CHARACTERS:
William — William Wordsworth.
Sam — Samuel Coleridge.
Lights up. William is reading something scribbled on a piece of paper.
WILLIAM: “To William Wordsworth: Lines composed, for the greater part on the Night, on which he finished his recitation of his Poem concerning the growth and history of his own mind. January, 1807. (Clears his throat, preparing to read the text of the poem itself. Maybe he puts on a little voice.) Friend of the Wise! and Teacher of the Good! (A momentary pause—he smiles to himself. That’s him!) Into my heart have I received that Lay…”
Samuel enters. Something seems wrong; his gait is completely off. William quickly sets the paper down and rushes to catch him as he stumbles over nothing.
WILLIAM: Sam. Hey—
SAM: Don’t touch me.
William backs off immediately.
WILLIAM: Okay. (beat) Maybe you should sleep this off. Do you want to—
SAM: I’m going home.
A beat. Samuel collapses into a chair.
WILLIAM: Oh.
SAM: Yes. I already told Hartley.
WILLIAM: You could stay with us another day, just to make sure you’re… (He gestures vaguely; doesn’t say “sober” or “well.”) Hartley loves it here, he wouldn’t mind—I’m almost like a second father to him. (A beat. He realizes that was an odd thing to say.) Have you just taken something? Maybe you shouldn’t—
SAM: I’m fine.
WILLIAM: Okay.
It’s true that he doesn’t seem as out of it anymore. William is still wary. Beat.
WILLIAM: I thought you were getting better. (He waits. No response.) Is this because of Sara? I already told you that there isn’t anything going on between us. Whatever you think you saw—
SAM: No.
A beat. William realizes this isn’t going anywhere.
WILLIAM: No matter. Let’s get you back to your room.
He moves to help Samuel up. Samuel pushes him away.
SAM: (hard) I’m leaving, William.
WILLIAM: I don’t understand. You seemed fine the other evening—when I was reciting my work for everyone at the table. I didn’t take my eyes off you all night.
SAM: (suddenly) Do you ever stop talking like—that?
WILLIAM: Like what?
SAM: Oh. Makes sense. (He laughs.) You don’t even realize you’re doing it.
WILLIAM: Doing what?
SAM: Do you ever realize how you make other people feel? The way you speak to them, the way you say things. It’s like you want—everyone to be in love with you all the time.
WILLIAM: I don’t want—
SAM: You do! Don’t pretend otherwise. You love it when people are obsessed with you—your talent, your words, you—and you want everyone in every room to be looking at and listening to you.
WILLIAM: (calmly) I think you should get some rest and go in the morning. This isn’t you speaking.
SAM: (ignoring him) And it’s awful because—you’re so good at it. The way you write, the way you speak… you’re the best of this age. Of course everyone who’s ever heard your work is in love with you—they can’t look away. There has never been another you. I said it even before that first summer we spent together at the Lakes.
WILLIAM: You did. I remember. (beat) Are you in love with me?
A long beat with no answer. Samuel finally moves to leave.
SAM: Hartley is probably almost finished packing his things.
William contemplates this.
WILLIAM: Do you remember our walks by the lake? That first summer? How we’d talk for hours about nature and philosophy and everything we’d ever wanted to share with another person.
SAM: (miserably) Yes.
WILLIAM: I think about that summer all the time. I think— (He hesitates, but decides to say it anyway.) I think I would have been content if you were the only person who ever heard my poetry. I don’t need anyone else to hear it. (It is obvious what this means. Samuel is silent.) Please stay. I don’t want to do it without you.
SAM: You don’t need me.
WILLIAM: I do. I write my best poetry when I’m with you.
SAM: Maybe you’ll write better poetry once I’m gone. About—Sara, or your wife, or any other woman you’ve loved. I don’t know. I won’t read it.
WILLIAM: I think you will. I don’t think you could resist reading anything I write. (A beat. William is somewhere else.) I won’t write better poetry. I think I won’t feel anything anymore. I’ll look at the lake and not see my own reflection in it. The trees will look dull in the autumn and the leaves won’t bother changing colour. The daffodils that dance at the bases of the hills will wither away. I wouldn’t ever write a good poem again.
Beat.
WILLIAM: The “Poem to Coleridge”—it’s my life’s work. Thousands of lines. I can’t finish it on my own—it needs an audience. It needs you.
Beat.
WILLIAM: My sister will miss you.
SAM: I’m not dying. I’m just leaving. (half to himself) Malta should be good for my health—and I need to stop spending so much time with… (He gestures.) I was just—momentary stars—twinkling for a moment before they blinked out. Who was I kidding by trying to be a poet? I’m not like you. I don’t feel things the way you do.
William kisses Samuel. He responds, for a couple of beats. It goes on a second too long to just be an attempt to prove something; neither pulls away first. Afterwards, a beat of silence.
SAM: Don’t do me any favors.
WILLIAM: I wasn’t.
SAM: You are—awful.
WILLIAM: You’re contradicting yourself. Are you certain you’re sober?
SAM: (ignoring him) Maybe I’m finally telling the truth.
WILLIAM: I don’t believe you.
SAM: Doesn’t matter. You might understand—beauty and poetry and how everything in the entire world is connected to everything else through feeling and emotion and sentiment—but you don’t understand the slightest thing about how I feel about you.
WILLIAM: I do.
SAM: You don’t. Do you know how small you make me feel? (No answer.) Listening to you speak, reading your work—knowing you—I’ve realized I’m not much of a poet at all. Wouldn’t that make you resent someone, just a little? If they showed you just how much you were incapable of doing—of being? (resigned, not angry—) I hate what you’ve done to me. I hate you.
WILLIAM: I love you too. (beat) Stay in Coleorton another day.
SAM: Goodbye, William. (He looks away.) It was a good Christmas. I’ll see you soon.
Samuel makes to leave. William, searching, finally holds up the paper he was reading.
WILLIAM: Are you going to take your poem?
Samuel is surprised, but only for a moment.
SAM: That’s your copy. It’s for you to keep.
Samuel leaves. A long moment of silence. A stock-dove call is heard; William considers it. Slowly, he sits back down and picks up the paper again.
WILLIAM: (reading) “When thy long sustainéd song finally closed, and thy deep voice had ceased—yet thou thyself wert still before my eyes… absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound—(Samuel is gone, but William sees him nonetheless—“still before his eyes”—) and when I rose, I found myself in prayer.”
William looks to where Samuel exited. He looks back at the paper. What is he supposed to do with this? He motions as if he’s maybe about to crumple it—but doesn’t. Instead, he carefully folds the paper and sets it back down on the desk. He puts his head down.
Blackout.
Arya Vishin is a mixed Kashmiri-American & Jewish writer. He is currently studying English & South Asian Studies @ UC Berkeley. He has started many RPF rumours about Lyrical Ballads (1798). He can be found on Twitter @thewodensfang.