All the world's a stage (2)

This is the garden behind the house where William Shakespeare grew up in Stratford-upon-Avon. I was walking here, admiring the lushness and the flowers when I turned and saw a man in a wheelchair a few steps away from me.

I smiled at him. He looked at me intently and said, “Is there something I can do for you?”

He watched me patiently while I considered his question.

“The ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ soliloquy from Macbeth,” I said.

He lowered his head and looked at his hands for several seconds. When he looked up again, he was a different person. He began to speak in a low anguished voice.

There would have been a time for such a word.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

When he finished – several other people had gathered as he spoke – we gave him a warm round of applause. He bowed modestly and turned and wheeled himself away. It was only later I wondered if I should have given him a couple of quid. Everything does seem to have a dollar/pound value these days although he didn’t look as if he expected payment.

I confess, I wasn’t completely surprised by his question. We had come to Stratford with a charming small touring business called The English Bus. Our guide had told us before we arrived that there are often actors in the grounds or in the houses, always willing to play a part.

More about Stratford and Shakespeare and The English Bus tomorrow.