Shakespeare Ate My Brain!!

[unhappytriad]

In honor of the cast of the Town and Gown Players' production of "As You Like It": a Shakespeare fanfic.

Four Epilogues

Orlando

She tried to warn me. I cannot deny that she did her best to tell me that the Rosalind I was in love with, the Rosalind I wrote about, was not the Rosalind who stood there before me, living and breathing. I was right to call her wise; she was wiser than I. She loved me, yes, but she knew that the man she loved she did not know.

We married in haste because our joy could barely distract us from our dread. Summer in Arden, late summer, was a second paradise; but winter was coming, and the Duke’s folk had told us how hard that would be. We knew, too, that if we could come to Arden on foot in just a few days’ travel, why, the usurping Duke could do the same; and with a few armed men and a few hounds he could drive us like deer. Indeed, he proved as much on our wedding day; and in the giddiness of our relief we thought that all threats were over, all trouble burned away like fog by sunrise.

And so I gained a wife, and a dukedom. What did I know of how to manage either?

Oliver

Damn my youngest brother to hell. He could fall into a pigsty and come up clutching a diamond. I plotted to kill him and drove him into the arms of a Duchess. I tried to give him our father’s land, the land that no longer belonged to me, that would have been the bait in the new Duke’s trap—and the new Duke himself restored the land to our family, forgave Orlando his part in Celia’s flight, and took himself neatly away, leaving us to sort it out among us. Of course—of course!—the generous, the courtly Orlando, who was never nearer court than the Duke’s kitchen midden, gave the estate back to me. He had no need of it. And Celia, my fair one, my consolation, must once again yield precedence to her cousin. If she were framed in my fashion, we would have poisoned them both before the end of the wedding feast. But she loves Rosalind, truly, in spite of all, and will hear no word against either of them. So, aye, I will live a shepherd, or at least a master of shepherds—for now.

Rosalind

Dear God, give me patience. My husband, heaven bless his sweet spirit, is like a child who has wandered into a masked ball at midnight. He has no idea where to begin. Has he never been lied to, that he believes whatever is said to him, no matter how false the voice, no matter what contempt burns in the eyes of the one who pretends to fawn on him? He even trusts his brother, while I can neither breathe easily in Oliver’s presence nor rest when he is out of sight, for fear of what mischief he may secretly be setting in motion.

Orlando believes that all is well, that I am starting at shadows. I cannot make him see that though I am a woman, I was born to this world of hidden meaning and subtle maneuver. He will not believe that there is more to do than see that the crops are harvested, that the walls and fences are in good repair, the wages paid and the house well swept. Even Alice has more sense; she knows nothing of what goes unspoken, but she knows that she knows not. There may come a time when she and I will have to steer him into what he must do, as she steered “young master” away from making mudpies in his good clothes.

I would not have it so. I love him. I do love him. If we had stayed in Arden, where neither of us knew what we were doing, we might at least have lived as equals, as comrades.

Celia

I am no longer a Duke’s daughter.

This comes as a relief. I had begun to fear that, with the best will in the world, I would be forced into my father’s mold: to marry whomever would secure his dukedom, flatter whomever he thought important, bring up heirs that would always be looking over their shoulders in case Rosalind should somewhere have an heir or two of her own hidden away.

It is a pleasure to me to scrub my own floors, wash my own clothes, and every evening welcome my husband back to our bed.

I owe nothing to anyone; I own nothing anyone can take away from me. Even Oliver, who still burns with envy, who still cries out his brother’s name in anger in his sleep—even Oliver can sigh, and smile, and lay aside his grievances for an hour or two when he sits by his own fireplace with my head on his shoulder.

This is where I will start again. In time, the hours of happiness will grow longer, and the nightmares fewer. In time, I will teach him that fear is not the only way to win his servants’ obedience. My father’s people, and my uncle’s, loved and respected me, in spite of the bitter wrongs of the one against the other. Our people, both on the farm and on the estate, will come to do the same.

I shall miss Rosalind. Perhaps, when a second generation of cousins are ready to play around their fathers’ feet, the fathers will be ready to stop glaring at each other over the children’s heads.



--Lila Ralston

thanks to Martin, John, Amy and Emily for the amazing performances that inspired this!

note to those who know the play: "Alice" is the equivalent of Adam in the original; the old servant who accompanies Orlando into exile.