ANNE. --loved hands, remember Me unloved then, and how my hands held you! And when her face--for I am prophecy-- When her lost face, the woman I am not, Stares from the page you toil upon, thus, thus, In a glass of tears, remember then that thus, No other way, I see your face between my work and me, Always!
ANNE [_she has risen_]. Why, go! But mock me not with any “Let me go”! I do not hold you. Ah, but when you’re old (You will be old one day, as I am old Already in my heart), too weary-old For love, hate, pity, anything but peace, When the long race, O straining breast! is won, And the bright victory drops to your outstretched hand, A windfall apple, not worth eating, then Come back to me--
ANNE. --when all your need Is hands to serve you and a breast to die on, Come back to me--
_He goes out as the last figure passes the window, and disappears._
THE PLAYERS’ VOICES [_dying away_]. For snow will fall And cover all Without you, without you-- _The words are lost._
SHAKESPEARE [_joyfully._] Ah! London Town
_He is seen an instant, a silhouette with outstretched arms. Then he, too, disappears and there is a long silence. A cold wind blows in through the open door. The room is quite dark and the fire has fallen to ashes._
ANNE [_crying out suddenly_]. The years--the years before me!
MRS. HATHAWAY [_calling_]. Anne! Where’s Anne? _She comes in at the side door._ Anne! Anne! Where are you? Why, what do you here, In the cold, in the dark, and all alone?
_A room at the Palace_. ELIZABETH _sits at a working table. She is upright, vigorous, with an ivory white skin and piercing eyes. Her hair is dark red and stiffly dressed. She is old, as an oak or a cliff or a cathedral is old--there is no frailty of age in her. Her gestures are measured, she moves very little, and frowns oftener than she smiles, but her smile, when it does come, is kindly. Her voice is strong, rather harsh, but clear. She speaks her words like a scholar, but her manner is that of a woman of the world, shrewd and easy. Her dress is a black-green brocade, stiff with gold and embroidered with coloured stones. Beside her stands_ HENSLOWE, _ten years older, stouter and more prosperous. In the background_ MARY FITTON, _a woman of twenty-six, sits at the virginals, fingering out a tune very faintly and lightly. She is taller than_ ELIZABETH, _pale, with black hair, a smiling mouth and brilliant eyes. She is quick and graceful as a cat, and her voice is the voice of a singer, low and full. She wears a magnificent black and white dress with many pearls. A red rose is tucked behind her ear._