left?
‘I’m sorry, Father.’
A shrug. ‘I dare say you are, for this moment.’ That was acute. He glanced about as if for somewhere to sit down, or to lie: lay himself down for ever. ‘And then you go your own way. It’s hard, Will. Not merely that you won’t be my prentice: that’s only the surface. The poison’s beneath.’
He turned and groped for the banister, and Will saw that he still bore his stick; and his knuckles as he gripped it were white as the bone beneath.
* * *
His mother, soft-spoken and gentle and steely as a cat’s paw, came to his room, somehow knowing he was still awake. She sat on his bed.
‘I can’t bear discord. I know it’s wrong of me, because it will always come in life. And I know what the quarrel was about, and I shan’t speak on that, Will. Only I hate to see you so … so bitter.’ She spoke judiciously. His mother handled words like needles and knives.
He sat up. ‘What makes you suppose that?’
‘I’m wife and mother, I have a hundred eyes and ears. Your father is not always an easy man, I know that well.’ She took his hand. Her fingers explored as if to discover a palmed coin. ‘But try to understand him. He made his fortune – aye, it didn’t come from what I brought him when we wed, though there were folk aplenty saying I stooped to marry him and my portion would soon be lost.’ Mary Arden she had been, kin and heiress to the highest folk of the district. ‘He made himself, and I was proud. I was proud when he stood highest in the town. I was proud still when his troubles came on him. And when my property was lost, then too. It is the germ and kernel of a man that matters, and there my love is fixed, and my pride, and I would have yours too.’
‘Yes,’ Will said, restive, ‘I see it, but we are what we do, surely.’
His mother’s silences were not like his father’s. They made room for you on the soft couch of second thoughts.
‘Let’s not talk of this,’ he said. ‘It’s as you say, we want no more discord.’
‘You look weary. I’m keeping you from rest … But do you know what your father said when he took me to wife? “I feel myself a king.” I hope I had more sense than to let my head be turned by it. But he is proud as any king, Will. And a king must have a prince.’
She had got hold of his hand in both of hers now. Her grip was tight.
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Nothing: nothing you don’t want. I know you don’t wish to be bound prentice to him. But there are other bonds, natural bonds, and to go against nature … Oh, Will, sometimes you are a little frightening. I don’t mean there is anything to fear from you. Only that sometimes – I see you go so far away.’
He shook his head, trying to smile. He thought that no one could be more frightening than her, when it came to it.
‘I’ve mended matters with Father, or I mean to. And—’
‘Oh, Will, it’s what I wish to hear. Thank you.’ She got up. ‘Make a proper peace. Don’t defy him any more.’ Her smile was bright and cool as she looked down and it chilled him. ‘Make up your mind to it, Will.’
* * *
It was Joan who took the question out of their hands: Joan who was not yet fourteen in years but twenty in her buxom, bustling figure and twenty more, any age, all woman in her worldly-wise equality to anything. Lately, when the maid had had toothache and fought shy of the barber-surgeon, Joan had borrowed a pair of pliers from the blacksmith and efficiently pulled the tooth herself, drowning the cries with lusty singing.
Will adored her. He sometimes suspected that his father was a little afraid of her. Joan loved light and was a great thrower-open of shutters, and when her guts were disordered she would say so and warn everyone against the privy. Contrast their mother, whose characteristic, muffling phrase was Let’s not speak of it – especially when John Shakespeare gazed into ale-cup or memory and saw grievance at
‘I’m sorry, Father.’
A shrug. ‘I dare say you are, for this moment.’ That was acute. He glanced about as if for somewhere to sit down, or to lie: lay himself down for ever. ‘And then you go your own way. It’s hard, Will. Not merely that you won’t be my prentice: that’s only the surface. The poison’s beneath.’
He turned and groped for the banister, and Will saw that he still bore his stick; and his knuckles as he gripped it were white as the bone beneath.
* * *
His mother, soft-spoken and gentle and steely as a cat’s paw, came to his room, somehow knowing he was still awake. She sat on his bed.
‘I can’t bear discord. I know it’s wrong of me, because it will always come in life. And I know what the quarrel was about, and I shan’t speak on that, Will. Only I hate to see you so … so bitter.’ She spoke judiciously. His mother handled words like needles and knives.
He sat up. ‘What makes you suppose that?’
‘I’m wife and mother, I have a hundred eyes and ears. Your father is not always an easy man, I know that well.’ She took his hand. Her fingers explored as if to discover a palmed coin. ‘But try to understand him. He made his fortune – aye, it didn’t come from what I brought him when we wed, though there were folk aplenty saying I stooped to marry him and my portion would soon be lost.’ Mary Arden she had been, kin and heiress to the highest folk of the district. ‘He made himself, and I was proud. I was proud when he stood highest in the town. I was proud still when his troubles came on him. And when my property was lost, then too. It is the germ and kernel of a man that matters, and there my love is fixed, and my pride, and I would have yours too.’
‘Yes,’ Will said, restive, ‘I see it, but we are what we do, surely.’
His mother’s silences were not like his father’s. They made room for you on the soft couch of second thoughts.
‘Let’s not talk of this,’ he said. ‘It’s as you say, we want no more discord.’
‘You look weary. I’m keeping you from rest … But do you know what your father said when he took me to wife? “I feel myself a king.” I hope I had more sense than to let my head be turned by it. But he is proud as any king, Will. And a king must have a prince.’
She had got hold of his hand in both of hers now. Her grip was tight.
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Nothing: nothing you don’t want. I know you don’t wish to be bound prentice to him. But there are other bonds, natural bonds, and to go against nature … Oh, Will, sometimes you are a little frightening. I don’t mean there is anything to fear from you. Only that sometimes – I see you go so far away.’
He shook his head, trying to smile. He thought that no one could be more frightening than her, when it came to it.
‘I’ve mended matters with Father, or I mean to. And—’
‘Oh, Will, it’s what I wish to hear. Thank you.’ She got up. ‘Make a proper peace. Don’t defy him any more.’ Her smile was bright and cool as she looked down and it chilled him. ‘Make up your mind to it, Will.’
* * *
It was Joan who took the question out of their hands: Joan who was not yet fourteen in years but twenty in her buxom, bustling figure and twenty more, any age, all woman in her worldly-wise equality to anything. Lately, when the maid had had toothache and fought shy of the barber-surgeon, Joan had borrowed a pair of pliers from the blacksmith and efficiently pulled the tooth herself, drowning the cries with lusty singing.
Will adored her. He sometimes suspected that his father was a little afraid of her. Joan loved light and was a great thrower-open of shutters, and when her guts were disordered she would say so and warn everyone against the privy. Contrast their mother, whose characteristic, muffling phrase was Let’s not speak of it – especially when John Shakespeare gazed into ale-cup or memory and saw grievance at
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