Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (22 page)
Perfumed and powdered, I am led inside
on Anthony’s arm. The smell of roasted nuts,
of beer and sawdust, brings me close to tears.
on Anthony’s arm. The smell of roasted nuts,
of beer and sawdust, brings me close to tears.
My place. My home. Yet no response to me.
No hush, no cheer, no recognition sound;
no lump in the throat to correspond with mine.
No hush, no cheer, no recognition sound;
no lump in the throat to correspond with mine.
As though a hound I’d raised up from a pup
forgets his old master, trotting past my scent
to sniff the hands of new adopted friends
forgets his old master, trotting past my scent
to sniff the hands of new adopted friends
I choke unnoticed on the loss. There’s cheer
around me, and I in a bubble of different air,
mull how the past included me. Our seats
around me, and I in a bubble of different air,
mull how the past included me. Our seats
are cushioned and shaded in the balcony.
Anthony pats my hand, and grins. ‘Not long.’
Then, surprised to see me suffering, ‘What’s wrong?’
Anthony pats my hand, and grins. ‘Not long.’
Then, surprised to see me suffering, ‘What’s wrong?’
I wave his concern away. There are no words
in the moment ever. Only emotion’s saw
hewing and hacking at the grain of me,
in the moment ever. Only emotion’s saw
hewing and hacking at the grain of me,
which won’t for hours make verses worth their keep;
no words that I won’t have to labour for
in the quiet distillation of no sleep.
no words that I won’t have to labour for
in the quiet distillation of no sleep.
Those who don’t write – or, like dear Anthony,
knock off a poem when the Muse allows –
imagine we who live and breathe the pen
are eloquent and better-equipped than them
in the face of feeling, to describe that pain.
How could they know it’s we who are struck dumb,
knock off a poem when the Muse allows –
imagine we who live and breathe the pen
are eloquent and better-equipped than them
in the face of feeling, to describe that pain.
How could they know it’s we who are struck dumb,
and ill-equipped to process what we feel,
are urged by that loss to find our horror’s name?
For this we scratch while others safely dream.
are urged by that loss to find our horror’s name?
For this we scratch while others safely dream.
Not to be known is such a slicing pain
I find myself half wishing for a cry
out of the crowd, a finger quivering:
I find myself half wishing for a cry
out of the crowd, a finger quivering:
‘It’s Marlowe!’ and the sudden press and throng
and even swift arrest, even the rack,
the hangman and the slit from throat to prick
and even swift arrest, even the rack,
the hangman and the slit from throat to prick
seems longed-for resolution, comforting
against this bitter nothingness, this blank.
In my nostalgia, I forget to fear.
against this bitter nothingness, this blank.
In my nostalgia, I forget to fear.
Dick Burbage sidles on: the crowd falls quiet.
Some offstage music ruffles him; his eye
ranges with joyful hatred, drilling deep
Some offstage music ruffles him; his eye
ranges with joyful hatred, drilling deep
into the groundlings. Now he grins and limps
to the centre of the stage. Here come my words.
Later, later
, I shush my heart. I want
to the centre of the stage. Here come my words.
Later, later
, I shush my heart. I want
to be alive to this experience,
however sharp. And taste the blade go in,
the better to know the fruits of human sin.
however sharp. And taste the blade go in,
the better to know the fruits of human sin.
All through the gasps and jeers, the groundlings’ boos,
I entertained this suicidal prompt:
Throw off the costume, let what happens come.
I entertained this suicidal prompt:
Throw off the costume, let what happens come.
But then, and then … I pulled upon the thread.
Investigations, friends called to account:
your certain execution at the end.
I may not care to live, but love my friend.
Investigations, friends called to account:
your certain execution at the end.
I may not care to live, but love my friend.
And love, as if summoned in another form,
to seal my commitment to the raft of life,
weaves like a spring breeze through the drinking crowds.
Anthony whispers suddenly, ‘Don’t speak!’
to seal my commitment to the raft of life,
weaves like a spring breeze through the drinking crowds.
Anthony whispers suddenly, ‘Don’t speak!’
And there, making straight towards us, is my past –
the Earl of Rutland, whom I barely know,
and the Earl of Southampton. If his beauty shone
in that garden once, then it is blinding now.
And the three years since we parted in the lobby
of my employer’s and his guardian’s house
seem shallow, thirsty years, and he a draught
both delicious and refreshing. Though at first
he doesn’t see, sees only Anthony.
the Earl of Rutland, whom I barely know,
and the Earl of Southampton. If his beauty shone
in that garden once, then it is blinding now.
And the three years since we parted in the lobby
of my employer’s and his guardian’s house
seem shallow, thirsty years, and he a draught
both delicious and refreshing. Though at first
he doesn’t see, sees only Anthony.
They greet each other. Being feminine
I’m less important and uninteresting.
I’m able to take him in, this sweet mirage
who’d pass for a girl more easily than me
for all his adopted swagger. Then he sees.
Stops dead.
I’m less important and uninteresting.
I’m able to take him in, this sweet mirage
who’d pass for a girl more easily than me
for all his adopted swagger. Then he sees.
Stops dead.
‘Excuse me,’ he starts.
‘My lord, may I
present Madame Le Doux?’
‘Why,
enchanté
.’
Something has passed between us. Is that eye
so suddenly fixed on mine because it sees
what others can’t? Did I communicate
so accidentally, in the way I stared?
He kisses my hand, at no point looks away,
and I’m almost shaking. ‘
Comment allez-vous
?’
Though he’s turned twenty-one, he bears the cheek
of a schoolboy with an earl’s authority.
‘I’m afraid,’ says Anthony, ‘her voice has gone.
A terrible summer cold. You know how travel
can weaken the system.’
so suddenly fixed on mine because it sees
what others can’t? Did I communicate
so accidentally, in the way I stared?
He kisses my hand, at no point looks away,
and I’m almost shaking. ‘
Comment allez-vous
?’
Though he’s turned twenty-one, he bears the cheek
of a schoolboy with an earl’s authority.
‘I’m afraid,’ says Anthony, ‘her voice has gone.
A terrible summer cold. You know how travel
can weaken the system.’
‘Yes, indeed I do.’
He smiles. I swear he knows.
‘She is the wife
of a friend of mine,’ Bacon adds. He’s feeding rope
to a man long overboard.
to a man long overboard.
Southampton’s face
is a fairground of delight. ‘May I enquire
how long she’s staying with you?’ I am lost.
He knows, he knows!
how long she’s staying with you?’ I am lost.
He knows, he knows!
But Anthony holds firm.
‘A month or so, I think. There’s no fixed plan.’
‘I’ll call on you soon,’ Southampton says, elated
at discovering me.
at discovering me.
‘We may be leaving town,’
says Anthony, nervously.
Southampton shifts
as a summer sky will thicken up with cloud;
takes my host’s hand. ‘Sir, I seem frivolous.
I apologise I can’t mask my delight
at meeting a lady so
exceptional
.’
His eyes address me. ‘But I am dedicated.’
To Anthony, ‘Truly, dedicated to
the same good cause as you. The life of a friend
is no mere bauble. If dedication serves
as a token of trust, then you must let me call.’
To the Earl of Rutland, ‘Come, we’ll take our seats.’
takes my host’s hand. ‘Sir, I seem frivolous.
I apologise I can’t mask my delight
at meeting a lady so
exceptional
.’
His eyes address me. ‘But I am dedicated.’
To Anthony, ‘Truly, dedicated to
the same good cause as you. The life of a friend
is no mere bauble. If dedication serves
as a token of trust, then you must let me call.’
To the Earl of Rutland, ‘Come, we’ll take our seats.’
He leaves me speechless, Anthony in sweat.
With
dedication
, he picked out the word
that signifies precisely what he knows.
With
dedication
, he picked out the word
that signifies precisely what he knows.
For in order not to draw the hounds upon
those hands that helped me slip out from the noose,
and needing to launch my pseudonym in print
with works protected by a noble name,
with his permission, granted through his kin,
I dedicated both those poems to him.
those hands that helped me slip out from the noose,
and needing to launch my pseudonym in print
with works protected by a noble name,
with his permission, granted through his kin,
I dedicated both those poems to him.
‘We have to get you out of town.’ My host,
turning his back as I step from the dress.
turning his back as I step from the dress.
‘I believe he can be trusted.’
Bacon sighs.
‘Gossip follows him everywhere. As dogs
will follow the heels of every butcher’s boy,
his beauty drags jealous tongues in tow. Besides,’
he turns for a moment, catching my bare skin,
then studies the wall again, ‘I have to move.
I’m sunk with debt. The agents I maintain
abroad for the Earl of Essex from my purse
have proved too costly lately. And the rent
is two months overdue. I’m taking rooms
in Essex House, at my lord’s invitation.
I can’t bring you.’
will follow the heels of every butcher’s boy,
his beauty drags jealous tongues in tow. Besides,’
he turns for a moment, catching my bare skin,
then studies the wall again, ‘I have to move.
I’m sunk with debt. The agents I maintain
abroad for the Earl of Essex from my purse
have proved too costly lately. And the rent
is two months overdue. I’m taking rooms
in Essex House, at my lord’s invitation.
I can’t bring you.’
I button up my shirt
and feel him watch me. ‘I should leave you, then.
Go back on the road and take my chance.’
Go back on the road and take my chance.’
‘No, no,
I have a plan,’ he says, grasping my hands.
‘Come, let’s go down for supper. I’ll explain.’
‘Come, let’s go down for supper. I’ll explain.’
He’s generous with wine. ‘So is this plan
that I pass out, you stuff me in a sack
and throw me in the Thames?’
that I pass out, you stuff me in a sack
and throw me in the Thames?’
He shakes his head,
amused. ‘A Kittish joke. Not every kit
that seems unwanted ends up bound and drowned.
But the play restored your humour. I am pleased.’
that seems unwanted ends up bound and drowned.
But the play restored your humour. I am pleased.’
He tears some bread with difficulty. He
has the gout again.
has the gout again.
‘That cough of history
is not the last,’ I say. ‘I’m put in mind
of another Richard.’
of another Richard.’
‘You knew many Dicks,’
says Anthony, gamely.
‘No, the royal sort.
Tell me your plan.’
He has to finish chewing.
Holds up a finger, swallows, sips some wine
and spills the arrangement: through a maternal aunt,
his relative is Sir John Harington,
a cousin of the Sidneys. Friend to poets.
He has a son in need of tutoring.
and spills the arrangement: through a maternal aunt,
his relative is Sir John Harington,
a cousin of the Sidneys. Friend to poets.
He has a son in need of tutoring.
‘In Rutland?’
‘At Exton. Burley on the Hill.
A fine house. Far enough away from here
to save you from pryers. But close enough for friends
to visit at Christmas, when I hear he lodges
over a hundred guests.’
to save you from pryers. But close enough for friends
to visit at Christmas, when I hear he lodges
over a hundred guests.’
‘When should I go?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘My instinct tells me so.
I always heed my gut, when it persists
in griping pain. The last three hours were Hell.
To you, my friend.’
I always heed my gut, when it persists
in griping pain. The last three hours were Hell.
To you, my friend.’
Our glasses rise and kiss.
My brain’s at work. What further history
chews on the flavours I have licked from life
like the tale of Bolingbroke? First, sent away
on the lies of false accusers, by his king –
that second Richard, limp as the third was lame –
and banished into exile, suffering
the loss of his native tongue, and his good name –
anguish as known to me as my own hand.
chews on the flavours I have licked from life
like the tale of Bolingbroke? First, sent away
on the lies of false accusers, by his king –
that second Richard, limp as the third was lame –
and banished into exile, suffering
the loss of his native tongue, and his good name –
anguish as known to me as my own hand.
Then he returns, still loyal, yet conquering
the rank injustice that set him aside.
And just as my
Faustus
captured my own doom,
perhaps this script could write me back alive.
the rank injustice that set him aside.
And just as my
Faustus
captured my own doom,
perhaps this script could write me back alive.
No, dream, but do not plot, dear Posthumous.
The way back into life is hard and strange
and doubtless more complex than I write some lines
and let God make them true for me. But this –
the thought of where I’ll start, the opening scene,
inspires me. Imagine this, my dream.
The way back into life is hard and strange
and doubtless more complex than I write some lines
and let God make them true for me. But this –
the thought of where I’ll start, the opening scene,
inspires me. Imagine this, my dream.
If I must be imprisoned, let it be
in a house like this one. If I must be kept
from all that once informed me I was free,
then give me marble floors, a sweeping drive,
three dozen colonnades. A stable block
more sumptuous than my father’s cobbling shop.
in a house like this one. If I must be kept
from all that once informed me I was free,
then give me marble floors, a sweeping drive,
three dozen colonnades. A stable block
more sumptuous than my father’s cobbling shop.
Give me its broad façade, its generous arms
embracing those invited to approach;
its lofty chambers where the words of kings
can echo back from ceilings, magnified;
this hilltop seat, its broad commanding view
laying the country out like a tablecloth:
embracing those invited to approach;
its lofty chambers where the words of kings
can echo back from ceilings, magnified;
this hilltop seat, its broad commanding view
laying the country out like a tablecloth:
perspective, now, on all that I have lost
and all that I might conquer, given room.
and all that I might conquer, given room.
A fine place to retire, if I were old.
A good position, if I favoured sleep
and didn’t mind oblivion. A house
to settle in, as dust upon a stair.
A good position, if I favoured sleep
and didn’t mind oblivion. A house
to settle in, as dust upon a stair.
Safe as a nut, for who can even find
the county on a map? Rutland’s a fleck
in the eye of God, and I am holed in it,
hugged in the murder of inconsequence,
and teaching numbers to a three-year-old.
the county on a map? Rutland’s a fleck
in the eye of God, and I am holed in it,
hugged in the murder of inconsequence,
and teaching numbers to a three-year-old.
My host, discretion’s knight, is deathly kind.
With paper freely given, I retreat
into the grand adventures of my head:
the plots and coups that forward history,
where I would be, with sword instead of pen,
in a finch’s blink. Your letters urge me,
Wait.
With paper freely given, I retreat
into the grand adventures of my head:
the plots and coups that forward history,
where I would be, with sword instead of pen,
in a finch’s blink. Your letters urge me,
Wait.
For Elizabeth to die? I could be dead
myself before the pampered girl expires.
My loyalty to her strung up this noose
that tightens slowly, day on gag-bound day;
the suffocating knowledge every play
my heart creates, lifts high another’s name.
myself before the pampered girl expires.
My loyalty to her strung up this noose
that tightens slowly, day on gag-bound day;
the suffocating knowledge every play
my heart creates, lifts high another’s name.
You ask if I, now well restored to health,
would not be more content in Italy,
with drier reds, and weather as a friend,
and not so tempted by the closeness of
the familiar haunts and homes of those I love.
would not be more content in Italy,
with drier reds, and weather as a friend,
and not so tempted by the closeness of
the familiar haunts and homes of those I love.
I answer: this master keeps an open house.
All visitors welcome. There is here a man
who used to count your friendship as a jewel,
and how the sight of your face would bring relief
from endless lake and hill and cloud and sheep.
All visitors welcome. There is here a man
who used to count your friendship as a jewel,
and how the sight of your face would bring relief
from endless lake and hill and cloud and sheep.
I sing and pretend and play the perfect guest.
I chant the alphabet for a rich man’s son.
I finish the play that no one knows is mine.
Your letter arrives, saying you will not come.
I chant the alphabet for a rich man’s son.
I finish the play that no one knows is mine.
Your letter arrives, saying you will not come.
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