Behind us, two boys carried the things I had bought for my new friend.

“But I have known you only a few hours, Cartaphilus.”

“Really? Do you believe in your heart that you have known me only a few hours?”

“I do not know. Just now, I had the feeling that you were indeed my brother—What do I say? Dearer than a brother—one I had known not only from the moment I drew breath, but from some distant endless past, from the beginning of all things.”

“You are right. You have known me always, for always I thought of you, Antonio,—always—and in my mind you were born centuries before you drew your first breath.”

What strange emotion indeed drew me to this boy? He seemed dearer to me than Damis, more lovable than John. I pressed his arm which, though firm, had the soft contours of a girl’s.

“Who are you, Cartaphilus?” he asked me, almost in a whisper.

“Your brother, Antonio.”

“My brother is the strangest man I have ever laid my eyes upon. He is more beautiful than the moon which lies upon the crystal pillow of the lake. His language is as sugared as Shakespeare’s.”

“Do not speak of Shakespeare, Antonio!”

“You are jealous, Cartaphilus,” he laughed.

“I am.”

“I am happy that you are jealous! I see that you are, after all, a man.”

“And you, Antonio?”

“I am…a…woman.”

“What did you say, Antonio?”

He laughed uproariously. “Should it not be so—a man—a woman?

Always that. All plays, comedies, tragedies—what are they but a man and a woman, seeking or avoiding each other?”

“You are an actor always.”

“And you, Cartaphilus, are you not an actor?”

“Yes. You have guessed my nature. I am an actor, with many parts.”

“And your latest—the brother of Antonio. Is it not so?”

“Is it a comedy or a tragedy, Antonio?”

“The difference between the two is very slight. Shakespeare often turns his tragedies into comedies. By a slight twist here, a change there—presto, a comedy has become a tragedy and vice versa. Romeo and Juliet he first conceived as a comedy. Romeo marries his sweet-heart. And there was an epilogue too in which—” Willie smiled sadly. “No, that was really too gruesome. The epilogue showed them as husband and wife, quarreling and hating each other. It was Shakespeare’s own life. He could not endure it. It was too horrible.”

“Is Shakespeare very unhappy?”

“Very.”

“This is why you love him.”

“Perhaps.”

“I wish I were unhappy, Antonio…”

“You will never be unhappy, Cartaphilus. You have the temperament of an actor. You will always be able to change your part if it becomes too unpleasant.”

This youth’s intuition was uncanny. He knew me as well as I knew myself after centuries of meditation!

Upon seeing Willie, Kotikokura became gloomy. I detected a murderous twitch in his hands. Willie sensed his animosity and straight-way began to placate him. He called him a hundred endearing names. He wrestled with him, patted his face, ruffled his hair. Kotikokura, bewildered, began to grin.

“I have brought you a toy—a little dog in the shape of a youth, to play with, Kotikokura. Have you seen anything or any one more delicious than this creature?”

Kotikokura relented.

“Besides, do you not recognize him? He is Antonio, Kotikokura. Look at him.”

Kotikokura stared, surprised.

“Antonio resurrected. He is our little friend of Florence.”

“Kotikokura!” Willie exclaimed. “Kotikokura! What a name! What a strange, beautiful, funny, ridiculous, charming, gorgeous, fantastic, terrible, devilish, divine, uproarious, sad, merry name! Kotikokura! Kotikokura!” Willie jumped upon his neck. “You are the dearest, best, most horrible creature in the world! You are Pan, Caliban, Ariel.”

Kotikokura began to dance. Antonio joined him. “Come, Cartaphilus, dance! What is life but a dance,—grotesque and magnificent at the same time? Dance!”

Carried away by the merriment, we danced until out of breath, we fell in a heap upon the floor.

“I am thirsty, Cartaphilus,” Antonio whispered.

“Kotikokura, wine!”

Kotikokura filled our cups. We drank to beauty that is truth, as Toni had drunk—so long ago. Was this a dream, a play by Master Will Shakespeare or reality?

“Oh, I forget,” Antonio rose with a jerk. “My new garments! I must try them on.”

“By all means, little brother.”

“I do not like to be naked in the presence of other people,” he said seriously.

“Not even in mine?”

“Please– —”

“We shall not embarrass you then, Antonio. Dress in that room behind the curtain while Kotikokura and I drink another cup together.”

“No peeping,” Antonio warned.

“I swear it.”

Kotikokura poured himself a cup of wine, emptied it at one gulp, and repeated the process three times. He wished to forget something, to drown some emotion. Was it love for the youth or hatred or jealousy? Very likely, a mingling of all these emotions, too entangled and irritating. He stretched out upon the floor and snored promptly.

Sleep is a yearning to disappear from the earth, a temporary death without which man could not continue to live. That was why I, deathless, could endure life. I died every day for a while.

Willie Hewes was still dressing himself. I could hear now and then a movement, a creaking of the floor. A desire to see the youth naked possessed me. Was he as handsome as the other Antonio? Was his skin as white? Was his body as exquisitely shaped? And there was something else too,—something I could not explain, a curious uneasiness. Did he really feel embarrassed? How unusual for an actor! Did not Bacon say that the youth was known for his escapades with wenches, that his reputation at the Globe Theater was not that of a modest youth?

I promised I would not “peep.” I might arouse his displeasure. It would be a pity. At the beginning of friendship, it might prove disastrous.

But even while these ideas crossed and recrossed my brain, my hand lifted carefully a corner of the curtain.

The long Venetian mirror reflected in gorgeous nakedness—not Antonio, but Antonia—the most beautiful of girls—two small breasts round as apples, a throat as firm and smooth as marble, hips and arms and a torso dazzling like the morning sun. The body was firmly knit as a boy’s, but rounded delicately, giving the illusion of softness. The hair, curled and cut at the nape of the neck, resembled that of a Grecian statue.

“Antonia,” I whispered.

Willie turned around and caught her breath. By an ancient instinct, she covered with one arm her breasts, with the other her femininity. Her face flushed, her lips parted.

“Cartaphilus! Did you not swear– —?”

I entered the room. “I swore, but I am happy I perjured myself. Antonia, my dearest, my loveliest maiden!”

She hid her head upon her bosom and sobbed quietly.

I embraced her. “Is it not infinitely more delectable to find that Antonio is Antonia?”

“Everybody will hear of it now and I shall have to leave the theater. I shall have to be merely a woman. No more for me the joy and the recklessness of a boy!”

“How can you think that, my love? If Antonia desires to be Antonio, shall Cartaphilus frustrate her wish? How much more poignant her beauty, vacillating between boy and girl…”

She raised her head, and wiped one tear that hung midway between the eyelash and the cheek.

She clasped my head and looked into my eyes.

“Is it right for Cartaphilus to love his sister?”

I seated her on my knee upon the edge of the bed and as I fondled her delicately with my lips and fingers, I recounted my experience with the two Florentine children.

“Cartaphilus is not your brother, Antonia. He was never your brother. He was always your lover. Antonia desired to be Antonio. She said she had been intended for a man. And now, at last, she is—and yet is not—a man. Is there anything more exquisite in all the world than Antonia-Antonio—Toni—both in one?”