The Riddle of the River by Catherine Shaw Read Free Book Online Page A

vaporously in my mind as we took a bumpy omnibus to Hampstead, carrying our bag and a picnic basket generously filled by Kathleen and covered with a chequered cloth. The streets were full of people in their Sunday best, and the sunshine gilded dusty London with a golden glint.
    â€˜Enjoy yourselves,’ she had said good-heartedly on seeing us off. ‘You’re lucky with the weather. I hope it lasts.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t you like to come?’ I asked.
    â€˜Oh – I think not,’ she replied quickly. ‘We’re going to the Pinero reading, I told you; a friend of Ernest’s will be reading one of the main parts. And anyway – well, no. It’s better not.’
    We walked for some distance after descending from the omnibus, asking our way several times, until we reached the expanse of meadow where the play was to be held. Large signs with directions had been installed in its vicinity, making the last part of the walk easy enough, and we arrived more than an hour early, and settled ourselves a short distance away from the bustle going on around the tent and caravan that were being set up near a little grove. The tap-tap of a hammer rang through the still, warm air. Bees buzzed, other small creatures came to investigate our meal, and Arthur removed his jacket and reclined upon it, accepting the large wedge of bread and cheese I handed him. Kathleen had put ina piece of meat pie as well as a bottle of water and several fruits. I leant against Arthur and allowed myself an hour of dreamy respite from life’s responsibilities.
    When the play was soon to begin, we gathered up our things, swept off crumbs, shook out the cloth and made our way to the makeshift ticket stall which had been established in front of the clearing which was to serve as a stage, upon which the long-stemmed Queen Anne’s lace and the reedy grasses had been carefully shorn. For an extra penny one could rent a cushion; we took two, and settled ourselves in an inviting spot. There were few people as yet, but as the minutes passed they began to arrive in a trickle which turned into a steady stream, and by the time the three knocks signifying the raising of the non-existent curtain were to be heard, we were surrounded by a human swarm clad in shirtsleeves, muslin and straw hats.
    The Greeks entered upon the scene, in white swathes and sandals, and the severe scolding of Hermia for loving a man not of her father’s choosing began. I found myself concentrating on the familiar words – and realised with a shock that I never had listened to them properly before.
    Theseus: 
What say you, Hermia? be advised, fair maid:
To you your father should be as a god;
One that composed your beauties, yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax
By him imprinted and within his power
To leave the figure or disfigure it
.
    Hermia’s fundamental sin is to
possess a will
. For this, she isgiven the choice between obedience – murder of the will, death – murder of the body, or perpetual reclusion – murder of the soul. And she chooses the last.
    Hermia: 
So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,
Ere I will yield my virgin patent up
Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke
My soul consents not to give sovereignty
.
    And I perceived in these words the eternal and fatal circle of transgression and punishment, where previously I had seen nothing but a poor maiden crossed in love, but certain to triumph in the end. I poked Arthur in the ribs with my elbow, and he glanced at me, shrugging very slightly.
    There it was, in Shakespeare’s own words: what are you, what are we all, but
forms in wax
, controlled by authority, destined to yield or die?
    Was this comedy? Were we meant to laugh or cry?
    To laugh, of course. We all know that Hermia will wed her beloved in the end.
    Yes – thanks to supernatural help. The price of her rebellion is paid by Titania, whose own submission is a work of sorcery. I was