Back through the town we went; and I must needs stop here and there at the little shops, which, with their modern attempts at quaintness, display relics and antiques, more or less genuine.
The footpath across the fields.
Few of their wares appealed to me, so I contented myself with a tiny celluloid bust of Shakespeare, which by chance presented the familiar features with an expression of real power and intellect. It was strange to find this poet face on a cheap trinket, and with deep thankfulness of heart I possessed myself of my one souvenir of Stratford.
It is directly opposed to all the instincts of Tommy’s nature to ask instructions in matters which he feels that he ought to know intuitively.
And so, upon his simple announcement, “This is the footpath across the fields to Shottery,—to Anne Hathaway’s Cottage,” we started.
As Tommy had hinted, during our walk from the station, there would be another bit of the real thing; and this was it. The walk across the fields was crowded with impulses that came perilously near emotional intensity. But from such appalling fate we were saved by our sense of humor. One cannot give way to emotion if one is conscious of its humorous aspect. And we agreed that as the path across the field had been here ever since Shakespeare trod it, and as it would in all probability remain for some time in the future, the mere coincidence that we were traversing it at this particular moment was nothing to be thrilled about.
And yet,—it was the path from Stratford to Shottery, and we were there!
But it was a longer path than we had thought, and the practicality which is one of the chief ingredients of Tommy’s sentiment moved him to look at his watch and announce that we would have to turn back at once, if we would catch the last train to London.
Not entirely disheartened at leaving Anne Hathaway’s cottage unvisited,—for we both well knew the value of the unattained,—we turned, and wandered back to the station just in time for the late afternoon train.