If Shakespeare’s Women Could Speak Today

Anne Hathaway:  

(Soft music, birds in the early light. A lone woman steps into the courtyard. She gazes at the empty table, fingers trailing across its surface. Then she speaks.)

I was his wife.

Not Juliet, not Ophelia, not the flame that lit a stage.
Just Anne. The woman who knew the man before he was a name.

I watched him shape the world with words.
Saw him stitch glory and ruin into the hearts of girls not yet born.
I loved him… and I wondered.

What did he see in us?
What did he miss?

You know their names:
Juliet who loved too fast.
Ophelia who slipped beneath the weight of silence.
Desdemona, faithful unto breath’s last thread.
Lady Macbeth, sharp as steel and just as cold.
Cleopatra—queen, flame, myth.

They were his.
But they were also… us.

Tonight, they return.
Not to perform, but to reclaim.
Not to be remembered, but to remember themselves.

Let them speak.
This time, uninterrupted.

(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Topic 1: “Was It Love, or Something Else?”

Setting: A moonlit courtyard draped in vines. A round marble table reflects the stars. The air is heavy with the scent of jasmine, and a silent understanding binds them—this is a night of reckoning.

 Opening Scene

Cleopatra pours a dark wine into five delicate goblets. No one drinks yet. Desdemona traces the rim of her cup, Juliet looks upward, as if trying to find Romeo among the stars. Ophelia hums something fragile. Lady Macbeth sits erect, unreadable.

Moderator’s First Question (unspoken narrator voice):

“You each gave everything in the name of love. But… was it love? Or something else disguised as it?”

Juliet (earnest):
I was only fourteen. To me, love was poetry. But perhaps… it was the thrill of defiance, of escaping a world that planned my life without asking me. If I had paused—waited a day—maybe I would have seen more than just Romeo’s eyes.

Lady Macbeth (cold, then softening):
Love? I spoke of love, yes—but what I truly loved was power. He was my ladder to the crown. And I believed, foolishly, that we could rise together. But love doesn’t drown you in blood. That… was ambition’s lie, not love’s truth.

Ophelia (quietly):
I wanted to be enough for Hamlet. I wanted to heal him with gentleness. Was that love? Or did I just long to be seen, to matter in a world where my voice was drowned by men’s madness? Maybe I mistook his shadow for affection.

Cleopatra (smiling wryly):
Ah, but love wears many faces, darling. With Antony, it was politics, lust, war, survival—but also… passion that scorched the Nile. Did I use him? Of course. Did he use me? Always. But wasn’t there something real in that fire, even if it burned us both?

Desdemona (eyes distant):
I gave him my soul. My heart. My faith. And when he turned on me, I didn’t fight. I still called it love, even as he took my breath. But now I wonder… was I clinging to the idea of love more than the man before me?

Second Question:

“If it wasn’t love… why did you stay? What held you in place when your heart trembled?”

Cleopatra:
I stayed because leaving meant losing everything—my kingdom, my dignity. Besides, I am not the type to walk away from a gamble. With Antony, I thought we could rewrite destiny. Or die trying. And we did.

Ophelia:
I didn’t know how to leave. No one taught me how. I was always the daughter, the sister, the lady. Not a voice, not a choice. When Hamlet fractured, I fractured too. Maybe I stayed because I didn’t know there was an outside.

Juliet:
Because I believed. I believed in love more than I feared death. When he said forever, I followed. Even when the world screamed danger. My love was blind, yes—but also brave. At least, I think it was.

Desdemona:
I stayed out of trust. A kind of holy trust. I thought my loyalty could be a bridge back to the man I knew. I was wrong—but my staying wasn’t weakness. It was… belief, in the goodness I swore I saw.

Lady Macbeth:
Because I had burned the bridges behind me. There was no return. I tied my soul to his crimes, and so I stayed—not from love, but from consequence. The dagger in my hand was mine as much as his.

Final Question:

“Knowing what you know now… would you choose him again?”

Desdemona (softly):
No. I loved him once. But I would not give myself to a hand that turns against me again. I would still love deeply—but differently. With eyes open.

Cleopatra (laughing through a tear):
Oh, Antony. Yes. I would choose him again. Not because he deserved me—but because in his arms, I remembered I was alive. Even ruin has its romance.

Ophelia:
No. I would choose myself. I would pick flowers and write poems and listen to the river without waiting for a man to define me. I only learned too late that I was enough.

Juliet (after a long pause):
I don’t know. My heart still races at the thought of him. But perhaps love, real love, should not end in tombs. If I could live again… I might ask more questions before I drank.

Lady Macbeth (stone-faced):
No. I would marry silence before I married him again. If I must walk in shadows, let them be mine alone.

 Closing Scene

The women sit in silence. The moon has drifted higher. The goblets remain full, untouched. A single rose petal floats down onto the table. No one speaks—but something has shifted. Perhaps forgiveness. Perhaps freedom.

Topic 2: “The Cost of Loving a Powerful Man”

Setting:
The moon has dipped lower. A gentle breeze brushes the overgrown vines in the courtyard. The marble table is now lit by flickering lanterns hanging from the branches above. The five women remain seated, closer now, as if the silence from the previous question stitched a quiet sisterhood among them.

Narrator’s First Question:

“When we love a man in power—whether political, emotional, or intellectual—what do we lose in ourselves?”

Lady Macbeth (without hesitation):
We lose our reflection. His ambition became mine. His crown, my craving. I didn’t notice the woman I was had vanished—until I could no longer wash her blood from my hands. In power, there’s no room for softness.

Desdemona (eyes lowered):
I lost my voice. I had one, once. I spoke boldly of love. But once Othello’s suspicions grew, I became careful. Measured. Silent. Loving a man revered by others meant being seen through his eyes, not my own.

Cleopatra (amused):
Lose? I gave nothing I didn’t choose to gamble. But yes—even I, Queen of Kings, bent my brilliance to Antony’s orbit. My name still shines, but it is tangled in his. That… was the cost of loving a man who shared my throne.

Ophelia (softly):
I lost my center. Hamlet’s pain pulled me into an ocean I couldn’t swim. Loving someone who held intellectual and emotional power over me meant I drowned quietly—without anyone noticing I’d gone.

Juliet (innocently):
I lost time. Time to grow. To ask. To breathe. Romeo was everything—his name, his house, his fight. My love had no room for me to unfold. It bloomed and burned in the same breath.

Second Question:

“Was his power what attracted you to him—or was it what destroyed you?”

Cleopatra:
Both. Power is seductive. It promises safety, legacy, danger. I loved Antony because he was a war god in mortal skin. But it was that same fire that turned my palace into a tomb. I drank him like wine—until it soured.

Ophelia:
I don’t know if it was power. Hamlet’s mind intrigued me. But I feared it, too. His words twisted like thorns. I wanted to understand him, but he never let me in. His madness, his brilliance—it left no space for tenderness.

Desdemona:
His power made him noble. He stood above others. That drew me to him, yes. But I did not love him because of it—I loved him despite it. Still… that very nobility became a sword turned against me.

Lady Macbeth:
His power was the prize. I saw potential in him—weak but moldable. I pressed him toward it, shaped him. But power devours. In the end, he turned from me, and I from myself. It was not love—it was conquest masked as care.

Juliet:
Romeo had no kingdom. But he had pride. Rage. He challenged the world. Maybe I loved that recklessness, that defiance. But it’s what killed him. And me. His “power” was his passion, and that passion was a fuse.

Third Question:

“If you could speak to a young woman now—on the brink of loving a powerful man—what would you tell her?”

Desdemona (gently):
Do not disappear inside his greatness. Keep a small room in your heart where your voice lives—untouched by his storms. If he truly loves you, he will knock before entering it.

Cleopatra (laughing softly):
Enjoy it—but keep your own crown. Love him, yes. But do not make him the sun while you become a shadow. Even passion must be negotiated.

Ophelia:
If he cannot see you—all of you—step away. Love that demands silence will leave you speaking only in dreams.

Juliet:
Wait. Just a little. Love should be fire, yes, but also morning light. Let it warm you, not scorch you. Ask questions. Listen. Then leap, if it feels right—but not before.

Lady Macbeth (cold, then warmer):
Ask yourself: does he want you to rise with him, or beneath him? If you’re only a ladder… climb down. Power taken for love is a lie that costs your soul.

Closing Scene

The wind picks up gently, carrying away old petals. The goblets are now half-empty. None of them feel weightless—but they do feel witnessed. A hush falls again, not of grief, but of clarity. Somewhere, an owl calls. Juliet looks toward the sound, and they all follow her gaze—toward the dark edge of dawn.

Topic 3: “Did We Choose Our Fate—or Were We Chosen by It?”

Setting:
The night deepens. The stars have shifted. The courtyard now hums with an otherworldly quiet—less sorrowful, more contemplative. A soft mist coils around the women’s ankles. The lanterns flicker as if remembering. This is the hour of reckoning with fate itself.

Narrator’s First Question:

“When you look back… do you believe you made your choices freely—or were you caught in a web spun long before you arrived?”

Ophelia (soft, almost a whisper):
It felt like I was born into a script I never auditioned for. Daughter. Lady. Decoration. My choices were… ripples, not waves. If I chose Hamlet, it was through a glass too fogged to see myself in.

Lady Macbeth (measured):
I chose. Every step. Every whisper. But even as I chose, something inside me murmured I had no other path. Perhaps fate wears the mask of will. And I wore it well—until it cracked.

Juliet:
I thought I was choosing love. But love came too quickly, too perfectly. Like it had been waiting. If fate guided my hand, it did so sweetly. But would I have chosen death—if not for the stars above us, already crossed?

Desdemona (reflective):
I chose him. My father said no. I said yes. I believed in love. In virtue. But perhaps I was answering a call older than me. A song my soul knew. One that led me where it was always meant to go.

Cleopatra (smiling):
Fate? Oh, darling. Fate’s just the name we give to the choices we can’t undo. I moved like a queen—deliberate, strategic—but there were nights I felt a current beneath my crown. A pull… toward Antony, toward ruin. And I didn’t fight it.

Second Question:

“If fate did choose us, do we forgive it—or curse it?”

Juliet:
I forgive it. I loved purely, if briefly. My end was tragedy, yes, but it wasn’t empty. If the stars wrote my story, I hope they wept too.

Lady Macbeth (with bitter laugh):
Forgive fate? No. I curse it… and myself. For believing I could command it. It gave me a taste of glory, then fed me ashes. What kind of fate needs blood to bloom?

Ophelia:
Some days I forgive it. Some days I ache. If fate shaped my silence, I wish it had taught me how to scream. But maybe it brought me here—to this moment of understanding. And that… softens the edge.

Cleopatra:
I forgive nothing, but regret even less. Fate and I danced—we seduced each other. I won empires, lost lovers, and died with my head held high. Let fate do its worst. I’ll still wear my jewels into the afterlife.

Desdemona:
I have no curse left. Only sorrow. If fate brought me to Othello, perhaps it was so I could bear witness—to how love can be twisted, how trust must be taught. My forgiveness is quiet, but it is there.

Third Question:

“If you could rewrite your story, would you fight fate—or follow it differently?”

Cleopatra:
I wouldn’t rewrite a word. I lived like a comet. To dim that fire? Unthinkable. I would only ask for one more hour—to hold Antony without war at our heels.

Desdemona:
I would still love. But I would ask more. Speak more. I would not confuse silence with peace. I would build a love that could withstand shadows.

Lady Macbeth:
I would burn the letter. Stop the crown before it entered our bed. And I would walk alone—yes, alone—but clean. There is power in solitude, I see now.

Ophelia:
I would run. I would climb out the window, barefoot, and let the forest be my freedom. I’d write songs for no one but the moon. No more palaces. Just breath.

Juliet:
I would wait. Just a day. Just a breath. I’d hold his hand and ask him where we were going. And if he looked uncertain… I’d still love him. But maybe I’d live, too.

 Closing Scene

The mist begins to lift. A faint light glows at the edge of the courtyard, not quite dawn, not quite dream. They’ve traveled from grief to wisdom, from fate to clarity. None of them return the same.

A soft breeze rustles the jasmine. Juliet takes Desdemona’s hand. Cleopatra raises her cup. Lady Macbeth watches the sky. Ophelia hums again—but this time, the tune is her own.

Topic 4: “What We Couldn’t Say Then”

Setting:
The courtyard is now bathed in pre-dawn blue. The stars are fading, but the air holds the hush of sacred things. The fountain has stopped. The jasmine blooms hang heavy. This is the hour where truth has no shield, and memory finally speaks.

Narrator’s First Question:

“In your final days, final moments… what did you want to say but couldn’t?”

Desdemona (quietly):
I wanted to ask why. Not angrily—but softly, desperately. “Why don’t you trust me?” I wanted to touch his face and say, “I am still your Desdemona.” But breath left me before words could.

Lady Macbeth:
I wanted to say “I’m scared.” I had been brave for too long, cruel for too long. But the night I walked the halls in sleep, I was begging. Not for power—but for release. I never told him I missed us—before the knives.

Ophelia:
I wanted to tell my father I was sorry. That I still needed him. I wanted to ask Hamlet to look at me—just once—without pain in his eyes. I wanted to say, “I am here. Please don’t vanish.”

Cleopatra (gazing into the distance):
I wanted to say, “Let’s run.” Leave the war, the glory, the mess. Just Antony and I, barefoot by the Nile. But my pride… my damn pride. I wore death better than vulnerability.

Juliet:
I wanted to scream, “Wait!” But it was too late. His lips were warm, his poison cold. I had no time. No breath. I just wanted one heartbeat more. One moment to say, “We could have lived.”

Second Question:

“What truth about yourself did you never get to speak?”

Ophelia:
That I was not fragile. I broke—but only after holding too much. My silence was not weakness. It was endurance. I wish someone had seen the strength in my quiet.

Cleopatra (with fire):
That I loved fiercely. Not just as a queen, but as a woman. History paints me as cunning—but I was also tender, loyal. I gave my heart to Rome, and it broke me. But I would do it again.

Juliet:
That I wasn’t just a girl in love. I had thoughts, dreams. I imagined a life beyond Verona’s hate. I wanted to build something with Romeo—not just die beside him.

Desdemona:
That I doubted. I never said it aloud, but in those final days, I questioned everything. Love, loyalty, justice. I wish I could have spoken my confusion without shame.

Lady Macbeth (slowly):
That I missed being ordinary. Before kings and daggers. I missed laughter. I missed softness. I was not born to be cruel—I learned it, like a language I hoped would save me.

Third Question:

“If he was here now… what would you say to him?”

Juliet (smiling through tears):
I’d say, “Romeo, tell me your dream—not just your death wish.” I’d ask him what life we might have built, if we had dared to slow down.

Desdemona:
I would ask Othello to sit. To breathe. I would say, “Let’s start again. Not as hero and wife—but as two souls trying.” I would still reach for him… but this time, I’d wait for him to reach back.

Lady Macbeth:
I’d look Macbeth in the eye and ask, “Was it worth it?” I doubt he’d answer. But I would say, “You didn’t lose your soul. We lost ours—together.”

Cleopatra:
I’d say, “You fool.” Then I’d kiss him. Then I’d say, “Next time, let’s love without the empire watching.” And maybe—just maybe—I’d mean it.

Ophelia:
I’d ask Hamlet if he ever truly loved me. Not to accuse—but to know. And then I’d tell him: “Even in your madness, I loved you. But I love me now, too.”

 Closing Scene

No one speaks for a long time. The sky is lavender now. A single bird calls. The fountain begins to flow again, quietly, as if releasing tears the women no longer need to hold.

Cleopatra finally lifts her goblet. “To the unsaid,” she whispers. They all raise theirs—not in sorrow, but in tribute. The light touches their faces. Each of them, reborn by confession.

Topic 5: “If We Had Another Life…”

Setting:
The first light of dawn now stretches across the courtyard, turning mist to gold. The lanterns have gone out. The five women, once shadowed by sorrow, now glow faintly in morning stillness. This is the hour of imagining—not what was, but what could be.

Narrator’s First Question:

“If you were given another life—clean, unmarked—who would you be? Not what title… but what essence?”

Ophelia (softly, with strength):
I would be water. Still when I wish. Rushing when I choose. Not a stream trapped by banks, but a river with its own voice. I would be gentle—but not silenced.

Cleopatra (smiling):
I would be wind. Free, unpredictable, dancing over oceans and empires. Not bound by court or crown. I would love who I love—and leave when I please.

Lady Macbeth:
I would be a fire that warms, not burns. A woman who speaks without needing to scheme. Who bakes bread. Who walks forests alone. Who feels her own heartbeat without fear.

Juliet:
I’d be a question mark. Curious, unfinished, never rushed to answer. I want to live slow. To learn the names of flowers. To kiss only when it feels like music.

Desdemona (serene):
I would be a tree. Rooted, strong, open. I would shade others without losing light. I would bend in storms, but never break to please the wind.

Second Question:

“Would you love again—with the same depth? Or would you protect your heart?”

Lady Macbeth:
I would love—but not lose myself in it. No more becoming someone else to be ‘enough.’ My heart would not be a weapon. It would be a lamp.

Desdemona:
Yes. I would love again. But I would listen to the quiet signs. The slight shadows. The hush between the words. I would love… with open eyes.

Juliet:
I would love again. Fiercely. But this time, I’d write the ending myself. Not in blood. Not in haste. I would let love be a journey, not a leap.

Cleopatra (grinning):
Darling, I’d love a hundred times. But differently. With less war, more laughter. I would still dive into passion—but I’d bring a lifeboat.

Ophelia:
Yes, I would love. But I would not ask to be rescued. I’d want someone to walk beside me—not lead, not follow. And if love never came… I’d still dance.

Third Question:

“What would you tell your former self—the girl just before the fall?”

Juliet (gently):
Slow down. Breathe. Love is not a race against time. The stars are not always signs. Ask questions. It's okay to wait.

Ophelia (with a tear):
You are enough. You don’t have to twist yourself to be loved. Speak. Cry. Sing. Let the world hear your voice before it calls you mad.

Cleopatra (whispers):
Guard your crown and your heart. They are not the same. Play your game—but remember: you are not your throne.

Desdemona:
Stand taller. Ask him, again and again, to see you. And if he doesn’t—step away. Love must never come at the price of your breath.

Lady Macbeth:
Don’t chase shadows. Don’t push him toward crowns he isn’t ready for. Be wild. Be kind. Be yourself. The throne is cold. The forest is warmer.

Final Scene

The sky is now full morning. Light paints their faces gold. No longer tragic, no longer merely remembered—they are alive in truth.

They rise, one by one. No longer bound by who they were in men’s stories. Their gowns shimmer like dawn. Their hearts, unburdened.

As they step away from the marble table, Juliet looks back. “We were never just love stories,” she says.

Cleopatra nods. “We were revolutions.”

They walk into the light—not to be forgotten, but to begin again.

Final Thoughts by Anne Hathaway

(The women have walked into the sunrise. Anne remains alone in the courtyard. She places a single rose on the table, then turns to face us once more.)

They were not only his tragedies.
They were their own.

They were not only beautiful.
They were brave.
They were not only remembered.
They were unfinished.

And perhaps… so am I.

But tonight, I watched them choose again.
And this time, they chose themselves.

We were never background.
We were the unwritten.

And now—we write.

Short Bios:

Juliet Capulet

A 14-year-old from Verona whose love for Romeo defied family hatred and tradition. Her passion was pure, impulsive, and ultimately fatal—an emblem of youthful love untamed by the world.

Ophelia

A noblewoman of Elsinore whose gentle spirit and love for Hamlet were drowned by courtly intrigue and unspoken grief. Her descent into silence and madness haunts the soul of Hamlet.

Desdemona

A Venetian noblewoman who defied her father to marry Othello, only to be undone by his jealousy. Her unwavering loyalty remains one of Shakespeare’s most tragic portrayals of innocence betrayed.

Lady Macbeth

Ambitious and commanding, she urged her husband toward regicide to seize the Scottish crown. Her unraveling into guilt and madness is a chilling study of conscience and power’s cost.

Cleopatra

Queen of Egypt, master of seduction and strategy. Her love affair with Mark Antony was fierce, theatrical, and politically fatal. She died as she lived—on her own terms.

Anne Hathaway

Wife of William Shakespeare and mother of his children. Often overlooked by history, she now returns as narrator—offering the voice of the woman behind the playwright, and witness to the women he wrote.