Читать книгу Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts - Clemence Dane - Страница 3

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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.