Act 4 — Scene II.
Reading edition
[Some one knocks at door, C.; Miss Fitton enters dressed in a man’s cloak and hat.]
Miss Fitton:
Am I late?
140Shakespeare:
Late! I have been here for hours, walking up and down like a beast in a cage, listening for the step that never comes. When Hope has died and the ashes are cold, you come.
Miss Fitton:
Perhaps I should not have come: would that have been better?
Shakespeare:
I don’t know: I am worn out with waiting.
Miss Fitton:
[Half turning to door.] I can go.
Shakespeare:
You fiend! [Goes to her and takes her head in his hands, holds it back, and kisses her on the lips again and again.] Kiss me! Put your arms round me. Ah! [Takes a long breath.] What a wretch you are! I was afraid you had forgotten altogether and would not come!
Miss Fitton:
It was hard to come. [Throws open her cloak, shows her dress.] See, I was on duty. Jane Wroth was ill: I had to take her place: as soon 141as I was free I threw on this cloak and hat and came. I didn’t wait even to tire myself: [Pats her hair.] I must be hideous.
Shakespeare:
You were to have come on Monday and didn’t come: for hours I walked to and fro outside the Court—madness and I—a pretty pair—you would do well to fear us. But now—take off that hat and cloak.
Miss Fitton:
[Takes off the hat; takes up a hand-glass and looks at herself; lays it down.] I must be gone soon.
Shakespeare:
What? You are but come, and already speak of going. Come, then.
[Puts his arm around her and draws her towards the inner door, that, when open, shows a bedroom.]
Miss Fitton:
No, no; time fleets. I must go soon: it is impossible. Let us talk here.
142Shakespeare:
You are the bellows and the fan to my desire: yet as soon as you see the flame, you shrink and leave me.
Miss Fitton:
[Regarding him curiously.] It is hard to please you now.
Shakespeare:
You don’t try often—nor long.
Miss Fitton:
[Shrugs her shoulders.] You make it hard for me to come again.
Shakespeare:
[Goes and kneels at her feet as she is sitting, and puts his hands on her waist.] Why don’t you try to cure me another way? Why not come and give yourself to me, till, surfeited with sweet, the appetite may die? That is the cure of love. Cure me like that!
Miss Fitton:
It might take long. But I like you better as you are now.
143Shakespeare:
Do you! Ah! [Putting his head back.] If you knew the maddening hours I spend, longing, waiting, hoping, fearing, you would pity me. There is a martyrdom in love. I live in purgatory; burning now with hell’s fevers, and now my fiend comes and my dungeon, flame-lit, is more lovely-fair than Heaven. When you have gone the air will sing of you; I close my eyes and hear the rustle of your garments, and [putting his hands to his face] on my hands there lingers the perfume of your beauty. [He buries his face in her dress, then rises gravely.] You once said love would keep love; I love you, Mary, to madness.
Miss Fitton:
[Rises, too.] I am fond of you, too; do not doubt it.
Shakespeare:
Come, then [putting his arm round her and drawing her towards the inner room], and I will be what you like; one short half-hour——
Miss Fitton:
[Frees herself.] No, no; I must be gone. What 144time is it? I must be back before the dinner; I must.
Shakespeare:
You make me hate you! To be refused and shamed.... My first thought was right.
Miss Fitton:
Your first thought?
Shakespeare:
That damned boy!
Miss Fitton:
Herbert! [Hurriedly.] I have not seen him for days and days. Has he been here?
Shakespeare:
He’s not likely to come here. Damn him!
Miss Fitton:
[Takes up her hat and begins to put it on; she puts her hair right with the hand-glass and then moves to the door and takes up her horseman’s coat from the settle; all this while Shakespeare sits with his head on his hand. She moves across and stands beside him, and then puts her hand on his shoulder.] You make it hard for me to 145come! You are so moody-sullen. What would you have me do?
Shakespeare:
[Looking down.] Love me, that’s all [As if to himself.]—it isn’t much. Give me love’s ecstasy, the joy that beggars thanks; the life that is divine. Love is my mortal sickness, love!
Miss Fitton:
You should rouse yourself: you are moody.
Shakespeare:
[Looks up smiling.] Mad, you would say; why not? It goes with “bad” and “glad” and “sad”—good words all! Do you know how first I came to it? I will tell you. Sit there and let my eyes feed on you. [Miss Fitton sits near him.] Strange; you are more desirable now than when I first knew you. Then I saw faults in you; now your faults all sharpen appetite. As I look at you it all comes back—that first day in Whitehall when the morning air was warm like milk and the wavelets danced in the sun. Do you remember how we sat and kissed, each kiss longer than the last? [Mistress Fitton bows her 146head.]... I went the other day to the same spot by the river—I was alone and desolate—but of a sudden you came—[she turns to him in wonder] yourself, of grace and pride compounded, like a queen, and I touched your hair, and every separate hair a sin of multiple desire; I drew down your face and your lips clung and kissed as no lips ever kissed before. Then of a sudden you were gone, and I was awake—alone. Since then I have prayed to go mad again, to hold you, and so be mad for ever, lips on lips——[Mistress Fitton rises.] What are you doing?
Miss Fitton:
[Takes up cloak.] I must go, Will; I must, indeed. I am late now. [Holds the cloak to him.]
Shakespeare:
What! Now! You have been but a moment... [He drapes her in the cloak.] Perhaps it is best so. [She turns to the door.] You will come again soon?
Miss Fitton:
Soon. But I want to hear you laugh as you used to laugh and turn all things to humour and gaiety!
147Shakespeare:
Come soon, and I will clown it—soon! [She goes, nodding to him from the door.] Soon.