object of his love doesn’t exist. What is he to do?’
Will said:
‘“You do me wrong to take my guileless words
And free them to the world, like caged birds
That ne’er have op’d their wings beneath the sun
Nor learnt the eagle and the hawk to shun.”’
‘God. I remember that,’ Knell said. ‘What is it, Fountain of Ardena ?’
‘Devil’s Brother.’ Towne watched Will. ‘How does it go on?’
‘“For when my heart misgives me, straight my tongue
Must give it ease, as we the – something stone
That galls the tender sole, unthinking shake
From forth our shoe, though – something…”
‘No, it’s gone.’
‘Villainous stuff.’ Knell groaned. ‘A beautiful maiden hopping about with a stone in her shoe.’
‘Errant stone,’ Towne said. ‘Yes, a feeble figure. Still…’ He gazed at Will, half drowsy, half penetrating. ‘Where do you keep it, Will?’
‘Why, man, here,’ Knell said, rapping on Will’s head. ‘You can tell he’s no country dull-wit. He admires us for one thing. I only wish you had such a memory.’
‘I keep it here,’ Will said, after a moment, and touched the space beside him, gently, as if another Will sat there, preferring not to be disturbed.
* * *
He was hurrying home, a piece of the night.
Above the roofs the stars swooped with him, and no dogs barked because his feet only skimmed the ground here and there. In his mind a wonderful handiwork was going on. Yes, he had promised his father he would have no more to do with the players, but his father need not know, and even if he did, perhaps he could be brought to understand what was so remarkable about them, the way they conjured something new out of nothing, through craft and wit: that they were makers.
Perhaps that was the true lesson of the day: everything was possible. He had felt it so in the White Hart tonight, as the talk grew wilder, exciting him even more when understanding ceased. The world was a vast and wonderful thing, and it was also an apple just within reach, heavy for the tug and pluck.
He slipped in through the door of the back kitchen, where the serving-girl slept on a pallet and the old hound on the floor. When the dog stirred he rubbed its jowls and hushed it back down: the beast never realised how much he loathed it.
He got to the foot of the stairs, and there was his father. Will was never sure if he had come out of the parlour, or had simply been standing there all the time, taper in hand.
What he could be sure of, alas, was his own face: how, taken by surprise, he had been unable to hide his expression. His father must have seen it – how weary Will was of him, and how he wished he was not his father.
It was there, in his distant, hurt eyes.
‘You needn’t lie,’ his father said. ‘I know where you were. I sent a lad to look.’
‘Father … I know you don’t approve it, but still it can’t be so very bad—’
‘It’s how you make me feel.’ Spoken strong and plain, as if to emphasise that Will would not evade this with a great flourish of words. ‘It is not the matter itself. When you go against me, it is how you make me feel.’
A quiver on the last word; and Will wanted to cry out, Do you suppose I don’t understand that?
Understanding was easy. He had understood it when Master Ridley’s great grown half-witted boy had laughed at the little child that got mangled under the wheels of the soil-cart: it had been a blaze in that dun, damp mind. Will didn’t like or dislike this capacity for picking up feelings; it was like being able to read, you simply couldn’t undo it.
And I know how you feel, Father: how life is a barbed sharpness in you like the hook in a fish’s mouth. They talk of you behind the hand, pityingly; and Mother is so loyal she will never permit herself the merest whisper of reproach, and so your ears strain and strain in terror of hearing it. And if your own son should turn against you, what deeps of failure are
Will said:
‘“You do me wrong to take my guileless words
And free them to the world, like caged birds
That ne’er have op’d their wings beneath the sun
Nor learnt the eagle and the hawk to shun.”’
‘God. I remember that,’ Knell said. ‘What is it, Fountain of Ardena ?’
‘Devil’s Brother.’ Towne watched Will. ‘How does it go on?’
‘“For when my heart misgives me, straight my tongue
Must give it ease, as we the – something stone
That galls the tender sole, unthinking shake
From forth our shoe, though – something…”
‘No, it’s gone.’
‘Villainous stuff.’ Knell groaned. ‘A beautiful maiden hopping about with a stone in her shoe.’
‘Errant stone,’ Towne said. ‘Yes, a feeble figure. Still…’ He gazed at Will, half drowsy, half penetrating. ‘Where do you keep it, Will?’
‘Why, man, here,’ Knell said, rapping on Will’s head. ‘You can tell he’s no country dull-wit. He admires us for one thing. I only wish you had such a memory.’
‘I keep it here,’ Will said, after a moment, and touched the space beside him, gently, as if another Will sat there, preferring not to be disturbed.
* * *
He was hurrying home, a piece of the night.
Above the roofs the stars swooped with him, and no dogs barked because his feet only skimmed the ground here and there. In his mind a wonderful handiwork was going on. Yes, he had promised his father he would have no more to do with the players, but his father need not know, and even if he did, perhaps he could be brought to understand what was so remarkable about them, the way they conjured something new out of nothing, through craft and wit: that they were makers.
Perhaps that was the true lesson of the day: everything was possible. He had felt it so in the White Hart tonight, as the talk grew wilder, exciting him even more when understanding ceased. The world was a vast and wonderful thing, and it was also an apple just within reach, heavy for the tug and pluck.
He slipped in through the door of the back kitchen, where the serving-girl slept on a pallet and the old hound on the floor. When the dog stirred he rubbed its jowls and hushed it back down: the beast never realised how much he loathed it.
He got to the foot of the stairs, and there was his father. Will was never sure if he had come out of the parlour, or had simply been standing there all the time, taper in hand.
What he could be sure of, alas, was his own face: how, taken by surprise, he had been unable to hide his expression. His father must have seen it – how weary Will was of him, and how he wished he was not his father.
It was there, in his distant, hurt eyes.
‘You needn’t lie,’ his father said. ‘I know where you were. I sent a lad to look.’
‘Father … I know you don’t approve it, but still it can’t be so very bad—’
‘It’s how you make me feel.’ Spoken strong and plain, as if to emphasise that Will would not evade this with a great flourish of words. ‘It is not the matter itself. When you go against me, it is how you make me feel.’
A quiver on the last word; and Will wanted to cry out, Do you suppose I don’t understand that?
Understanding was easy. He had understood it when Master Ridley’s great grown half-witted boy had laughed at the little child that got mangled under the wheels of the soil-cart: it had been a blaze in that dun, damp mind. Will didn’t like or dislike this capacity for picking up feelings; it was like being able to read, you simply couldn’t undo it.
And I know how you feel, Father: how life is a barbed sharpness in you like the hook in a fish’s mouth. They talk of you behind the hand, pityingly; and Mother is so loyal she will never permit herself the merest whisper of reproach, and so your ears strain and strain in terror of hearing it. And if your own son should turn against you, what deeps of failure are
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