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Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts. Clemence Dane
The road dances.
A Voice [singing]. Come with me to London, Folly, come away! I’ll make your fortune On a fine day—
Anne. A stranger with my mother at the gate!
She opens the door to Mrs. Hathaway, who enters.
The Voice [nearer]. Daisy leave and buttercup! Pick your gold and silver up, In London, in London, Oh, London Town!
Anne. What have you brought us, Mother, unawares?
Mrs. Hathaway. Why, I met the man in the lane and he asked his way here. He wants Will.
Anne. Does he, and does he?
Shakespeare [at the window]. One of the players. In the town I met him And had some talk, and told him of my play.
Anne. You told a stranger and a player? But I— I am not told!
The Voice [close at hand]. For sheep can feed And robins breed Without you, without you, And the world get on without you— Oh, London Town!
Shakespeare goes to the door.
Anne [stopping him]. What brings him here?
Shakespeare. I bring him! To my own house. [He goes out.]
Mrs. Hathaway. Trouble?
Anne. Why no! No trouble! I am not beaten, starved, nor put on the street.
Mrs. Hathaway. Be wise, be wise, for the child’s sake, be wiser!
Anne. What shall I do? Out of your fifty years, What shall I do to hold him?
Mrs. Hathaway. A low voice And a light heart is best—and not to judge.
Anne. Light, Mother, light? Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother! I’m battling on the crumble-edge of loss Against a seaward wind, that drives his ship To fortunate isles, but carries me cliff over, Clutching at flint and thistle-hold, to braise me Upon the barren benches he has left For ever.
Shakespeare and the player, Henslowe, come in talking.
Mrs. Hathaway [at the inner door]. Come, find my basket for me. Let them be!
Anne. Look at him, how his face lights up!
Mrs. Hathaway. Come now, And leave them to it!
Anne. I dare not, Mother, I dare not.
Mrs. Hathaway. It’s not the way—a little trust—
Anne. I dare not. Mrs. Hathaway goes out at the door by the fire.
Henslowe [in talk. He is a stout, good-humoured, elderly man, with bright eyes and a dancing step. He wears ear-rings, is dressed shabby-handsome, and is splashed with mud. A lute is slung at his shoulder]. Played? It shall be played. That’s why I’m here.
Anne [behind them]. Will!
Shakespeare [turning]. This is my wife.
Anne [curtseys. Then, half aside]. Who is the man? Where from? What is his name?
Henslowe [overhearing]. Proteus, Madonna! A poor son of the god.
Shakespeare laughs.
Anne. A foreigner?
Henslowe. Why, yes and no! I’m from Spain at the moment—I have castles there; but my bed-sitting room (a green room, Madonna) is in Blackfriars. As to my means, for I see your eye on my travel stains, I have a bank account, also in Spain, a box-office, and the best of references. The world and his wife employ me, the Queen comes to see me, and all the men of genius run to be my servants. But as to who I am—O Madonna, who am I not? I’ve played every card in the pack, beginning as the least in the company, the mere unit, the innocent ace, running up my number with each change of hand to Jack, Queen, King, and so to myself again, the same mere One, but grown to my hopes. For Queen may blow kisses, King of Hearts command all hands at court, but Ace in his shirt-sleeves is manager and trumps them off the board at will. You may learn from this Ace; for I think, sir, you will end as he does, the master of your suit.
Anne. A fortune-teller too!
Henslowe. Will you cross my palm with a sixpence, Madonna?
Anne. With nothing.
Henslowe. Beware lest I tell you for nothing that you—fear your fortune!
Shakespeare [spreading his hand]. Is mine worth fearing?
Henslowe. Here’s an actor’s hand, and a bad one. You’ll lose your words, King o’ Hearts. Your great scenes will break down.
Shakespeare. Then I’ll be ’prenticed direct to the Ace.
Henslowe. Too fast. You must come to cues like the rest of us, and play out your part, before you can be God Almighty in the wings—as God himself found out when the world was youngish.
Anne. We’re plain people, sir, and my husband works his farm.
Henslowe. And sings songs? I’ve been trying out a new play in the provinces before we risk London and Gloriana—
Anne. What! the Queen! the Queen?
Henslowe. Oh, she keeps her eye on poor players as well as on Burleigh and the fleet. There’s God Almighty in the wings if you like! But as I say—
Whatever barn we storm, here in the west, We’re marching to the echo of new songs, Jigged out in taverns, trolled along the street, Loosed under sweetheart windows, whistled and sighed Wherever a farmer’s boy in Lover’s Lane Shifts from the right foot to the left and waits— “Where did you hear it?” say I, beating time: And always comes the answer—“Stratford way!” A green parish, Stratford!
Shakespeare. Too flat, though I love it. Give me hills to climb!
Henslowe. Flat? You should see Norfolk, where I was a boy. From sky to sky there’s no break in the levels but shock-head willows and reed tussocks where a singing bird may nest. But in which? Oh, for that you must sit unstirring in your boat, between still water and still sky, while the drips run off your blade until, a yard away, uprises the song. Then, flash! part the rushes—the nest is bare and the bird your own! Oh, I know the ways of the water birds! And so, hearing of a cygnet on the banks of Avon—
Anne. Ah!
Henslowe. You’re right, Madonna, the poetical vein runs dry. So I’ll end with a plain question—“Is not Thames broader than Avon?”
Shakespeare. Muddier—
Henslowe. But a magical water to hasten the moult, to wash white a young swan’s feathers.
Shakespeare. Or black, Mephisto!
Henslowe. Black swans are rarest. I saw one when I was last in London. London’s a great city! Madonna, you should send your husband to market in London, and in a twelvemonth he’ll bring you home the world in his pocket as it might be a russet apple.
Anne. What should we do with the world, sir, here in Stratford?
Henslowe. Why, seed it and sow it, and plant it in your garden, and it’ll grow into the tree of knowledge.
Anne [turning away]. My garden is planted already.
Henslowe [in a low voice], The black swan seeks a mate, black swan.
Shakespeare. A woman?
Anne [turning sharply]. What did he say to you?
Henslowe. Why, that a woman can make her fortune in London as well as a man. There’s one came lately to court, but sixteen and a mere knight’s daughter, without a penny piece, and you should see her now! The men at her feet—
Anne. And the women—?
Henslowe. Under her heel.
Anne. What does the Queen say?
Henslowe. Winks and lets her be, A fashion