  Shakespeare’s lodging. It is the plain but well-arranged room of a man of fair means and fine taste. The walls are panelled: on them hang a couple of unframed engravings, a painting, tapestry, and a map of the known world. There is a four-post bed with a coverlet and hangings of needlework, and on the window-sill a pot of early summer flowers. There is a chair or two of oak and a table littered with papers. Shakespeare is sitting at it, a manuscript in his hand. On the arm of the chair lolls Marlowe, one arm flung round Shakespeare’s neck, reading over his shoulder. Shakespeare. Man, how you’ve worked! A whole act to my ten lines! You dice all day and dance all night and yet—how do you do it? Marlowe. Like it? Shakespeare. Like it? What a word for a word-master! Consider, Kit! When the sun rises like a battle song over the sea: when the wind’s feet visibly race along the tree-tops of a ten-mile wood: when they shout “Amen!” in the Abbey, praying for the Queen on Armada Day: when the sky is a brass gong and the rain steel rods, and across all suddenly arch the seven colours of the promise—do I like these wonders when I stammer and weep, and know that God lives? Like, Marlowe! Marlowe. Yes, yes, old Will! But do you like the new act? Shakespeare. I like it, Kit! [They look at each other and laugh]. Marlowe. And now for your scene, ere I go. Shakespeare. My scene! I give you what I’ve done. Finish it alone, Kit, and take what it brings! I’m sucked dry. Marlowe. I’ve heard that before. Shakespeare. I wish I had never come to London. Marlowe. Henslowe’s back. Seen him? Shakespeare. I’ve seen no-one. Did the tour go well? Marlowe. He says so. He left them at Stratford. Well, I must go. Shakespeare. Where? To Mary? Marlowe. Why should I go to your Mary? Shakespeare. Because I’ve asked you to, often enough. Why else? You’ve grown to be friends. You could help me if you would. Marlowe. Never step between a man and a woman! Shakespeare. But you’re our friend! And they say you know women. Marlowe. They say many things. They say we’re rivals, Will—that I shall end by having you hissed. Shakespeare. Let them say! But have you seen Mary? When did you last see Mary? Marlowe. I forget. Saturday. Shakespeare. Did you speak of me, Kit? Kit, does she speak of me? Marlowe. If you must have it—seldom. New songs, new books, new music—of plays and players and the Queen’s tantrums—not of you. Shakespeare. I have not seen her three days. Marlowe. Why, go then and see her! Shakespeare. She has company. She is waiting on the Queen. She gives me a smile and a white cool finger-tip, and—“Farewell, Mr. Shakespeare!” Yet a month ago, ay and less than a month—! Did you give her my message? What did she say? Marlowe. She laughed and says you dream. She never liked you better. Shakespeare. Did she say that? Marlowe. She says you cool to her, not she to you. Shakespeare. Did she say that? Marlowe. Swore it, with tears in her eyes. Shakespeare. Is it so? I wish it were so. Well, you’re my good friend, Marlowe! Marlowe. Oh, leave that! Shakespeare. Kit, do you blame me so much? Marlowe. Why should I blame you? Shakespeare. That I’m here and not in Warwickshire. Marlowe. I throw no stones. Why? Have you heard aught? Shakespeare. No, nor dared ask—nor dared ask, Marlowe. The boy’s dead. I know it. But I will not hear it. Marlowe, Marlowe, Marlowe, do you judge me? Marlowe. Ay, that putting your hand to the plough you look back. Would I comb out my conscience daily as a woman combs out her hair? I do what I choose, though it damn me! Blame you? The round world has not such another Mary—or so, had I your eyes, I should hold. For this prize, if I loved her, I would pay away all I had. Shakespeare. Honour, Kit? Marlowe. Honour, Will! Shakespeare. Faith and conscience and an only son? Marlowe. It’s my own life. What are children to me? Shakespeare. Well, I have paid. Marlowe. But you grudge—you grudge! Look at you! If you go to her with those eyes it’s little wonder that she tires of you. Shakespeare. Tires? Who says that she tires? Who says it? Marlowe. Not I, old Will! Not I! Why, Shakespeare? Shakespeare [shaken]. I can’t sleep, Kit! has come to me? I think I go mad. [He starts.] Was that the Marlowe. I shall scarce reach Deptford ere dark. Shakespeare. How long do you lodge in Deptford? Marlowe. All summer. Henslowe [pounding at the door]. Who’s at home? Who’s at home? Marlowe. That’s Henslowe. Shakespeare. Why does the boy stay so long? Henslowe [in the doorway]. Gentlemen, the traveller returns! For the last time, I tell you! My bones grow too old for barnstorming. Do you go as I come, Kit? Thank you for nothing! Marlowe. Be civil, Henslowe! ‘The Curtain’ ’s on its knees to me for my next play. Henslowe. Pooh! This man can serve my turn. Marlowe. You see, they’ll make rivals of us, Will, before they’ve done. I’ll see you soon again. [He goes out.] Henslowe. Well, what’s the news? Shakespeare. I sit at home. You roam England. You can do the talking. How did the tour go? Henslowe. You’re thin, man! What’s the matter? Success doesn’t suit you? Shakespeare. How did the tour go? Henslowe. By way of Oxford, Warwick, Kenilworth— Shakespeare. I said “how” not “where.” Henslowe. —and Leamington and Stratford. We played ‘Romeo’ every other night—and to full houses, my son! I’ve a pocketful of money for you. They liked you everywhere. As for your townsfolk, they went mad. You can safely go home, boy! You’ll find Sir Thomas in the front row, splitting his gloves. He’ll ask you to dinner. Shakespeare. Were you there long? Henslowe. Two nights. Shakespeare. Did you see—anyone? Henslowe. Why not say— Shakespeare. I say, did you pass my house? Henslowe. I had forgot the way. Shakespeare. As I have, Henslowe! Henslowe. Should I have sought her? Shakespeare. No. Henslowe. Yet I did see her. Making for London, not a week ago, Alone on horseback, sudden the long grey road Grew friendly, like a stranger in a dream Nodding “I know you!” and behold, a love Long dead, that smiles and says, “I never died!” Then in the turn of the lane I saw your thatch. Summer not winter, else was all unchanged. Still in the dream I left my horse to graze, And let ten years slip from me at your gate. Shakespeare. Is it ten years? Henslowe. The little garden lay Enchanted in the Sunday sloth of noon: In th’ aspen tree the wind hung, fast asleep, Yet the air danced a foot above the flowers And gnats danced in it. I saw a poppy-head Spilling great petals, noiseless, one by one: I heard the honeysuckle breathe—sweet, sweet: The briar was sweeter—a long hedge, pink-starred— Shakespeare. I know. Henslowe. There was a bush of lavender, And roses, and a bee in every rose, Shakespeare. Did you go in? Henslowe. Why, scarce I dared, for as I latched the gate The wind stirred drowsily, and “Hush!” it said, And slept again; but all the garden waked Upon the sound. I swear, as I play Prologue, It watched me, waiting. Down the path I crept, Tip-toe, and reached the window, and looked in. Shakespeare. You saw—? Henslowe. I saw her; though the place was gloom After the sunshine; but I saw her— Shakespeare. Changed? Henslowe. I knew her. Shakespeare. Who was with her? Henslowe. She was alone, Beside the hearth unkindled, sitting alone. A child’s chair was beside her, but no child. Her hands were sleepless, and beneath her breath She tuned a thread of song—your song of ‘Willow.’ But when I tapped upon the window-pane, Oh, how she turned, and how leaped up! Her face Glowed white as iron new lifted from the forge: Her hair fled out behind her in one flame As to the door she ran, with little cries Scarce human, tearing at the bolt, the key, And flung it crashing back: ran out, wide-armed, Calling your name: then—saw me, and stood still, Shakespeare. Well? Henslowe. I asked her, did she know me? Yes, she said, And would I rest and eat? So much she said To the lawn behind me—oh, to the hollyhock Stiff at my elbow—to a something—nothing— But not to me. I could not eat her food. I told her so. She nodded. Oh, she knows How thoughts run in a man. No fool, no fool! I spoke of you. She listened. Shakespeare. Questioned you? Henslowe. Never a question. Shakespeare. She said nothing? Henslowe. Nothing. Shakespeare. Not like her. Henslowe. But her eyes spoke, as I came By way of London, Juliet, ‘The Rose,’ And the Queen’s great favour (“And why not?” they said) Again to silence; so, as I turned to go I asked her—“Any greeting?” Then she said, Lifting her chin as if she sped her words Far, far, like pigeons flung upon the air, And soft her voice as bird-wings—then she said, “Tell him the woods are green at Shottery, Fuller of flowers than any wood in the world.” “What else?” said I. She said—“The wind still blows Fresh between park and river. Tell him that!” Said I—“No message, letter?” Then she said, Shakespeare. Ay, shut the door, Henslowe; for had she been this she Ten years ago and I this other I— Well, I have friends to love! Heard Marlowe’s news? He’s three-part through Leander! Oh, this Marlowe! I mine for coal but he digs diamonds. Henslowe. Yet fill your scuttle lest the world grow chill! Is the new play done? Shakespeare. No. Henslowe. Much written? Shakespeare. Not a line. Henslowe. Are you mad? We’re contracted. What shall I say to the Queen? Shakespeare. What you please. Henslowe. Are you well? Shakespeare. Well enough. Henslowe. Ill enough, I think! Shakespeare. Write your own plays—bid Marlowe, any man That writes as nettles grow or rain comes down! I am not born to it. I write not so. Romeo and Juliet—I am dead of them! The pay’s too small, good clappers! These ghosts need blood Henslowe. Now, now, now—do I ask another ‘Juliet’ of you? God forbid! A fine play, your ‘Juliet,’ but— Shakespeare. Now come the “buts.” Henslowe. Man, we must live! Can we fill the theatre on love and longing, and high words? Ay, when Marlowe does it to the sound of trumpets. But you—you’re not Marlowe. You know too much. Your gods are too much men and women. Who’ll pay sixpence for a heart-ache? and in advance too! Give us but two more ‘Romeo and Juliet’'s and you may be a great poet, but we close down. Another tragedy? No, no, no, we don’t ask that of you! We want light stuff, easy stuff. Oh, who knows as well as you what’s wanted? It’s a court play, my man! The French Embassy’s to be there and the two Counts from Italy, and always Essex and his gang, and you know their fancy. Get down to it now, there’s a good lad! Oh, you can do it in your sleep! Lovers and lasses, and quarrels and kisses, like the two halves of a sandwich! But court lovers, you know, that talk verse—and between them a green cress of country folk and country song, daffodils and valentines, and brown bowls of ale—season all with a pepper of wit—and there’s your sandwich, there’s your play, as the Queen likes it, as we all like it! Shakespeare. Ay, as you like it! There’s your title pat! But I’ll not serve you. I’m to live, not write. Tell that to the Queen! Boy. None, sir! Shakespeare. What? No answer? Henslowe. See here, Will! If you do not write me this play you have thrice promised, I’ll to the Queen—sick or mad I’ll to the Queen this very day for your physic—and so I warn you. Shakespeare [to the boy]. Did you see—? Boy. The maid, sir! Henslowe. I’ll not see ‘The Rose’ in ruins for a mad— Shakespeare [to the boy]. But what did I bid you? Boy. Wait on the doorstep till Mistress Fitton came out, though I waited all night. But indeed, sir, she’s gone; for I saw her, though she did not see me. Henslowe. Oh, the Fitton! Now I see light through the wood! Shakespeare. What’s that you say? Henslowe. I say that the Queen shall know where the blame lies. Shakespeare. You lie. I heard you. I saw you twist your lips round a white name. Henslowe. Will! Will! Will! Shakespeare. Did you not? Henslowe. Why, Will, you have friends, though you fray ’em to the parting of endurance. Shakespeare. What’s this? Henslowe. I say you have friends that see what they see, and are sorry. Shakespeare. Yes, I am blessed in one man and woman who do not use me as a beast to be milked dry. I have Marlowe and— Henslowe. Marlowe? And I said, God forgive me, that you knew men and women! Marlowe! Shakespeare. You speak of my friend. Henslowe. Ay, Jonathan—of David, the singer, of him that took Bathsheba, all men know how. [Shakespeare makes a threatening movement.] No, no, Will! I am too old a man to give and take with you—too old a man and too old a friend. Shakespeare. So you’re to lie and I’m to listen because you’re an old man! Henslowe. Lie? Ask any in the town. I’m but a day returned and already I’ve heard the talk. Why, man, they make songs of it in the street! Shakespeare. It? It? It? Henslowe. Boy? Boy. Here, sir? Henslowe. What was that song you whistled as you came up the stairs? Boy. ‘Weathercock,’ sir? Henslowe. That’s it! Boy. Lord, sir, I know but the one verse I heard a drayman sing. Henslowe. How does it go? Boy. It goes— [singing.] Two birds settle on a weathercock— How’s the wind to-day—O? One shall nest and one shall knock— How’s the wind to-day—O? Turn about and turn about, Kit pops in as Will pops out! Winds that whistle round the weathercock, Who’s her love to-day—O? It’s a good tune, sir! Henslowe. Eh, Will? A good tune! A rousing tune! Shakespeare [softly]. “For this prize, if I loved her, I would pay all I had! I do what I choose though it damn me!” Boy. May I go, sir? Shakespeare. Go, go! Boy. And my pay, sir? Indeed I’d have stopped the lady if I could. But she made as if she were not herself, and rode out of the yard. But I knew her, for all her riding-coat and breeches. Henslowe. What’s all this? Shakespeare [to the boy]. You’re dreaming— Boy. No, sir, there was your ring on her finger— Shakespeare. Be still! Take this and forget your dreams! [He gives him money.] Henslowe, farewell! If you’ve lied to me I’ll pay you for it, and if you’ve spoken truth to me I’ll pay you for it no less. Henslowe. Pay? I want no pay. I want the play that the Queen ordered, and will have in the end, mark that! You have not yet served the Queen. Shakespeare. Boy! Hugh! Boy. Sir? Shakespeare. Which way did she ride? Boy. Am I asleep or awake, sir? Shakespeare. Which way did she ride? Boy. Across the bridge, sir, as I dreamt it, along the Deptford road. Shakespeare. Marlowe! The Deptford road! The Deptford road! [He rushes out.] Boy [showing his money]. Dreaming pays, sir! It’s gold. Henslowe. Boy, boy! Never trust a man! Never kiss a woman! Work all day and sleep all night! Love yourself and never ask God for the moon! So you may live to be old. This business grows beyond me. I’ll to the Queen. He trots out, shaking his head. The boy skips after him, whistling his tune. THE CURTAIN FALLS. ACT III. 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! Marlowe. What voice is that? 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 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. 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. 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 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. A Man. Sing another verse! 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 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. 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. |
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