Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (34 page)
One tale before I go. A tale of drink.
A London tavern where a stranger sits
lining his guts with ale. He shouldn’t be
so close to the playhouse. But the play is his,
It’s mine
, he tells himself; this time out loud
from the look on that wench’s face. He’s here to feed,
to re-create those nights worn years ago
when he revelled in glory seeded from his pen,
full-grown and showering blossom on his head.
Weathering admiration. Not long now
till the groundlings enter, high on their own applause.
A London tavern where a stranger sits
lining his guts with ale. He shouldn’t be
so close to the playhouse. But the play is his,
It’s mine
, he tells himself; this time out loud
from the look on that wench’s face. He’s here to feed,
to re-create those nights worn years ago
when he revelled in glory seeded from his pen,
full-grown and showering blossom on his head.
Weathering admiration. Not long now
till the groundlings enter, high on their own applause.
Another beer while he’s waiting. Then, sweet joy,
they’re spilling through the doors, full of his play,
rattling with the violence of the scene
where the hero dies, the mute face of the Queen
as she poisons herself.
they’re spilling through the doors, full of his play,
rattling with the violence of the scene
where the hero dies, the mute face of the Queen
as she poisons herself.
And how he breathes it in,
leans back against the wall, closing his eyes
imagining how each word is due to him,
until he hears:
imagining how each word is due to him,
until he hears:
‘’E’s odd that ’Amlet, though.
’E shoulda killed the King two hours ago.’
The man has a nose bashed as a cobbler’s awl.
The stranger’s swallow sticks as the men agree,
and he contradicts them, under his hand. They hear.
The man has a nose bashed as a cobbler’s awl.
The stranger’s swallow sticks as the men agree,
and he contradicts them, under his hand. They hear.
He might have drunk up then, and left. But no.
Good Lady Drunkenness has slipped her hand
half up his thigh, encouraging desire
to be a part of almost anything,
so no, he argues. And they argue back.
And the five of them (for there are five of them)
all hold the same opinion: he is wrong,
and they tell him so.
Good Lady Drunkenness has slipped her hand
half up his thigh, encouraging desire
to be a part of almost anything,
so no, he argues. And they argue back.
And the five of them (for there are five of them)
all hold the same opinion: he is wrong,
and they tell him so.
‘Aha, but
you
are wrong’
(and he may have slurred a little), ‘I should know.
I am the author.’
I am the author.’
A decade’s secrecy
snuffed in the puff of a pointless argument,
as gossip said his life was.
as gossip said his life was.
Idiot.
Perhaps you are surprised it took this long.
But a decade built me to the point: this snap,
this wild attempt to resurrect myself
unthought-through, yet imagined many years
through long nights painting my head’s scenery
where thought played every possibility.
And now to find what’s on the untried page.
But a decade built me to the point: this snap,
this wild attempt to resurrect myself
unthought-through, yet imagined many years
through long nights painting my head’s scenery
where thought played every possibility.
And now to find what’s on the untried page.
‘You’re Shakespeare?’
‘No, he’s not. I’ve seen the man.
And he isn’t fond of drinking, that I know.
He doesn’t mix with the likes of us.’
He doesn’t mix with the likes of us.’
‘That arse
is not the author.’
Swaying like a tree
caught in a gentle westerly, I cling
to my beer-fuelled boldness. ‘This is my play.
My
play.
I’ll tell you why Prince Hamlet dithers so.
He isn’t of a violent temperament.
Simple as that. Though simpletons like you
will throw a punch rather than hurt the brain
to work out something cleverer, the Prince
(I mark how you restrain him; excellent;
and you, Fist Man, thus name yourself a clod),
the Prince of Denmark, if I may continue,
prefers a quip to murder. As all do
who value the art of thinking. (Hold him well!
I’m really not worth the bruising.) There is much
to think about, surely. Is his father’s ghost
a figment of Hell? Did not the Christian God
say, “Vengeance is mine”? Then who is he to slay
another? Yet the urging drives him mad.
And at the same time, into a sanity
more clear than any of you will ever know.’
to my beer-fuelled boldness. ‘This is my play.
My
play.
I’ll tell you why Prince Hamlet dithers so.
He isn’t of a violent temperament.
Simple as that. Though simpletons like you
will throw a punch rather than hurt the brain
to work out something cleverer, the Prince
(I mark how you restrain him; excellent;
and you, Fist Man, thus name yourself a clod),
the Prince of Denmark, if I may continue,
prefers a quip to murder. As all do
who value the art of thinking. (Hold him well!
I’m really not worth the bruising.) There is much
to think about, surely. Is his father’s ghost
a figment of Hell? Did not the Christian God
say, “Vengeance is mine”? Then who is he to slay
another? Yet the urging drives him mad.
And at the same time, into a sanity
more clear than any of you will ever know.’
‘Lads! Let me go!’ the held-back brawler shouts,
and I see a look pass through them like a breeze
that will furnish the ground with apples.
and I see a look pass through them like a breeze
that will furnish the ground with apples.
‘No, you don’t!’
says the wench who served me. ‘No more breakages.
Broken noses is one thing, broken stools
I’ve had enough of. Out.’
Broken noses is one thing, broken stools
I’ve had enough of. Out.’
‘Who – me?’
‘It’s you,
or the five of them, and you look easier
to get to the exit. Help me, darlin’, please,
come willingly. It’s best.’
to get to the exit. Help me, darlin’, please,
come willingly. It’s best.’
I let myself
be coaxed from the tavern like an orphaned calf
is coaxed from its field towards the marketplace.
is coaxed from its field towards the marketplace.
To steady me, she pulls my arm around,
and draped,
faux
-passionate, around her neck,
‘You know I tell the truth,’ I say. ‘I am
the author of that play.’
and draped,
faux
-passionate, around her neck,
‘You know I tell the truth,’ I say. ‘I am
the author of that play.’
‘You are, you’re not,
what does it matter?’
Her arm around my waist
as if she’s my lover, steadying my sway
towards the door. And I, outraged, begin
my heart’s defence.
towards the door. And I, outraged, begin
my heart’s defence.
‘What does it matter? Why—’
I stop to concentrate upon the words
that will convince her.
that will convince her.
‘Not here, love, outside.’
She tugs at me. ‘Now, darlin’.’
In the snow.
We’re in the snow. She is so practical,
so tiny-nosed.
so tiny-nosed.
‘If they enjoy the play,
what does it matter?’
‘That I wrote the play?’
‘That they know you wrote the play. What does it matter?’
It’s falling fast. She’s cold. Crosses her arms
across a goosebumped bosom. ‘Anyways.
Drink’s done you in. You didn’t write that play.
You’re soft in the head with boozing. Silly man.’
She pats my cheek. ‘You’re maybe clever enough.
But I’ve seen him, Shakespeare. Comes in now and then
when he visits London. From a country house,
they say, a big one. Wears a velvet cap.’
I’m outraged, though I’ve broken sumptuary laws
more often than I’ve broken wind.
across a goosebumped bosom. ‘Anyways.
Drink’s done you in. You didn’t write that play.
You’re soft in the head with boozing. Silly man.’
She pats my cheek. ‘You’re maybe clever enough.
But I’ve seen him, Shakespeare. Comes in now and then
when he visits London. From a country house,
they say, a big one. Wears a velvet cap.’
I’m outraged, though I’ve broken sumptuary laws
more often than I’ve broken wind.
‘How can
a man of so mean standing—’
‘Not so mean.
He is a gentleman. Was granted arms.’
‘Bought them more like.’
She squints me with an eye
expert at filling just below a pint
without attracting notice.
without attracting notice.
‘That may be.
But he comes across more gentleman than you.’
‘And does he boast about his plays?’
‘No, no.
’Umble as mumblin’. Not so in his dress,
but in his manner. None of yer spoutin’ off.’
but in his manner. None of yer spoutin’ off.’
My spouting off. The dart’s not aimed at me,
but it hits the bull – what landed me right here,
in a filthy street, tipped out like so much turd
from an upper window, wrenched free of my plays,
condemned to stay anonymous Will Hall,
is my spouting off.
but it hits the bull – what landed me right here,
in a filthy street, tipped out like so much turd
from an upper window, wrenched free of my plays,
condemned to stay anonymous Will Hall,
is my spouting off.
‘You’re right,’ I say, ‘I’m not
called William Shakespeare. That man is a fence.’
She fast objects, ‘There’s no offence in him!’
She fast objects, ‘There’s no offence in him!’
‘A fence of the sort that keeps intruders out.
A broker of plays behind whom any man
who wishes to stay anonymous can write.
I’ll tell you a secret.’
A broker of plays behind whom any man
who wishes to stay anonymous can write.
I’ll tell you a secret.’
She laughs. ‘I’m sure you will.
Six pints of my husband’s brew would turn a priest
on to his head and rattle him upside down,
for a neighbourhood of secrets. Go on, then.’
‘I’m Christopher Marlowe.’
on to his head and rattle him upside down,
for a neighbourhood of secrets. Go on, then.’
‘I’m Christopher Marlowe.’
She squawks like a bird.
She folds in half where her apron strings are tied
and hoots out disbelief until she can
stand up half straight.
and hoots out disbelief until she can
stand up half straight.
‘You fool,’ she says. ‘He’s dead.
And you look nothing like him, anyways.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Why, a corpse!’ She grins.
‘All bone and worm food. But I saw him once,
when he was alive. A young bloke. Lots of hair.
Wild in his manner. Loved to pick a fight,
I heard.’
when he was alive. A young bloke. Lots of hair.
Wild in his manner. Loved to pick a fight,
I heard.’
‘So I’ve lost my hair. And aged ten years.’
She cackles. ‘Go on with you! Put on some weight
and shrunk some too.’
and shrunk some too.’
‘Shrunk some?’
‘Why certainly!
He was five or six inches taller.’
‘And how old
were you, when you saw him?’
‘Twelve, thirteen,’ she says.
‘And shorter?’
‘Listen, sir,’ her finger wags,
‘I’m not the one who’s making up this tale.
Now stop your nonsense and be off with you
or I’ll call the constables.’
Now stop your nonsense and be off with you
or I’ll call the constables.’
She’d more than call,
had she believed me. She’d have shouted, yowled,
summoned the brawlers out to hold me down
until the law came. I’d be bundled off
to prison, and the executioner.
Though often I’ve wished for that oblivion.
summoned the brawlers out to hold me down
until the law came. I’d be bundled off
to prison, and the executioner.
Though often I’ve wished for that oblivion.
But, friend, this lie we fashioned from our need
has taken sustenance, and grown, and bred.
It nests in the heart of all who gave it ears,
devouring truth, which cannot be recovered
even by shoving fingers down its throat.
The lie has fully digested me, and can’t
vomit me out.
has taken sustenance, and grown, and bred.
It nests in the heart of all who gave it ears,
devouring truth, which cannot be recovered
even by shoving fingers down its throat.
The lie has fully digested me, and can’t
vomit me out.
And yet, I tasted there
for the smallest moment, all my pain resolved.
Before their disbelief, before her squawk
of extraordinary laughter, for a breath I was
entirely me, and honest with the world.
Before their disbelief, before her squawk
of extraordinary laughter, for a breath I was
entirely me, and honest with the world.
How glittering a resurrection feels,
when what was gone for ever is regained,
its value multiplied by loss, reclaimed.
when what was gone for ever is regained,
its value multiplied by loss, reclaimed.
And I shall know it more, shall write it through
in every play until I die; a prayer
that by its repetition may come true.
in every play until I die; a prayer
that by its repetition may come true.
Again, and again, the posthumous will rise
to claim their crowns, their loves, amaze their friends,
confound their enemies, rewrite their tales.
to claim their crowns, their loves, amaze their friends,
confound their enemies, rewrite their tales.
And I will live that drama yet. I swear.
Not every word that appears in
The Marlowe Papers
was in use in the sixteenth century. In order to avoid cod Elizabethan and strike a balance between authenticity and readability, here and there I have chosen ‘barmaid’ over ‘wench’, let Robert Greene refer to Marlowe as ‘bent’, and given ‘Muslim’ when ‘Musselman’ would be more historically accurate. Though in the fifteenth century, ‘lunch’ was the sound made by a soft body falling, and in the sixteenth, a hunk or chunk of something, I have allowed it to mean a meal on the single occasion where no substitute would do. Some decisions of this sort were made in order to keep within the allowable variations of iambic meter. For the syllable counters among you, it is worth noting that iambic pentameter does not always have ten syllables; it can have as many as twelve (and variations in pronunciation can in places make scansion a somewhat subjective art): so long as it has five metrical feet, and the majority of those iambic, the line should qualify.
The Marlowe Papers
was in use in the sixteenth century. In order to avoid cod Elizabethan and strike a balance between authenticity and readability, here and there I have chosen ‘barmaid’ over ‘wench’, let Robert Greene refer to Marlowe as ‘bent’, and given ‘Muslim’ when ‘Musselman’ would be more historically accurate. Though in the fifteenth century, ‘lunch’ was the sound made by a soft body falling, and in the sixteenth, a hunk or chunk of something, I have allowed it to mean a meal on the single occasion where no substitute would do. Some decisions of this sort were made in order to keep within the allowable variations of iambic meter. For the syllable counters among you, it is worth noting that iambic pentameter does not always have ten syllables; it can have as many as twelve (and variations in pronunciation can in places make scansion a somewhat subjective art): so long as it has five metrical feet, and the majority of those iambic, the line should qualify.
Following are notes that are not in any way essential to the understanding or enjoyment of
The Marlowe Papers
, but I hope some readers will find them interesting or useful.
The Marlowe Papers
, but I hope some readers will find them interesting or useful.
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