Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts. Clemence Dane
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 My secrets.
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 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 “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 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? You’re to be great, God pity you! I’m 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, “He knew, he knew!” How will they listen to you—voice that cries “Right’s right! Wrong’s wrong! For every sin a stone! “Ye shall not plead to any god or man— “ ‘I flinched because the pain was very great,’ “ ‘I fell because the burden bore me down,’ “ ‘Hungry, I stole.’ ” 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—“Here are lies!”
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 I thought you honest and so bore much from you— Your jealous-glancing eye, officious hand Meddling my papers, fool’s 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? 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!