The Diary of William Shakespeare, Gentleman (17 page)

For why I craved nothing of thee still:

O yes, my dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,

Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

What have I now? A daughter who would wed a knave; a foolish wife who prates of love; and, yes, another daughter, who is not a fool, but she has no need of me, for her husband is a fine good man, and her life filled with doings of her own.

And what of me? Ah, what of me? No longer playwright, nor a lover. What leaves any man, when he has shuffled off this mortal coil?

Only his sons. Daughters are given to their husbands, but a son's sons stretch your name across the years.

Poet that I was, and am, my only words must be the ancient father's cry: Hamnet, my son, my son. Would that I had died for thee.

Dinner: a fair one, but Quiney dined with us, knocking at my door on some wedding pretext just as we sat down to dine, so I was bound to invite him to our table. Pickled cockscombs would have been more meat than what we ate, given the young rooster who sat with us, but even a cockscomb cannot eat cockscombs in Lent. Nor will I pay the church fee for him to do so. My mood is Lentened, and Lenten fare this year we shall all eat.

It is said that dew collected on this day will make girls beautiful. I espied my daughter out on the cold, wet grass this morning, soiling her handkerchief.

I would tell her that she is beautiful enough, but that her affianced husband seeks more beauty in my purse than in her face. Perhaps, at heart, she knows it.

And so I write now of Hamnet.

It is a tale I never thought to write, I who have writ so many deaths and miracles, spread the stage with strawberry jam, left lovers dying and kings slain. This one small play is harder to tell than them all. Yet if I do not write it, what is left of him, my son?

It is not a long tale.

A year after the smallpox, my Stratford agent, Applemere, came to my lodgings in London, sweat-painted, exhaustion-racked. My affairs had become too great to manage on my own, nor would I leave business matters to my father, even before his mind faded into the sops and custards of old age.

But Applemere had not ridden so far and fast to discuss rents and tenants, but to tell me that there was plague upon the town, and in my household too.

London's last flame of plague had burnt out six months before. The bells' constant cacophany of death had ceased at last, and each man living knew himself as blessed. I had not known it had spread into the towns too. ‘What? Tell me! Who?'

‘It is your son,' he told me, still panting in his haste.

We were in my rooms above the tavern. Below us, men laughed, drank, jeered, rejoiced in life, knowing they might die tomorrow. I had known this too. But not till now had I thought death might come to my son. I had dreamt of him walking long after I was gone, into his greying years.

But he might still live.

‘How long has he been ill?' My actor's voice stayed steady.

‘They shut the house five days ago.'

‘Five days! And yet you tell me now?'

‘The river rose, as did many streams. No horse could get across. I came as early as I could.'

I believed him. And he'd had the courage to tell me now. The bearer of bad news is often slain for what he bears.

‘My daughters? My wife?'

‘None ailed when I left Stratford. Your son saw the marks of the plague upon his skin when he was at his lessons. He at once called to the master, who fled with all the boys. Your son then went to the church charnel house, that he might not infect his home.'

I thought of my son's questioning of Dr Hall. My Hamnet would have known the early signs of plague: the fever, breathlessness, the pain in back and legs, the craving for water to cool both cheeks and thirst, the stumbling as contagion feasted on mind and body both. What boy of but eleven years would have the courage to
go to the charnel house, among the bones of those already dead, and not to his own home?

‘Who cares for him? His mother?'

Applemere shook his head. ‘Your wife is barred within your house, in quarantine for thirty-five days more.'

Unless the plague struck her as well, I thought, or Susanna or Judith, my parents, or any of the servants too. How often was the quarantine door barred and never opened, for all inside were dead? And how had Hamnet come by the infection? A beggar, perhaps, who had stopped him for coin? My son of kind heart. My son, my son . . .

‘Then no one nurses him?' Still my voice stayed steady.

‘I do not know. I came to tell you, sir.'

Hamnet had been sick for five days. And we must spend one more on the road, if I changed horses and rode all night. Six days with no food nor water, no blankets nor coverings. That alone might kill my son. To die among dry bones, and all alone . . .

‘A horse!' I cried.

I was not bred to the saddle, but I had learnt somewhat since. That night and the next day and night too, my body followed my heart. We pounded through the night. Despite the cold, my tears scalded like molten lead.

I changed my horse for another fleeter steed, and a pledge of twenty pounds, at the inn of Master Davenport, where I was known. And if my neck was broken, I did not care. No! For if my neck were broke, there may be none to care for Hamnet.

At midday next, I reached the charnel house. It was used mostly to lay out those who had not homes where they could be dressed properly for death. A hut, no more, by the graves and stones; for in our town, the dead are buried, not left to rot on shelves close by the church.

I left the horse, the sweat and froth upon him, for others to tend to, and ran towards the door.

A voice behind the door called, ‘William.' And then, ‘Stay back.'

I stopped. None other voice could have made me cease my charge.

I said, ‘Who is it who speaks?'

And yet I knew. Knew the form that came out of the hut and stood under the lintel, though veiling hid her face.

I said, ‘Judyth!' And then, ‘How fares my son?'

‘He is alive,' she said.

I shut my eyes. The plague can kill in hours. If he was alive, then there was hope. I opened my eyes again. She was still there, an angel veiled in black.

I asked, ‘You nurse him?'

‘And eight boys who are ill. There were more, but only eight live now. One of them my nephew.'

My son's friend George, who had survived the smallpox but had come to this. Had he given Hamnet the contagion, or my son given it to him? No matter, for they were brothers in affliction now. Plague bites deepest in young flesh. I saw the fresh-dug earth behind the hut. The boys' bodies would be thrown there, then dressed with lime before the earth would cover them.

I asked, ‘Do you think Hamnet may live?'

Her voice was soft. It was ever so. ‘We all may live, or we may die. Death visits when it will.'

‘Do you need aught? I will bring cordials, and broths . . .'

‘We need naught. It is all here, tisanes, herbs. My nurse comes each day, carrying the red plague rod, and leaves fresh broth for us. We are well provided.'

‘This nursing may mean your death.' She must have known it, yet I said it still.

I felt her smile, beneath the veil. ‘Who shall miss me? My nephews have other aunts. Of all the women in this world I can be spared.'

‘You give your life for my son, for your nephew.'

I closed my eyes, heard words whisper in my brain, found that I was saying them to her:

‘
The quality of mercy is not strained

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:

It blesseth she that gives, and he that takes . . .
'

At last my voice stopped, and I heard hers.

She said, ‘You read my words?'

‘You must know I have. And I have given them to the world too.'

For the first time, I wondered if she might think it theft that I had taken what was hers and given it as my own. Yet does not every writer do so, when they build upon the tales of old?

Again I felt her hidden smile. ‘Then I will not be forgot if my words live, even when my name and frame are dust.'

‘No! You will live! May your veil protect you from the contagion.'

And may my son recover, I thought, with growing hope, for full half recover from the plague if they have good nursing. And plague doctors must live too, some of them, or we would have no plague doctors alive . . .

I felt her soft regard behind the veil. And then she said, ‘Go, William. Live among the living. There is nothing you may do here.'

My heart urged me to go to her, to Hamnet. To hold him to my breast, to stroke his hand, to wipe his brow. Oh, to
be with her. Truly, I would have gone. I say that now, and I did know it then. Love vanquished all my fear of death.

Yet I had my honour still; my duty to my father, mother, daughters, wife. How should they live if I were taken from them? For I had not then won the riches that we enjoy now, which will keep them even if I am not alive to make them more. I was bound upon a wheel of fire. But yet I would have gone. I would have gone.

‘My son?' It was Brother Rivers, an old man with white hair and gentle hands who had been Romish but had taken the King's Pledge. He dwelled still about the church but did not preach. He drew me past the church and to the parsonage. He made me eat, of what I do not know. He said, ‘I keep watch, and I will send for thee if aught changes. See to the rest of your family now.'

I walked to my house, my fine New Place; stopped as I saw the plague cross painted on the door, the boards that held it shut.

I called, ‘Hello, the house!'

The upstairs window opened; the glass window that had made my father proud. It was my wife, her face drawn, and yet her cap on straight and trimmed with lace, all as it ought to be.

She said, ‘Husband. You have come.' And then, ‘Our son?'

‘He lives.'

She shut her eyes, I think to pray. And then said, ‘We are well here. He must have caught the contagion elsewhere.'

They might still sicken. The plague may take four weeks ere it erupts. My wife knew that as well as I.

I said, ‘I am glad to see thee safe, and to know the household thrives.'

‘We have the well, and cheeses in the dairy, good hams, a larder full of pickles —'

I held up my hand, for I was weary. I had no wish for housekeeping. ‘I will see thee tomorrow,' I said.

I turned back as she called, ‘Where will you stay?'

‘The parsonage.'

I had not asked, but knew that he would offer. He did.

One day. Another. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow crept in its petty pace from day to day . . . At dawn, midday and dusk I stood outside the door and called her name. Each time she came, pulling her veil down so I could not see her face. Each time she said, ‘He lives,' then went back, for those inside had more need of her than I.

On the fifth dawn when I called, she said, ‘I am sorry, William. He is dead.'

I had known it. Known it as the cock crowed, my blood cold as part of me had fled. No life, no life, I thought. Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, and my son no breath at all?

I stood alone, for the good brother slept. I thought, I must let his mother know. I thought, I cannot bear it.

What is a man with no son to wear his name and face when he is gone? The sun, truly, of our lives, that we had thought to rise each day, long after the breath in us was cold. What father in a thousand years cannot echo time and time again that cry: My son, my son. Would that I had died for thee.

She said, ‘He told me, “Best it is that one should fall, That only he should die, and die not all.”'

My son had never played words with me. Had he thought me too much the gentleman to do so? Or had this woman whispered verse to him, to comfort him, and he
had answered alike, the spark of the poet burning fierce for one brief candle in him ere it was quenched? Would my son have been a greater poet than I?

I did not know. Would never know. Never, never, never. For now my son was gone. His words. His questing mind. More than that, the years that would trot by like a tired horse with no stable to await it. My son had been my future, and my all.

Still I stood there. I longed to see him, to be sure there was no spark that might be breathed to life. But if I had been no use last night, or the one before, what use was I today, except to his family?

I said, ‘Judyth.' All other words had fled. How many nights since have I not thought what they should have been: of love, of gratitude, that the last face my son saw was one of love and care? At my son's end, the woman I loved had been his mother. I did not tell her this. I simply stood. If I had spoken, I might have howled like a dog.

She said, ‘William, do not come again.'

‘I will come. I waited for you both. Now I will wait for thee.'

‘No, you need not wait.'

I shook my head to say I did not understand.

‘He was the last,' she said softly. ‘Now there is only me.'

For a moment I still did not understand. And then I did. The plague had claimed her too.

‘But who will care for thee?'

I felt her smile, even if it was hidden by her veil. ‘God and the angels, who have cared for me all through my life, and will guide me now too. My life swept from me a year ago. What is left is little loss. Live well, William. Be happy.'

She swayed, and turned to go.

‘No!' I cried.

She stopped, turned back. ‘What is it?'

‘I would see you. Please. Just one last time.'

‘I am not the Judyth that you knew.'

‘You are the one I loved, and love today.'

‘I would have you remember the girl under the beech tree, not the monster that nurses the dead.' The words were almost mumbled.

Was that how she thought of herself? I knew she was no monster. ‘Ministering angel, let me see thy face.'

Her voice shook. ‘Very well.'

She lifted up her veil. Her hand shook. The disease was biting deep.

Not a woman's face, nor quite a lion's.

Dumb, I called on God to give me words. And words came. Later I would kneel to give the thanks for them.

I said:

‘
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

Thy beauty walks in paradise,

And that is how I see thy face

You walk in beauty always, and in grace.
'

She smiled. I felt it, rather than saw it, for her mouth was scarred twisted too.

She said, ‘I hope there are words in heaven. Words like thine.'

‘And thine. Perhaps, one day in heaven, we will write the plays of paradise.'

Her hand caught the doorjamb. I stepped forward, thinking she would fall. She lifted her other hand to stop me. She did not say goodbye. She turned. The shadows took her. She was gone.

I sat upon the ground. I watched the door.

I did not move, not even when the smoke billowed not from the chimney but the door, and flames began to eat the hut's wooden walls. I watched as my love cleansed Stratford, cleansed my son, fire conquering all contagion in its breath. Love's candle was burnt out.