Clemence Dane

“ 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? ”

“ A fine play, your ‘Juliet,’ but—
Shakespeare. Now come the “buts.”
Henslowe. Man, we must live! Can we fill the theatre on love and longing, and high words? Ay, when Marlowe does it to the sound of trumpets. But you—you’re not Marlowe. You know too much. Your gods are too much men and women. Who’ll pay sixpence for a heart-ache? and in advance too! Give us but two more ‘Romeo and Juliet’'s and you may be a great poet, but we close down. Another tragedy? No, no, no, we don’t ask that of you! We want light stuff, easy stuff. Oh, who knows as well as you what’s wanted? It’s a court play, my man! ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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!) ”

“ 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 peasant’s drudge-horse whipped upon its eyes, Or let me as a heart-burst, screaming hare Be wrenched in two by slavering deaths for sport ”

“ Am I less woman, I, That I’d not change with her? For the high way Is flowerless, and thin the mountain air And rends the lungs that breathe it; and the light Spreading from hill to everlasting hill, Welling across the sky as from a wound, A heart of blood between the breasts of the world, Is not much nearer, no, nor half as warm As the kissing sun of the valleys: and we climb (You’ll climb as I do) not because we will, Because we must. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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? ”

“ 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! ”

“ 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. [Pg 15] My wife—you saw! How can I come to London? Say to a sick man “Take your bed and walk!” ”

“ That’s his weapon, Madam! With his laughter he locks the door of his heart against every man.
Elizabeth. And every woman?
Henslowe. They say—no, Madam!
Elizabeth. Then we must find her.
Henslowe [with a glance at Mary Fitton] . They say she is found already. But a court lady—and a player! It’s folly, Madam! Now Marlowe would shrug his shoulder and go elsewhere; but Shakespeare—there is about him in little and great a certain dogged and damnable constancy that wrecks all. If he cannot have the moon for his supper, he will starve, Madam, whatever an old fool says to him. ”

“ 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: [Pg 14] 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 all’s cat-like clamour and annoy!
Henslowe. ”

“ Shakespeare. Have I not paid?
Elizabeth. Nay, hourly, till you die. I tell you, you shall toss upon your bed Crying “Let me sleep!” as men cry “Let me live!” And sleeping you shall still cry “Mary! Mary!” This will not pass. Think not the sun that wakes The birds in England and the daisy-lawns, Draws up the meadow fog like prayer to heaven, And curls the smoke in cottage chimney stacks, Shall once forget to wake you with a warm And kissing breath! ”

“ Across the bridge, sir, as I dreamt it, along the Deptford road.
Shakespeare. Marlowe! The Deptford road! The Deptford road! [He rushes out.]
Boy [showing his money] . Dreaming pays, sir! It’s gold.
Henslowe. Boy, boy! Never trust a man! Never kiss a woman! Work all day and sleep all night! Love yourself and never ask God for the moon! So you may live to be old. This business grows beyond me. I’ll to the Queen. ”

“ She’s new! She’s gallant, like a tall ship setting sail, And boasts she fears no man. Say “woman” though—
Anne. What woman does this woman fear?
Henslowe. The Queen. I’ve 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. I’ve seen her picture. She’s eaten of a worm As I am eaten. I’d not fear the Queen. Her snake would know its fellow in my heart And pass me. But this woman—what’s her name? ”

“ They mean it, all the hoarse-throat, hungry men That sell me lavender, that sell me love.
Shakespeare. I put my wares away. I do not sell.
Mary. O pedlar! I had half a mind to buy.
Shakespeare. Too late.
Mary. Open your pack again! What haste! What—not a trinket left me, not a pin For a poor lady? Does not the offer hold?
Shakespeare. You did not close.
Mary. I will.
Shakespeare. Withdrawn! Withdrawn!
Mary. Renew!
Shakespeare. Too late.
Mary. You know your business best; Yet—what care I?
Shakespeare. Or I? Yet—never again To buy and sell with you!
Mary. Never again. ”

“ 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! She’s ill!
Shakespeare. Anne? ”

“ 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— [Pg 24]
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. ”

“ Oh, you can do it in your sleep! Lovers and lasses, and quarrels and kisses, like the two halves of a sandwich! But court lovers, you know, that talk verse—and between them a green cress of country folk and country song, daffodils and valentines, and brown bowls of ale—season all with a pepper of wit—and there’s your sandwich, there’s your play, as the Queen likes it, as we all like it!
Shakespeare. Ay, as you like it! There’s your title pat! But I’ll not serve you. I’m to live, not write. Tell that to the Queen! [Pg 82] A boy enters whistling and stops as he sees Shakespeare. ”

“ Yet I had heard it—Mary—Mary—Mary!
Marlowe. You heard your own heart pound from riding.
Mary. Again! Open the window! [Marlowe rises and goes to the window.] Do you see anything?
Marlowe. All’s sinister. The moon fled out of the sky Long since, and the black trees of midnight quake. [Pg 92]
Mary. And the wind! What a wind! It tugs at the window-frame Like jealousy, mad to break in and part us. Could you be jealous?
Marlowe. If I were a fool I’d let you guess it.
Mary. Wise, you’re wise, but—jealous? Too many men in the world! ”