Clemence Dane

“ That I was a brute to Louise, I suppose?"
Alwynne looked at her wistfully.
"Clare, I do love you so."
Clare stiffened.
"Then I warn you—stop! I'm not good for you. I hurt people who love me. You always pestered me about hurting Louise. You needn't protest. You always did. And now you lay her death at my door. I see it in your face. Can't I read you like a book? Can't I? Can't I?" Her face was distorted by the conflict within her.
Alwynne's simplicity was convinced. Here, she felt, was tragedy. Awe and pity tore at her sense of reality. Love loosened her tongue. ”

“ Shakespeare. I cannot. I’m Whittington at cross-roads, but the bells Ring “Turn again to Stratford!” not to London.
Henslowe. Well—as you choose!
Shakespeare. As I choose? I! I choose? I’m 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—“Love me, love me!” as a ring-dove sighs, (How white a woman is, under the moon!) ”

“ Alwynne's utter unrealisation of the fact that a trial of strength was in progress, was disconcerting: yet Clare, jaded and super-subtle, found her innocence endearing. Without relaxing in her purpose, she yet caught herself wondering if an ally were not better than a slave. But the desire for domination was never entirely shaken off, and Alwynne's free bearing was in itself an ever-present challenge. Clare loved her for it, but her pride was in arms. It was her misfortune not to realise that, for all her Olympian poses, she had come to love Alwynne deeply and enduringly. ”

“ Marlowe. If you must know! He has not seen her these ten years. She sent for him the night of ‘Juliet.’
Mary. Why now all’s plain. So she’s the canker that hath drooped our rose! If I had loved him—I do not love him, Marlowe— This would have fanned a flame. Well, we’re all cheats! But now I cheat with better conscience. Married! Lord, I could laugh! He must not know I know it.
Marlowe. I shan’t boast I told you. O Mary, when I first came to you, it was he sent me. He came like a child and asked me to see you, to say what good of him I could,
Because I was his friend. ”

“ With the return to realisation of place and time, her mood was changing. She was no longer of the wood, but in it merely; wandering in the dark heart of it, no dryad returned and welcome, but a stranger, one Alwynne Durand, in thin shoes and an unsuitable dress, with the wood's flowers, not her own, in her hands. Stolen flowers—their weight was suddenly a burden to her. She felt guilty, and had an odd, sudden wish to put them down tenderly at the foot of a tree, hide them with grasses and run for her life. ”

“ Mary. Rouse! Rouse yourself! What now?
Anne’s Voice. Remember—
Shakespeare. Hark! A sigh!
Mary. The wind Keening the night—
Shakespeare. A sound of weeping—
Mary. Rain. Is this a time for visions? White-cheeked day Stares through the pane. Each minute is an eye Opening upon us. What shall we do now?
Shakespeare. Weep, clamorous harlot! We have given him death, And shall we dock his rights of death, his peace Upon his bed, his sun of hair smoothed, hands Crossed decently by me, his friend? Close you His eyes with kisses, lest I kill you too! Give him his due, I say! ”

“ Clare went to the window and watched the sky. The pane of glass was grateful to her hot forehead. She was too tired, too bruised and shaken by her own recent anger to arrange her thoughts, to pose for the moment, even to herself—of all audiences the most critical. The interview with Elsbeth Loveday rehearsed itself incessantly, pricking, probing, bludgeoning, in crescendo of intonation, innuendo, open attack, to the final triumphant insult. Triumphant, because true. The insult could cut through her defences and strike at her very self, because it was true. ”

“ What is this dire And holy ghost that will not let us two For no prayers’ sake nor good deeds’ sake nor pain Nor pity, have peace, and live at ease, and die As the leaves die?
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! ”

“ Outside, the snow fell steadily.
Half-a-mile away Alwynne Durand, drumming on the window-pane, while her aunt dozed in her chair, thought incessantly of Clare, and was filled with restless longing to be with her. She tried to count the snowflakes till her brain reeled. She felt cold and dreary, but she would not rouse Elsbeth by making up the fire. She wished she had something new to read. She thought it the longest Christmas Day she had ever spent.
The neat maid, bringing in the tea-tray, roused Clare. She pushed aside her work and began to pour out; but Louise in her corner, made no sign. ”

“ Shuddering we close the book, and pray to God that Childe Roland's journey may never be ours; that for our adventurous souls, knight-erranting through this queer life, there may never come a choice of ways, a turning from the pleasant high-road, to go upon a hideous journey; till, crossing the Plains of Loneliness, Fear and Sorrow, we face the Hills of Madness, and enter the Dark Tower of that Despair which is our soul's death. With capital letters galore! What a sentence! Here, shut up, you spit-fire!" Louise had wrenched herself free and flung herself upon Agatha, in a white heat of anger. ”

“ Call up the clouds to carry you who walk Sky-high, star-level, eyeing the naked sun. Where are your wings? Beat, beat your heart out! Beat! Where is your strength? Will not the wood be moved? Cannot your love-call reach her, you who know The heart of the lark and how the warm throat thrills At mating-time? Is there a living thing You do not dwell in, cannot stir, and yet You cannot move this 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 Alwynne, trying to appear amused, wondered why Christmas was so different from what it used to be and wished heartily that Elsbeth would not try to be skittish. It didn't suit her—made her seem undignified. Each, longing for the old days, when the other had conjured up so easily the true spirit of the festival, tried her affectionate best to do so still; each, failing inevitably, inevitably blamed the other. Neither realised, that Dan Christmas is the god of very little children, and that where they are not, he, too, does not linger. ”

“ And oh, the cry of children when they play! You shall put grief in irons and lock it up, And at the door set laughter for a guard, Yet dance through life on knives and never rest, While England knows you for a lucky man. These are your days. I tell you, I, a queen, Ruling myself and half a world. I know What fate is laid upon you. Carry it! Or, if you choose, flinch, weaken, and fall down, Lie flat and howl, and let the ones that love you (Not burdened less) half carry it and you! Will you do that? Proud man, will you do that?
Shakespeare. Because you are all woman—
Elizabeth. ”

“ Clare waited.
Agatha twisted her hands uneasily. The schoolgirl shyness that is physical misery was upon her.
"I—don't want to, Miss Hartill. I can't. It's not fair to have one's stuff—to be laughed at—to be——" she subsided just in time.
The class sat, breathless, all eyes on Clare.
And Clare waited; waited till defiance faded to unease—unease to helplessness, till the girl, overborne by the utter silence, gave way, and dropping her eyes to her exercise, fluttering its pages in angry embarrassment, finally, with a giggle of pure nervousness, embarked on the opening sentence. ”

“ And many a year the wilding flowers shall blaze Under a lonely sun, and fruited sweets Shall drop and rot, and feed the roots that feed, And bud again and ripen: long and long Silent the watchman-lark in heaven shall hang High over Eden, e’er they come again Those two, whose blood is our blood, and their love Our love, our own, that no god gave us, ours, The venture ours, the glory ours, the shame A price worth paying, then, now, ever—
Shakespeare. Eve, Eve, Eve, the snake has been with you! You draw, You drink my soul as I your body—
Mary. Kiss! ”

“ But to see Alwynne swaying, however unconsciously, minds of a finer type, would not have been easy for Clare. She had grown very fond of Alwynne; but the sentiment was proprietary; she could derive no pleasure from her that was not personal, and, in its most literal sense, selfish. She was unmaternal to the core. She could not see human property admired by others with any sensation but that of a double jealousy; she was subtly angered that Alwynne could attract, yet was caught herself in the net of those attractions, and unable to endure to watch them spread for any but herself. ”

“ Shakespeare. Mary! Mary!
Mary. I cannot ride this hurricane. I spin Like a leaf in the air. Die down and let me lie Close to the earth I am! O stir me not With rosy breathings from the south, the south Of sun and wine and peaks that flame to God Suddenly in the dark! O wind, let be And drive me not; for speech lies on my lips Like a strange finger hushing back my soul With words not mine, and thoughts not mine arise Like marsh-flame dancing! ”

“ The Naboth mood is a dangerous one. Fierce emotions, unable to disperse themselves in speech, can turn in again upon the mind that bred them, to work strange havoc. The affair of the attic, outwardly so trivial, shook the child's nature to its foundation. Though one's house be built of cards, it is none the less bedazing to have it knocked about one's ears. To Louise, the loss of her holy place, but yet more the manner of its loss, was catastrophic. Her nerves, frayed and strained by weeks of overwork and excitement, snapped under the shock. ”

“ 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 [Pg 25] 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. ”

“ This, Alwynne supposed, was Alicia. She liked her, liked her fat kind face, her comfortable rotundity, and her sweet voice. She liked her cool disregard of her own comical appearance, wedged in among portmanteaux and Alwynne and a basket of market produce, with an old sun-hat tied bonnet-fashion to shade her eyes, and her scarf ends fluttering madly, as she thwacked and tugged at the iron-mouthed pony.
She was more than middle-aged, a woman of flopping draperies and haphazard hookings, and scatter-brained grey locks, that had been a fringe in the days of fringes. ”

“ 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. ”

“ At once, indifferently, she left the buttercups to Nicholas Nye and hurried on and into the wood.
There were hyacinths everywhere, hyacinths by the million. It was as if the winds had torn her robes from the faint, spring sky, and had flung them to earth, and she now bent above them naked and shivering.
Alwynne wandered from patch to patch in an ecstasy of delight. As usual, her pleasure shaped itself into exclamations, phrases, whole sentences of the letters she would write [280] to Clare Hartill of her experiences. ”

“ Shakespeare! The Queen—the Queen has asked for you, And sent her woman twice. Will Shakespeare! Will!
Shakespeare. At midnight then.
Mrs. Hathaway goes out.
Voice. Will Shakespeare!
Shakespeare. Coming! Coming!
Mary [in the doorway, followed by Marlowe] . Is Shakespeare—?
Shakespeare. Oh, not now, not now, not now!
Mary. Are you mad to keep her waiting? She has favours up her sleeve. You are to write her a play for the summer revels. Quick now, ere the last act begins! Off with you! [Shakespeare goes out.] Look how he drags away! What’s come to the man to fling aside his luck? ”

“ I don't know why I'm even talking to you like this. It's ridiculous. Of course, there can never be any one but Clare."
"Yes, it is ridiculous," he said impatiently.
She faced him angrily.
"Yes, very ridiculous, isn't it? Not to leave a person in the lurch—a person whom you love dearly, and who loves you. You can laugh. It's easy to laugh at women being friends. Men always do. They think it funny, to pretend women are always catty, and spiteful, and disloyal to each other."
"I've never said so or thought so," said Roger.
"You have! You do! Look at the way you've talked about Clare. ”

“ Fool, so to long for fruit! Now the fruit’s ripe. The tree in spring was fairest, when it flowered, And every petal held a drink of dew. The bloom went long ago. Well, the fruit’s here! Hark! The applause breaks out again. It goes well. Eat up your apple, man! This is the hour, the hour! I’m the same man— No better for it. When Marlowe praised me so He meant it—meant it. I thought he laughed at me In his sleeve. Will Shakespeare! Romeo and Juliet! ”

“ Clare, unconscious, had taught Clare, conscious, that there must be effort—constant, straining effort at cultivation of all her alluring qualities, at concealment of all in her that could repulse—effort that all appearances of complete success must never allow her to relax. She knew well the evanescent character of a schoolgirl's affection; so well that when her pupils left the school she seldom tried to retain her hold upon them. ”

“ Must I lie still for ever at his side Because you will not rouse yourself?
Shakespeare. Who speaks? O vanished dew, O summer sweetness gone, O perfume staled in a night, that yesterday Was fresh as morning roses—do you live? Are you still Mary? O my shining lamp [Pg 97] Of love put out, how dark the world has grown! Did you want him so? Did it come on you suddenly, And shake you from your north—
Mary. The dawn! the dawn!
Shakespeare. Or did you never love me—where do you point?
Mary. To save ourselves comes first!
Shakespeare. To answer me!
Mary. Fool! Fool! Will you hang? ”