Tea with anne
Cast:
Viola, late teens
Catherine, over 35
Portia, around 28
Rosalind, early 20s
Anne, 58
AT RISE:
Gathered in the cottage's kitchen are four women, each a creation of Shakespeare's wit: VIOLA from Twelfth Night, dressed as a page boy with closely cropped hair; CATHERINE from The Taming of the Shrew, dressed in a lovely silk gown; PORTIA from The Merchant of Venice, dressed in all black, chin to toe, with a black hat and veil; and ROSALIND from As You Like It, dressed as a country milkmaid ready to attend a frolicking party. They enjoy one another's company. In fact, this is probably the first time the four of them have been solicited to gather in a single space, namely, the humble cottage of ANNE, the long-suffering wife of William Shakespeare and mother of his three children. They, the four of them, have so much to share that they talk over each other, speaking at the same time. The result is a gaggle of chatter that is unintelligible except for the occasional name which flies from their discourse, names like:
Portia
Antonio, horrid man!
Catherine
Petruchio, can you believe him?
Rosalind
Orlando, the sublime!
Viola
Orsion, Orsino, Orsino, oh, Orsino!
Little else is comprehensible. Catherine quickly exchanges seats with Viola, without missing a beat in her chatter, bumping her head on the carcase of a slaughtered goose, hanging from the cottage ceiling. She punches it with her fist, then returns to her clatter. Finally, Portia rises from her chair and gesticulates, soliciting silence.
PORTIA
Ladies, ladies, ladies, ladies, please. I can't understand anything you are saying. Please!
Silence. Finally.
PORTIA
Good. Thank you.
(looking about her)
Tell me, exactly who are you?
The barrage of language begins anew, each of the women talking to all, introducing herself in a manner that no one can understand. Portia herself returns to her chair and enters into a catalogue of her experiences. This continues for as long as the actors can sustain it, the discourse slowly fading into silence. Each looks to the other. Finally, Portia extends her hand to the woman to her right.
PORTIA
Portia, of Venice.
VIOLA
Charmed. Viola, of Illyria. I think it's Illyria. I'm not certain any more.
(she giggles)
CATHERINE
(to whomever)
Catherine of Minola. Well, once of Minola. Of Padua. Well, once of Padua. Now lost, for heaven's sake.
ROSALIND
I am the spirited Rosalind of the Arden woods. Live there, love there, wouldn't care to live anywhere else. Am I supposed to know each of you?
PORTIA
Not me. I don't get out much.
CATHERINE
Definitely not me. I don't get out at all. None, none whatsoever, thanks to — to — to — no we won't go there.
VIOLA
(about the cottage)
Where are we? Quaint, I must say.
PORTIA
(about the cottage)
Plebian by all indications.
ROSALIND
(about the cottage)
I feel quite at home here. Rustic.
PORTIA
(about Rosalind, passing judgment)
You prefer the rustic life to court, I presume?
ROSALIND
Most definitely. Don't you?
PORTIA
God save me.
CATHERINE
I wonder why we are here?
She rises to explore the area only to bump once again into the hanging goose. Again, she punches it with a momentary curse and caress of her damaged hand. The women look at each other and after a moment of silence begin simultaneously explaining why she is in this place. The chatter again is unintelligible and rises to the level of a teacher-less classroom, worse than before. Into this maze of flawed human communication comes ANNE, a woman of 58, dressed as a peasant: apron, covered head. She carries items with which and on which to write. She stands at the portal to the room, listening, confused. The other four realize that there is a newcomer in their midst and slowly lose their trains of thought and turn their attention to Anne.
ROSALIND
Hello. I'm Rosa-
Anne
I know who you are.
VIOLA
Won't you come in?
ANNE
I am in, thank you. I live here.
PORTIA
Then, you are our hostess.
ANNE
It is I who invited you, yes.
The women begin chattering among themselves as each searches for her invitation. Catherine finds her invitation card first and flourishes it.
CATHERINE
So, you are (reading from her card) Widow Hathaway?
ANNE
Not widowed. Not yet. Please, call me Anne. And I will call you —
(she points to each as she speaks her name)
— Catherine, wild, wilful, shrewish or so I am told. Portia, the justice, the marital prize, the proffer of mercy. Viola, the pageboy, still I see, charming. Rosalind, the clever one, the one who will have her way willy-nilly. I invited others. Beatrice, the debater —
ROSALInd
That bitch?
(nods of agreement from all)
ANNE
And Desdemona, weak and willowy. I understand that she is no longer among the living?
CATHERINE
Another bitch if you ask me.
PORTIA
Nobody did! God rest her soul.
ANNE
She was a successful wife, was she not?
PORTIA
That depends on one's — how should I put this — interpretation? I would use the word "judgment," but I am through with all that.
ROSALIND
I'm sorry. This Desdemona. I don't know her.
CATHERINE
No loss if you ask me.
RoSALIND
I must have been in the forest too long. I often think that I'm missing so much of what life has to offer.
ANNE
And Hermione, the revenant, the female Lazarus. I received no response from her. I hope she is well.
CATHERINE
Well or not. She is Hermione, you know, world's worse flirt. I understand she has taken up sculpture. Whatever for, no one knows. Hermione, the sculptress. Heavens.
VIOLA
I am so thankful that I am here.
CATHERINE
Why is that, sweetie pie?
VIOLA
I would hate to think of the horrid things you might say about me if I weren't.
CATHERINE
What makes you think we won't say them anyway? Buck up, sweetie, if you want to hang with this crowd.
ANNE
This isn't your crowd, Catherine. It's mine, one of my making. And we will be civil to one another, if you please.
CATHERINE
I beg your pardon, madam. It's your tea. Serve it as you will.
ANNE
Correct. Tea must be served. It is our beginning point.
She takes the tea kettle from its position over the fire in the fireplace while Viola takes tea cups and saucers from the cupboard and passes them around. Rosalind offers a tea spoon to each of the women. Portia takes a tray of crumpets and places it in the center of the table. Catherine bumps her head once again on the goose and punches it as hard as she can, causing pain only to herself. Anne pours water from the kettle into a porcelain tea pot and using a strainer pours tea for each woman. As this action moves forward to completion, the following discussion occurs.
VIOLA
You have a lovely home, Missus Hathaway.
ANNE
Thank you, my dear. Anne, please. Anne. It has been in the family for generations. To most it is simply part of Hewlands, but to me, it is The Cottage. I adore it here.
ROSALIND
Do you live here alone?
ANNE
Mostly, these days, yes. This is my respite. I come here for solitude. That is best achieved when alone, solitude.
PORTIA
Oh, what I would give for a cottage of my own. A respite. That is precisely what I need.
CATHERINE
Belmont isn't sufficient?
PORTIA
For solitude? Hardly.
ANNE
I hope you will take advantage of the solitude I offer while you are here.
ROSALIND
I love the rustic-ness you have around you. Gardens. Orchards, fields. Even a few trees. Willows if I'm not mistaken? I adore how they weep. Trees are essential for the display of poems, you know.
PORTIA
I prefer my tiny retreat at Belmont if you don't mind. Perhaps I will build an attached cottage when I return.
ANNE
No one minds at all, Portia. You are free to leave any time you choose.
CATHERINE
And I?
ANNE
You as well. All of you. You are free to depart at your leisure.
CATHERINE
I would, but your tea is quite refreshing. I must know your blend.
ANNE
Family secret, I'm afraid.
VIOLA
Speaking of families. Do you have one? Children, perhaps?
ROSALIND
What a question!
PORTIA
Viola, have you no manners?
VIOLA
I want to know.
ANNE
Three, two girls and a boy. A daughter and then twins. All born before their father disappeared to the big city. The boy, Hamnet, died, aged 12. The girls both survive, both now married, happily or so I am led to believe. So now, I perforce live alone. Here mostly, sometimes in town.
VIOLA
Their "father?" No husband?
CATHERINE
Viola for heaven's sake.
PORTIA
Should we sit on her, Ms. Hathaway?
ANNE
Not yet. Perhaps later. Yes, a husband, Viola, my children's father. You know him. Each of you know him, in your own way. He, in fact, is responsible for creating each of you.
There is a silence. What to make of this riddle?
ROSALIND
I don't . . .
ANNE
You, each of you, are a fiction.
(reaction from each in her own way)
You are not real, my dears. My husband created each of you. That is what he does.
(another reaction, mostly of disbelief, Viola with a giggle)
He creates fictional women and tosses them into fictional situations that are both delightful and profound. Sometimes painful. Sometimes deadly. He grows weary of it I understand.
CATHERINE
And you are — real?
VIOLA
Oh, naughty, naughty!
ANNE
Oh, yes, most definitely. Without doubt I am real. As real as eggs in the nest each morning, as the crow of the cock at sunrise, as the milk in the churn waiting to become curds and whey. Yes, I am real. Oh, it gives me shivers to consider just how real I really am.
ROSALIND
If we are fictions, how is it that we are — here.
CATHERINE
You may be fictional, not me.
ANNE
I invited you. Thank you for coming.
PORTIA
I'd go anywhere for tea this satisfying. I must have the ingredients.
ROSALIND
Yes, yes, quite.
VIOLA
Why?
ANNE
Why what?
VIOLA
Invite us. Why us four? Why here? Why now?
ANNE
(a moment)
Your creator, my husband, my once-upon-a-time husband —
CATHERINE
Is there any other sort?
ANNE
— is returning home.
VIOLA
Good!
(silence from the others)
Isn't it good? Shouldn't it be good? I mean, after all . . .
ANNE
Time will tell, I suppose.
CATHERINE
A once-upon-a-time husband? I know too well what you mean, my dear.
PORTIA
I as well.
CATHERINE
Husbands are such . . . Such wastes of time. Ignominious swine.
ROSALIND
Wives, too. Swine, perhaps not, but still. Don't leave us out.
CATHERINE
If you insist. Fiction me all you like, but for some unlikely reason I feel quite real right now. So real I can almost sense . . .
ROSALIND
What?
CATHERINE
Anxiety.
(nods of agreement)
ANNE
Why are you anxious, my dear?
CATHERINE
You make me so.
PORTIA
Me, too. I must say I am jittery all over.
ROSALIND
Me, as well. There is a secret here and I despise secrets, especially when I sense that I am a small but vital part of it.
VIOLA
I am perfectly content. I couldn't be happier.
CATHERINE
You would be. Chameleon.
VIOLA
Chameleon! I might be changeable, but I am certainly not loose.
CATHERINE
Loose? You're calling me LOOSE?
A cat-fight is brewing with Rosalind siding with Viola and Portia with Catherine. (Take this moment as far as you like, only not so far as to become anything other than comical.)
ANNE
Ladies, ladies, please. Mighten we — please, this is no way -
VIOLA
I am sorry, dear Catherine.
CATHERINE
For what?
VIOLA
Oh, I don't know. Speaking the truth, perhaps?
The squabble reignites. There might be a few pulled hairs and a twisted arm or two before Anne can return peace to the gathering.
ANNE
Please! Please! Must we remove to the garden? The crockery here is priceless. I insist on civility!
Peace, of a sort, is restored.
CATHERINE
Sorry, Viola.
VIOLA
Me, as well.
CATHERINE
You wrestle like a man.
VIOLA
A quality invested in me by my creator. I have won duels, you know. With swords.
ROSALIND
Such a fracas and over so little. Portia, any idea whom we should prosecute?
PORTIA
(a killing glare)
I think I shall die laughing. I am finished with courts of law. I thought everyone knew that.
ROSALIND
Oh, I know, I know. Still, old habits and so forth. . .
ANNE
More tea?
PORTIA
Yes, please.
ROSALIND
That will be wonderful.
CATHERINE
A crumpet, please.
VIOLA
Fill 'er to the brim.
PORTIA
So, Ms. Hatha-
ANNE
Hm hmmm.
PORTIA
Sorry. Anne. You seem to imply that we, fictions though we may be, might be of service to you?
ANNE
Yes, I need instruction.
(beat)
CATHERINE
Oh, now, that's precious.
PORTIA
I can hardly instruct my servants.
ROSALIND
From us, fictitious beings?
VIOLA
I'm at the wrong tea party!
ANNE
When I was no older than each of you —
CATHERINE
Not me, dearie.
ANNE
Yes, quite right. I should say, when I was twenty-six, I became, how should I say this . . .
VIOLA
Pregnant?
PORTIA
Viola, for heaven's —
ROSALIND
Show a little sensitivity, please.
ANNE
Exactly, pregnant. The father was a child himself, just turned eighteen. My, he was a handsome devil. A tongue that was a gift from the gods. He could turn a phrase —
CATHERINE
And other things as well, or so it would seem.
VIOLA
Is it true what they say about pregnancy?
ANNE
What might that be?
VIOLA
That it is —
(whispers)
— laborious?
PORTIA
It's not called "labor" for nothing, my dear.
VIOLA
Well, I wouldn't know.
CATHERINE
It appears that your creator has failed to include certain elements of your gender, Ganymede.
VIOLA
Cesario.
ROSALIND
I was Ganymede, thank you very much. Still am, it seems.
CATHERINE
You survived it, Anne, whereas . . .
She gestures toward Viola's masculine garb and blows a soft whistle.
VIOLA
I enjoy my alter-ego. If I could, I would have my name changed permanently to Cesario. That would surely delight my precious Orsino.
ANNE
That is precisely what I wish to discuss with each of you.
PORTIA
What? Transvestism?
ANNE
No. Marriage.
VIOLA
Of us?
ROSALIND
Why?
PORTIA
Discuss marriage?
CATHERINE
With me? Ha!
ANNE
I need help. Your advice. Viola, you married up — Orsino was a duke, no less. Portia, you married down — Bassanio was a gold-digger and you know it.
PORTIA
Now, yes, I know. Then? Who cared?
ANNE
Rosalind, you married a younger sort — a child, the same as me. Catherine, you married your match — you and Petruchio are perfectly suited. So, why not the lot of you?
PORTIA
But you are married as well. Unless — you're not getting a divorce, are you?
VIOLA
Divorce! Be a devil's dam.
ROSALIND
Are you, dear Anne? I like you so much.
ANNE
Divorce.
(light chuckle)
Heaven forbid.
CATHERINE
Then?
ANNE
More tea? Excellent. I was three months along when Will and I married, formally so, within the walls of the church. Both families were desperate: mine for my sake — old maids are a financial drain, you see. His were desperate for money. Always money. Both families, money. And I had money as well, my inheritance, a bit more than seven pounds. Eight years separated us, but you know that. Everyone knows of the frightened spinster forcing he impressionable poet to a woebegone wedding bed. For better or for worse, we consummated our marriage without benefit of church. We were handfast, if you will. Quite common then, and perhaps even more so now. I wouldn't know. Then, six months after our session within Holy Trinity, Susanna came to be. I am so fortunate to have had such a first born, fragile yet hardy. Then, hard upon came twins, Judith and Hamnet. Before they breathed their first, my new, young, ambitious, romantic, derring-do husband bid me farewell. And well he fared, but not I. For two and a half decades, I have not seen him though I receive of him a small monthly allowance for the well being of our babes. And now, they are grown or dead, I still am in receipt of his loving pitance. Two pounds five, monthly, enough for satisfactory eating and little else. Do you see how a woman's monthlies can change, sweet Viola?
VIOLA
I don't understand. Monthlies?
CATHERINE
I'll explain later. Go on.
ANNE
Now, I am informed by courier, he is entering retirement and will be returning to our nuptial bed. For what, I am unclear. How to manage such, I am at a loss. You see, my dears, even at my age and married these twenty-eight years, I have yet to experience the embrace of a mature man like he has become. I know for a surety that I will know too little and what little that I do know will be far too little for him. So. I am desperate for your help. Please?
The women look at, to, and through one another. Viola giggles behind her hand, Portia grimaces for show, Rosalind sighs a deep, contented sigh, and Catherine appears quizzical.
CATHERINE
Ladies? Shall we assist?
They concur, each in her own way.
ANNE
That's wonderful. The experiences each of you have had, especially since you emerged from my husband's wickedly risque imagination, will be profoundly important.
CATHERINE
Who should start?
ANNE
I trust you all, but. Portia, I am especially curious about your marriage to Bassanio. He seems to have been, given your circumstances, a most propitious catch.
PORTIA
Seems? I know no seems.
She laughs lightly at her turn of phrase. Is it possible that she is that clever?
PORTIA (cONT'D)
We had no sooner been sermonized than his true colors began to be unfurled. The ring business. That sordid affair should have informed me immediately what sort Bassanio really was, but no, I was blind, too eager to please to be concerned with pleasing myself. I discovered that Bassanio, the deceiving dear, was not in love with me in the least. He loved Belmont. He loved Belmont so profoundly that he began divesting the manor of all its most desirable holdings, giving them to friends, using them as bond in his gambling sessions, even selling them for ready cash. Bassanio didn't love me. He loved what I had: social position and a great deal of money. In addition, he loved Antonio. Or so he led Antonio to believe. Within a fortnight of our marriage and his tryst in court, he had tired of his merchant friend and began lounging with more youthful and vibrant men. His reputation runs amok. So, Anne, if you wish insights regarding how to please a husband, you must look elsewhere. Mine isn't a marriage in the least. I judge it to be a failure. In every respect.
VIOLA
I weep for you, my friend.
PORTIA
Save your tears. You may need them to season tonight's gruel.
ANNE
Viola, you must have some advice for me, surely.
VIOLA
Surely I do. Pleasing my husband — my sexy beast, Orsino — is the delight of my life. And it is so easy -easy as long as I keep my eyes in front of me and my heart behind.
ANNE
Explain.
VIOLA
With great pleasure. On my wedding day, I donned my woman's weeds, all white of course and deliciously seductive, and stood beside him at the alter with such desire, such admiration, and such pleasure to again be wearing a skirt! But he turned away. Can you imagine such a thing? I was stunning! But he turned away. I noted that if he should be obliged to turn in my direction, he kept his eyes firmly shut. I was distraught! I had seen others take their vows and recognized that something, for me, was obviously amiss. So, on a whim, I bade the priest to rest a moment, and I rushed from church to my cubicle in the estate. There I restored my pageboy look. I even ripped the veil from my face! I raced back to church, nodded to the priest to begin again, which he did, and I recklessly punched Orsino on the shoulder with my fist. He turned, eyes open, and seemed to burst with joy at the sight of me. I have learned that Orsino doesn't love Viola — no! He loves Cesario! I wear these rags for his comfort. As well as this.
(she puts a false mustache on her upper lip)
This I sport whenever I am with my love. But when he is not around, I hide it away. It itches. So, my new friend, Anne, my marriage advice to you is this: buy yourself some britches and wear them with manly pride. He is sure to be wooed and most likely won.
The others are laughing; Anne is smiling, perhaps too overtly.
VIOLA
What!
PORTIA
What do you expect? She is a babe.
VIOLA
I will be twenty next month, I have you know.
ROSALIND
Liar!
A little shove from Viola here, but that is all.
ANNE
My Will, even as a boy, was deeply into showmanship. After our handfast, I could see that he was confused, even frightened, most definitely distraught. A month or so after his conquest of my body, he arranged for one of his fellows to dress the part of a girl and accompany him to church. I was there, hiding in the vestibule. Will marched to the alter with his fellow on his arm, a husky young chap named Richard Frisk with a beard coming, and introduced him to the sexton as his intended, one Ann Whateley of Temple Grafton. This to undercut and most likely prevent our solemnization. This ruse might well have worked except for my intervention. Even as the sexton was entering the name "Ann Whateley of Temple Grafton" into the register, I stepped forward and in front of the priest, the sexton, and Will himself promptly ripped the flaxen wig from Richard Frisk's head and tossed it to the tiles. Yes, I was forward. I was forward enough to announce to the world that Will Shakespeare must indeed marry me since I was carrying his child. Will and his tricks. I knew them well. I doubt that he has changed.
All in their own ways offer Anne their condolences. After all, each is acutely aware of the world-renowned trickster, William Shakespeare, and his attempts to, in one way or another, conceal the truth.
ROSALIND
My dear Anne, I may have a ploy or two to assist you in your dilemma.
CATHERINE
This I've got to hear.
ROSALIND
And hear it you shall! I recommend you assume the undeniable role of "dictator." It works for me. "Dictator" of the kitchen, "tyrant" of the garden, "president" of the pig sties, "boss" of the bed. "King" or "Queen" if you will of everything!
ANNE
Explain.
ROSALIND
At our solemnization, I discovered that Orlando, a sweetie if ever there was one, either balked at his responses and simply did not know what to do or say. I had to prompt him. For example, "Do you take this woman -" and he stood there like a block of wood, staring at his shoe tops. He had no idea what to say or how to say it. I whispered to him "I do." And he repeated the words in my exact inflection. All's well that ends well, as they're prompted to say. From that day forward, I have given my precious Orlando little room of his own. At our reception, someone asked if he wanted more punch, and I quickly answered, "Of course he does, don't you, pumpkin." And he said "Of course I do . . . Pumpkin." Later when we were in our connubial hut, preparing for our wedding night's tryst, I commanded him to first undress himself — which he did, oolala — and then to rip my clothing from my body, which he did with such force that -but we won't go into that. I shoved him onto the bed and —
PORTIA
Enough. We get the point.
ROSALIND
The point is this: put the bit in the man's mouth and never cease reining him. It works for Orlando and me. It is sure to work for you and Will. Grrrr.
CATHERINE
It doesn't seem likely to me.
ROSALIND
Why not? She ripped the wig off Ann Whateley's head, didn't she? And in church! She's got balls. She should use them.
ANNE
I'm not certain I know what you mean by "she's got balls."
ROSALIND
It means this.
To the amazement of all except Catherine who is thoroughly amused, Rosalind attacks the goose that still hangs from the ceiling. She proceeds to pommel it thoroughly, beheading it, and leaving the carcase lying limply on the floor.
ROSALIND
Sorry about the goose, Ms. Anne. Was it to be tonight's dinner.
ANNE
Not any longer, I fear.
(beat)
Catherine, I am counting on you.
CATHERINE
For?
ANNE
Useful advice, of course.
CATHERINE
(after a moment of thought)
I have none.
ANNE
But I have read over and over again your words related to a wife's duties to her husband. I treasure them.
PORTIA
You can read?
ANNE
Of course. Don't tell Will. I don't think he knows or would understand. I taught myself with the help of Will's brother, Richard. It has been helpful, being able to read what my hubby writes. I especially admire his sonnets.
ROSALIND
I stand amazed. You have read his works?
ANNE
Oh, yes, all of them. When he finishes a poem or a play, he sends a copy home by special courier with the directions of stowing them away for future reference. It probably never occurred to him that I might find his words compelling. Like yours, Catherine. What did you report as being the duties of a wife?
CATHERINE
Please, let my silliness alone.
ANNE
"Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy sovereign -"
CATHERINE
I know, I know. Will I never live those words down?
ANNE
Why would you want to? They are sublime! "And place your hands below your husband's foot . . ."
CATHERINE
Enough! I die of embarrassment.
VIOLA
I'm taking notes. Thank you, Kate.
ANNE
You were sincere, weren't you?
CATHERINE
Of course not!
ROSALIND
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
VIOLA
Still, they were wise words, don't you think?
PORTIA
I have no opinion either for or against.
CATHERINE
It was a ruse. All a ruse.
PORTIA
Ha. I knew it.
ANNE
Explain?
PORTIA
I doubt she can.
CATHERINE
On the way to Bianca's nuptials —
VIOLA
Bianca?
CATHERINE
That horrid little bitch, my younger sister. Petruchio informed me of his plan, one of his many devious plots. He was a devoted con artist, you see. He knew of my father's penchant for wagering as well as that of Lucencio- they would bet on anything, how long a fly would sit on a slice of meat, that sort of thing- and he was determined that he would take both of them for as much as he could possibly extract. He wormed me into his plot and I, like a ninny, agreed. He composed my text and I memorized it en route. I would put on a show of total obedience, chastise all other women for their foibles and in so doing, allow Petruchio to win his wager. The size of the pot didn't matter to him. The pleasure was in the doing, the winning. And it worked! My father, the fool, was convinced that I had been miraculously transformed, so much so that he gave Petruchio twenty thousand ducats, a second dowry. As a result, my dear hubby lived the high life for almost a calendar year. Once his winnings were squandered, he had no further use for me. We have gone our separate ways. Not divorced, not yet. So, dear Anne, I have no advice, and the advice you seem to accept as worthwhile, my scripted testimonial, is as worthless as the paper on which it is written.
Silence. Viola tries to soothe her but Catherine pushes he away.
CATHERINE (CONT'D)
No. No pity. I have never been so happy as I am now with that monster, that woman-baiter, that gutter-snipe, that rogue, out of my life. So, there is an end to dear Catherine, the obedient one, late of Padua.
Long pause.
PORTIA
Well . . .
ROSALIND
Well, as you say. . .
ANNE
What does that leave me with?
VIOLA
Britches wearing!
ROSALIND
Being bossy!
PORTIA
Being yourself?
CATHERINE
Yes, be yourself. You don't need us.
PORTIA
Not in the least.
ANNE
Myself. Myself indeed. If I only knew who and what "myself" might be. My instinct is to continue as I have always been.
VIOLA
And how is that?
ANNE
In solitude. Here. Alone.
CATHERINE
I can conceive of worse fates.
ANNE
Really? Name one.
(silence)
As I thought. So, what if he returns from London? That is his decision. He may live as he chooses, in his new house in Stratford. Yes, he has bought a house on Henley Street. It is a huge, rambling domicile, cold, worthy of a man of his apparent wealth and social importance. One can easily be alone in a house with so many rooms. But forget that. I will reside here, removed.
VIOLA
How will you survive?
ANNE
I am not destitute, my friend. I have my resources. All of Will's written works are stored in my garden shed, safely concealed from all prying eyes, and if I need anything, all I need do is put one of them up for sale to the highest bidder.
CATHERINE
That sounds like what Petruchio would do.
ANNE
I guarantee you Mr. Shakespeare will be forthcoming. It will be essential. His works are the only children to which he owes obedience. In the meantime, I will continue here, unless . . . No, to consider that he might be moved to renew our marriage is beyond hope.
VIOLA
Oh, I refuse to forfeit hope.
PORTIA
I refuse to acknowledge it, since there is none.
ROSALIND
I intend to trust it to remake my Orlando and force him to be less of a wuss.
ANNE
Perhaps I should forego my desire to become a better wife?
PORTIA
Not a bad choice.
CATHERINE
Give it a go.
ROSALIND
What do you have to lose?
VIOLA
But being a wife is the best role available to women!
CATHERINE
The best role available to a woman is —
ANNE
— being a woman.
PORTIA
Exactly!
CATHERINE
Becoming a better woman —
ANNE
No. A better human being. It will take work.
PORTIA
Terrific.
ROSALIND
Couldn't be better.
VIOLA
My admiration, dear lady.
ANNE
Here is my idea.
VIOLA
I am all ears.
CATHERINE
That comes from wearing your hair too short.
Instead of hitting her, Viola gives Catherine a hug and a mouthed "Thank you."
ANNE
I haven't slept well of late. Perhaps it is because Will is returning home. Or it could simply be because my bed is in need of replacement or at least repair. I have used it for almost three decades. Stored at New Place and subsequently unused is a very fine antique bed. I think I will have it removed to here, my cottage, and I shall use it for my sweeter dreams.
ROSALIND
It is the best bed, isn't it? Fancy with high headboard and posts for mosquito netting?
ANNE
Not quite the best but near. It has a trundle.
PORTIA
You seem a bit long in the tooth to be concerning yourself with trundles.
ANNE
The feature of the bed is its sturdiness, not its capacity for slumber. It is perhaps the most substantial piece of furniture to populate my island of solitude.
VIOLA
Why not take the best bed? You've earned it.
ANNE
No, second best for me. I am sentimental after all. It was the mattress on which our dear Susanna was conceived. I don't dare leave it for him to sell or give away.
CATHERINE
Second best it is then! I'll drink to that.
PORTIA
Yes, tea. More tea everyone?
VIOLA
Of course! Again to the brim.
CATHERINE
And a bit of cake. I've earned it.
ROSALIND
And a toast!
ANNE
Toast! Of course, I forgot the toast!
CATHERINE
She means something else, dearest.
ROSALIND
I raise my cup to the finest "woman" I know — Anne Hathaway Shakespeare!
ANNE
Human being, if you please.
All
Hear, hear!!
(or whatever)
They drink. They begin chattering among themselves in the same fashion as at the beginning, no one wanting to leave. They are engrossed in the question: How does a woman best become a human being and thus a perfect wife? This is of course the end of the play. Or is it?