Being Shakespeare’s Wife is Not Easy

Anne Hathaway rants about life with William Shakespeare

An excavation crew has unearthed a letter written by Anne Hathaway (Henley Street, Stratford-upon-Avon) to her friend, Agnes Creasey (Mason’s Road, Shottery). It reads:

Dear Agnes,

I’ve HAD IT TO HERE with life on Henley Street! He’s got me reading his rough drafts again. “Just give ’em a quick look-over,” says Mr. Big-Shot-Bard as he dashes off to London. Meanwhile I’m stuck here with the in-laws, three screaming kids and stacks of his half-done manuscripts. And pure tripe they are, with lines like:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day . . .

What does that man know about life’s petty pace? Has he changed 40 diapers, one after another? (The twins have the diarrhea again; wee Hamnet can’t hold his cabbage). No, I’m the one here walking the floor with a teething Judith, and my mother-in-law hollering down about how I’m doing it all wrong or the babe would have settled by now.

Settled? I’d say I’m the one who settled when I said “I do” to a writer. It’s no life, Agnes. Oh, I know you’ll say he’s doing so well for himself up there in London. But it’s me, stuck sprucing up these crappy first drafts while he’s off soaking up applause.

And his new stuff’s so depressing! You no sooner take a shine to a character than he kills them off. If they’re not stabbed, they’re poisoned. Smothered by a pillow. Bitten by a snake. Beheaded. It’s all blood, gore, death and destruction. “Will,” I said, “Lighten up! People are glum enough, what with this bubonic plague going ‘round.”

So what does he come up with? Some far-fetched fluff about magical flower juice making a fairy queen fall for a donkey. Flower juice, my foot. He must have been well into the mead when he wrote that! “Nobody’s going to pay to see your midsummer night’s dreams,” I told him. “On second thought . . . stick with the murder and mayhem.”

Agnes, remember how your sister said, “Anne, you’re marrying a poet. Your life will be so romantic!”? Oh yes, he’s got a way with words. On paper. Like this bit:

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.”

Meaning love is blind? Well in real life, Will’s got eyes, believe you me. He’s a leg man, Aggie. I caught him ogling Edith Adley’s calves last Sunday — and here’s mine, all criss-crossed with varicose veins from carrying his twins.

I said, “Will! Eyes up!” and hit him with the hymn book. So he tries to sweet-talk me with some shite verse he wrote comparing me to a summer’s day. Oh, I’m steamed — he’s got that part right! He can spend the next few nights on the second-best bed, he can.

Well, I’d better get back to this stack of manuscripts — or else to this stack of mending. His tights are always full of holes. After I darn them, I hand them to him and say, “Look — no holes, Bard!” But he doesn’t even get it! Who do you think adds in all these puns and jokes in his plays?

Your hysterical friend,

Anne

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Judy Millar is a Canadian humorist. Visit her online, connect on Twitter, or enjoy these stories below: