  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, 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 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]. 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 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? 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: 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. 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! 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. 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! 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, 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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; 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 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— 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 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. |
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