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“For Antony is but a limb of Caesar.
Let’s be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.
We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar,
And in the spirit of men there is no blood.”
I recognized the words composed by the most worshiped playwright in Cambria, from a history far before ours. The poet was reciting Shakespeare’sJulius Caesar. I lingered in the doorway, searching the room for Cardiff Pearce, as the poet continued his reading.
The nobles listened rapturously to the words, and I, too, became caught up in their irresistible rhythm.
“And after seem to chide ’em. This shall make
Our purpose necessary and not envious;
Which so appearing to the common eyes,
We shall be called purgers, not murderers.”
A lump formed in my throat as the poet’s words seemed to twist, speaking to me directly.
Purgers, not murderers.
The line haunted me, the simple justification for murder—men telling themselves a noble lie in order to live with their brutal actions. And if I remembered correctly, they didn’t end up happy.
I turned and left, unable to listen to another word that might weaken my resolve.
At the next door, another reading was taking place, but I wasn’t yet sure which play.
I looked inside, scanning the room. I caught sight of a tall man in the front row with sharp cheekbones and a stiff back.
He turned his face to the side just enough for me to confirm it was Pearce.
I stepped quietly into the room.
A blonde woman turned at the sound of my entrance, gesturing to the empty seat beside her at the end of the back row.
I took my opportunity, smiling gratefully at her as I maneuvered my billowy plum gown into the chair.
The poet at the front of the room stood in front of a tapestry of a ship in the violent waves of a stormy sea, reading a play with passionate reverence:
“Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury
Do I take part. The rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance. They being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel.
My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore,
And they shall be themselves.”
It wasThe Tempest, I realized. A story my mother had read to me as a child, but that I hadn’t really understood.
As the Poet Laureate continued, I kept my eyes on Pearce, waiting for the reading to be complete and for the man to be alone. Eventually, the last lines were spoken:
