ACT III.Scene I.
Shakespeare’slodging. 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.Shakespeareis sitting at it, a manuscript in his hand. On the arm of the chair lollsMarlowe,one arm flung roundShakespeare’sneck, 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 Ilikethese 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 theI can’t write. What boy on the stairs? I sent him to her. I wrote. I have waited her will long enough. She shall see me to-night. I’ll know what it means. She plays with me, Kit. Are you going?
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 roadGrew friendly, like a stranger in a dreamNodding “I know you!” and behold, a loveLong 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 layEnchanted in the Sunday sloth of noon:In th’ aspen tree the wind hung, fast asleep,Yet the air danced a foot above the flowersAnd gnats danced in it. I saw a poppy-headSpilling 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,Drowning the lark that fluted, fields away,Up in the marvel blue.Shakespeare.Did you go in?Henslowe.Why, scarce I dared, for as I latched the gateThe wind stirred drowsily, and “Hush!” it said,And slept again; but all the garden wakedUpon 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 gloomAfter 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 breathShe 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 faceGlowed white as iron new lifted from the forge:Her hair fled out behind her in one flameAs to the door she ran, with little criesScarce 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,So still you’d think she died there, standing up,As a sapling will in frost, so desolateShe stood, with summer round her, staring—Shakespeare.Well?Henslowe.I asked her, did she know me? Yes, she said,And would I rest and eat? So much she saidTo the lawn behind me—oh, to the hollyhockStiff 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 knowsHow 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 cameBy 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 goI asked her—“Any greeting?” Then she said,Lifting her chin as if she sped her wordsFar, 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 blowsFresh between park and river. Tell him that!”Said I—“No message, letter?” Then she said,Twisting her hands—“Tell him the days are long.Tell him—” and suddenly ceased. Then, with good-byePleasantly spoken, and another lookAt some wraith standing by me, not at me,Went back into the house and shut the door.Shakespeare.Ay, shut the door, Henslowe; for had she been this sheTen 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.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 roadGrew friendly, like a stranger in a dreamNodding “I know you!” and behold, a loveLong 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 layEnchanted in the Sunday sloth of noon:In th’ aspen tree the wind hung, fast asleep,Yet the air danced a foot above the flowersAnd gnats danced in it. I saw a poppy-headSpilling 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,Drowning the lark that fluted, fields away,Up in the marvel blue.
Shakespeare.Did you go in?
Henslowe.Why, scarce I dared, for as I latched the gateThe wind stirred drowsily, and “Hush!” it said,And slept again; but all the garden wakedUpon 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 gloomAfter 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 breathShe 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 faceGlowed white as iron new lifted from the forge:Her hair fled out behind her in one flameAs to the door she ran, with little criesScarce 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,So still you’d think she died there, standing up,As a sapling will in frost, so desolateShe stood, with summer round her, staring—
Shakespeare.Well?
Henslowe.I asked her, did she know me? Yes, she said,And would I rest and eat? So much she saidTo the lawn behind me—oh, to the hollyhockStiff 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 knowsHow 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 cameBy 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 goI asked her—“Any greeting?” Then she said,Lifting her chin as if she sped her wordsFar, 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 blowsFresh between park and river. Tell him that!”Said I—“No message, letter?” Then she said,Twisting her hands—“Tell him the days are long.Tell him—” and suddenly ceased. Then, with good-byePleasantly spoken, and another lookAt some wraith standing by me, not at me,Went back into the house and shut the door.
Shakespeare.Ay, shut the door, Henslowe; for had she been this sheTen 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 manThat 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 bloodTo make ’em plump and lively and they know it,And seek their altar. Threads and floating wispsOf being, how they fasten like a cloudOf gnats upon me, not to be shoo’d offUnsatisfied—and they drink deep, drink deep;For like a pelican these motes I feed,And with old griefs’ remembrance and old joys’Sharper remembrance daily scourge myself,And still they crowd to suck my scars and live.
Shakespeare.Write your own plays—bid Marlowe, any manThat 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 bloodTo make ’em plump and lively and they know it,And seek their altar. Threads and floating wispsOf being, how they fasten like a cloudOf gnats upon me, not to be shoo’d offUnsatisfied—and they drink deep, drink deep;For like a pelican these motes I feed,And with old griefs’ remembrance and old joys’Sharper remembrance daily scourge myself,And still they crowd to suck my scars and live.
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 knowtheirfancy. 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!A boy enters whistling and stops as he seesShakespeare.Well, Hugh, what answer?Boy.None, sir!
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!A boy enters whistling and stops as he seesShakespeare.Well, Hugh, what answer?
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.Iheard you.Isaw 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. [Shakespearemakes 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!
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.