Henley Street
Stratford
When Susanna visited me in London we ate at the Swann: she loved the rich and badly seasoned food, the purpled windows and painted scripture walls. “Oh, Papa, this is a wonderful Inn... Oh, Papa, isn’t that a beautiful house by the river? Think of living there! Those people must be awful rich! Will we get that rich? ...Papa, I’ve never seen such beautiful books... And look, look at the Thames in the sun; the sun seems squashed right into the water. And can we really ride in a boat again, down toward the ocean?”
Enthusiasm was her best quality. And very little perturbed her. Trash strewn in the street, a dead cat, brawling seamen...she drew back in disgust but soon found something exciting or beautiful. When I sleepwalked and stumbled against a table and broke the rush lamp, she was undisturbed. She kissed me, and we talked about what we’d do tomorrow. She was fifteen, then. Fifteen—what an age! She wanted to remain with me in London and I would have permitted it if I could have looked after her. There was no budging Ann to the city. Some thought Susanna a hussy.
Fun-loving, keen at games, she outplayed her friends. While she played I would be at my writing. In the midst of her fun, she might pop up and say: “Papa, you’re working too hard: you never have fun.” Her consideration brought me to my senses and I remembered growing up with six kids: none of them had her brightness. Of course the years changed her: her copper hair darkened: her enthusiasm faded: marriage ruined her figure: marriage made her a business woman: her hussiness became sexmate: Dr. Hall her all! How clearly I can remember today...a warning. And why do I write?
Shakespeare discovers Ellen’s blue cloak
in a heap of theatre crud in his Stratford closet:
Puzzled, he sits on the floor, holds up the cloak,
checks the fabric, his face sickly: