Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts. Clemence Dane

The curtain rises on the living room of a sixteenth century cottage. The walls and ceiling are of black beams and white-washed plaster. On the left is a large oven fireplace with logs burning. Beyond it is a door. At the back is another door and a mullioned window half open giving a glimpse of bare garden hedge and winter sky. On the right wall is a staircase running down from the ceiling into the room, a dresser and a light shelf holding a book or two. Under the shelf is a small table piled with papers, ink-stand, sand box and so on. At it sits Shakespeare, his elbows on his papers, his head in his hands, absorbed. He is a boy of twenty but looks older. He is dark and slight. His voice is low, but, he speaks very clearly. Behind him Anne Hathaway moves to and fro from dresser to the central table, laying a meal. She is a slender, pale woman with reddish hair. Her movements are quick and furtive and she has a high sweet voice that shrills too easily.

Anne [hesitating, with little pauses between the sentences]. Supper is ready, Will! Will, did you hear? A farm-bird—Mother brought it. Won’t you come? She’s crying in for the basket presently. First primroses! Here, smell! Sweet, aren’t they? Bread? Are the snow wreaths gone from the fields? Did you go far? Are you wet? Was it cold? There’s black frost in the air, My mother says, and spring hangs dead on the boughs— Oh, you might answer when I speak to you! Shakespeare gets up quickly. Where are you going?

Shakespeare. Out!

Anne. Where?

Shakespeare. Anywhere—

Anne. —away from me! Yes! Say it!

Shakespeare [under his breath]. Patience! Patience!

Anne. Come back! Come back! I’m sorry. Oh, come back! I talk too much. I crossed you. You must eat. Oh! Oh! I meant no harm—I meant no harm I— You know?

Shakespeare. I know.

Anne. Why then, come back and eat, And talk to me. Aren’t you a boy to lose All day in the woods?

Shakespeare. The town!

Anne. Ah! In the town? Ah then, you’ve talked and eaten. Yes, you can talk In the town! He goes back to his desk. More writing? What’s the dream to-day? He winces. Oh, tell me, tell me!

Shakespeare. No!

Anne. I want your dreams.

Shakespeare. A dream’s a bubble, Anne, and yet a world, Unsailed, uncharted, mine. But stretch your hand To touch it—gone! And you have wet your fingers, Whilst I, like Alexander, want my world— And so I scold my wife.

Anne. Oh, let me sail Your world with you.

Shakespeare. One day, when all is mapped On paper—

Anne. Now!

Shakespeare. Not yet.

Anne. Now, now!

Shakespeare. I cannot!

Anne. Because you will not. Ever you shut me out.

Shakespeare. How many are there in the listening room?

Anne. We two.

Shakespeare. We three.

Anne. Will!

Shakespeare. Are there not three? Yet swift, Because it is too soon, you shrink from me, Guarding your mystery still; so must I guard My dreams from any touch till they are born.

Anne. What! Do you make our bond our barrier now?

Shakespeare. See, you’re a child that clamours—“Let me taste!” But laugh and let it sip your wine, it cries— “I like it not. It is not sweet!”—and blames you. See! even when I give you cannot take.

Anne. Try me!

Shakespeare. Too late.

Anne. I will not think I know What cruelty you mean. What is’t you mean? What is’t?

Shakespeare. How long since we two married?

Anne. Why, Four months.

Shakespeare. And are you happy?

Anne. Will, aren’t you?

Shakespeare. I asked my wife.

Anne. I am! I am! I am! Oh, how can I be happy when I read Your eyes, and read—what is it that I read?

Shakespeare. God knows!

Anne. Yes, God He knows, but He’s so far away— Tell Anne!

Shakespeare. Touch not these cellar thoughts, half worm, half weed: Give them no light, no air: be warned in time: Break not the seal nor roll away the stone, Lest the blind evil writhe itself heart-high And its breath stale us!

Anne. Oh, what evil?

Shakespeare. Know you not? Why then I’ll say “Thank God!” and never tell you— And yet I think you know?

Anne. Am I your wife, Wiser than your own mother in your ways (For she was wise for many, I’ve but you) Ways in my heart stored, and with them the unborn I feed, that he may grow a second you— Am I your wife, so close to you all day, So close to you all night, that oft I lie Counting your heart-beats—do I watch you stir And cry out suddenly and clench your hand Till the bone shows white, and then you sigh and turn, And sometimes smile, but never ope your eyes, Nor know me with a seeking touch of hands That bids me share the dream—am I your wife, Can I be woman and your very wife And know not you are burdened? You lock me out, Yet at the door I wait, wringing my hands To help you.

Shakespeare. You could help me; but—I know you! You’d help me, in your way, to go—your way!

Anne. The right way.

Shakespeare. Said I not, sweetheart—your way? So—leave it! He begins to write. Anne goes to the window and leans against it looking out.

Anne [softly]. Give me words! God, give me words.

Shakespeare. Sweetheart, you stay the light.

Anne. The pane is cool. She moves to one side. Can you see now?

Shakespeare. That’s better.

The

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