  A room in the palace, hung with tapestries. On the right wall is a heavy, studded door: on the left, a great raised seat on a low platform. On the back wall is a small curtained door and a large window. A girl in a primrose-coloured gown stands at it holding back its curtain. Set slantwise in front of it, nearer the centre of the stage, is a writing table with scattered papers. At it sits Elizabeth, a secretary beside her. The Queen’s dress is of dull grey brocade with transparent lawn and jewels of aquamarine; but as the evening deepens its colour becomes one with the dusk and only her white face and hands are clearly seen. A Hawker [chanting in the street far away]. Cress! Buy cress! Who’ll buy my cress-es? Elizabeth lays down her pen. Elizabeth. These three are signed. Take them to Burleigh. This I’ll not grant. Tell him so! [The man bows and goes out.] Hawker [nearer]. Cress! Buy cress! Elizabeth. There! Put the papers by! The girl at the window comes down to the table and begins to sort them. Another Hawker. Strawberries! Ripe strawberries! The Girl. I wonder, Madam, that you choose this room Here on the noisy street. Elizabeth. Child, when you marry Who’ll rule your nursery, you or your maids? Girl. Why, that I will! Elizabeth. Then you must sit in it daily. Where’s Mary Fitton? Girl. In waiting, Madam, and half asleep. She was up early to-day. I saw her from my window by the little garden door and called to her. She had been out to pick roses, as you bade her, ere the dew dried on them. Elizabeth. As I bade her? Girl. Yes, Madam, she said so. Hawker [close at hand]. Cress! Buy cress! Fit for Queen Bess! Elizabeth. Open the window! [The girl opens it.] Hawker. Cress! Buy cress! Who’ll buy my cress-es? Elizabeth. Fetch me my purse! The girl goes out by the little door. As she does so, Elizabeth takes her purse from a drawer and going to the window, throws out a coin. Hawker. Cress! Buy cress! Are you there, lady? [Elizabeth throws out another coin.] I plucked my riches From Deptford ditches, I came by a Deptford Inn; Where a young man lies, With pennies on his eyes— Murdered, lady, and none saw who did it! Cress! Buy cress! Elizabeth flings out another coin. There was a boy that ran away, and Henslowe the Queen’s man, and a third— Cress! Buy cress! A supper for Queen Bess! Girl [distressed]. Madam— Elizabeth. It was here. That cress seller has a sweet voice. Fling her a coin and ask her where she lives! Girl [going to the window]. Hey, beggar! Hawker. Bless you, lady! Girl. Where do you come from with your green stuff? Hawker. Marlow, lady, Marlow! Down by the river where the cresses grow, And buttercups like guineas. Cress! Buy cress! Who’ll buy my cress-es? Her voice dies away in the distance. Girl. She has come a long way. Marlow’s across the river, far from us. Elizabeth. Marlowe’s across the river, far from us. If any ask to speak with me, let me know it! Girl. Why, Madam, Henslowe, the old player, has been waiting since noon, and Mr. Shakespeare with him. Elizabeth. The name’s not written here. Whose duty? Girl. Mary Fitton’s. Elizabeth. Send Henslowe! And when I ring let Mary Fitton answer! Girl. I’ll tell her, Madam. She goes out. Elizabeth rises and goes slowly across the room to the dais and seats herself. There is a pause. Then a page throws open the big door facing the dais and Henslowe enters. Elizabeth. Henslowe, you’re not welcome For the news you bring. Henslowe. Madam, that Marlowe’s dead I know because I found him—I am new come from Deptford— But how you know I know not. Elizabeth. Why, not a keel Grounds on the Cornish pebbles, but the jar Thrills through all English earth home to my feet. No riderless horse snuffs blood and gallops home To a girl widowed, but I the sparking hoofs Hear pound as her heart pounds, waiting; for my spies Are everywhere. Do not my English swifts Report to me at dusk, eavesdropping low, The number of my English primroses In English woods all spring? The gulls on Thames Scream past the Tower “Storm in Channel! Storm!” And if I hear not, sudden my drinking glass Rings out “Send help, lest English sailors drown!” The lantern moon swings o’er unvisited towns Signalling “Peace!” or a star shoots out of the west Across my window, flashing “Danger here!” And is it Ireland rising, or a child On chalk-pit roof after the blackberries, I’m warned, and bid my human servants haste. The flat-worn stones, the echoes of the streets Henslowe. He waits without. Elizabeth. Then he too was at Deptford last night. Henslowe. None knows it. Elizabeth. That’s well! But was it he, Henslowe—he? Henslowe. No, no, no! I’ll swear it. Elizabeth. But will he swear it? Henslowe. He’s dazed, he will say anything—yes—no— Just as you prompt him, as if one blow had struck His soul and Marlowe’s body. Madam, he’s not his witness! Yet, if t’were true, if he has lost us Marlowe, Must we lose him? Then has the English stage Lost both her hands and cannot feed herself, Starves, Madam! Elizabeth. You’re honest, Henslowe! Your son’s son one day May help a king to thread a needle’s eye. But do you think he did it? Henslowe. No, though he says it, For he loved him. Elizabeth. Loved him, but a woman better. Henslowe. There was no woman with them. Elizabeth. So I hear; but a boy! Henslowe. Unknown. Elizabeth. Did you see him? Henslowe. Not his face. He was past me in a flash, crying “Hurry!” Elizabeth. Well, I’ll see Shakespeare. Henslowe. Madam— Elizabeth. I thread my own needles, Henslowe, being a woman. [Mary Fitton enters.] Send Mr. Shakespeare to me! [Then, as Mary turns to go—] Mary! Mary. Madam? Elizabeth. Bid him hurry! [Mary turns to the door.] Mary! Mary. Madam? Elizabeth. What did I tell you but now? Mary. Madam, to bid him hurry. Henslowe [recognising the voice]. “Hurry!” Elizabeth. Wait. Daylight, Henslowe? Girl, you’re slow. You go heavily. Have you not slept? Let Henslowe do your errand! [To Henslowe.] Let him wait at hand! Mary. Madam, I can well go. Elizabeth. No hurry now. [Henslowe goes out.] D’you guess why I send for your teller of tales? Mary. No, Madam. Elizabeth. He has told a tale, it seems, that I’d hear told again. Mary. Told? Elizabeth. Why are you not in black, Mary? Mary. I, Madam? Elizabeth. Marlowe is dead. Mary. I grieve to hear it. Elizabeth. When did you hear? Mary. Why, Madam, now—you tell me! Elizabeth. Then I tell you wrong. He is alive and has told all. Mary. Alive? They lie to you, Madam! What has he told? Who says it? Elizabeth. You, Mary Fitton! For by your dark-ringed eyes Your dreaming service and those blind hands of yours Seeking a hold, I think you saw him die, Ere you passed Henslowe in the dark, crying “Hurry!” Mary. Madam, it was your errand. For this Shakespeare, This quill you thrust on me to sharpen up, Jealous of Marlowe, though he had no cause (What! must I live his nun, his stay-at-home? Your servant and a lady of the court!), Sent me a letter— Elizabeth. Let me read! Mary. I tore it! —so inked in threat that I post-haste for Deptford— Elizabeth. Ill judged! Mary. I know! I followed my first fear. —rode to warn Marlowe. Shakespeare following, Spying upon us, spying upon us, Madam! Found us in counsel. Then, with a hail of words That Marlowe would not bear, with “stale” and “harlot,” He beat me down, till Marlowe flung ’em back; Then like two dogs they struggled. Marlowe fell. Elizabeth. Struck down? Mary. Struck down, but blindly, not to kill— I will not think to kill—and as he fell His own knife caught him, here. Elizabeth. What did you then? Mary. I, Madam? Elizabeth. You, Madam? Did you fold your hands And watch this business as you’d watch a play, And clap them on? Or, as a short month since You played a part I think, did you strike in And play a part? Why did you call for help? Mary. I did not, Madam! Elizabeth. Why did not Mary Fitton Cry help against—- which lover? Mary. Lover, Madam? Elizabeth. There’s tinker, tailor, soldier—the old rhyme— There’s Pembroke, Marlowe, Shakespeare— Mary. Madam! Madam! I’ll not bear this! Elizabeth. Ay, you have fierce black eyes— What will you do then if you will not bear it? You have leave to show. Mary. I say I did cry out To both that they should cease. Elizabeth. So you cried out! Bring up your witnesses that heard you cry! Mary. I did not stand and watch. I ran upon them. I was flung off and bruised. Elizabeth. Show me the bruise! Mary. High on my arm— Elizabeth. Rip up your sleeve and show me! You stand, you stare, you’re white. I think you shake. Mary. Anger not fear, though you were ten times Queen Of twenty Englands! Elizabeth. Quiet, and quiet, my girl! This ill-spent night has left you feverish. You are too free for court, Too bruised and touzled for my gentlemen. You shall go home, I think, to heal this bruise, To cleanse your body and soul in country air And banished quiet till I send for you. Mary. Upon what count? Elizabeth. On none. But I’ve no time, No room for butter-fingers. Here’s a man slain Upon your lap that England needed. Go! Go, blunted tool! [She touches a bell.] Mary. Madam! Madam! You wrong me! Elizabeth. I’ve wronged your betters, Mary, Mary Fitton, As tide wrongs pebble, or as wind wrongs chaff At threshing time. A page enters at the great door on the right. Send Mr. Shakespeare to me! Mary. This is the justice of the Queen of England! Elizabeth. My justice. Mary. Have I not served you? Elizabeth. All things serve me. They choose their path. I use them in their path. Mary. As once you used, they say— Elizabeth. Do not dare! Do not dare! Mary. Dare, Madam? May I not wonder, like another. Why you have used me thus? Elizabeth. I used you, dirt, To show a man how foul the dirt can be; But now I brush you from him. Henslowe. Madam? They speak privately for a moment, then Henslowe goes out by the small door. Mary [to Shakespeare]. You come to cue! Shakespeare. What has fallen? Mary. Sent away Because of you, because my name is Mary! Shakespeare. Go to my lodging! Wait for me! I’ll follow, For where you go I go. Mary. Ay, bring your wife! This act is over! There are other men! She goes out. Shakespeare. Mary! Love, life, the breath I breathe, come back! Mary, you have not heard me! Mary! Mary Come back! [The door shuts with a clang.] Anne’s Voice. Come back! Elizabeth. Never in any world! Fasten the door there! Shakespeare [struggling to open it]. Open! Open, I say! Elizabeth. Beat, beat your heart out! Let me watch you beat Those servants of your soul until they bleed, Mash, agonise, against a senseless door! Beat, beat your weaker hands than that dead tree, Tear, tear your nails upon its nails in vain. Beat, beat your heart out—you’ll not pass the door! Shakespeare. I am not so bound— Elizabeth. Why, yes, there’s the window! You may cast down and be done with it all—done with it all! I’ll not stop you. Who am I to keep a man from his sweet rest? And yet—what of me, my son, before you do it? What of me and this England that I am? Shakespeare. Madam, I have not slept these five nights. I do not know what you say. Elizabeth. Or care? Shakespeare. Or care, Madam, forgive me! God’s pity, Madam, open the door! Elizabeth. It shall not serve you. Shakespeare. I know it. Elizabeth. She has sold you, man. Shakespeare. I know it. Open the door! Elizabeth. Come here, my son! Why do I hold you here, think you? Shakespeare. Marlowe— Elizabeth. Tell me nothing! I’ll know nothing! Mr. Shakespeare, where is the work I should have from you? Where is the new play? You sold and I bought. Give me my goods! Then go! Shakespeare. A play? You are Queen, Madam, you do not live our lives; so I call you not pure devilish to keep me here for so little a thing. Elizabeth. Yet I will have it from you! There’s paper, pen— I’ll have your roughed-out scene ere Henslowe leaves To-night. And ere the ended month this play, This English laughter, ringing all her bells, Before the pick of Europe at my court Performed, shall link our hands with Italy, With old immortal Athens. This you’ll do, For this you can. Shakespeare [crying out]. I am to live, not write, To love, not write of love, to live my life As others do, to live a summer life As all the others do! Elizabeth. I thought so too When I was young. Then, ’mid my state affairs And droning voices of my ministers, The people’s acclamation and the hiss Of treacheries to England and to me, Ever I heard the momentary clock Ticking away my girlhood as I reigned; While she—while she— Mary of Scotland, Mary of delight, (I know her sweetheart names) Maybird, Mayflower, Shakespeare. Whither? Elizabeth. The alley’s blind. For the cross rules us or we rule the cross, Yet the cross wins in the end. For night is older than the daylight is: The slack string will not quiver for the hand Of cunningest musician. Does the cross care, a chafer on a pin, Whether Barabbas writhe, or very God? All’s one to the dead wood! Dead wood, dead wood, It coffins us in the end. God, you and me And everyone—the dead wood baffles all. And why I care I know not, but I know That I’ll die fighting—and the fight goes on. Yet not uncaptained shall the assault go on Against dead wood fencing the hearts of men. For this I chose you. I am a barren woman. Mary’s child Reigns after me in England. Yet, to-night, I crown my heir. I, England, crown my son. Shakespeare. There was a better man but yesterday— To him the crown! King was he of all song. Elizabeth. He’s king now of the silence after song, When the last bell-note hovers, like a high And starry rocket that dissolves in stars, Lost ere they reach us. He is lord of that For ever. Shakespeare. He—he had the luck; but I, But England was not lucky. Elizabeth. Be assured Had England chosen Marlowe, here to-night England had crowned him, and you in Surrey ditch Had lain where he lies, dead, my dead son, dead. Take you the kingship on you! Shakespeare. A player-king— Elizabeth. As I a player-queen! I play my part Not ill, not ill. Judge me, my English peer, And witness for me, that I play not ill My part! And if by night, unseen, I weep, Scourging my spirit down the track of the years, Hating the name of Mary, as she said; Yet comes and goes my hour, and comes again, My hour, when I bear England in my breast As God Almighty bears His universe, England moves in me, I for England speak, As I speak now. It is not the shut door, But I, but England, holds you prisoner. Shakespeare. But to what service, England, and what end? Elizabeth. I send my ships where never ships have sailed, To break the barriers and make wide the ways For the after world. Send you your ships to the hidden lands of the soul, Shakespeare. What’s the worth of a play? Elizabeth. My ships are not so great And ride not like firm islands of dry land As Philip’s do; yet these my cockle-boats Have used the vast world as a village pound, And fished for treasure above the planets’ bed In the drowned palaces where, water-bleached, Atlantis gleams as gleams the skull-white moon, Rolled in the overwhelming tides of time Hither and down the beaches of the sky. Send out your thoughts as I send out my men, To earn a world for England!—paying first The toll of the pioneer. I do not cheat. Here is the bill—reckon it ere you pay! Shakespeare. Have I not paid? Elizabeth. Nay, hourly, till you die. I tell you, you shall toss upon your bed Crying “Let me sleep!” as men cry “Let me live!” And sleeping you shall still cry “Mary! Mary!” This will not pass. Think not the sun that wakes The birds in England and the daisy-lawns, Draws up the meadow fog like prayer to heaven, And curls the smoke in cottage chimney stacks, Shall once forget to wake you with a warm And kissing breath! The four walls shall repeat The name upon your lips, and in your heart The name, the one name, like a knife shall turn. These are your dawns. I tell you, I who know. Shakespeare. Because you are all woman— Elizabeth. Have you seen it? None other sees. Shakespeare.—and not as you’re the Queen, I’ll let you be the tongue to my own soul, Yet not for long I’ll bear it. Elizabeth. To each his angel For good or ill. Women to a man, the man to a woman ever Shakespeare. Deep as my sorrow lies. But Queen, what cometh after? Elizabeth. Work. Shakespeare. And after? Elizabeth. Sleep comes for me. Shakespeare. And after? Elizabeth. Sleep for you. Shakespeare. And after? Elizabeth. Nothing. Only the blessed sleep. Shakespeare. And so ends all? Elizabeth. And so all ends. Shakespeare. Love ends? Elizabeth. And so love ends. Shakespeare. I have a word to say. Give me this crown and reach the sceptre here! The end’s not yet, but yet the end is mine; For I know what I am and what I do Elizabeth [loudly]. Open the door! Shakespeare. Sesame, sesame! A word to say— The door is flung open and the long passage is seen. O darkness, did she pass between your walls, And left no picture on the empty air, No echo of her step that waits for mine To wake it in a message? What do I here? “A word to say”! There’s nothing left but words. Elizabeth has descended from her throne and crossing the room, pauses a moment beside him. Elizabeth. Is the harness heavy—heavy? Shakespeare. Heavy as lead. Heavy as a heart. Elizabeth. It will not lighten. Shakespeare. Go! [She goes out.] I had a word to say. Oh, spark that burned but now—! Anne’s Voice. It dips, it dies— Shakespeare. A night-light, fool, and not a star. I grope Giddily in the dark. I shall grow old. What is my sum? I have made seven plays, Two poems and some sonnets. I have friends So long as I write poems, sonnets, plays. Earn then your loves, and as you like it—write! Come, what’s your will? Anne’s Voice. Under the apple-trees, In the spring, in the long grass—Will! Shakespeare. Still the old shame Hangs round my neck with withered arms and chokes Endeavour. Anne’s Voice. Will! Shakespeare. At right wing enter ghost! It should be Marlowe with his parted mouth And sweep of arm. Why should he wake for me? That would be friendship, and what a friend was I! Well—to the work! Anne’s Voice. Will! Will! Shakespeare. What, ghost? still there? Must I speak first? That’s manners with the dead; But this haunt lives—at Stratford, by the river. Maggot, come out of my brain! Girl! Echo! Wraith! You’ve had free lodging, like a rat, too long. I need my room. Come, show yourself and go! “Changed?” “But I knew her!”—Say your say and go! You’d a tongue once. Anne’s Voice. You’re to be great— Shakespeare. Stale! Stale! That’s the Queen’s catch-word. Anne’s Voice. But I know, I know, I’m your poor village woman, but I know What you must learn and learn, and shriek to God To spare you learning— Shakespeare. Ay, like wheels that shriek, Carting the grain, their dragged unwilling way Over the stones, uphill, at even, thus, Shrieking, I learn— Anne’s Voice. When harvest comes— Shakespeare. Is come! Sown, sprouted, scythed and garnered— Anne’s Voice. I alone Can give you comfort, for you reap my pain, As I your loss—loss—loss— Shakespeare. Anne, was it thus? Anne’s Voice. No other way— Shakespeare. Such pain? Anne’s Voice. Such pain, such pain! Shakespeare. I did not know. O tortured thing, remember, I did not know—I did not know! Forgive— Anne’s Voice. Forgiving is forgetting—no, come back! I love you. Oh, come back to me, come back! Shakespeare. I cannot. Anne’s Voice. Oh, come back! I love you so. Shakespeare. Be still, poor voice, be still! Anne’s Voice. I love you so. Shakespeare. What is this love? What is this awful spirit and unknown, Anne’s Voice. I know not. All I know, Is that I love you. Shakespeare. But I know, having learned— This I believe because I know, I know, Being in hell, paying the price, alone, Licked in the flame unspeakable and torn By devils, as in the old tales that are true— All true, the fires, the red hot branding irons, The thirst, the laughter, and the filth of shame, All true, O fellow men! all true, all true— Down through the circles, like a mangled rat A hawk lets fall from the far towers of the sky, Down through the wakeful Æons of the night, Into the Pit of misery they call Bottomless, falling—I believe and know That the Pit’s bottom is the lap of God, And God is love. Anne’s Voice. Is love, is love— Shakespeare. I know. And knowing I will live my dark days out And wait for His own evening to give light. Page [entering with lights]. The Queen, sir, Has sent you candles, now the sun is down, That you may see to work. Shakespeare. I thank the Queen. Tell her the work goes well! He sits down at the table. Act one, scene one, Oliver’s house. It shall go well. I have A strength that comes I know not whence. It shall Go well. And then I’ll give the Roman tale I heard at school—a tale of men, not women: That easies all. But Antony goes on To Egypt and a gipsy: leaves his pale wife At home to scald her eyes out. Mary—Mary— Will you not let me be? It shall go well. And after Antony some Twelfth Night trick To please our gods and give my pregnancy Its needed peace. How many months for Denmark? And then? A whole man laughs, and so will I. Oh, Smile behind the thunder, teach me laughter, Anne’s Voice. When her lost face— Shakespeare. It shall, it shall go well. Anne’s Voice.—stares from the page you toil upon, thus, thus, In a glass of tears— Shakespeare. They scald, they blind my view, No comfort anywhere. Anne’s Voice. I love you so. Shakespeare. The work, the work remains. Anne’s Voice. But when you’re old, For work too old, or pity, love or hate, For anything but peace, and in your hand Lies the crowned life victorious at last— Shakespeare. Like the crowned Indian fruit, the voyage home Rots while it gilds, not worth the tasting— Anne’s Voice. Then, Remember me! Then, then, when all your need Shakespeare. God knows—some day? Anne’s Voice. I wait. As he stoops over his work again THE CURTAIN FALLS. January, 1920—April, 1921. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WOODS AND SONS, LTD., LONDON, N.1. Transcriber's Notes: The play is a mix of prose and poetry, switching between the two continuously. The indentation of the poetry section was not included. All poetic lines have been lined up along the left side. |
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