ask you.
ANNE. It’s his house.
HENSLOWE [_humming_]. While fortune waits
Within the gates
Of London, of London--
He must be quick!
ANNE. Am _I_ to tell him so?
HENSLOWE. The new moon’s up and reaping in a sky
Like corn--that’s frost! A bitter travelling night
Before us--
ANNE [_going to the window_].
So it is.
HENSLOWE. Not through the glass!
You’ll buy ill luck of the moon.
ANNE. I bought ill fortune
Long months ago under the shifty moon,
I saw her through the midnight glass of the air,
Milky with light, when trees my casement were,
And little twigs the leads that held my pane.
I’m out of luck for ever.
HENSLOWE. Did I not tell you you feared your fortune? But there
are some in the company can tell you a better, if you’ll let ’em
in.
THREE PLAYERS IN MASKS [_tapping at the window_].
Let us in! Let us in! Let us in!
ANNE. I will not let you in. Wait for your fellow
On the high road! He’ll come to you soon enough.
_She turns from them and seats herself by the fire._
A PLAYER [_dressed as a king, over_ HENSLOWE’S _shoulder_]. Are
we never to come in? It’s as cold as charity since the sun set.
ANNE. It’s no warmer here.
A CHILD [_poking his head under the_ PLAYER’S _arm_]. I can’t
feel my fingers. [ANNE _looks at him. Her face changes._]
ANNE. If the fire warms you, you may warm yourselves.
THE PLAYERS _stream in._
It does not warm me. Look! It cannot warm me.
_She thrusts her hand into the flame._
HENSLOWE. God’s sake!
_He pulls her back._ THE PLAYERS
_stare and whisper together._
ANNE. Eyes! Needle eyes! Why do you stare and point?
Like you I would have warmed myself. Vain, vain!
It’s a strange hearth. You players are the first
It ever warmed or welcomed. Charity?
Who said it--“Cold as charity”? That’s love!
But there’s no love here. Baby, stay away!
You’ll freeze less out in churchyard night than here,
For here’s not even charity.
THE CHILD [_warming his hands_]. I’m not a baby. I’m nearly
eleven. I’ve played children’s parts for years. I’m getting
warmer. Are you?
ANNE. No.
CHILD. I like this house. I’d like to stay here. I suppose there
are things in that cupboard?
THE KING [_overhearing_]. Now, now!
CHILD. That’s my father. He’s a king this week. He’s only a duke
as a rule. Are there apples in that cupboard? Will you give me
one?
ANNE _goes to the cupboard and takes out an apple._
ANNE. Will you give me a kiss?
CHILD. For my apple?
ANNE. No, for love.
CHILD. I don’t love you.
ANNE. For luck, then.
CHILD. You told him you’d got no luck.
ANNE. Won’t you give me a kiss?
CHILD. If you like. Don’t hold me so tight. Is it true you’ve no
luck? Shall I tell your fortune?
ANNE. Can you?
CHILD. O yes! I’ve watched the Fates do it in the new play. It’s
Orpheus and--it’s a long name. But she’s his lost wife. Give me
a handkerchief! That’s for a grey veil. [_Posing._] Now say to
me--“Who are you?”
ANNE. Who are you?
CHILD [_posing_]. Fate! Now you must say--“Whose fate?”
ANNE. Whose?
CHILD. Oh, then I lift the veil and you scream. [_Stamping his
foot._] Scream!
ANNE. Why, baby?
CHILD [_frowning_]. At my dreadful face. [_But he begins to
laugh in spite of himself._]
ANNE [_her face hidden_]. Oh, child! Oh, child!
CHILD. That’s right! That’s the way she cries in the play. You
see the man goes down to hell to find his wife, and the Fates
show her what’s going to happen while she’s waiting for him.
She’s in hell already, waiting and waiting. It takes years to
travel through hell. That’s her talking to the old man in rags
and a crown.
ANNE. Who’s he?
CHILD. Oh, he’s a poor old king whose daughters beat him. He
isn’t in this play. Well, when Orpheus gets to hell--I lead him
there, you know--
ANNE. A babe in hell--a babe in hell--
CHILD. I’m the little god of love. I wear a crown of roses and
wings. They do tickle. Soon I’ll be too big. So he and I go to
the three Fates to get back his wife. She isn’t pretty in that
act. She’s all white and dead round her eyes--like you.
ANNE. Does he find her?
CHILD. After he sings his beautiful song he does. Everybody has
to listen when he sings. Even the big dog lies down. Your husband
made us a nice catch about it yesterday. I like your husband. I’m
glad he’s coming with us. Are you coming with us?
ANNE. No.
CHILD. It’s a pity. If you were a man you could act in the
company. But women can’t act. Even Orpheus’ wife is a boy really.
So are the three Fates. They’re friends of mine. Would you like
to talk to them, the way we do in the play? Come on! I go first,
you see. You must say just what I tell you.
_He takes her hands and pulls her to her feet.
She stares, bewildered, for the room has grown
dim. The dying fire shines upon the shifting,
shadowy figures of the_ PLAYERS. _The crowd grows
larger every moment and is thickest at the foot
of the stairs_. SHAKESPEARE _is seen coming down
them_.
ANNE. The room’s so full. I’m frightened. Who are all these
people?
CHILD. Hush! We’re in hell. These are all the dead people. We
bring ’em to life.
ANNE. Who? We?
CHILD. I and the singer. Look, there’s your husband coming down
the stairs! That’s just the way Orpheus comes down into hell.
ANNE. Will! Will!
CHILD. Hush! You mustn’t talk.
ANNE. But it’s all dreams--it’s all dreams.
CHILD. It’s the players.
SHAKESPEARE [_among the shadows_].
Let me pass!
THE SHADOWS. Pay toll!
SHAKESPEARE. How, pay it?
A SHADOW. Tell my story?
ANOTHER. And mine!
ANOTHER. And mine!
ANOTHER. And mine!
A ROMAN WOMAN. Pluck back my dagger first and tell my story!
A DROWNED GIRL. Oh, listen, listen, listen, I’ve forgotten my own
story. It’s a very sad one. Remember for me!
SHAKESPEARE. I will remember. Let me pass!
A TROJAN WOMAN [_kissing him_]. Here’s pay!
A VENETIAN. I died of love.
THE TROJAN WOMAN. Kiss me and tell my story!
A MOOR. Dead lips, dead lips!
A YOUNG MAN. This is how Judas kissed.
A QUEEN. My son was taken from me. Tell my story!
ANOTHER. And mine!
ANOTHER. And mine!
A YOUNG MAN. That son am I!
TWO CHILDREN. I--I--
A SOLDIER. I killed a king.
A CROWNED SHADOW. He killed me while I slept.
THE SHADOWS. You shall not pass until you tell our story!
A GIRL DRESSED AS A BOY. I lived in a wood and laughed.
Sing you my laughter
When the sun shone!
SHAKESPEARE. I’ll sing it. Singing I go,
What shall I find after the song is over?
What shall I find after the way is clear?
AN OLD MAN, A JEW. Gold and gold and gold--
A CLOWN. And a grave untended--
A MAN IN BLACK. Heartbreak--
TWO COUSINS. A friend or two--
A ROMAN WITH LAURELS. Oh, sing my story
Before I had half-way climbed to the nearest star
My ladder broke.
SHAKESPEARE. I’ll tell all time that story.
THE ROMAN. The stars are dark, seen close.
SHAKESPEARE. I’ll say it.
THE ROMAN. Pass!
AN EGYPTIAN [_holding a goblet_].
He shall not pass. Drink! There are pearls in the cup.
A GIRL, A VERONESE [_taking it from her_].
No--sleep!
A MAN [_with a wand_]. Dreams!
THE KING IN RAGS. Frenzy!
A NUN. Sacrament!
A DRUNKARD. A jest!
A ROMAN WIFE. Here’s coals for bread.
THE EGYPTIAN [_A man in armour has flung his arm about her neck_].
Eat, drink and pass again
To the lost sunshine and the passionate nights,
And tell the world our story!
SHAKESPEARE. Let me go!
ALL THE SHADOWS. Never, never, never! To the end of time we
follow,
Follow, follow, follow!
SHAKESPEARE. Threads and floating wisps
Of being, how they fasten like a cloud
Of gnats upon me, not to be shaken off
Unsatisfied--
THE SHADOWS. Sing! Sing!
_There is a strain of music: the crowd hides_ SHAKESPEARE: _the
three masked players have drifted free of the turmoil._
CHILD [_delighted_]. He does it quite as well as Orpheus.
ANNE. Who are these dreams?
CHILD. The people of the plays. And there are the Fates at last!
That’s the end of my part. Now you must talk to them till your
husband comes. He comes when you scream.
_He picks up his bow and runs away._
ANNE. Come back! Stay by me!
CHILD [_laughing_]. Play your part alone.
_He is lost in the crowd_. THE MASKS _have drawn
near. The first is small and closely veiled and
carries the distaff. The second is tall: part
of her face shows white: her hands are empty.
The third is bowed and crowned: she carries the
shears._
ANNE. These are all dreams or I am mad. Who are you?
FIRST MASK. His fate. I hold the thread.
ANNE. I’ll see you!
FIRST MASK. No!
_As she retreats the_ SECOND MASK _takes the
distaff from her._
SECOND MASK. I tangle it.
ANNE. Who are you?
SECOND MASK. Fate! his fate!
ANNE. Drop the bright mask and let me see!
_The_ SECOND MASK _drops her veil and_
_shows the face of a dark lady._
It needs not!
I knew, I knew! Barren the ground beneath,
No flowers, no fruit, spent arrows--
_The_ SECOND MASK _makes way for the_
THIRD _who takes the tangle from her. The_
SECOND MASK _glides away._
Not the shears!
THIRD MASK [_winding the thread_].
Not yet!
ANNE. Who are you?
THIRD MASK. Fate! his fate!
ANNE. A crown!
My snake should know its fellow--is it so?
_The mask is lifted and reveals the face of_ ELIZABETH.
I do not fear the Queen--
THIRD MASK. Take back the thread!
_She gives the distaff to the_ FIRST MASK _who_
_has reappeared beside her and glides away._
ANNE. But you I fear, O shrinking fate! what fate?
What first and last fate? Show me your face, I say!
_She tears off the mask. The face revealed_
_is the face of_ ANNE. _She screams._
Myself! I saw myself! Will! Will!
THE CHILD. _kneeling at the hearth stirs the fire
and a bright flame shoots up that lights the
whole room. It is empty save for the few players
gathering together their bundles and_ SHAKESPEARE
_who has hurried to_ ANNE. _His hand, gripping
her shoulder, steadies her as she sways._
SHAKESPEARE. Still railing?
CHILD [_to his father_].She’s a poor frightened lady and she
cried. I like her.
ANNE. Gone! Gone! Where are they? Call them back! I saw--
SHAKESPEARE. What folly! These are players and my friends;
You could have given them food at least and served them.
ANNE. I saw--I saw--
HENSLOWE [_coming up to them_]. So, are you ready? The moon is
high: we must be going.
SHAKESPEARE. I’ll follow instantly.
THE PLAYERS _trail out by twos and threes. They
pass the window and repass it on the further side
of the hedge. They are a black, fantastic frieze,
upon the yellow, winter sky._ HENSLOWE _goes
first: the king’s crown is crooked, and the child
is riding on his back: the masks come last._
THE PLAYERS [_singing_].
Come away to London,
Folly, come away!
You’ll make your fortune
Thrice in a day.
Paddocks leave and winter byres,
London has a thousand spires,
A-chiming, a-rhyming,
Oh, London Town!
The snow will fall
And cover all
Without you, without you,
And the world get on without you--
Oh, London Town!
SHAKESPEARE _goes hurriedly to the table_
_and picks up his books._
ANNE. Will!
SHAKESPEARE. For your needs
You have the farm. Farewell!
ANNE [_catching at his arm_] For pity’s sake!
I’m so beset with terrors not my own--
What have you loosed upon me? I’ll not be left
In this black house, this kennel of chained grief,
This ghost-run. Take me with you! No, stay by me!
These are but dreams of evil. Shall we not wake
Drowsily in a minute? Oh, bless’d waking
To peace and sunshine and no evil done!
Count out the minute--
SHAKESPEARE. If ever I forget
The evil done me, I’ll forget the spring,
And Avon, and the blue ways of the sky,
And my own mother’s face.
ANNE. Do I say “forget”?
I say “remember”! When you’ve staked all, all,
Upon your one throw--when you’ve lost--remember!
And done the evilest thing you would not do,
Self-forced to the vile wrong you would not do,
Me in that hour remember!
SHAKESPEARE. Let me go!
ANNE [_she is on the ground, clinging to him_].
Remember! See, I do not pray “forgive”!
Forgive? Forgiving is forgetting--no,
Remember me! Remember, when your sun
Blazes the noon down, that my sun is set,
Extinct and cindered in a bitter sea,
And warm me with a thought. For we are bound
Closer than love or chains or marriage binds:
We went by night and each in other’s heart
Sowed tares, sowed tears. Husband, when harvest comes,
Of all your men and women I alone
Can give you comfort, for you’ll reap my pain
As I your loss. What other knows our need?
Dear hands, remember, when you hold her, thus,
Close, close--
SHAKESPEARE. Let go my hands!
ANNE. --and when she turns
To stone, to a stone, to an unvouchsafing stone
Under your clutch--
SHAKESPEARE. You rave!
ANNE. --loved hands, remember
Me unloved then, and how my hands held you!
And when her face--for I am prophecy--
When her lost face, the woman I am not,
Stares from the page you toil upon, thus, thus,
In a glass of tears, remember then that thus,
No other way,
I see your face between my work and me,
Always!
SHAKESPEARE. Make end and let me go!
ANNE [_she has risen_]. Why, go!
But mock me not with any “Let me go”!
I do not hold you. Ah, but when you’re old
(You will be old one day, as I am old
Already in my heart), too weary-old
For love, hate, pity, anything but peace,
When the long race, O straining breast! is won,
And the bright victory drops to your outstretched hand,
A windfall apple, not worth eating, then
Come back to me--
SHAKESPEARE [_at the door_]. Farewell!
ANNE. --when all your need
Is hands to serve you and a breast to die on,
Come back to me--
SHAKESPEARE. Never in any world!
_He goes out as the last figure passes the window,
and disappears._
THE PLAYERS’ VOICES [_dying away_].
For snow will fall
And cover all
Without you, without you--
_The words are lost._
SHAKESPEARE [_joyfully._] Ah! London Town
_He is seen an instant, a silhouette with
outstretched arms. Then he, too, disappears and
there is a long silence. A cold wind blows in
through the open door. The room is quite dark and
the fire has fallen to ashes._
ANNE [_crying out suddenly_]. The years--the years before me!
MRS. HATHAWAY [_calling_]. Anne! Where’s Anne?
_She comes in at the side door._
Anne! Anne! Where are you? Why, what do you here,
In the cold, in the dark, and all alone?
ANNE. I wait.
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
_A room at the Palace_. ELIZABETH _sits at a working
table. She is upright, vigorous, with an ivory
white skin and piercing eyes. Her hair is dark
red and stiffly dressed. She is old, as an oak
or a cliff or a cathedral is old--there is no
frailty of age in her. Her gestures are measured,
she moves very little, and frowns oftener than
she smiles, but her smile, when it does come,
is kindly. Her voice is strong, rather harsh,
but clear. She speaks her words like a scholar,
but her manner is that of a woman of the world,
shrewd and easy. Her dress is a black-green
brocade, stiff with gold and embroidered with
coloured stones. Beside her stands_ HENSLOWE,
_ten years older, stouter and more prosperous.
In the background_ MARY FITTON, _a woman of
twenty-six, sits at the virginals, fingering
out a tune very faintly and lightly. She is
taller than_ ELIZABETH, _pale, with black hair,
a smiling mouth and brilliant eyes. She is
quick and graceful as a cat, and her voice is
the voice of a singer, low and full. She wears
a magnificent black and white dress with many
pearls. A red rose is tucked behind her ear._
ELIZABETH. Money, money! Always more money! Henslowe, you’re a
leech! And I’m a Gammer Gurton to let myself be bled. Let the
public pay!
HENSLOWE. Madam, they’ll do that fast enough if we may call
ourselves Your Majesty’s Players.
ELIZABETH. No, no, you’re not yet proven. What do you give me?
Good plays enough, but what great play? What has England, what
have I, to match against them when they talk to me of their
Tasso, their Petrarch, their Rabelais--of Divine Comedies and the
plays of Spain? Are we to climb no higher than the Germans with
their ‘Ship of Fools’?
HENSLOWE. ‘The Faery Queen’?
ELIZABETH. Unfinished.
HENSLOWE. Green--Peele--Kyd--Webster--
ELIZABETH. Stout English names--not names for all the world. I
will pay you no more good English pounds a year and fib to my
treasurer to account for them. You head a deputation, do you? You
would call yourselves the Queen’s Players, and mount a crown on
your curtains? Give me a great play then--a royal play--a play
to set against France and Italy and Spain, and you can have your
patent.
HENSLOWE. There’s ‘Tamburlaine’!
ELIZABETH. A boy’s glory, not a man’s.
HENSLOWE. ‘Faust’ and ‘The Jew of Malta’!
ELIZABETH. I know them.
HENSLOWE. He’ll do greater things yet.
ELIZABETH. Do you believe that, Henslowe?
HENSLOWE. No, Madam.
ELIZABETH. Then why do you lie to me?
HENSLOWE. Madam, I mark time. I have my man; but he is not yet
ripe.
ELIZABETH. How long have you served me, Henslowe?
HENSLOWE. Twelve years.
ELIZABETH. How often have you come to me in those twelve years?
HENSLOWE. Four times, Madam!
ELIZABETH. Have I helped or hindered?
HENSLOWE. I confess it, Madam, I have lived on your wits.
ELIZABETH. Then who’s your man?
HENSLOWE. You’ll not trust me. He has done little before the
world.
ELIZABETH. Shakespeare?
HENSLOWE. Madam, you know everything. Will you see him? He and
Marlowe are among our petitioners.
ELIZABETH. H’m! the Stratford boy! I have not forgotten.
HENSLOWE. Who could have promised better? He came to town like a
conqueror. He took us all with his laughter. You yourself, Madam--
ELIZABETH. Yes, make us laugh and you may pick all pockets! He
helped you to pick mine.
HENSLOWE. So far good. But he aims no higher. Yet what he could
do if he would! I have a sort of love of him, Madam. I found him:
I taught him: I have daughters enough but no son. I have wrestled
with him like Jacob at Peniel, but when I think to conquer he
tickles my rib and I laugh. That’s his weapon, Madam! With his
laughter he locks the door of his heart against every man.
ELIZABETH. And every woman?
HENSLOWE. They say--no, Madam!
ELIZABETH. Then we must find her.
HENSLOWE [_with a glance at_ MARY FITTON]. They say she is found
already. But a court lady--and a player! It’s folly, Madam!
Now Marlowe would shrug his shoulder and go elsewhere; but
Shakespeare--there is about him in little and great a certain
dogged and damnable constancy that wrecks all. If he cannot have
the moon for his supper, he will starve, Madam, whatever an old
fool says to him.
ELIZABETH. Then, Henslowe, we must serve him up the moon. Mary!
MARY [_rising and coming down to them_]. Madam?
ELIZABETH. Could you hear us?
MARY. I was playing the new song that the Earl set for you.
ELIZABETH. For me? But you heard?
MARY. Something of the talk, Madam!
ELIZABETH. You go to all the plays, do you not? Which is the
coming man, Mary, Shakespeare or Marlowe.
MARY. If you ask me, Madam, I’m all for the cobbler’s son.
HENSLOWE. Mistress Fitton should give us a sound reason if she
have it, but she has none.
MARY. Only that I don’t know Mr. Marlowe, and I know my little
Shakespeare by heart. I’m an Athenian--I’m always asking for new
tunes.
ELIZABETH. Which is Shakespeare? The youngster like a smoking
lamp, all aflare?
MARY. No, Madam! That’s Marlowe. Shakespeare’s a lesser man.
HENSLOWE. A lesser man? Marlowe the lamp, say you?
He’s conflagration, he’s “Armada!” flashed
From Kent to Cornwall! But this lesser man,
He’s the far world the beacons can out flare
One little hour, but, when their flame dies down,
High o’er the embers in the deep of night
Behold the star!
ELIZABETH. I forget if ever I saw him.
HENSLOWE. Madam, if ever you saw him, you would not forget--
A small, a proud head, like an Arab Christ,
And noble, madman’s fingers, never still--
The face still though, mouth hid, the nostril wide,
And eyes like voices calling, shrill and sad,
Borne on hot winds from fairyland or hell;
Yet round the heavy lids a score of lines
All criss-cross crinkle like a score of laughs
That he has scribbled hastily down himself
With his quick fingers. No, not tall--
ELIZABETH. But a man!
MARY. Like other men.
ELIZABETH. Ah?
MARY. It was easy.
ELIZABETH. Tell!
MARY. He came like a boy to apples. Marlowe now--
ELIZABETH. More than a man, less than a man, but not
As yet a man then? Well, I’ll see your Shakespeare:
Marlowe--some other time.
HENSLOWE. I’ll fetch him to you.
HENSLOWE _goes out._
ELIZABETH. To you, Mary--to you!
MARY. O Madam, spare me! It’s a stiff instrument and once, I
think, has been ill-tuned.
ELIZABETH. Tune it afresh!
MARY. You wish that, Madam?
ELIZABETH. I wish it. Marlowe can wait--and Pembroke.
MARY. Madam?
ELIZABETH. I am blind, deaf, dumb, so long as you practise your
new tune. But the Earl of Pembroke goes to Ireland.
MARY. He’s an old glove, Madam.
ELIZABETH. Young or old, not for your wearing. Strip your hand
and finger your new tune!
MARY. Now, Madam?
ELIZABETH. Why not? Why do I dress you and keep you at court?
Here’s Spain in the ante-room and France on the stairs--am I to
keep them waiting while I humour a parcel of players?
MARY. Indeed, Madam, I wonder that you have spared half an hour.
ELIZABETH. Wonder, Mary! Wonder! And when you know why I do
what I do you shall be Queen instead of me. In the meantime you
may learn the trade, if you choose. I give you a kingdom to rule
in the likeness of a poor player. Let me see how you do it! Yet
mark this--though with fair cheeks and black hair you may come
by a coronet (but the Earl goes to Ireland) yet if you rule your
kingdom by the glance of your eyes, you will lose it as other
Maries have done.
MARY. I must reign in my own way--forgive me, Madam!--not yours.
ELIZABETH. Girl, do you think you could ever rule in mine? Well,
try your way! But--between queens, Mary--one kingdom at a time!
ELIZABETH _goes out._
MARY [_she sits on the table edge, swinging her pretty foot_].
So Pembroke goes to Ireland! Ay, and comes back, old winter! I
can wait. And while I wait--Shakespeare! Will Shakespeare! O
charity--I wish it were Marlowe! What did the old woman say?
A kingdom in the likeness of a player. I wonder. Well, we’ll
explore. Yet I wish it were Marlowe. [SHAKESPEARE _enters._]
Ah! here comes poor Mr. Shakespeare looking for the Queen and
finding--
SHAKESPEARE. The Queen!
MARY. Hush! Palace walls! Well, Mr. Shakespeare, what’s the news?
SHAKESPEARE. Good, bad and indifferent.
MARY. Take the bad first.
SHAKESPEARE. The bad?--that I have not seen you some five weeks!
The good--that I have now seen you some five seconds! The
indifferent--that you do not care one pin whether I see you or
not for the next five years!
MARY. Who told you that, Solomon?
SHAKESPEARE. I have had no answer to--
MARY. Five letters, seven sonnets, two catches and a roundelay!
SHAKESPEARE. Love’s Labour Lost!
MARY. Ah, Mr. Shakespeare, you were not a Solomon then! There was
too much Rosaline and too little Queen in that labour.
SHAKESPEARE. You’re right! Solomon would have drawn all Rosaline
and no Queen at all. I’ll write another play!
MARY. It might pay you better than your sonnets.
SHAKESPEARE. Do you read them--Rosaline?
MARY. Most carefully, Mr. Shakespeare--on Saturday nights! Then I
make up my accounts and empty my purse, and wonder--must I pawn
my jewels? Then I cry. And then I read your latest sonnet and
laugh again.
SHAKESPEARE. You should not laugh.
MARY. Why, is it not meant to move me?
SHAKESPEARE. You should not laugh. I tell you such a thought,
Such fiery lava welling from a heart,
So crystalled in the wonder-working brain,
Mined by the soul and rough-cut into words
Fit for a poet’s faceting and, last,
Strung on a string of gold by a golden tongue--
Why, such a thought is an immortal jewel
To gild you, living, in men’s eyes, and after
To make you queen of all the unjewelled dead
Who bear not their least bracelet hence. For I,
Eternally I’d deck you, were you my own,
Would you but wear my necklaces divine,
My rings of sorcery, my crowns of song.
What chains of emeralds--did you but know!
My rubies, O my rubies--could you but see!
And this one gem of wonder, pearl of pearls,
Hid in my heart for you, could you but take,
Would you but take--
MARY. Open your heart!
SHAKESPEARE. Not so.
The god who made it hath forgot the key,
Or lost or lent it.
MARY. Heartless god! Poor heart!
Yet if this key--(is there indeed a key?)
SHAKESPEARE. No lock without a key, nor heart, nor heart.
MARY. --were found one day and strung with other keys
Upon my ring?
SHAKESPEARE. With other--?
MARY. Keys of hearts!
What else?
Tucked in the casket where my mortals lie--
Sick pearl, flawed emerald, brooch or coronet--
SHAKESPEARE. God!
MARY. Why, Jeweller?
SHAKESPEARE. Then what they say--
MARY. They say?
What do they say? And what care I? They say Pembroke?
SHAKESPEARE. They lie! You shall not speak. They lie!
MARY. So little doubt--and you a man! It’s new.
It’s sweet. It will not last. We spoke of keys--
This heart-key, had I found it, would you buy?
Come, tempt me with immortal necklaces!
Come, purchase me with ornaments divine!
SHAKESPEARE. I love you--
MARY. Well?
SHAKESPEARE. I love you--
MARY. Is that all?
SHAKESPEARE. I love you so.
MARY. Why, that’s a common cry,
I hear it daily, like the London cries,
“Old chairs to mend!” or “Sweet, sweet lavender!”
Is this your string of pearls, sixteen a penny?
SHAKESPEARE. D’you laugh at me? I mean it.
MARY. So do they all.
Buy! Buy my lavender! Lady, it’s cheap--
It’s sweet--new cut--I starve--for Christ’s sake, buy!
They mean it, all the hoarse-throat, hungry men
That sell me lavender, that sell me love.
SHAKESPEARE. I put my wares away. I do not sell.
MARY. O pedlar! I had half a mind to buy.
SHAKESPEARE. Too late.
MARY. Open your pack again! What haste!
What--not a trinket left me, not a pin
For a poor lady? Does not the offer hold?
SHAKESPEARE. You did not close.
MARY. I will.
SHAKESPEARE. Withdrawn! Withdrawn!
MARY. Renew!
SHAKESPEARE. Too late.
MARY. You know your business best;
Yet--what care I?
SHAKESPEARE. Or I? Yet--never again
To buy and sell with you!
MARY. Never again.
Heigh-ho! I sighed, sir.
SHAKESPEARE. Yes, I heard you sigh.
MARY. And smiled. At court, sir--
SHAKESPEARE. Yes, they buy and sell
At court. But I know better--give and take!
MARY [_evading him_].
What will you give me if I let you take?
SHAKESPEARE. If you will come with me into my mind--
How shall I say it? Still you’ll laugh at me!
MARY. Maybe!
SHAKESPEARE. My mind’s not one room stored, but many,
A house of windows that o’erlook far gardens,
The hanging gardens of more Babylons
Than there are bees in a linden tree in June.
I’m the king-prisoner in his capital,
Ruling strange peoples of a world unknown,
Yet there come envoys from the untravelled lands
That fill my corridors with miracles
As it were tribute, secretly, by night;
And I wake in the dawn like Solomon,
To stare at peacocks, apes and ivory,
And a closed door.
And all these stores I give you for your own,
You shall be mistress of my fairy-lands,
I’ll ride you round the world on the back of a dream,
I’ll give you all the stars that ever danced
In the sea o’ nights,
If you will come into my mind with me,
If you will learn me--know me.
MARY. I do know you.
You are the quizzical Mr. Shakespeare of the ‘Rose,’ who never
means a word he says. I’ve heard of you. All trades hate you
because you are not of their union, and yet know the tricks
of each trade; but your own trade loves you, because you are
content with a crook in the lower branches when you might be top
of the tree. You write comedies, all wit and no wisdom, like a
flower-bed raked but not dug; but the high stuff of the others,
their tragedies and lamentable ends, these you will not essay.
Why not, Mr. Shakespeare of the fairy-lands?
SHAKESPEARE. Queen Wasp, I do not know.
MARY. King Drone, then I will tell you. You are the little boy
at Christmas who would not play snap-dragon till the flames
died down, and so was left at the end with a cold raisin in an
empty dish. That’s you, that’s you, with the careful fingers and
no good word in your plays for any woman. Run home, run home,
there’s no more to you!
SHAKESPEARE. D’you think so?
MARY. I think that I think so.
SHAKESPEARE. I’ll show you.
MARY. What will you show me, Will?
SHAKESPEARE. Fairyland, and you and me in it. Will you believe in
me then?
MARY. Not I, not I! I’m a woman of this world. Give me flesh and
blood, not gossamer,
Honey and heart-ache, and a lovers’ moon.
SHAKESPEARE. I read of lovers once in Italy--
She was like you, such eyes of night, such hair.
God took a week to make his world, but these
In four short days made heaven to burn on earth
Like a great torch; and when they died--
MARY. They died?
SHAKESPEARE. Like torches quenched in water, suddenly,
Because they loved too well.
MARY. Oh, write it down!
Ah, could you, Will? I think you could not write it.
SHAKESPEARE. I can write Romeo. Teach me Juliet!
MARY. I could if I would. Was that her name--Juliet?
SHAKESPEARE. Poor Juliet!
MARY. Not so poor if I know her. Oh, make that plain--she was not
poor! And tell them, Will, tell all men and women--
SHAKESPEARE. What, my heart?
MARY. I will whisper it to you one day when I know you better.
Oh, it’ll be a play! Will you do it for me, Will? Will you write
it for you and for me? Where do they live?
SHAKESPEARE. Verona. Italy.
MARY. Come to me daily! Read it to me scene by scene, line by
line! How many acts?
SHAKESPEARE. The old five-branched candlestick.
MARY. But a new flame! Will it take long to write?
It must not.
SHAKESPEARE. Shall not.
MARY. What shall we call it, Will?
The Tragical Discourse? The Famous End?
The Lovers of Verona?
SHAKESPEARE. No, no! Plain.
Their two names married--Romeo and Juliet.
_As they lean towards each other still talking_
THE CURTAIN FALLS.
ACT II.
SCENE II.
_The first performance of Romeo and Juliet: the end
of the fourth act. The curtain rises on a small
bare dusty office, littered with stage properties
and dresses. When the door at the back of the
stage is open there is a glimpse of passage and
curtains, and moving figures, with now and then
a flare of torchlight. There is a continuous
far-away murmur of voices and, once in a while,
applause. As the curtain goes up_ MARY FITTON _is
opening the door to go out_. SHAKESPEARE _holds
her back_.
MARY. Let go! Let me go! I must be in front at the end of that
act. I must hear what the Queen will say to it.
SHAKESPEARE. But you’ll come back?
MARY. That depends on what the Queen says. I’ve promised you
nothing if she damns it.
_The applause breaks out again._
SHAKESPEARE. Listen! Is it damned?
MARY. Sugar-sweet, isn’t it? But that’s nothing. That’s the mob.
That’s your friends. They’ll clap you. But the Queen, if she
claps, claps your play.
SHAKESPEARE. Your play!
MARY. Is it mine? Earnest?
SHAKESPEARE. My earnest, but your play.
MARY. Well, good luck to my play!
SHAKESPEARE. Give me--
MARY. Oh, so it’s not a free gift?
SHAKESPEARE. Give me a finger-tip of thanks!
MARY. In advance? Not I! But if the Queen likes it--I’m her
obedient servant. If the Queen opens her hand I shan’t shut mine.
Where she claps once I’ll clap twice. Where she gives you a hand
to kiss, I’ll give you--There! Curtain’s down! I must go.
SHAKESPEARE. Mary!
MARY. Listen to it! Listen! Listen! This is better than any poor
Mary.
_She goes out. The door is left open. The applause breaks out again._
SHAKESPEARE. Is this the golden apple in my hand
At last?
How tastes it, heart, and is it sweet, is it sweet?
Sweeter than common apples? So many years
Of days I watched it grow and propped and pruned,
Besought the sun and watered. O my tree
When the green broke! That was a morning hour.
Fool, so to long for fruit! Now the fruit’s ripe.
The tree in spring was fairest, when it flowered,
And every petal held a drink of dew.
The bloom went long ago. Well, the fruit’s here!
Hark!
_The applause breaks out again._
It goes well. Eat up your apple, man!
This is the hour, the hour! I’m the same man--
No better for it. When Marlowe praised me so
He meant it--meant it. I thought he laughed at me
In his sleeve. Will Shakespeare! Romeo and Juliet!
I made it--I! Indeed, indeed, at heart--
(I would not for the world they read my heart:
I’d scarce tell Mary) but indeed, at heart,
I know no song was ever sung before
Like this my lovely song. _I_ made it--I!
It has not changed me. I’m the same small man,
And yet I made it! Strange! [_A knock._]
STAGE HAND [_putting in his head at the door_]. You’ll not see
anyone, sir, will you?
SHAKESPEARE. I told you already I’ll come to the green-room when
the show’s over. I can see no stranger before.
STAGE HAND. So I’ve told her, sir, many times. But she says you
will know her when you see her and she can’t wait.
SHAKESPEARE. A lady?
STAGE HAND. No, no, sir, just a woman. I’ll tell her to go away
again.
SHAKESPEARE. Wait! Did she give no name?
STAGE HAND. Name of Hathaway, sir, from Stratford.
SHAKESPEARE. Anne! Bring her here! Bring her here quickly,
privately! You should have told me sooner. Where does she wait?
Did any see her? Did any speak with her? If anyone asks for me
save Henslowe or Mr. Marlowe, I am gone, I am not in the theatre.
What are you staring at? What are you waiting for? Bring her here!
STAGE HAND. Glad to be rid of her, sir! She has sat in the
passage this hour to be tripped over, and nothing budges her.
[_Calling_] Will you come this way--this way! [_He disappears._]
SHAKESPEARE. Anne? Anne in London? What does Anne in London?
STAGE HAND [_returning_]. This way, this way! It’s a dark
passage. This way!
MRS. HATHAWAY _comes in._
SHAKESPEARE. Not Anne!
MRS. HATHAWAY. Is Mr. Shakespeare--? Will! Is it Will? Oh, how
you’re changed!
SHAKESPEARE. Ten years change a young man.
MRS. HATHAWAY. But not an old woman. I’m Anne’s mother still.
SHAKESPEARE. I’m not so changed that I forget it. What do you
want of me, Mrs. Hathaway?
MRS. HATHAWAY. I bring you news.
SHAKESPEARE. Good news?
MRS. HATHAWAY. It’s as you take it.
SHAKESPEARE. Dead?
MRS. HATHAWAY. Is that good news, my half son? She is not so
blessed.
SHAKESPEARE. I did not say it so. Is she with you?
MRS. HATHAWAY. No.
SHAKESPEARE. Did she send you? Oh, so she has heard of this
business! It’s like her to send you now. She is to take her toll
of it, is she?
MRS. HATHAWAY. You are bitter, you are bitter! You are the east
wind of your own spring sunshine. She has heard nothing of this
business or of that--dark lady.
SHAKESPEARE. Take care!
MRS. HATHAWAY. I saw her come from this room--off her guard. I
know how a woman looks when a man has pleased her. Oh, please her
if you must! I am old. I do not judge. And I think you will not
always. But that’s not my news.
SHAKESPEARE. I can’t hear it now. I am pressed. This is not every
night. I’ll see you to-morrow, not now.
MRS. HATHAWAY. My news may be dead to-morrow.
SHAKESPEARE. So much the better. I needn’t hear it.
MRS. HATHAWAY. Son, son, son! You don’t know what you say.
SHAKESPEARE. That is not my name. And I know well what I say.
You are my wife’s mother and I’ll not share anything of hers. But
if she needs money, I’ll send it. To-night makes me a rich man.
MRS. HATHAWAY. Richer than you think--and to-morrow poorer, if
you do not listen to me.
_There is a roar of applause._
SHAKESPEARE. Listen to you? Why should I listen to you? Can you
give me anything to better that?
MRS. HATHAWAY. But if she can? Sixty years I have learned lessons
in the world; but I never learned that a city was better than
green fields, friends better than a house-mate, or the works of a
man’s hand more to him than the child of his own flesh.
SHAKESPEARE. And have I learned it, I? Do I not know
That when I left her I left all behind
That was my right? See how I live my life--
Married nor single, neither bond nor free,
My future mortgaged for a roofless home!
For though I love I must not say “I love you,
Come to my hearth!” A child? I have no child:
I hear no voice crying to me o’ nights
Out of the frost-bound dark. How can it cry
Or smile at me until I give it lips?
How can it clutch me till I give it hands?
How can it be, until I give it leave?
Small sparrow at the window-pane, a’cold,
Begging your crumb of life from me, indeed
I cannot let you in. Small love, small sweet,
Look not so trustfully! You are not mine,
Not mine, not anyone’s. Away, unborn!
Back to the womb of dreams, and never stir,
Never again! How meek the small ghost fades,
Reject and fatherless, that might have been
My son!
MRS. HATHAWAY. Is it possible? Anne knew you best.
She said you did not know. Dear son, too soon
By two last months, yet by these months too late.
After you left her, Hamnet, the boy, was born.
SHAKESPEARE. It is not true!
MRS. HATHAWAY. Ah, ah, she knew you best.
She said always, weeping she said always
You would not listen, though she sent you word;
But when the boy was grown she’d send the boy,
Then you would listen and come home, come home.
But now that web is tattered in its turn
By a cold wind, an out-of-season wind,
Tearing the silver webs, blacking the leaves
And shaking the first blossoms down too soon,
Too soon, too soon. He shivered and lay down
Among pinched violets and the wrack of spring;
But when the sky drew breath and April came,
And summer with tanned fingers, beckoning up
New flowers from the ground, still our flower drooped:
The sunlight hurt his eyes, his bed’s too hot,
He drinks and will not eat: since Saturday
There’s but one end.
SHAKESPEARE. What end?
MRS. HATHAWAY. You’re stubborn as she.
She will not bow to it. Yet she sent me hither
To bring you home.
SHAKESPEARE. New witch-work!
MRS. HATHAWAY. Will you not come?
SHAKESPEARE. I will not.
MRS. HATHAWAY. Will you not come? She bade me say
That the boy cries for you--
SHAKESPEARE. A lie! A gross lie!
He never called me father.
MRS. HATHAWAY. That he does!
You are his Merlin and his Arthur too,
And God-Almighty Sundays. Thus it goes--
“My Father says--” and “When my Father comes--”
“I’ll tell my Father!” To his mother’s hand
He clings and whispers in his fever now,
With bright eyes wide--your eyes, son, your quick eyes--
That she shall fetch you (she? she cannot speak)
To bring him wonders home like Whittington,
(And where’s your cat?) and tell the tales you know
Of Puck and witches, and the English kings,
To whistle down the birds as Orpheus did,
And for a silver penny pick the moon
From the sky’s pocket, and buy him gingerbread--
And so he rambles on, breaking her heart
A second time, God help her!
SHAKESPEARE. I will come.
A MAN’S VOICE [_off the stage_].
Shakespeare! Will Shakespeare! Call Will Shakespeare!
SHAKESPEARE [_to_ MRS. HATHAWAY]. Here!
When do we start?
MRS. HATHAWAY. The horses wait at the inn.
VOICE. Will Shakespeare!
SHAKESPEARE. Give me an hour. The bridge is nearer.
On London Bridge at midnight! I’ll be there!
MRS. HATHAWAY. Not later, I warn you, if you’d see the child
alive.
SHAKESPEARE. Fear not, I’ll be there. D’you think so ill of me? I
could have been a good father to my own son--if I had known. If
I had known! This is a woman’s way of enduring a wrong. Oh, dumb
beast! Could she not send for me--send to me? Am I a monster that
she could not come to me? “Buy him gingerbread”! To send me no
word till he’s dying! Would any she-devil in hell do so to a man?
Dying? I tell you he shall live and not die. There was a man once
fought death for a friend and held him. Can I not fight death for
my own son? Can I not beat death off for an hour, for a little
hour, till I have kissed my only son?
MARLOWE’S VOICE. Shakespeare! The Queen--the Queen has asked
for you,
And sent her woman twice. Will Shakespeare!
Will!
SHAKESPEARE. At midnight then.
MRS. HATHAWAY _goes out._
VOICE. Will Shakespeare!
SHAKESPEARE. Coming! Coming!
MARY [_in the doorway, followed by_ MARLOWE].
Is Shakespeare--?
SHAKESPEARE. Oh, not now, not now, not now!
MARY. Are you mad to keep her waiting? She has favours up her
sleeve. You are to write her a play for the summer revels. Quick
now, ere the last act begins! Off with you! [SHAKESPEARE _goes
out._] Look how he drags away! What’s come to the man to fling
aside his luck?
MARLOWE. He has left it behind him.
MARY. Here’s a proxy silver-tongue! Are you Mr. Marlowe?
MARLOWE. Are you Mistress Fitton?