The Gap of Time (23 page)
Authors: Jeanette Winterson
It was the night of the concert.
The big space was full. Red lanterns and red lights lit the audience. The raised stage was silver-white with a big grand piano and drum kit and plenty of room for the brass section. There were a couple of local breaking bands, two performance poets, a stand-up comedian and a fire eater.
The Separations finished their set. The audience loved them. “I could sell them,” said Leo. Pauline pulled her
oy vey
face at him. “Don't you know the old saying Don't boil your children to make into spoons?”
“Can you cut the Yidderish and tell me what's happening?” said Leo. “Why are they rearranging the stage? Who are those guys coming on to play?”
“That's her band.” Said Pauline.
“Whose band?” Said Leo.
The theatre and the stage went black. Blackout-black like a night in a dream. And then there was a light, high up like a light in a window. And were those feathers falling from the rig, or was it snow? And were there diamonds mixed in with the snow and the feathers, shining like another chance?
And the follow-spot lit up an empty space that had been empty for as long as anyone could remember, and what is memory but a rope slung across time?
A woman is standing like a statue in the light. She's wearing a simple black dress and red lipstick, her heavy hair cut short.
She doesn't move. Then she does.
“This song is for my daughter. It's called âPerdita.'â”
Leo stood up, went into the aisle. From somewhere in the theatre Xeno came and stood beside him. He put his arm round Leo. Leo was crying now, long tears of rain.
That which is lost is found.
So we leave them now, in the theatre, with the music. I was sitting at the back, waiting to see what would happen, and now I'm out on the street in the summer night, the rain tracing my face.
I wrote this cover version because the play has been a private text for me for more than thirty years. By that I mean part of the written wor(l)d I can't live without; without, not in the sense of lack, but in the old sense of living outside of something.
It's a play about a foundling. And I am. It's a play about forgiveness and a world of possible futuresâand how forgiveness and the future are tied together in both directions. Time is reversible.
The late plays of Shakespeare depend on forgiveness.
But what is it that's forgiven?
The Winter's Tale
revisits
Othello
. A man who would rather murder the world than change himself. But this time the heroine doesn't have to die in the service of the hero's delusions. It is really himself that Othello can't love or trustânot Desdemonaâbut when Shakespeare returns to this theme, he brings with him a second chance.
Hermione doesn't die. And Leontes and Polixenes don't die either. And the future is secured because Florizel and Perdita won't behave like their fathers. Will they?
Forgiveness. There are only three possible endings to a storyâif you put aside And They All Lived Happily Ever After, which isn't an ending, but a coda.
The three possible endings are:
Revenge. Tragedy. Forgiveness.
Shakespeare knew all about revenge and tragedy.
Towards the end of his working life he became interested in forgivenessâor rather, he became interested again in forgivenessâbecause it's there in the character of Helena against the selfish, spoilt Bertram's pornographic narcissism in
All's Well That Ends Well
, and it's there in Isabella against the lustful savagery of
Measure for Measure
. And it's there in Portia, the poet of mercy against the killing debt of a pound of flesh. It's not that Shylock is a Jewâit's that he's not enough of a Jew. The Old Testament is predicated on wiping the slate clean: forgiving the debt. The past must not mortgage the future.
Supremely, forgiveness is the measure of Cordelia and Hermione. In
King Lear
, Cordelia dies in the service of love, battling another pair of Shakespeare's Hostile Brothers, Edmund and Edgar (think how often he uses that deviceâand what else are Leontes and Polixenes?). Cordelia is caught too between her sisters, Goneril and Regan, serpents as deadly as Lady Macbeth, in thrall, like her, to the power-plays of maleness. Lear, as a father, does not protect his youngest child from his own madness, just as Leontes abandons Perdita to kites and ravens, wolves and bears. Shakespeare was not an enthusiast of family life; would you want to be raised by a Montague or a Capulet? Would you want parents like Hamlet's parents?
Miranda, in Shakespeare's final play,
The Tempest
, gets a father worth being born forâbut there are only the two of them on the island, and when Ferdinand appears, Prospero teeters on the edge of the usual jealous rage, proofing himself against the future by refusing to let it happen. He doesn't give in to the rageâand Shakespeare walks away from the play, as we do, leaving it to the kids to get it right next time.
As Ezra Pound said, “Make it new.”
The Winter's Tale
is a play where the past depends on the future just as much as the future depends on the past. The past in
The Winter's Tale
is not history; it's tragedy. And tragedy can't happen without consciousness. It is the scale of the loss, the sense of it and its senselessness, that makes the jealousy and violence of the first act so painful.
Part Two, with its dancing shepherds and easy pastoral, is an obvious contrast to the dark, shadowed halls of Sicilia. The values of the Shepherd and his son, the Clown, are right-minded virtues compared to the self-justifying sophistries of metropolitan minds.
Polixenes, who has had our sympathy in Act One, proves himself as conventional and irrational as Leontes, when in Part Two he tries to wreck the love between his son, Florizel, and Perdita with death threats as sexually sadistic as anything dreamed up by Leontes.
Perdita is too common for his boy. It's a misreading of the female as fatal as Leontes's misreading of Hermione or Lear's misreading of Cordelia.
That everything comes right in Part Three looks like a sleight of hand but it isn't. Leontes's repentance is real. He has hated himself for sixteen years. Hermione's steadfastness is the opposite of the hasty violence of Leontes in Act One or the cruel rage of Polixenes in Part Two.
Hermione does the thing most difficult to do to right a wrong situation: nothing.
Nothing is the key word of the play. Leontes's demented speech on the supposed adultery contains its own answer, but he can't hear it:
Is whispering nothing?
Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses?
Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career
Of laughter with a sigh?âa note infallible
Of breaking honesty. Horsing foot on foot?
Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift,
Hours minutes, noon midnight? And all eyes
Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,
That would unseen be wicked? Is this nothing?
Why then the world and all that's in't is nothing,
The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing,
My wife is nothing, nor nothing have these nothings
If this be nothing.
After the nuclear wastes of Leontes's fallout, there is nothing that can be done until the next generation is ready to remedy itâand they too must first escape the necrotic longings of the past, as Perdita avoids death for a second time.
This is an “old tale,” a fairy tale. But in a fairy tale the threat usually comes from the outsideâa dragon or an army or an evil sorcerer. Shakespeare, anticipating Freud, puts the threat where it really is: on the inside.
The Winter's Tale
was first performed in 1611. It took another three hundred years before the nascent science of psychoanalysis began to understand how the past mortgages the future, or that the past can be redeemed. How the past lies in wait as an ambush, or as a beggar in disguise. Shakespeare loved disguises; one thing or one kind masquerading as anotherâa girl who's a boy who's a girl. A princess who is a shepherdess who is a goddess. A statue that comes to life. That things are not what they seem is the terror and the glory of
The Winter's Tale
.
And time, that sets all limits, offers our one chance at freedom from limits. We were not trapped after all. Time can be redeemed. That which is lost is foundâ¦
So let the last word be hers.
Soon this will become our life together and we have to live in the world like everyone else. We have to go to work, have children, make homes, make dinner, make love and the world is low on goodness these days so our lives may come to nothing. We will have dreams but will they come true?
Maybe we'll forget that we were the site where the miracle happened. The place of pilgrimage that fell into disuse, overgrown with weeds, run-down and neglected. Maybe we won't stay together. Maybe life is too hard anyway. Maybe love is just for the movies.
Maybe we'll hurt each other so much that we will deny that what happened happened. We'll find an alibi to prove that we were never there. Those people didn't exist.
Maybe, one night, when the weather is bad and you are holding my wrists too tight, I'll take a torch and go for a walk in the rain, my collar up against the wind, and the stars not there in the dark, and a bird startles out of the hedge, and there's the gleam of puddles under battery-light, and farther off the sound of the main road, but here the sound of the night and my footsteps and my breathing.
Maybe then I will remember that, although history repeats itself and we always fall, and I am a carrier of history whose brief excursion into time leaves no mark, I have known something worth knowing, wild and unlikely and against every rote.
Like a pocket of air in an upturned boat.
Love. The size of it. The scale of it. Unimaginable. Vast. Your love for me. My love for you. Our love for one another. Real. Yes. Though I find my way by flashlight in the dark, I am witness and evidence of what I know: this love.
The atom and jot of my span.
And thanks to my agent and my friend, Caroline Michel. The team at Chatto, especially Juliet Brooke and Becky Hardie. Rachel Cugnoni and Ãine Mulkeen at Vintage. My colleagues at the University of Manchester, especially John McAuliffe. Laura Evans, who managed the copyedit and my mad proofs, and Val McDermid, who solved a problem. And to Susie Orbachâwho married me.
And last but not least: to William Shakespeare. Wherever you are.
He was not of an age, but for all time.
âBen Jonson
For more than four hundred years, Shakespeare's works have been performed, read, and loved throughout the world. They have been reinterpreted for each new generation, whether as teen films, musicals, science-fiction flicks, Japanese warrior tales, or literary transformations. The Hogarth Press was founded by Virginia and Leonard Woolf in 1917 with a mission to publish the best new writing of the age. In 2012, Hogarth was launched in London and New York to continue the tradition. The Hogarth Shakespeare project sees Shakespeare's works retold by acclaimed and bestselling novelists of today.
