The Marlowe Papers (3 page)
Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
Watching my father at the last, I learnt
that love is a necessity of craft.
Who writes must love their pen and every mark
it makes upon the paper, and the words
that set their neighbours burning, and the line
that sounds against the skull when read again.
that love is a necessity of craft.
Who writes must love their pen and every mark
it makes upon the paper, and the words
that set their neighbours burning, and the line
that sounds against the skull when read again.
Elbows against a schoolboy’s desk, I learnt
the dead can be conjured from their words through ink,
that ancient writers rise and sing through time
as if immortal, the poet’s voice preserved
like the ambered insect some see as a scratch
but I’d imagine flying, brought to life.
the dead can be conjured from their words through ink,
that ancient writers rise and sing through time
as if immortal, the poet’s voice preserved
like the ambered insect some see as a scratch
but I’d imagine flying, brought to life.
And so to precious paper I commit
the only story I can never tell.
the only story I can never tell.
‘He’s come to Cambridge. Thomas Watson.’
‘Swear!’
‘I swear. Staying with some old friend of his.
He’s come to see your
Dido
.’
He’s come to see your
Dido
.’
Christmas week.
Nineteen years old, and my first play is born
on a student stage fusty with Latin jokes.
Act One starts in an hour, the snow is thick
across the quad, and crunches underfoot
as Knowles and I make for the buttery.
‘You can’t be sure.’
on a student stage fusty with Latin jokes.
Act One starts in an hour, the snow is thick
across the quad, and crunches underfoot
as Knowles and I make for the buttery.
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘The rumour’s sound. He’ll come.
He’ll love it, Kit.’
‘He’ll recognise those lines
where Dido dies. I robbed the pith from him.’
‘Be calm. He’ll take it as a compliment.’
‘Be calm. He’ll take it as a compliment.’
Our names marked down, I take some soup and bread
but cannot eat. Across the darkened lawns,
the hall is tricked out as a theatre.
Boys are in face-paint; two in Roman gowns
are testing their breasts won’t slip. It’s too late now
to change a word of it. They’ve memorised
their entrances and exits, have the lines
under their breath. The night is with the gods.
but cannot eat. Across the darkened lawns,
the hall is tricked out as a theatre.
Boys are in face-paint; two in Roman gowns
are testing their breasts won’t slip. It’s too late now
to change a word of it. They’ve memorised
their entrances and exits, have the lines
under their breath. The night is with the gods.
The final speech. As Dido’s sister bolts
headlong into imaginary flames
a silence settles. Then the hall erupts.
headlong into imaginary flames
a silence settles. Then the hall erupts.
A thief’s anxiety, worming its nest of holes
in the poet’s stomach, softens at the salve
of warm appreciation from a throng
of drunken students.
in the poet’s stomach, softens at the salve
of warm appreciation from a throng
of drunken students.
One man stands apart.
As others press to greet me, he leans in
to his friend, his eye on me and whispering
something that makes his neighbour splutter; not
at me, but at the sea of gowns he parts
entirely by the focus of his gaze.
to his friend, his eye on me and whispering
something that makes his neighbour splutter; not
at me, but at the sea of gowns he parts
entirely by the focus of his gaze.
Anticipation makes me blurt his name
in time with him as we are introduced.
He laughs. ‘Another Watson? A common name,
I grant you, but Tom too? It’s ludicrous.
I’ve met a dozen Toms this last half-day,
but not another Watson. Peace, my friend.
You’re Christopher Marley, and I’m very glad
to meet you. Quite an ambitious play for one
so young. You’ll come to town and sup with us?
Gobbo’s paying.’ He motions to his friend.
in time with him as we are introduced.
He laughs. ‘Another Watson? A common name,
I grant you, but Tom too? It’s ludicrous.
I’ve met a dozen Toms this last half-day,
but not another Watson. Peace, my friend.
You’re Christopher Marley, and I’m very glad
to meet you. Quite an ambitious play for one
so young. You’ll come to town and sup with us?
Gobbo’s paying.’ He motions to his friend.
Some tankards later, his voice conducts a crowd
jesting at one particular Oxford don
who, ‘finding a student tying his laces together,
would correct the miscreant’s bows, and demonstrate
the best knot for the job, before he’d rise,
and be felled to the floorboards like a tree!’
The table laughs. His eyes are bright with it.
jesting at one particular Oxford don
who, ‘finding a student tying his laces together,
would correct the miscreant’s bows, and demonstrate
the best knot for the job, before he’d rise,
and be felled to the floorboards like a tree!’
The table laughs. His eyes are bright with it.
More beer is hailed as one of his friends chips in:
‘And Richard Harvey is another ass.
‘And Richard Harvey is another ass.
He wrote a book some years ago, predicting
the destruction of the world in eighty-eight.
The calamity will be fire and water mixed.
And what might that describe?’
the destruction of the world in eighty-eight.
The calamity will be fire and water mixed.
And what might that describe?’
‘His bowels perhaps,’
Watson suggests, ‘when none of it comes true.’
The table erupts, and as the beer arrives,
Tom Watson leans in closer to my ear.
‘Dim-witted Dick is rector to my friend.
His brother, Gabriel, is tutor here.
You know him?’
The table erupts, and as the beer arrives,
Tom Watson leans in closer to my ear.
‘Dim-witted Dick is rector to my friend.
His brother, Gabriel, is tutor here.
You know him?’
‘I have had the dubious pleasure.’
He smiles. ‘You’d circle the globe to see two men
more cursed and blessed with brains. Intelligence
is only for the gifted. Don’t you think?’
This question pierces me. His eyes, like hearths
to come in from the cold to. Do I think?
I haven’t said much since the second beer,
which tugs at me now to head out for the jakes.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
more cursed and blessed with brains. Intelligence
is only for the gifted. Don’t you think?’
This question pierces me. His eyes, like hearths
to come in from the cold to. Do I think?
I haven’t said much since the second beer,
which tugs at me now to head out for the jakes.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
His friends are lost
in jokes about the Harveys; all the air
around the two of us drawn in, enclosed,
as if his voice has conjured us a room.
His face is serious. ‘A lively wit
can only be ridden if it’s broken in.
You’ve heard that phrase? One privy councillor
I know is very fond of it.’
around the two of us drawn in, enclosed,
as if his voice has conjured us a room.
His face is serious. ‘A lively wit
can only be ridden if it’s broken in.
You’ve heard that phrase? One privy councillor
I know is very fond of it.’
‘Lord Burghley?’
‘Sir Francis Walsingham. He has some work
for men with languages. If you like travel.
Delivering letters to the embassies.
Paris, and so on. Should I mention you?’
for men with languages. If you like travel.
Delivering letters to the embassies.
Paris, and so on. Should I mention you?’
I hope I didn’t seem too puppy-keen;
my only other option was the Church.
A life outside the walls of academe,
adventuring in the service of the Queen,
a chance to move among the powerful
and commandeer material for my pen
was more like life than all my lives till then.
The gods forgive me if I wolfed the bait.
my only other option was the Church.
A life outside the walls of academe,
adventuring in the service of the Queen,
a chance to move among the powerful
and commandeer material for my pen
was more like life than all my lives till then.
The gods forgive me if I wolfed the bait.
‘Discretion, though. Should you speak to anyone
about the possibility, it’s gone.’
about the possibility, it’s gone.’
Odd to recruit me there, a public place.
And yet, surrounded by the drunk and loud,
and cloaked in a fog of less important talk,
he carved us privacy. A gale of noise
proves safer to talk in than the queue to piss,
or a quiet street. Words travel far on air,
and leap on the back of silence, riding miles
beyond our sight. But lean in, sup a beer,
exchange a tale. And then rejoin the jokes.
Allude to nothing further: be, and wait.
And yet, surrounded by the drunk and loud,
and cloaked in a fog of less important talk,
he carved us privacy. A gale of noise
proves safer to talk in than the queue to piss,
or a quiet street. Words travel far on air,
and leap on the back of silence, riding miles
beyond our sight. But lean in, sup a beer,
exchange a tale. And then rejoin the jokes.
Allude to nothing further: be, and wait.
Thus Watson’s first free lesson in the art
of espionage on
Dido
’s opening night:
the safest jewels are hidden in plain sight.
of espionage on
Dido
’s opening night:
the safest jewels are hidden in plain sight.
This banished man is writing you a poem,
the only code I know that tells the truth,
though truth was both my glory, and my ruin,
the laurel, and the handcuff, of my youth.
the only code I know that tells the truth,
though truth was both my glory, and my ruin,
the laurel, and the handcuff, of my youth.
London seduced me. Beckoned me her way
and spread herself beneath me, for a play.
and spread herself beneath me, for a play.
‘They’ve never seen the like before.’ Applause,
a clapping swell like starlings after grain
and Edward Alleyn’s striding off the stage,
dressed as the thunderous Tamburlaine. ‘Some beer!’
He claps me on the back. ‘Look what you’ve made.
It seems they love a monster. As do I.’
a clapping swell like starlings after grain
and Edward Alleyn’s striding off the stage,
dressed as the thunderous Tamburlaine. ‘Some beer!’
He claps me on the back. ‘Look what you’ve made.
It seems they love a monster. As do I.’
Six years ago is now a life away.
Yet I close my eyes and put my feet up there
as solid as a tavern tabletop,
comfortable as a chair that I rock back
to balancing point, and just sustain in air
because I am young, full of success and praise,
and not yet too much ale.
Yet I close my eyes and put my feet up there
as solid as a tavern tabletop,
comfortable as a chair that I rock back
to balancing point, and just sustain in air
because I am young, full of success and praise,
and not yet too much ale.
‘My love! Some more!’
Dear Ned upbraids the tapster’s wife for beer,
orders a double supper, beef and bread,
then closes his eyes as if he hears the crowd
and shakes his head.
orders a double supper, beef and bread,
then closes his eyes as if he hears the crowd
and shakes his head.
‘Oh, that was something, Kit.
I had them in my pocket from the first.
Your words, I tell you. If I had your words
three hours a night, I’d set the world on fire.’
Your words, I tell you. If I had your words
three hours a night, I’d set the world on fire.’
I say, ‘You gave him life, they’re clapping you.
My words, but someone had to speak them, Ned.
An author cannot speak his words himself,
the world would lynch him. And his mother, too,
were she to hear.’
My words, but someone had to speak them, Ned.
An author cannot speak his words himself,
the world would lynch him. And his mother, too,
were she to hear.’
‘The world will hear of this!’
‘As far as the world might go. Perhaps not Kent.’
He laughs. ‘As far as Beckenham at least!
Come, man, your mother would love the show tonight,
if she had dreams for her son of better things.
A simple shepherd can become a king –
you show us how. And with a crown of words
make kings of both of us. This hollow town
will ring to the name of Tamburlaine for years!’
He laughs. ‘As far as Beckenham at least!
Come, man, your mother would love the show tonight,
if she had dreams for her son of better things.
A simple shepherd can become a king –
you show us how. And with a crown of words
make kings of both of us. This hollow town
will ring to the name of Tamburlaine for years!’
The man who sidles up behind his back
is red and pointy-bearded, greenly cloaked:
‘May it not be so. London’s tortured ears
are sick of it already. Is it news?
Congratulations.’ Proffers up his hand
as if it were a prodding stick. ‘Your name?’
is red and pointy-bearded, greenly cloaked:
‘May it not be so. London’s tortured ears
are sick of it already. Is it news?
Congratulations.’ Proffers up his hand
as if it were a prodding stick. ‘Your name?’
Ned stands to introduce us: mizzen tall.
‘Christopher Marley,’ Ned says, ‘scholar poet –
Robert Greene, author of ladies’ romances.’
‘Christopher Marley,’ Ned says, ‘scholar poet –
Robert Greene, author of ladies’ romances.’
Greene slides his palm away. ‘And scholar too
at both the universities. I write
because I need to eat. There’s quite a crowd
of educated masters wielding pens
in London now. You’ve come to join the throng?’
at both the universities. I write
because I need to eat. There’s quite a crowd
of educated masters wielding pens
in London now. You’ve come to join the throng?’
‘He’s come to be head of it!’ says Ned, quite drunk
on the crowd’s applause, and sitting down as hard
as a man will sit on his conscience. ‘Come now, Robert.
Did you not see the play? A masterpiece.’
on the crowd’s applause, and sitting down as hard
as a man will sit on his conscience. ‘Come now, Robert.
Did you not see the play? A masterpiece.’
Greene’s sigh could strip his beard. ‘Not see, exactly,
but rather heard in roars along the street
when I was on my way here. And the chat,’
he motions round the tavern, ‘tells the plot.
Tell me, young Master Marlowe, scholar poet.
Is violence poetic? Should you write
so beautifully about atrocities?
I hear your hero has a monstrous rage
and murders his own children. What of love?
Do modern poets not have time for love?
Is it extinct?’
but rather heard in roars along the street
when I was on my way here. And the chat,’
he motions round the tavern, ‘tells the plot.
Tell me, young Master Marlowe, scholar poet.
Is violence poetic? Should you write
so beautifully about atrocities?
I hear your hero has a monstrous rage
and murders his own children. What of love?
Do modern poets not have time for love?
Is it extinct?’
How wrong a man can judge.
And he heard my second syllable as ‘low’.
I let it pass. ‘Love is a mystery,’
I say, as a wench’s hips sway past my eyes.
‘Each person craves it, yet it doesn’t sell.
Or so I’m told. We cannot dine on love.
Perhaps too few believe in it.’
I let it pass. ‘Love is a mystery,’
I say, as a wench’s hips sway past my eyes.
‘Each person craves it, yet it doesn’t sell.
Or so I’m told. We cannot dine on love.
Perhaps too few believe in it.’
‘It’s true,’
Ned elbows in, ‘the modern public like
their entertainments savage. Buckets of blood,
and heartlessness. Or how could we compete
with public executions? Hanging’s free.’
their entertainments savage. Buckets of blood,
and heartlessness. Or how could we compete
with public executions? Hanging’s free.’
Greene stays with me. ‘A Cambridge boy, I’m right?
We might have shared a tutor. William Gage?
I was at Benet first.’ He rubs his chin,
as though his beard’s a bet he’s bringing in
against the fluff of my young moustache. ‘You were
a sizar? Not a pensioner?’ He trawls,
fishing for scraps that he might hang on me.
What is my father’s trade? For he smells trade.
He guesses it straight away, as if my name
has come to him before.
We might have shared a tutor. William Gage?
I was at Benet first.’ He rubs his chin,
as though his beard’s a bet he’s bringing in
against the fluff of my young moustache. ‘You were
a sizar? Not a pensioner?’ He trawls,
fishing for scraps that he might hang on me.
What is my father’s trade? For he smells trade.
He guesses it straight away, as if my name
has come to him before.
‘A cobbler’s son?’
‘But then Our Lord’s son was a carpenter.
The trades are honest. Everyone needs shoes.’
My father’s words, my mouth. ‘Whose son are you?’
The trades are honest. Everyone needs shoes.’
My father’s words, my mouth. ‘Whose son are you?’
‘A petty miser. Hard as gold is soft
and can be clipped. He has disowned me, though.
I’m disinherited. A writer’s lot,
as you will learn, is not all sweet applause,
and there’s no wealth in it. There’s ladies, though’
– exchanging winks with one – ‘if you’re not bent
or too high-minded.’
and can be clipped. He has disowned me, though.
I’m disinherited. A writer’s lot,
as you will learn, is not all sweet applause,
and there’s no wealth in it. There’s ladies, though’
– exchanging winks with one – ‘if you’re not bent
or too high-minded.’
‘Robert, will you join us?’
Ned doesn’t catch the slurs, his beery speech
too full of them to find a fault elsewhere.
I motion at the chair. Greene hesitates.
‘You don’t prefer to celebrate alone?
I wouldn’t want to steal your evening.’
too full of them to find a fault elsewhere.
I motion at the chair. Greene hesitates.
‘You don’t prefer to celebrate alone?
I wouldn’t want to steal your evening.’
‘I’d
be happy to hear how you live by the pen.
There must be quite an art to it,’ I say.
Greene eyes me carefully. ‘I don’t give tips
to the competition. Nose out. But I’ll stay.
So long as there’s wine and Ned is paying for it.
The good stuff. French. None of that sherry stuff.’
He pulls a chair in. Ned is scandalised.
‘Seems one too many free dinners has spoiled your palate!’
‘Too many? Who can have too many?’ Greene
twiddles his beard to dislodge evidence.
There must be quite an art to it,’ I say.
Greene eyes me carefully. ‘I don’t give tips
to the competition. Nose out. But I’ll stay.
So long as there’s wine and Ned is paying for it.
The good stuff. French. None of that sherry stuff.’
He pulls a chair in. Ned is scandalised.
‘Seems one too many free dinners has spoiled your palate!’
‘Too many? Who can have too many?’ Greene
twiddles his beard to dislodge evidence.
An hour he drank with us before a whore
was his excuse to leave us. All that hour
he talked about his books and of the plays
he promised to Ned. Occasionally he smiled,
but only sidewise, flinching every time
a groundling came to give Alleyn a slap
for his performance. ‘How to follow that?
Great Tamburlaine has clearly conquered all.’
He eyed me shrewdly. ‘After such a play,
the next must surely disappoint us, no?’
was his excuse to leave us. All that hour
he talked about his books and of the plays
he promised to Ned. Occasionally he smiled,
but only sidewise, flinching every time
a groundling came to give Alleyn a slap
for his performance. ‘How to follow that?
Great Tamburlaine has clearly conquered all.’
He eyed me shrewdly. ‘After such a play,
the next must surely disappoint us, no?’
‘More of the same!’ cries Ned, still full in sail.
‘Tell us what happens next. How does he die?
Who overthrows him?’
‘Tell us what happens next. How does he die?
Who overthrows him?’
None but God himself,
as I have learnt, but didn’t answer then.
I let the bluffers fill the empty space.
Ned offered up a plot. I had my own:
to guard my tongue, but give rein to my pen.
I let the bluffers fill the empty space.
Ned offered up a plot. I had my own:
to guard my tongue, but give rein to my pen.
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