Anne. The hope, the hope of children, To bind you to me—a true hope to hold you— No lie—a little lie—I loved you so— Scarcely a lie—a promise to come true Of gifts between us and a love to come.
Shakespeare. You’re mad! You’re mad!
Anne. I was mad. I am sane. I am blind Samson, shaking down the house Of torment on myself as well as you.
Shakespeare. What gain was there? What gain?
Anne. What gain but you? The sight of your face and the sound of your foot on the stair, And your casual word to a stranger—“This is my wife!” For the touch of my hand on your arm, as a right, when we walked with the neighbours: For the son, for the son on my heart, with your smile and your frown: For the loss of my name in the name that you gave when you said to him—“Mother! your mother!” For your glance at me over his head when he brought us his toys or his tears: Have pity! Have pity! Have pity! for these things I did it.
Shakespeare. Words! Words! You lied to me. Go your own road! I know you not.
Anne. But I, but I know you. Have I not learned my god’s face? Have I not seen The great dreams cloud it, as the ships of the sky Darken the river? Has not the wind struck home, The following chill wind that stirs all straws Of omen? You’re to be great, God pity you! I’m your poor village woman; but I know What you must learn and learn, and shriek to God To spare you learning, if you will be great, Singing to men and women across fields Of years, and hearing answer as they reap, Afar, the centuried fields, “He knew, he knew!” How will they listen to you—voice that cries “Right’s right! Wrong’s wrong! For every sin a stone! “Ye shall not plead to any god or man— “‘I flinched because the pain was very great,’ “‘I fell because the burden bore me down,’ “‘Hungry, I stole.’” O boy, ungrown, at judgment, How will they listen? What? I lied? Oh, blind! When I, your own, show you my heart of hearts, A book for you to read all women by, Blindly you turn my page with—“Here are lies!”
Shakespeare. Subtle enough—and glitter may be gold In women’s eyes—you say so—though to a man, Boy rather (boy, you called me) lies are lies, Base money, though you rub ’em till they shine, Ill money to buy love with; but—I care not! So be at ease! My love’s not confiscate, For none was yours to forfeit. Faith indeed, A weakling trust is gone, for though you irked me I thought you honest and so bore much from you— Your jealous-glancing eye, officious hand Meddling my papers, fool’s opinion given Unasked when strangers spoke with me, and laughter Suddenly checked as if you feared a blow As a dog does—it made me mad!
Anne. Go on!
Shakespeare. For when did I use you ill?