After his death, the dissentious Judith and Ann used to side against me: “He’s no good, Judith,” Ann preached vehemently. “What does he care for any of us! He’s always away in London. You’ve heard him say that life’s but a walkin’ shadow. We’re just so many shadows to him!”

I would stare at Judith after one of Ann’s outbursts; I would look at her and through some sort of necromancy I would see Hamnet’s face—I would remem­ber our fun, our fishing, our swimming in the Avon.

It was not the constant conspiracy of Ann and Judith that drove the final nail; it was Judith’s resemblance, same color and texture of hair, same blue eyes, same half smile, same propensity to giggles, same way of rubbing her hands on her clothes. I had always favored Hamnet because he and I had shared more. Now, now that Judith lived, I could not accept his death. Of course I never wanted her to die. As long as the twins lived there was accord. If death must steal one of them...but I couldn’t, wouldn’t choose. Yet, in ugliest anger, I had shouted my preference. And she knew I often saw Hamnet when I looked at her: I’ve seen her run when I stared at her: I’ve heard her cry: “Mama, he’s looking at me that way!”

“These are my twins,” I used to say, showing them to people. Twins—for how long!

I bought her a goonhilly pony, an excellent pacer, and taught her to ride. I got her a lamb and a puppy, I brought her gifts from London. I brought her things from France and Italy. There was little chance to get through to her because of Ann. If I won Judith for a while, I lost her when at work in London. She never wrote to me...or Ann destroyed those letters. During my years in the theatre, in London and touring the provinces, all those years, I re­ceived no note. She never expressed a desire to see one of my plays, seemed disinterested in my life in the city—unless it was to suggest I bring something when I came home.

Home?

July 1, 1615

I am that wanderer of night, full many a morning have I seen flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye...

There’s memory, that’s for remembrance; pray, you, love, remember...and there is pansies; that’s for thought...there’s fennel for you, and columbine; there’s rue...you must wear your rue with a difference.