KING JAMES-

Now that you are our new friend, sceptering this Brittic island with careful gaze, ours is the homage! We see that your awareness is aware of considerations, a King James version of Sleeves and Ruff duly pressed. You surely press promises without guilt for gilt. Through narrow lozenged gla.s.s the sun administers your ceremonials.

Oh, king, your uniqueness Towers over us: you are our stiller of war, our buffer of hate, our unbiased protestant.

You rise-and London rises.

You walk-and London walks, for we are your guardians.

If your latest diamond is somewhat small, speak to us and it will be remembered in moors, fens, and locks. If your crown, coming from a woman's head, needs adjusting our adjusters are sure hands, toward continuity.

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 s.e.xmate: 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:

Fog at the door of his house.

Henley Street

Stratford

February 24, 1616

R

ummaging in my storeroom, I found forgotten things, things I had supposed lost or destroyed, a velvet jacket faced with grubby ermine, a pair of crimson trousers, a leather breastplate and bra.s.s helmet ornamented with a dragon's crest. It annoyed me that none of these things had deteriorated. For some unfathomable reason-Caesaria ego-I put on the breastplate and helmet and gaped at myself. How now, that sickly face and stupidity: my stupid room, some of it visible in the same gla.s.s: the odious German etchings Judith gave me, Papa's cracked leather chest, the unpolished table, seamed plaster and varnished beams.

Tossing breastplate and helmet into the storeroom, I noticed something. A cloak? Lifting it out of a box, unfolding it, I thought it was her blue theatre cloak.

How could it be, after having disappeared years ago, in the street? But, holding it higher, I searched for the slash and the blood stains. Of course it had been cleverly cleaned and mended! I was too disturbed to go over it carefully. No...no...I dropped it and put out the light and went to bed.

Lying there, I watched sky, clouds floating, white over stars and then the stars dazzlingly near and then the cloud-cloak covering them once more, drowning.

Fear sifts through my fingers and mind.

What am I-a lie? Was she a lie? Was life? The cloak?

Why haven't I, if I am sure of myself, seen to it that my plays have been published? I leave nothing. Nothing!

Antony, Hamlet, Macbeth, Winter's Tale, Romeo...not one.