| T |
o invent can become an aberration, a mystery, at times a querulous searching to remedy an irremediable loss. Shall we say there is a larger purpose? Must there always be a purpose and justification? I can not believe that. Then, there can be stumbling, burial, burial violets around a grave, an absence. These thoughts must be weighed, re-assessed, subtracted from physical ailment and sickness of mind. Surely the stage was not intended for a single player.
. . .
Stratford
February 2nd, Candlemas – 1615
On Christmas last I sang carols with Ellen and her friends, in her London apartment, candlelight on her frosted windows where trees, like menhirs, listened. Some of her friends were drunk and raucous parasites; some were manikins; some were overly friendly; some, Countess Bardolph, Lord Fenton, Lady Page, were perfumed bores; the Irishmen were troublemakers...
The Captain of the Guard requested a dance, and musicians appeared on a small wreathed stage, a candlelit tree at one side. Sprigs of ribboned mistletoe decorated the window drapes and the frames of all Ellen’s paintings; she wore a sprig and her Scot mouth met mine under the portrait of a highlander. Caroling and wine went on and on:
Joseph and Mary walked
Through an orchard green,