Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (10 page)
‘The trouble a writer has,’ says Thomas Thorpe,
breaking the local flatbread, ‘it seems to me,
is his writing calls to be attended to,
yet he fears too close attention.’ Knocking snow
off his boot, he snares me with a look that hints
more information may be read therein,
then fondly eyes the fire. Some travellers
have gathered there to thaw themselves and drink,
soaking the welcome heat. It is the eve
of St Stephen’s night, and I feel more relieved
to see Thorpe’s face than I’d care to admit.
breaking the local flatbread, ‘it seems to me,
is his writing calls to be attended to,
yet he fears too close attention.’ Knocking snow
off his boot, he snares me with a look that hints
more information may be read therein,
then fondly eyes the fire. Some travellers
have gathered there to thaw themselves and drink,
soaking the welcome heat. It is the eve
of St Stephen’s night, and I feel more relieved
to see Thorpe’s face than I’d care to admit.
‘Something of interest to you. I’ve a tale
of a man who was mistaken for another.
London is talking now of William Shakespeare.
A man who shares that name had come to town
attempting to broker the sale of Stratford grain.
The keeper of the inn where he is staying
puts out the rumour that the famous author
William Shakespeare is a guest of his.’
of a man who was mistaken for another.
London is talking now of William Shakespeare.
A man who shares that name had come to town
attempting to broker the sale of Stratford grain.
The keeper of the inn where he is staying
puts out the rumour that the famous author
William Shakespeare is a guest of his.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘Just listen. So the word goes out
and a young man comes one evening to the inn
and asks this merchant, Shakespeare, if he’ll sign
a copy of the book he wrote last year.
A certain erotic poem you might recall.’
‘But the man can barely write.’
and asks this merchant, Shakespeare, if he’ll sign
a copy of the book he wrote last year.
A certain erotic poem you might recall.’
‘But the man can barely write.’
‘Don’t second guess
the tale before it’s told. You’ll spoil my fun.’
He takes the carafe between us by its neck,
as though he holds a goose, and tops our cups
with warm spiced wine. ‘So.’ Takes a sip of his,
devoid of urgency. ‘This Shakespeare says,
“I’m afraid you have the wrong man.”’
He takes the carafe between us by its neck,
as though he holds a goose, and tops our cups
with warm spiced wine. ‘So.’ Takes a sip of his,
devoid of urgency. ‘This Shakespeare says,
“I’m afraid you have the wrong man.”’
‘Honestly?’
‘He waves the youth away.’
‘But—’
‘But—’
‘Let me finish.
The young man asks the tapster, is it true,
that the man in the snug seat, polishing off some tripe
is the author William Shakespeare. “That he is,”
says the tapster, “and as modest as could be.
You’ll never hear him boast it, but it’s true.”
“But he says he isn’t.” “Ah,” the tapster says,
folding his arms and chewing tobacco leaf,
“and there’s your clue. Imagine you’re mistaken
for an author of genius, would you not be tempted
to soak up the praise and let the error pass?”
The youth agreed he would. “There’s half your proof.
And might the actual author, shunning the gaze
of an over-zealous public, shy away
from acknowledging his progeny?” He might,
the youth agreed. “You peg him closely now,”
the tapster says. “Look at his balding brow.
The heat of the ideas inside that skull
have burnt away his hairline.” It was true,
his hair was fast receding. “See his hand,
poised on the table ready for a quill,
the thumb and finger open.” The student stares,
then notices something awkward. “Where’s the ink?”
“I’m sorry?” says the tapster. “Where’s the ink?
that the man in the snug seat, polishing off some tripe
is the author William Shakespeare. “That he is,”
says the tapster, “and as modest as could be.
You’ll never hear him boast it, but it’s true.”
“But he says he isn’t.” “Ah,” the tapster says,
folding his arms and chewing tobacco leaf,
“and there’s your clue. Imagine you’re mistaken
for an author of genius, would you not be tempted
to soak up the praise and let the error pass?”
The youth agreed he would. “There’s half your proof.
And might the actual author, shunning the gaze
of an over-zealous public, shy away
from acknowledging his progeny?” He might,
the youth agreed. “You peg him closely now,”
the tapster says. “Look at his balding brow.
The heat of the ideas inside that skull
have burnt away his hairline.” It was true,
his hair was fast receding. “See his hand,
poised on the table ready for a quill,
the thumb and finger open.” The student stares,
then notices something awkward. “Where’s the ink?”
“I’m sorry?” says the tapster. “Where’s the ink?
The pad of his middle finger should be black
from pressing on a pen.” The tapster stares
to the middle distance, like he’s watching wheat
as it’s harvested and stacked. “Ah, yes, the ink.
The absence of ink. You’ve found the final proof.
The man is such an expert at the craft,
so practised in the art of wielding pen,
he never blots a word.” The youth’s convinced
and the tavern picks up custom from his friends
as he spreads the word. Our gentle merchant packs,
ready to head back to the countryside
where he can do his business unperturbed.’
from pressing on a pen.” The tapster stares
to the middle distance, like he’s watching wheat
as it’s harvested and stacked. “Ah, yes, the ink.
The absence of ink. You’ve found the final proof.
The man is such an expert at the craft,
so practised in the art of wielding pen,
he never blots a word.” The youth’s convinced
and the tavern picks up custom from his friends
as he spreads the word. Our gentle merchant packs,
ready to head back to the countryside
where he can do his business unperturbed.’
‘And there the story ends?’
‘Ah. Were it so.’
Thorpe motions my attention to the cup
I drained while he was talking. ‘Please.’ I nod.
I drained while he was talking. ‘Please.’ I nod.
‘He took his business straight to Richard Field.
He is a private man, he says. This fame
that you have courted, settles ill with him
as a curdled syllabub.’
He is a private man, he says. This fame
that you have courted, settles ill with him
as a curdled syllabub.’
‘But he was paid!’
My throat is sticky. I rinse the lump of fear
back to my stomach with a swig of beer.
‘He took the money.’
back to my stomach with a swig of beer.
‘He took the money.’
Thorpe taps on his lip
with a slender index finger. ‘If you wish
to use his name again, he wants a share.’
to use his name again, he wants a share.’
‘In what?’
‘In the players’ company. Stay, stay –’
he stops me rising to my feet in rage
‘– your Privy Council friends have seen to it.’
‘– your Privy Council friends have seen to it.’
He lets the information sit with me.
The fire munches on damp conifer,
popping and whining when it hits the sap.
The fire munches on damp conifer,
popping and whining when it hits the sap.
‘Well, I don’t like it.’
‘No. But it is safer.
A false name is a wall made out of paper.
A finger can be pushed through it. But flesh
will not give way so easily.’
A finger can be pushed through it. But flesh
will not give way so easily.’
‘As long
as he is paid.’
‘Indeed, but then your plays
will see to that. And as a shareholder
in the players’ company, he seems more like
the thing he’s meant to be. A purveyor of plays.
You might see this as help from God on high.’
in the players’ company, he seems more like
the thing he’s meant to be. A purveyor of plays.
You might see this as help from God on high.’
‘Divine assistance. Really.’ And I drain
to the bottom of the cup. Waft back the smoke
that, failing to find the chimney, stings my eyes.
to the bottom of the cup. Waft back the smoke
that, failing to find the chimney, stings my eyes.
Thorpe rubs his hands together. ‘Well, it’s cold,
but never so cold as six feet underground.
Don’t you agree?’
but never so cold as six feet underground.
Don’t you agree?’
He likes to use my death
as a cheery tool to demonstrate my blessings.
‘Can we get away with this?’
‘Who knows? Who knows?
It’s strange how the truth is seeded. Take a lie
and give it plausibility:
voilà
!
You have a truth.’
and give it plausibility:
voilà
!
You have a truth.’
He mimes a magic trick.
‘I prefer true truths.’
‘Spoken as a poet.
Be glad that truth’s like that. Though half the time
it works against a man, the other half
it puts the Devil off his scent.’ He fills
my glass half full. ‘I have another letter.
I’ll slip it under your door when things are quiet.
You have a play? You have the comedy?’
it works against a man, the other half
it puts the Devil off his scent.’ He fills
my glass half full. ‘I have another letter.
I’ll slip it under your door when things are quiet.
You have a play? You have the comedy?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘I have the comedy.
And you have put in mind another one.
Two gentlemen, identical in name,
and how each is mistaken for the other.
I have them fucking one another’s wives.
The room for comedy is infinite.’
And you have put in mind another one.
Two gentlemen, identical in name,
and how each is mistaken for the other.
I have them fucking one another’s wives.
The room for comedy is infinite.’
He surveys me like a plot of land for sale.
‘Be careful how you spend your humour, though.
Store in the light. You may be needing it.’
‘Be careful how you spend your humour, though.
Store in the light. You may be needing it.’
‘How needing it?’
He stretches his legs towards
the longed-for grate before he answers me.
‘Nashe is in prison.’
‘What for?’
‘For the book
he wrote in repentance, mourning at the death
of dear Kit Marlowe.’ He gives me the look
that tells me he knows everything. ‘He laid
some juicy insults on our much-loved town
and all who dwell in her. So he was gaoled.
It isn’t safe to write so openly.
As he should know, having had such a friend.’
of dear Kit Marlowe.’ He gives me the look
that tells me he knows everything. ‘He laid
some juicy insults on our much-loved town
and all who dwell in her. So he was gaoled.
It isn’t safe to write so openly.
As he should know, having had such a friend.’
I see the puckish one light up a pipe
only a year ago, when we were free.
only a year ago, when we were free.
‘Poor Nashe.’
‘Indeed, poor Nashe.’ The silence falls
over our conversation like a hood
to protect the guilty. I have run away,
though all my friends might go to Hell for me.
‘How is he?’
to protect the guilty. I have run away,
though all my friends might go to Hell for me.
‘How is he?’
‘I hear he’s railing even now
that the city’s corrupt.’
The news was heartening.
We all might come through this. ‘And how is Ned?’
Thorpe’s wall goes up. ‘I’m sorry. It seems we’ve drunk
a little too much. I blame the Christmas cheer.
It isn’t good to name a person’s friends.’
He fakes a yawn. ‘I’m done. We’ll meet again.
More soberly the next time.’
a little too much. I blame the Christmas cheer.
It isn’t good to name a person’s friends.’
He fakes a yawn. ‘I’m done. We’ll meet again.
More soberly the next time.’
And he’s gone.
Necessity, the mother of all art
and half the population, brought me square
to a shared room on the knee of Bedlam gate.
My rent was gladly absent, but my sleep
was patterned by the cries of the insane.
If madness sucks in madness, then perhaps
that room made sense.
and half the population, brought me square
to a shared room on the knee of Bedlam gate.
My rent was gladly absent, but my sleep
was patterned by the cries of the insane.
If madness sucks in madness, then perhaps
that room made sense.
I shared with Thomas Kyd,
the both of us employed to furnish plays
for the good Lord Strange’s Men. A bed thrown in
and a desk at either corner. Thomas Kyd
was a white-skinned creature who avoided sun
and drooled in his sleep. He had a lodger’s cough,
winced when I cursed; he’d beg me to be quiet
lest I bring the Devil on us. So I teased.
He was a toy, an instrument for me,
a winter amusement, and I played his tremor
as perfect as a lutist plucks a string;
it fed my humour through those long dark months
without Tom Watson’s wit.
for the good Lord Strange’s Men. A bed thrown in
and a desk at either corner. Thomas Kyd
was a white-skinned creature who avoided sun
and drooled in his sleep. He had a lodger’s cough,
winced when I cursed; he’d beg me to be quiet
lest I bring the Devil on us. So I teased.
He was a toy, an instrument for me,
a winter amusement, and I played his tremor
as perfect as a lutist plucks a string;
it fed my humour through those long dark months
without Tom Watson’s wit.
We wrote in stints.
He had the daylight, squinting at his scenes;
I chose the dark, the quietude, the sense
of the world asleep wrapped round like a cocoon
where I plotted to shake them rudely, candlelight
making a pool so all I could see was play.
I chose the dark, the quietude, the sense
of the world asleep wrapped round like a cocoon
where I plotted to shake them rudely, candlelight
making a pool so all I could see was play.
We sat there under blankets. Kyd was blocked.
He ground out word by word, a line an hour,
stumped by
The Spanish Tragedy
’s success,
his sighs enough to cure meat, but his words
uncooked or overdone.
He ground out word by word, a line an hour,
stumped by
The Spanish Tragedy
’s success,
his sighs enough to cure meat, but his words
uncooked or overdone.
‘Hamlet, revenge?
What kind of cry is that? A fishwife’s cry.’
Kyd draws in his neck and covers up the script
I’m reading over his shoulder. ‘It’s a draft.’
‘Should the man broadcast his plots for all to hear?
He’s mad indeed.’
Kyd draws in his neck and covers up the script
I’m reading over his shoulder. ‘It’s a draft.’
‘Should the man broadcast his plots for all to hear?
He’s mad indeed.’
‘It is a draft, I said.’
‘Apologies.’ I sit down on the bed
and tug my boots off. ‘Surely what we need
when we’ve put good plays behind us, is hard truths.
Better you hear it now than when it dies
and they laugh the tragedian off the stage.
Can you feel how he might feel?’
and tug my boots off. ‘Surely what we need
when we’ve put good plays behind us, is hard truths.
Better you hear it now than when it dies
and they laugh the tragedian off the stage.
Can you feel how he might feel?’
‘The tragedian?’
‘Your Prince of Denmark. He that needs revenge.’
Kyd screws his forehead up, as if he’d strain
to wring the feeling out.
Kyd screws his forehead up, as if he’d strain
to wring the feeling out.
‘Not in your head,’
I say, ‘but in your heart. You feel it
here
?’
Thumping my chest. But Thomas Kyd looks blank,
and then, as if he’s stumbled on a road
that shaves his knees of skin, his eyes grow dark
and wary. ‘It’s not yours. It’s my idea.
You think you’d write it better. Well, you’re wrong.’
here
?’
Thumping my chest. But Thomas Kyd looks blank,
and then, as if he’s stumbled on a road
that shaves his knees of skin, his eyes grow dark
and wary. ‘It’s not yours. It’s my idea.
You think you’d write it better. Well, you’re wrong.’
I clasp my hands behind my head. ‘I think
no such thing,’ I say. (Though his complaint
plants the suggestion.) ‘I still have the Devil.
He’s meat enough to try my teeth upon.’
Still scratching at religion, light or dark,
contained or uncontrolled. Kyd shivers sharply.
‘I wish to God you’d finish that.’
no such thing,’ I say. (Though his complaint
plants the suggestion.) ‘I still have the Devil.
He’s meat enough to try my teeth upon.’
Still scratching at religion, light or dark,
contained or uncontrolled. Kyd shivers sharply.
‘I wish to God you’d finish that.’
‘I will.’
I lie back leisurely, my elbows spread.
‘When his time runs out. And you must finish yours.
I mean to be helpful, truly. Perhaps the Fates
put us together for that very purpose?
A second opinion can be valuable.’
‘When his time runs out. And you must finish yours.
I mean to be helpful, truly. Perhaps the Fates
put us together for that very purpose?
A second opinion can be valuable.’
Kyd bites his lip. He picks off scabs of wax
that cling to the table. Rubs an eyebrow tired.
Picks his nose. Then gathers some scenes and dumps
them on my chest. ‘All right. What’s wrong with it?
In
your
opinion.’
that cling to the table. Rubs an eyebrow tired.
Picks his nose. Then gathers some scenes and dumps
them on my chest. ‘All right. What’s wrong with it?
In
your
opinion.’
I read with his eyes on me.
Awareness of his breeding restless thoughts
intrudes on my concentration. At one point
he jumps from the chair, like someone badly stung
by an unseen wasp, and orders on his shelf
some books and papers. Then he’s up again
to stand at the window, flinching at the sound
of each read page. The last sinks to my lap
and he turns to me, tight as drum skin. ‘So, go on.’
intrudes on my concentration. At one point
he jumps from the chair, like someone badly stung
by an unseen wasp, and orders on his shelf
some books and papers. Then he’s up again
to stand at the window, flinching at the sound
of each read page. The last sinks to my lap
and he turns to me, tight as drum skin. ‘So, go on.’
‘It could be good. It is a courageous yarn.’
I must admit, I was half writing it
in my own words even then. Pressed back the thought.
‘But in order to fill the stage with guts and gore,
you’ve sucked the blood from every character
that ought to hold our interest. Chiefly, him.
The lost great Dane.’
I must admit, I was half writing it
in my own words even then. Pressed back the thought.
‘But in order to fill the stage with guts and gore,
you’ve sucked the blood from every character
that ought to hold our interest. Chiefly, him.
The lost great Dane.’
Kyd makes a slow retreat
back to his chair. ‘I don’t know what you mean.
Revenge is the interest, isn’t it?’
Revenge is the interest, isn’t it?’
‘Revenge
could work like a canker on the man beneath.
Dissolve his metal, even as it shines
through his despair. I can’t find his despair.’
I hand the papers back.
Dissolve his metal, even as it shines
through his despair. I can’t find his despair.’
I hand the papers back.
As if they weigh
much heavier than they are, his outstretched arm
weakens as it receives them. Kyd’s response
is wheedling, pleading for his words to be
interpreted more kindly. We indulge
in a kind of mental arm-wrestling until
his irritation bores me. I must work.
weakens as it receives them. Kyd’s response
is wheedling, pleading for his words to be
interpreted more kindly. We indulge
in a kind of mental arm-wrestling until
his irritation bores me. I must work.
‘Hamlet is all of us, put in his place.
You need his hesitation, or the deaths
are done with by the end of the first act.
But where’s his anguish? His humanity?
Is he a thoughtless murderer? Your Dane
is a writer’s puppet. Wooden. Yanked on strings.’
You need his hesitation, or the deaths
are done with by the end of the first act.
But where’s his anguish? His humanity?
Is he a thoughtless murderer? Your Dane
is a writer’s puppet. Wooden. Yanked on strings.’
He sinks to the floor. I’ve holed him, like a ship.
‘Go out,’ I say, ‘get supper. Try to tup
some juicy barmaid. Put yourself in the way
of some other humans. Life’s experience
may feed you when imagination fails.’
some juicy barmaid. Put yourself in the way
of some other humans. Life’s experience
may feed you when imagination fails.’
Much worse I was to do to him. Much worse,
by the accident of sharing a room. My taint –
the very taint he feared – smeared on his name,
and knowledge of me would be drawn out, in pain.
I never meant to be another’s curse.
by the accident of sharing a room. My taint –
the very taint he feared – smeared on his name,
and knowledge of me would be drawn out, in pain.
I never meant to be another’s curse.
After he left, and took his seething with him,
I sat at the window seat and watched the shade
of a winter afternoon becoming night.
Across the street, De Vere’s house, Fisher’s Folly
– newly acquired by the Cornwallises –
was lighting up within. Ann Watson’s hands,
over the red-brick, castellated wall,
unpegged the laundry in the kitchen yard:
mistress’s nightshirts, napkins, tablecloths,
her charges’ clothes.
I sat at the window seat and watched the shade
of a winter afternoon becoming night.
Across the street, De Vere’s house, Fisher’s Folly
– newly acquired by the Cornwallises –
was lighting up within. Ann Watson’s hands,
over the red-brick, castellated wall,
unpegged the laundry in the kitchen yard:
mistress’s nightshirts, napkins, tablecloths,
her charges’ clothes.
Ann couldn’t keep their house:
a prisoner can’t earn, and former rent
prevented her husband’s gaolers making more
of his punishment. Her brother, a musician,
employed to teach the eldest daughter songs,
had wrangled her some duties, and a room.
prevented her husband’s gaolers making more
of his punishment. Her brother, a musician,
employed to teach the eldest daughter songs,
had wrangled her some duties, and a room.
Now, as the sky shuts down, I strike a match
and light a candle, breathing out the name
of dear Tom Watson as a form of prayer.
But I’m alone. And I must write from there.
and light a candle, breathing out the name
of dear Tom Watson as a form of prayer.
But I’m alone. And I must write from there.
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