Scene II.
A private room at an inn late at night. Through the door in the right wall is seen the outer public room, with men sitting drinking. There is a window at the back, set so low in the wall that, above the window-sill, the heads of summer flowers glisten in the moonlight. On the left wall is the hearth and between it and the window a low bed. In the centre is a table with candle, glasses and mugs, and two or three men sitting round it drinking. Marlowe stands with his back to the window, one foot on a chair, shouting out a song as the curtain rises.
Marlowe [singing]. If Luck and I should meet I’ll catch her to me crying, ‘To trip with you were sweet, Have done with your denying!’ Hey, lass! Ho, lass! Heel and toe, lass! Who’ll have a dance with me? All Together. Hey, Luck! Ho, Luck! Ne’er say no, Luck! I’ll have a dance with thee!
A Man [hammering the table]. Again! Again!
Landlord [at the door]. Sir, sir, there’s without a young gentleman hot with riding—
Marlowe. Does the hot young gentleman give no name?
Landlord. Why yes, sir, Archer, Francis Archer! He said you would know him.
Marlowe. I knew an Archer, but he died in Flanders.
Landlord. He may well come from Flanders, sir, for he’s muddy.
Marlowe. Are Flanders’ graves so shallow? Tell him if he’s alive I don’t know him, and if he’s dead I won’t know him, and so either way let him go where he belongs.
The Landlord goes out.
The Man. What, Kit! send him to hell with a dry throat?
Marlowe. And all impostors with him!
The Man. But what if it were a true ghost? Have a heart! You’ll be one yourself some day, and watch old friends run away from you when you come to haunt them in pure good fellowship.
Landlord [at the door]. Sir, he says indeed he knows you. His business is private.
Marlowe. Well, let him come in. No, friends, sit still! If he’s the death he pretends we’ll face him together as the song teaches.
[Singing.] When Death at last arrives, I’ll greet him with a chuckle, I’ll ask him how he thrives And press his bony knuckle, With—Ho, boy! Hey, boy! Come this way, boy! Who’ll have a drink with me? Mary’s Voice [on the stairs]. Hey, Sir! Ho, Sir! No, no, no, Sir! Why should he drink with thee? All Together. Hey, Death! Ho, Death! Let me go, Death! I’ll never drink with thee!
Mary stands in the doorway. She is dressed as a boy, with cloak, riding boots, and slouch cap.
Mary [singing]. If Love should pass me by, I’ll follow till I find him, And when I hear him sigh, I’ll tear the veils that blind him. Up, man! Dance, man! Take your chance, man! Who’ll get a kiss from me? All Together. Hey, Love! Ho, Love! None shall know, Love! Keep but a kiss for me! [They clap.]
The Man [to Marlowe]. Ghost of a nightingale! D’you know him?
Marlowe. I think I do. [To Mary, aside] What April freak is this?
The Man [with a glass]. Spirits to spirit, young sir! Have a drink!
Mary. I should choke, sir! We drink nectar in my country.
The Man. Where’s that, ghost?
Mary. Oh, somewhere on the soft side of heaven where the poppies grow.
The Man. He swore you were dead and buried.
Mary. And so I was. But there’s a witch in London so sighs for him and so cries for him, that in the end she whistled me out of my gravity and sent me here to fetch him home to her.
The Man. Her name, transparency, her name?
Mary. Why, sir, I rode in such haste that my memory could not keep up with me. It’ll not be here this half hour.
Marlowe. Landlord, pour ale for a dozen, and these friends will drink to her, name or no name—in the next room.
The Man. Kit, you’re a man of tact! I’m a man of tact. We’re all men of tact!
Ho, boys! Hey, boys! Come this way, boys! Who’ll have a drink with me?
The door closes on them.
Mary. Well, did you ever see a better boy? My hair was the only trouble.
Marlowe. Madcap! What does this mean?
Mary. What I said! [singing]. Moth, where are you flown? To burn in a flame! Moth, I lie alone— You’ve not been near me these four days.
Marlowe. Uneasy days—I could not.
Mary. Are you burned, moth? Are the poor wings a-frizzle?
Marlowe. Not mine, dear candle, but a king of moths, But a great hawk-moth, velvet as the night He beats with twilight wings, he, he is singed, Fallen to earth and pitiful.
Mary. Oh, Shakespeare! My dear, I’ve run away because I hate The smell of burning.
He was to come to me to-night to tell me his tragedies and his comedies and—oh, I yawn! And I played her so well too at the first—
Marlowe. Who?
Mary. The cool nymph under Tiber stairs—what’s her name?—Egeria. Am I your Egeria, Marlowe?
Marlowe. Something less slippery.
Mary. Oh, she was fun to play—first to please the Queen and then to please myself. For I was caught, you know. It’s something to be hung among the stars, something to say—“I was his Juliet!”
Marlowe. What, you—you Comedy-Kate?
Mary. Why, I’m a woman! that is—fifty women! While he played Romeo to my Juliet I could be anything he chose. O Kit! I sucked his great soul out. You never lit the blaze I was for half an hour: then—out I went!
Marlowe. He stoops o’er the embers yet.
Mary. But ashes fanned Fly from their centre, lighter than a kiss, And settle—where they please! [She kisses him.] D’you love me?
Marlowe. More than I wish.
Mary. Would you be cured?
Marlowe. Not possible.
Mary [singing]. Go to church, sweetheart, A flower in your coat! Your wedding bells shall prove The death of love! The death of love! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The death of love! Or so Will says.
Marlowe. He should know.
Mary. What’s that?
Marlowe. Nothing.
Mary. He’s married?
Marlowe. I do not tell you so.
Mary. Married! He shall pay me. Married! I guessed it—but he shall pay me. A country girl?
Marlowe. If you must know! He has not seen her these ten years. She sent for him the night of ‘Juliet.’
Mary. Why now all’s plain. So she’s the canker that hath drooped our rose! If I had loved him—I do not love him, Marlowe— This would have fanned a flame. Well, we’re all cheats! But now I cheat with better conscience. Married! Lord, I could laugh! He must not know I know it.
Marlowe. I shan’t boast I told you. O Mary, when I first came to you, it was he sent me. He came like a child and asked me to see you, to say what good of him I could,
Because I was his friend. And now, see, see, How I have friended him!
Mary. I love you for it. He shall not know. Why talk of him? Forget him!
Marlowe. Can you?
Mary. Why, that I cannot makes me mad—
Marlowe. Forget him? As soon forget myself! I am his courage, His worldly wisdom—Mary, I think I am The youth he lost in Stratford. Yet we’re one age, And now we write one play. If I died of a sudden, It seems he’d breathe me as I left my body, And I should live in him as sunshine lies Forgotten in a forest, and be found In slants and pools and patterns, golden still In all he writes.
Mary. O dull Kit! have I adventured here to hear you talk of dying?
Marlowe. You borrowed Archer’s name.
Mary. I wanted one that would startle you out to me, and you told me the tale of him once, how young he died.
Marlowe. And how unwilling! You’ve set him running in my head like a spider in a skull,
Spinning across the hollows of mine eyes A web of dusty thought. Sweet, brush him off! Death’s a vile dreg in this intoxicant, This liquor of the gods, this seven-hued life. Sometimes I pinch myself, say—“Can you die? Is it possible? Will you be winter-nipped One day like other flies?” I’m glad you came. Stay with me, stay, till the last minute of life! Let the court go, the world go, stay with me! Mary [her arms round him]. So—quiet till the dawn comes, quiet! Hark! Who called? Did you hear it?
Marlowe. Birds in the ivy.
Mary. No. Twice in the road I stopped and turned about Because I heard my name called. There was nothing; Yet I had heard it—Mary—Mary—Mary!
Marlowe. You heard your own heart pound from riding.
Mary. Again! Open the window! [Marlowe rises and goes to the window.] Do you see anything?
Marlowe. All’s sinister. The moon fled out of the sky Long since, and the black trees of midnight quake.
Mary. And the wind! What a wind! It tugs at the window-frame Like jealousy, mad to break in and part us. Could you be jealous?
Marlowe. If I were a fool I’d let you guess it.
Mary. Wise, you’re wise, but—jealous? Too many men in the world! I’d lift no finger To beckon back the fool that tired of me, Would you? But he, he glooms and says no word, But follows with his eyes whene’er I stir. I hate those asking eyes. Look thus at me But once and—ended, Marlowe! I’ll not give But when I choose. [He sits beside her.]
Marlowe. But when I choose.
Behind them the blur of the window is darkened.
Mary [in his arms]. Why yes! Had he your key-word—! Sometimes I like him yet, When anger comes in a white lightning flash, Then he’s the man of men still, then with shut eyes I think him you and shiver and I like him, Held roughly in his arms, thinking of you. The Warwick burr is like an afterwards Of thunder when he’s angry, in his speech.
Marlowe. What does he say?
Mary. He says he is not jealous! He would not wrong me so, nor wrong himself. Then the sky lightens and we kiss—or kiss not! Who cares? Then in come you. It’s well he thinks you his In friendship—
Marlowe. So I was.
Shakespeare swings himself noiselessly over the sill.
Mary. And so you are, And have all things in common as friends should. Eh, friend? Oh, stir not! Frowning? If you were a fool— (How did it run?) you’d let me guess you—jealous! But you’re no fool.
Marlowe. Let’s have no more! You know I loved—I love the man.
Mary. Why, so do I.
Marlowe. You shall not!
Mary. Then I will not. Not to-night.
Shakespeare [standing by the window]. Why not to-night, my lover and my friend? He comes down into the room as they start up. Will you not give me wine and welcome me? Sit down, sit down—we three have much to say! But tell me first, what does that hand of yours Upon her neck, as there were custom in it? Part! Part, I say! Part! lest I couple you Once and for all!
Mary. He’s armed!
Marlowe. He shall not touch you!
Shakespeare. You, Marlowe! You!
Marlowe. Stand out of her way!
Shakespeare. You! You!
Marlowe. Why then—
Marlowe darts at Shakespeare and is thrown off. He staggers against the table, knocking over the candle. As he strikes the second time his arm is knocked up, striking his own forehead. He falls across the bed. There is an instant’s pause, then Shakespeare rushes to him, slipping an arm under his shoulder.
Mary. Dead? Is he dead? Oh, what an end! I never saw a dead man. Will—to me!
Shakespeare. Get help!
Mary. I dare not.
Marlowe. Oh!
Shakespeare. What is it?
Marlowe. Oh! My life, my lovely life, and cast away Untasted, wasted— Death, let me go! [He dies.]
Mary. What now? Rouse up! Delay Is dangerous. Wake! Wake! What shall we do?
Shakespeare. O trumpet of the angels lent to a boy, Could I not spare you for the golden blast, For the great sound’s sake? What have I done?
Anne’s Voice. Ah! Done The thing you would not do—
Mary. Rouse! Rouse yourself! What now?
Anne’s Voice. Remember—
Shakespeare. Hark! A sigh!
Mary. The wind Keening the night—
Shakespeare. A sound of weeping—
Mary. Rain. Is this a time for visions? White-cheeked day Stares through the pane. Each minute is an eye Opening upon us. What shall we do now?
Shakespeare. Weep, clamorous harlot! We have given him death, And shall we dock his rights of death, his peace Upon his bed, his sun of hair smoothed, hands Crossed decently by me, his friend? Close you His eyes with kisses, lest I kill you too! Give him his due, I say! his woman’s tears! You were his woman—oh, deny it not! You were his woman. Pay him what you owe!
Mary. What? Do you glove my clean hand with your stain, Red fingers? Soft! This is your kill, not mine! My free soul is not sticky with your sins. You pinch your lips? You singe me with your tongue? Your country lilac that you left for me Taught you strange names for a woman. Harlot? I? Sweep your own stable, trickster, married man! Lie, cheat, break faith, until you end a man That bettered you as roses better weeds—
Shakespeare. That is well known.
Mary. —and now you’ll stare and weep Until the watch comes and the Queen hears all. Then—ends all! And I caught with you! She’s a devil of ice Since Leicester died. No man or woman stirs her; But she must have her toys! London’s her doll’s house, Its marts, its theatres. This death was half her pride, And you the other. Was I not set to mould you? What will she do to me now her doll’s broken, Broken in my hand? I fear her, oh, I fear her, The green eyes of her justice and her smile. Will, if you love me—you who have had my lips, And more, and more, and shall have all again, All that you choose, and gladly given—awake! Fly while there’s time to save yourself and me! Look not on him—he’s blind—he cannot speak, Nor stretch a hand to stay you—he’s cold nothing! But we, we live! Here on my throat, here, here, (Give me your fingers!) feel the hot pulse live! Yet I’ll die sooner than be pent. You know me! Must I lie still for ever at his side Because you will not rouse yourself?
Shakespeare. Who speaks? O vanished dew, O summer sweetness gone, O perfume staled in a night, that yesterday Was fresh as morning roses—do you live? Are you still Mary? O my shining lamp Of love put out, how dark the world has grown! Did you want him so? Did it come on you suddenly, And shake you from your north—
Mary. The dawn! the dawn!
Shakespeare. Or did you never love me—where do you point?
Mary. To save ourselves comes first!
Shakespeare. To answer me!
Mary. Fool! Fool! Will you hang? Let go, fool!
Shakespeare. Answer me!
Mary. Will, for the love of living—
Shakespeare. Answer me!
Mary. I never loved you. Are you answered?
Anne’s Voice. Oh— For a month—in the spring—
Shakespeare. Is it a month ago? The trees are not yet metalled with the dust Of summer, that were greening when we two—
Mary. Oh, peace!
Shakespeare. —in a night of spring—
Mary. Ah, was it love?
Shakespeare. Remember, Beauty, when you came to me, As came the beggar to Cophetua, As queens came conquered to the Macedon, As Cressid came by night to Diomed, As night comes queenly to the bed of day Enmantled in her hair, so you to me, Juliet, and all your night of hair was mine To curtain me and you—
Mary. Forgotten, forgotten—
Shakespeare. That night you loved me—
Anne’s Voice. I was drunk with dreams That night.
Shakespeare. That night of victory you loved me! I have my witnesses. O watching stars—
Mary. The eyes, the eyes, the arch of eyes!
Shakespeare. —speak for me! Once was a taper that outshone you all, It burned so bright. Oh, how you winked and pried! I saw you through the tatters of the dark And mocked you in my hour. Yet speak for me, Eternal lights, for now my candle’s blown Past envy! But she loved me then!
Mary. I know not.
Shakespeare. Though god and devil deny—you loved me then!
Mary. But was it love? I could have loved if you had taught me loving. Something I sought and found not; so I turned From searching. I have clean forgotten now That ever I sought—and so live merrily— And so will live! Why wreck myself for you?
Shakespeare. O heart’s desire, and eyes’, desire of hands, Self of myself, have pity!
Mary. What had you? If I had borne you children (but I was wise, Knowing my man, as men have taught me men) What name had you to give them, to give me? No, no, I wrong you, for you christened me But now, first having slain him who had struck The rankness from your mouth.
Shakespeare. What I have done—
Mary. Lied, lied to me! —and if I did—
Anne’s Voice. To hold you! I couldn’t lose you. I was mad with pain.
Mary. Tricked me—
Shakespeare. To hold—listen to me—to hold you! Lest I should lose you. I was mad with pain.
Mary. Are you so womanish that a breath of pain—
Shakespeare. A breath! God, listen! A breath, a summer breath!
Mary. —could blow away your honour?
Shakespeare. Once it was mine. I laid it up with you. Where is it now? I’m stripped of honour like an oak in June Whose leaves a curse of caterpillars eat, That stands a mockery to flowers and men, With naked arms praying the lightning down.
Anne’s Voice. At Shottery the woods are green—
Shakespeare. My God!
Anne’s Voice. And full of flowers—
Shakespeare. Let be, let be! My honour? I bought it with a woman—not like you, A faithless-faithful woman—not like you; But weak as I’m weak, loving as I love, God help her! not like you—no black-eyed Spain Whose cheeks hang out their red to match the red When bull meets man—no luxury that wears A lover like new clothes, and all the while Eyes other women’s fashions; but a woman That should have loved me less, poor fool, and less—
Mary. You should have loved me less, my fool, and less!
Shakespeare. Yet from this folly all the music springs That is in the world, and all my hopes that ranged Lark-high in heaven! Yet murder comes of it. Look where he lies! He was true friend to me, And I to him, until you came, you came.
Mary. I came and I can go.
Shakespeare. Mary! [There is a clatter of hoofs.]
Mary. D’you hear? Horses! What do they seek? You, Marlowe, me?
Shakespeare. This they call conscience.
Mary. Take your hand away! I’ll slip through yet; nor shall you follow me; You had your chance. Listen! A boy was here; One Francis Archer. Say it after me— No woman, but a boy, a stranger to you!
Shakespeare. Strange to me, Mary.
There is a sound of voices in the yard.
Mary. If you hold me now I’ll scream and swear you stabbed him as he slept, They’re drinking still. [She opens the door.]
Voices [in the outer room]. Hey, boy! Ho, boy! Heel and toe, boy! Who’ll have a drink with me?
Mary. If you should get away. Send me no message, come not near me! Now!
She slips into the room. Shakespeare stands at the half open door watching.
Another. There’s the boy back. Make him sing it!
Mary. I’m to fetch more wine first.
The Man. Sing another verse!
Another. If Love and I should meet, I’ll catch her to me—
Another. Luck, you fool, not love!
Another. Where’s the difference? If you’re in love you’re in luck.
Another. Here, stop the boy!
Mary. Let me pass, gentlemen!
The Man. Sing another verse!
Another. If Love and I—
Another. Shut up now and let the kid sing it!
Mary. Why yes, if you’ll let me pass afterwards, sir, like love in the song.
The Man. Sing another verse! Sing twenty other verses!
Mary [singing]. If Love should pass me by, I’ll follow till I find him, And when I hear him cry, I’ll tear the veils that blind him!
The Man. Now then, chorus!
All Together. Hey, Love! Ho, Love! None shall know, Love! Keep but a kiss for me!
Mary disappears in the crowd. The door swings to as Shakespeare turns back into the room.
Shakespeare. Marlowe! Marlowe! She is gone, Marlowe, that was a fume of wine Between us. Marlowe, Marlowe, speak to me! Never a sound. We have seen many a dawn Creep like a house-wife on the drunken night, And tumble him from heaven with work-day hand And bird-shrill railing; but such a waking up As this we never knew. Sorry and cold I look on you. Kit, Kit, this mark of the knife Is the first blot I ever saw in you, The first ill-writing. Kit, for your own sake, You should have wronged a stranger, not your friend; For like a looking-glass my heart still served you To see yourself, and when you struck at me, You struck yourself, and broke this mirror too. A knock. Mary? Is it Mary? Lie you quiet, Marlowe! We will not let her in.
Henslowe. Within, who’s within there?
Shakespeare. Two dead men.
Henslowe. Is it Marlowe? Is Shakespeare there?
Shakespeare. Come in, come in, come in!
Henslowe comes in hurriedly. He leaves the door half open behind him.
Voices [singing]. Ho, boy! Hey, boy! Come this way, boy! Who’ll have a drink with me?
Henslowe. Why, here’s a bird of wisdom sitting in the dark! Shut your eyes, man, and use candles or you’ll scorch out your own sockets! What’s wrong now? But tell me that as we ride; for the Queen wants you in a hurry, and what’s more an angry Queen. I’d not be you! Here I’ve hunted London for you from tavern to lady’s lodging till I ferreted out that Marlowe was here, and so I followed him for news.
Shakespeare. Here’s news enough. Henslowe, look here!
Henslowe. Who did it?
Shakespeare. We—he and I. There was another in it.
Henslowe. Was it the youngster passed me in the yard, Caught at his horse and rode like fear away?
Shakespeare. Was’t a pale horse?
Henslowe. I saw not. In the dark A voice cried “Hurry!”
Shakespeare. That was she.
Henslowe. Who? Who?
Shakespeare. Death. She has fled and left her catch behind. Can you do anything?
Henslowe. For the living scarce— You must be got away. Are you known here?
Shakespeare. As men know Cain. All, all is finished, Henslowe!
Landlord [putting his head in at the door]. Is anything wrong sir?
Henslowe. Wrong? What should be wrong? But we’re in haste. Call the ostler! We want a second horse.
He slips his arm through Shakespeare’s and tries to lead him to the door.
Landlord. Is the gentleman ill, sir? He sways.
Henslowe. Your good wine, host.
A Man [over the Landlord’s shoulder]. The best on the Surrey side!
Henslowe. He’ll tell the Queen so in an hour if you’ll make way.
Men [crowding into the doorway]. The Queen! Did you hear? He’s been sent by the Queen!
Henslowe. Keep your people back, landlord!
The Man [staggering into the room]. I say, three cheers for the Queen!
Another. The Queen! The Queen! Three cheers for Bess! [Singing]. Hey, Bess! Ho, Bess! Heel and toe, Bess! Ladies and gentlemen, here’s a man on the bed.
Henslowe. Ay! My friend! Let him be!
The Man. Is he drunk too?
The Other. If I were a judge I’d say “Very drunk”! He’s spilled his wine on his clothes. What I say is “Waste not, want not!”
Landlord. Come now, come away! You hear what the gentleman says.
The Man [throwing him off]. Hey, Death! Ho, Death! Let me go, Death! Shall I wake him?
Shakespeare [turning in the doorway]. Ay, wake him, wake him, old trump of judgment! Wake him if you can,
And if you cannot let him sleep his sleep And envy him that he can sleep so sound!
The Man. Ay sir, he shall sleep till he wakes. But we, sir, we’ll sing you off the premises, for the love of Bess.
Hey, Bess? Ho, Bess!
Another [hammering the table]. Death, not Bess! Death! Death! Death! Come along chorus!
Two or Three [as they lurch out of the room]. Ho, boy! Hey, boy! Come this way, boy! Who’ll have a drink with me?
All [following]. Hey, Death! Ho, Death! Out you go, Death! We’ll never drink with thee!
The door swings to and quiet settles on the lightening room. The first ray of sunlight touches the bed. Outside the birds are beginning to sing.
THE CURTAIN FALLS.