Act 2 — Scene III.
Reading edition
In the grounds of St. James’s Palace by moonlight. A marquee in centre of stage with throne. Miss Fitton moves about in garden, L., as if looking for something till Shakespeare enters, L.
Shakespeare:
[Taking both her hands.] At last! at last, I see and hold you, [Holding both her hands to his heart.] and all is well again; the pain is gone.
Miss Fitton:
Pain?
Shakespeare:
Intense pain—the misery of doubt and fear; the agony of disappointment—all vanished now, lost in a sea of pure delight. Ah, what a life ecstatic after death——
Miss Fitton:
Death!
Shakespeare:
[Gravely.] Worse. On Monday you were 67to be at Lady Rutland’s; you had promised; I went; you were not there; I fell into the abysm of despair. Why, my queen, why?
Miss Fitton:
[Smiling and seating herself.] “Affairs of state” would sound well for a queen; but I prefer the truth. [Solemnly.] A three-piled ruff, the newest thing in neckgear, made me forget your coming. You see your queen is very woman. [He kisses her hand and she pushes his head up gently.] One of Eve’s unnumbered daughters.
Shakespeare:
[Kneeling.] The wittiest of all, the most adored, the fairest! Your hand [lifting it in his] is warm ivory, so firm and smooth [looks up at her]—the eyes like wells o’erhung with shadow—and oh, the rubious lips. [Puts up his hand and draws down her head; she bends and kisses him; then rises.]
Miss Fitton:
You must rise; we might be seen: we have only half an hour; be careful; someone might come.
68Shakespeare:
[Rising.] What a fate is mine! I see you but for a moment and then lose you. It is a week since we met and now I may not kiss you. I long for you night and day; my flesh aches for you; I am parched with fever and may not quench my thirst.
Miss Fitton:
Those high fevers have no long continuance; I prefer enduring affection—tenderness——
Shakespeare:
Still the fever and you will find the tenderness. Each time I meet you I have to win you anew, and that exasperates desire; but give yourself freely to me, and I will love you better than you love yourself.
Miss Fitton:
Violent desire soon burns itself out.
Shakespeare:
When I am burnt out and dead—not before. Do not distrust desire, sweet; ’tis the spring of life, the wing that lifts the clay [Takes her in his arms and kisses her. She draws herself free.]
69Shakespeare:
Again you move away.
Miss Fitton:
Men and women love differently, I think. You would kiss and kiss while I draw back half shrinking, half because I would taste this new joy sweet by sweet. There! You make me say too much.
Shakespeare:
Never too much, you great heart! You unveil your soul, and the beauty of it fills me with reverence. [Takes her in his arms.]
Miss Fitton:
You do love me, then? You are sure?
Shakespeare:
Very sure.
Miss Fitton:
You will love me always?
Shakespeare:
Always. I loved you before we met, always, through dateless ages. I never loved before, shall never love again. You were made for me. I love your courage, truth, pride, and most of all I love you when you yield. [They kiss.]
70Miss Fitton:
Ah, love is easy when one can trust. I must tell you something, though I hate to: I’m very jealous.
Shakespeare:
You, jealous!
Miss Fitton:
[Nods her head.] Jane Wroth told us of the dance at the Globe Theatre, and I was angry; that’s why I did not go to Lady Rutland’s to meet you. I was jealous, mad!
Shakespeare:
You had no reason. I was not at the dance. I came past you here and wandered in Chelsea meadows.
Miss Fitton:
In truth? How strange!
Shakespeare:
I have always loved to be alone. In unfrequented woods I used to build myself a world of dreams and hold a court of fancied creatures. But now the dreams have changed to memories; you 71come to me and I recall your words and looks and beauties; kiss your hands and eyes and lips. Oh, my thought-world is paradise with you as goddess-queen.
Miss Fitton:
You must never make me jealous. Heal that at once as you would heal a pain of mine. It makes some women love more, I think; it would kill all love in me. I am too proud to endure its sting.
Shakespeare:
I will never give you cause, sweet, for jealousy, never! I love your pride too well.
Miss Fitton:
[Rising and going to the spinet.] You promised me a song. Did you forget?
Shakespeare:
[Following her.] Could I forget a promise to you! [He puts the roll on the spinet before her.]
Miss Fitton:
I cannot sing it, you know. I have none of women’s little graces.
72Shakespeare:
Being grace itself, you can forego graces. But I have Hughes without, if you will hear him.
Miss Fitton:
Willingly; but he must not stay long. [While Shakespeare goes away, L., she reads the words aloud.] “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.”
[Shakespeare returns with Hughes, who bows to Miss Fitton. Miss Fitton nods negligently, and leaves the spinet, taking a seat, L.C. Shakespeare stands at her side, facing the audience, while Hughes sings.]
Hughes [Sings.)
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain;
No more now, no more now, fond heart, with
pride should we swell,
Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raise
forces enough to rebel.
“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
73Miss Fitton:
[After the first verse.] So you would rebel if you could. Hm. [Nods her head.]
Shakespeare:
Like all rebels in order to taste the sweets of sovereignty.
Hughes [Sings the second verse.]
“For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate,
To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin,
And love those that hate.
I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”
[As Hughes finishes Miss Fitton rises. Hughes, bowing, goes out.]
Miss Fitton:
[Seats herself at the spinet.] Why did you write that—“to make us seek ruin and love those that hate”?
Shakespeare
I fear you don’t love me as I love you; sometimes, even——
74Miss Fitton:
I don’t hate you, or I shouldn’t be here, should I?
[Hums the words, “fever and pain,” playing the tune.]
Shakespeare:
How I envy even the dead things about you; the dress your body warms, the bracelets that clip your wrists; even the jacks that leap to kiss the tender inward of your hand.
Miss Fitton:
[Stops, and holds it to him.] You may kiss it, too.
[He kisses her palm, then draws her to him and kisses her lips. She rises.] But now you must go: they’ll be coming.
Shakespeare:
[Rising.] And when am I to see you again—when? [Watching her face.] To-day? [She shakes her head.] To-morrow? Next day? When? These hours of absence make me hunger for you till I faint. Be pitiful, sweet. The touch of your hand gives me life. When you go, my heart shrinks and lies here aching-cold till I see you again.
75Miss Fitton:
[Listening.] I’m afraid they’ll come in and——
Shakespeare:
[Imploringly.] You have not told me when I may see you again.
Miss Fitton:
To-morrow I’m busy. Thursday? Yes, Thursday, at Lady Rutland’s. She’ll be in waiting here.
[Gives her hand, which Shakespeare holds against his heart.]
Shakespeare:
[Taking out some tables in ivory.] I’ve brought you tables to mark our meetings in. Will you use them?
Miss Fitton:
How pretty, and here’s a posy too in golden letters:
[Reads.]
“Doubt that the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”
That’s because I doubted your sudden-deep affection.
76Shakespeare:
Write down the day we are to meet, will you? now; and all the time between shall die and be a void.
Miss Fitton:
[Archly.] Suppose I said to-night—here?
Shakespeare:
What wine of life you pour! My blood’s aflame and shaken into blinding colours. To-night and night is here! I feel the minutes throbbing past. To-night, my night of nights. O Sweet, make me atone this ecstasy, or—To-night, you Queen of Night—You heart of joy!
Miss Fitton:
I shall be late, you know. It will be midnight——
Shakespeare:
Midnight!
Miss Fitton:
[Listening.] Hush.
Shakespeare:
To-night, at mid of night. Ah, now I know that men are richer than the gods. Midnight!
77Miss Fitton:
Hark! They are coming! Quick! [Shakespeare kisses her hand and hurries up the stage, L. A bevy of girls enter, C., talking, accompanied by gallants and preceded by Lacy.]