Produced by Andrew Sly, Paul Marshall, Al Haines and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Notes: Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_ in the original text. Equals signs "=" before and after a word or phrase indicate =bold= in the original text. Small capitals have been converted to BLOCK capitals. The play is in both prose and poetry. It alternates between the two unpredictably, (sometimes in mid-sentence). _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ _NOVELS_: _REGIMENT OF WOMEN_ _FIRST THE BLADE_ _LEGEND_ _PLAY_: _A BILL OF DIVORCEMENT_ _LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_ WILL SHAKESPEARE AN INVENTION IN FOUR ACTS BY CLEMENCE DANE [Illustration: 1921] LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN â_Thereâs a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will._â SHAKESPEARE. THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAY _As they appear._ ANNE HATHAWAY. WILL SHAKESPEARE. MRS. HATHAWAY. HENSLOWE. A CHILD. PLAYERS. QUEEN ELIZABETH. MARY FITTON. KIT MARLOWE. STAGE HANDS. A BOY. A LANDLORD. A MAN. ANOTHER MAN. A GIRL. A STREET HAWKER. A PAGE. SOLDIERS, ATTENDANTS, ETC. ACT I.--A COTTAGE IN STRATFORD. ACT II.--TEN YEARS LATER-- _Scene 1_. A ROOM IN THE PALACE. _Scene 2_. THREE MONTHS LATER--THE FIRST NIGHT OF âROMEO AND JULIET.â ACT III.-- _Scene 1_. A MONTH LATER--SHAKESPEAREâS LODGING. _Scene 2_. THE SAME NIGHT--A ROOM AT AN INN. ACT IV.--THE NEXT DAY--A STATE ROOM IN THE PALACE. The Play was first acted at the Shaftesbury Theatre, London, on November 17th, 1921, by the Reandean Company, with the following cast:-- WILL SHAKESPEARE Mr. Philip Merivale ANNE Miss Moyna Macgill Mrs. HATHAWAY Miss Mary Rorke HENSLOWE Mr. Arthur Whitby QUEEN ELIZABETH Miss Haidee Wright MARY FITTON Miss Mary Clare KIT MARLOWE Mr. Claude Rains A CHILD ACTOR Master Eric Spear A SECRETARY Mr. Arthur Bawtree A STAGE HAND Mr. Gilbert Ritchie A BOY Master Spear A LANDLORD Mr. Ivor Barnard A LADY-IN-WAITING Miss Joan Maclean _Shadows in Act I._ Ophelia Miss Lennie Pride Desdemona Miss Gladys Jessel Othello Mr. Herbert Young Queen Margaret Miss Flora Robson Prince Arthur Mr. Eric Crosbie Rosalind Miss Phyllis Fabian Shylock Mr. Gilbert Ritchie Clown Mr. Ivor Barnard Hamlet Mr. Neil Curtis Caesar Mr. Arthur Bawtree Cleopatra Miss Mai Ashley King Lear Mr. Fred Morgan { Miss Nora Robinson The Three Fates { Miss Gladys Gray {Miss Beatrice Smith _Strolling Players, Beefeaters, Stage Hands, Drinkers, Court Attendants, etc._ The Production by BASIL DEAN. The Music by THOMAS WOOD. Designs for the Scenery and Dresses by GEORGE HARRIS. ACT I. _The curtain rises on the living room of a sixteenth century cottage. The walls and ceiling are of black beams and white-washed plaster. On the left is a large oven fireplace with logs burning. Beyond it is a door. At the back is another door and a mullioned window half open giving a glimpse of bare garden hedge and winter sky. On the right wall is a staircase running down from the ceiling into the room, a dresser and a light shelf holding a book or two. Under the shelf is a small table piled with papers, ink-stand, sand box and so on. At it sits_ SHAKESPEARE, _his elbows on his papers, his head in his hands, absorbed. He is a boy of twenty but looks older. He is dark and slight. His voice is low, but, he speaks very clearly. Behind him_ ANNE HATHAWAY _moves to and fro from dresser to the central table, laying a meal. She is a slender, pale woman with reddish hair. Her movements are quick and furtive and she has a high sweet voice that shrills too easily._ ANNE [_hesitating, with little pauses between the sentences_]. Supper is ready, Will! Will, did you hear? A farm-bird--Mother brought it. Wonât you come? Sheâs crying in for the basket presently. First primroses! Here, smell! Sweet, arenât they? Bread? Are the snow wreaths gone from the fields? Did you go far? Are you wet? Was it cold? Thereâs 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! Iâm 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. Arenât you a boy to lose All day in the woods? SHAKESPEARE. The town! ANNE. Ah! In the town? Ah then, youâve talked and eaten. Yes, you can talk In the town! _He goes back to his desk._ More writing? Whatâs the dream to-day? _He winces._ Oh, tell me, tell me! SHAKESPEARE. No! ANNE. I want your dreams. SHAKESPEARE. A dreamâs 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, youâre a child that clamours--âLet me taste!â But laugh and let it sip your wine, it cries-- âI like it not. It is not sweet!â--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 isât you mean? What isât? SHAKESPEARE. How long since we two married? ANNE. Why, Four months. SHAKESPEARE. And are you happy? ANNE. Will, arenât 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 Heâs 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 Iâll say âThank God!â 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, Iâve 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! Youâd 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. Thatâs better. _The twang of a lute is heard._ ANNE. The road dances. A VOICE [_singing_]. Come with me to London, Folly, come away! Iâll 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 childâs 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! Iâm 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. Itâs 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. Thatâs why Iâm 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! Iâm 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? Iâve 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. Hereâs an actorâs hand, and a bad one. Youâll lose your words, King oâ Hearts. Your great scenes will break down. SHAKESPEARE. Then Iâll be âprenticed 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. Weâre plain people, sir, and my husband works his farm. HENSLOWE. And sings songs? Iâve 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. _Thereâs_ God Almighty in the wings if you like! But as I say-- Whatever barn we storm, here in the west, Weâre marching to the echo of new songs, Jigged out in taverns, trolled along the street, Loosed under sweetheart windows, whistled and sighed Wherever a farmerâs boy in Loverâs Lane Shifts from the right foot to the left and waits-- âWhere did you hear it?â say I, beating time: And always comes the answer--âStratford way!â 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 thereâs 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. Youâre right, Madonna, the poetical vein runs dry. So Iâll end with a plain question--âIs not Thames broader than Avon?â SHAKESPEARE. Muddier-- HENSLOWE. But a magical water to hasten the moult, to wash white a young swanâs feathers. SHAKESPEARE. Or black, Mephisto! HENSLOWE. Black swans are rarest. I saw one when I was last in London. Londonâs a great city! Madonna, you should send your husband to market in London, and in a twelvemonth heâll 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 itâll 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. Thereâs one came lately to court, but sixteen and a mere knightâs 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! Sheâs ill! SHAKESPEARE. Anne? ANNE. Let me be! SHAKESPEARE. Come to your mother--take my arm-- ANNE. Iâll sit. I have no strength. SHAKESPEARE. Iâll 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. Heâs like a boat that strains, Strains at her moorings. Why did you praise her so? And talk of London? Whatâs it all to you? Tall, is she? Yes, like a tree--a block of wood-- You said so! (Is he coming?) Tell me quick! Iâve never seen a London lady close. Sheâs lovely? So are many! How? HENSLOWE. Sheâs new! Sheâs gallant, like a tall ship setting sail, And boasts she fears no man. Say âwomanâ though-- ANNE. What woman does this woman fear? HENSLOWE. The Queen. Iâve 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. Iâve seen her picture. Sheâs eaten of a worm As I am eaten. Iâd not fear the Queen. Her snake would know its fellow in my heart And pass me. But this woman--whatâs her name? HENSLOWE. Mary-- ANNE. Thatâs âbitter.â 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 wifeâs mad! She says the Queenâs her sister. ANNE. Mad, noble Festus? Not I! But tell him so--heâll kiss you for it. HENSLOWE. Iâll meet you, friend, some other time or place-- SHAKESPEARE. Whatâs this? Youâre leaving us? HENSLOWE. Your wifeâs 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, sheâs wild! Iâll take her. Come! Come, Anne! Itâs 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 allâs cat-like clamour and annoy! HENSLOWE. Cry, âShoo!â 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. Sheâs not thus, But selfless; and Iâve 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 âTake your bed and walk!â Say to a prisoner âRelease your chain!â Say to a tongue-slit blackbird âPipe again As in the free, the spring-time!â 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 colourâs frankincense? And how will a manâs 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? Youâre 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 oâer 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 crowdâs eyes are yours, but not my eyes! Queen! To my piping you shall unawares Strut on my stage for me! You laugh? I swear Iâll make that thrice-wrapped, politic, vain heart My horn-book (as you all are) whence Iâll learn How Julius frowned, and Elinor rode her way Rough-shod, and Egypt met ill-news. Iâll do it, Though I hold horses in the streets for hire, Once I am come to London. HENSLOWE. Come with us And thereâs no holding horses! Part and pay Are ready, and we start to-night. SHAKESPEARE. I cannot. Iâm Whittington at cross-roads, but the bells Ring âTurn again to Stratford!â not to London. HENSLOWE. Well--as you choose! SHAKESPEARE. As I choose? _I! I_ choose? Iâm 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--âLove me, love me!â as a ring-dove sighs, (How white a woman is, under the moon!) She was scarce human. Yet he took her home, And now sheâs 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 manhoodâs sake, so bound, so bound. HENSLOWE. Laugh? Weep? No, Iâd 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, itâs common! Or too light, too low, Not once in a golden age loveâs scale trims level. SHAKESPEARE. I read of lovers once in Italy-- HENSLOWE. Youâll 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--thereâd have been such a see-saw in six months as-- SHAKESPEARE. As what? HENSLOWE. As there has been, eh? âSee-saw! Margery Daw! She sold her bed to lie upon straw.â 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 âDreamâ in your pocket, and teach it to us and learn of us while you teach, and strike London in time for the Queenâs birthday--I tell you and I tell her, Jackâs 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 menâs voices and the ring of iron on the London road! [_Calling_] Anne! ANNE [_entering_]. You called? Heâs gone? Youâre angry? Oh, not now, No anger now; for, Will, to-night in the sky, Our sky, a new star shines. SHAKESPEARE. Whatâs 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--theyâve read the play, And the Queenâs asked for me! London, Anne! London! Iâll 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, Thatâs 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? Iâll help you, oh, be sure! Too glad to see you glad. SHAKESPEARE. Anne, itâs good-bye To Stratford till the gameâs won. ANNE. What care I So you are satisfied? The farm must go-- Thatâs little-- SHAKESPEARE. Must it go? ANNE. Dreamer, how else Shall we two live in London? SHAKESPEARE. _We_, do you say? Theyâd have me travel with them--a rough life-- ANNE. I care not! SHAKESPEARE. --and youâre ailing. ANNE. Better soon. SHAKESPEARE. Youâll miss your mother. ANNE. Mothers everywhere Will help a girl. Iâm strong. SHAKESPEARE. It will not do! I have my world to learn, and learn alone. I will not dangle at your apron-strings. ANNE. Iâll be no tie. Iâll 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! Iâll not lean on you Because youâre seven years wiser. ANNE. That too, O God! SHAKESPEARE. And if I hurt you--for I know I do, Iâm 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 thereâs 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 Youâd 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. Thatâs 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 youâll leave us, why, go then! But sure, you will not go. SHAKESPEARE. Summer? Why summer? It should be spring, not summer-- ANNE. Iâll not bear These questions, like coarse fingers, prying out My secrets. SHAKESPEARE. Secrets? ANNE. Secrets? I? Iâve none-- I never meant--I know not why the word Came to me, âsecret.â Yet youâre all secret thoughts And plans you do not share. Why should not I Be secret, if I choose? But see, Iâll 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 womanâs talk Is not for you-- SHAKESPEARE. July? ANNE. Oh, I must laugh Because you look and look--donât look at me! June! May! I swear itâs 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. Donât 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 couldnât 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. âWare 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 dayâs 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 âDear Anne!â 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. Youâre mad! Youâre 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--âThis is my wife!â 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--âMother! your mother!â 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 godâs 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? Youâre to be great, God pity you! Iâm 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, âHe knew, he knew!â How will they listen to you--voice that cries âRightâs right! Wrongâs wrong! For every sin a stone! âYe shall not plead to any god or man-- ââI flinched because the pain was very great,â ââI fell because the burden bore me down,â ââHungry, I stole.ââ 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--âHere are lies!â SHAKESPEARE. Subtle enough--and glitter may be gold In womenâs eyes--you say so--though to a man, Boy rather (boy, you called me) lies are lies, Base money, though you rub âem till they shine, Ill money to buy love with; but--I care not! So be at ease! My loveâs 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, foolâs 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? Allâs in a word--your ever-presence here As if youâd 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--itâs 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 allâs said? You will not leave me now, now when that lie Is certain truth at last, and in me sleeps Like Godâs 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, itâs 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 Motherâs 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 peasantâs drudge-horse whipped upon its eyes, Or let me as a heart-burst, screaming hare Be wrenched in two by slavering deaths for sport; But let me not again be cursed a woman Surrendered to the mercy of her man! _She sinks down in a crouching heap by the hearth. There has been a sound of many voices drawing nearer, and as she ceases speaking, the words of a song become clear._ THE PLAYERS [_singing_]. Come with us to London, Folly, come away! Weâll make your fortune On a summer day. Leave your sloes and mulberries! There are riper fruits than these, In London, in London, Oh, London Town! For winds will blow And barley grow Without you, without you, And the world get on without you-- Oh, London Town! _The voices drop to a low hum_. HENSLOWE _thrusts his head in at the window._ HENSLOWE. The sunâs down. The skyâs as yellow as a London fog. Well, whatâs it to be? SHAKESPEARE. London! The future in a golden fog! HENSLOWE. Come then! SHAKESPEARE. Iâll fetch my bundle. Wait for me! What voices? HENSLOWE. The rest of us, the people of the plays. Weâre all here waiting for you. SHAKESPEARE. Come in, all! all! HENSLOWE. Does your wife say to us--âCome in!â? 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. Itâs 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 moonâs up and reaping in a sky Like corn--thatâs frost! A bitter travelling night Before us-- ANNE [_going to the window_]. So it is. HENSLOWE. Not through the glass! Youâll 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. Iâm 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 youâll let âem 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! Heâll come to you soon enough. _She turns from them and seats herself by the fire._ A PLAYER [_dressed as a king, over_ HENSLOWEâS _shoulder_]. Are we never to come in? Itâs as cold as charity since the sun set. ANNE. Itâs no warmer here. A CHILD [_poking his head under the_ PLAYERâS _arm_]. I canât 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. Godâs 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! Itâs a strange hearth. You players are the first It ever warmed or welcomed. Charity? Who said it--âCold as charityâ? Thatâs love! But thereâs no love here. Baby, stay away! Youâll freeze less out in churchyard night than here, For hereâs not even charity. THE CHILD [_warming his hands_]. Iâm not a baby. Iâm nearly eleven. Iâve played childrenâs parts for years. Iâm getting warmer. Are you? ANNE. No. CHILD. I like this house. Iâd like to stay here. I suppose there are things in that cupboard? THE KING [_overhearing_]. Now, now! CHILD. Thatâs my father. Heâs a king this week. Heâs 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 donât love you. ANNE. For luck, then. CHILD. You told him youâd got no luck. ANNE. Wonât you give me a kiss? CHILD. If you like. Donât hold me so tight. Is it true youâve no luck? Shall I tell your fortune? ANNE. Can you? CHILD. O yes! Iâve watched the Fates do it in the new play. Itâs Orpheus and--itâs a long name. But sheâs his lost wife. Give me a handkerchief! Thatâs for a grey veil. [_Posing._] Now say to me--âWho are you?â ANNE. Who are you? CHILD [_posing_]. Fate! Now you must say--âWhose fate?â 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. Thatâs right! Thatâs the way she cries in the play. You see the man goes down to hell to find his wife, and the Fates show her whatâs going to happen while sheâs waiting for him. Sheâs in hell already, waiting and waiting. It takes years to travel through hell. Thatâs her talking to the old man in rags and a crown. ANNE. Whoâs he? CHILD. Oh, heâs a poor old king whose daughters beat him. He isnât 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. Iâm the little god of love. I wear a crown of roses and wings. They do tickle. Soon Iâll be too big. So he and I go to the three Fates to get back his wife. She isnât pretty in that act. Sheâs 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. Iâm glad heâs coming with us. Are you coming with us? ANNE. No. CHILD. Itâs a pity. If you were a man you could act in the company. But women canât act. Even Orpheusâ wife is a boy really. So are the three Fates. Theyâre 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 roomâs so full. Iâm frightened. Who are all these people? CHILD. Hush! Weâre in hell. These are all the dead people. We bring âem to life. ANNE. Who? We? CHILD. I and the singer. Look, thereâs your husband coming down the stairs! Thatâs just the way Orpheus comes down into hell. ANNE. Will! Will! CHILD. Hush! You mustnât talk. ANNE. But itâs all dreams--itâs all dreams. CHILD. Itâs 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, Iâve forgotten my own story. Itâs a very sad one. Remember for me! SHAKESPEARE. I will remember. Let me pass! A TROJAN WOMAN [_kissing him_]. Hereâs 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. Iâll 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. Iâll tell all time that story. THE ROMAN. The stars are dark, seen close. SHAKESPEARE. Iâll say it. THE ROMAN. Pass! AN EGYPTIAN [_holding a goblet_]. He shall not pass. Drink! There are
{'title': 'Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts by Clemence Dane', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}