Rain over the house, over the mansard, clicking against the glass, sounding colder and colder, dampening our spirits and our paper, making my knees and ankles ache...rain.
I wanted to toss myself on the cot and smother myself with blankets and call it a day. Marlowe said we’d soon see the dawn. God’s bodkins!
In that four-square room, cluttered with Greek and Roman masks, posters, books, and dirt, we wrote Titus over and over. When the manuscripts were ready for the theatre even the rain sounded tired.
In those days, for economy’s sake, we often cut each other’s hair, sitting in the doorway or on the steps, when the weather was good. Draped in sheet or towel, I sat on a chair while Marlowe snipped. Scissors and comb usually put him in a whistling mood. Gently puffing a tune, he scissored away—the slowest barber in London. He liked to complain about the color of my hair, saying he wished it was as black as Othello’s so he could see it easily.
“I’ve cut so many bad lines from your plays this job should be easy.”
Chris was better at barbering than I. He said I didn’t keep my mind on my work.
“If I had the money, I’d certainly excuse you. Come on, no more time out for jotting down lines. Let’s get through this mess. Presently, it will be dark. I never trust you by candlelight.”
In separate crimson frames:
Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, Ben Jonson, Shakespeare: