Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (6 page)
A half-hour early, I search out a seat:
a shadowed place, a good view of the door.
As midday nears, the Flanders Mare fills up
with Flemish conversation; working folk
taking repast. At noon, a slender man,
tall as a cobbler’s story, enters the inn,
a drooping marigold in his lapel.
I’ve never met the man, he can’t know me,
and yet he logs my face and, ducking the beams,
traverses to my corner. ‘Thomas Thorpe,’
he says; a proffered hand. I let it hang
limp in the air, an unadopted flag.
In both ways, he’s unshaken. ‘Marigold!’
The hand I spurned leaps to the sad gold flower
and dumps it on the table. ‘Am I right?
It was murder to get it. Sorry. Figure of speech.’
His eyebrows flash an inkling of the fate
I’m rumoured to have suffered. ‘You’d be surprised
how detestably obtuse the local soil:
it’s not the soil for marigolds, I’m told.’
I don’t know whether to take this literally
or as a metaphor, since ‘marigold’
has long been the service code for Catholic.
I haven’t said a word to help him out,
provoking the eager man to ask me straight,
‘Monsieur Le Doux, have I made a mistake?’
a shadowed place, a good view of the door.
As midday nears, the Flanders Mare fills up
with Flemish conversation; working folk
taking repast. At noon, a slender man,
tall as a cobbler’s story, enters the inn,
a drooping marigold in his lapel.
I’ve never met the man, he can’t know me,
and yet he logs my face and, ducking the beams,
traverses to my corner. ‘Thomas Thorpe,’
he says; a proffered hand. I let it hang
limp in the air, an unadopted flag.
In both ways, he’s unshaken. ‘Marigold!’
The hand I spurned leaps to the sad gold flower
and dumps it on the table. ‘Am I right?
It was murder to get it. Sorry. Figure of speech.’
His eyebrows flash an inkling of the fate
I’m rumoured to have suffered. ‘You’d be surprised
how detestably obtuse the local soil:
it’s not the soil for marigolds, I’m told.’
I don’t know whether to take this literally
or as a metaphor, since ‘marigold’
has long been the service code for Catholic.
I haven’t said a word to help him out,
provoking the eager man to ask me straight,
‘Monsieur Le Doux, have I made a mistake?’
‘What makes you think that I’m Monsieur Le Doux?’
He pauses thoughtfully, and tucks the flower
back where its drooping head offsets his air
of confidence. ‘Three men here are alone.
One is as old as Christmas. One possesses
a wooden leg. The other one is you.
Your caution’s admirable; but you’ve the air
of someone set upon and robbed, my dear.
Thus I concluded you have lost something
that’s as yet unrestored. Your name perhaps.
I have on my person, however, something of yours.
A publication fresh picked from St Paul’s.’
He places the volume gently in my hands.
‘An author of some promise, I understand.’
back where its drooping head offsets his air
of confidence. ‘Three men here are alone.
One is as old as Christmas. One possesses
a wooden leg. The other one is you.
Your caution’s admirable; but you’ve the air
of someone set upon and robbed, my dear.
Thus I concluded you have lost something
that’s as yet unrestored. Your name perhaps.
I have on my person, however, something of yours.
A publication fresh picked from St Paul’s.’
He places the volume gently in my hands.
‘An author of some promise, I understand.’
It’s
Venus and Adonis
. The long poem
I wrote the previous winter when the plague
had closed down all the theatres. The works
I wrote while living never bore my name.
Anonymous, to save me from the fools
who thought that I was Faustus, Tamburlaine.
And still not mine. What’s new belongs to him:
my fabricated self, my pseudonym.
Venus and Adonis
. The long poem
I wrote the previous winter when the plague
had closed down all the theatres. The works
I wrote while living never bore my name.
Anonymous, to save me from the fools
who thought that I was Faustus, Tamburlaine.
And still not mine. What’s new belongs to him:
my fabricated self, my pseudonym.
He insisted that I meet him personally
in an empty room at Richard Field’s shop,
above the bang and clatter of the press
on the floor below. The deal already sealed,
the price agreed. ‘But I must know his face.’
in an empty room at Richard Field’s shop,
above the bang and clatter of the press
on the floor below. The deal already sealed,
the price agreed. ‘But I must know his face.’
He had a hard, unmoving quality:
rough country hewn, that quietly withstands
the shoulders of bulls. I’ve never met a man
so much like a dry-stone wall.
rough country hewn, that quietly withstands
the shoulders of bulls. I’ve never met a man
so much like a dry-stone wall.
I watched his eyes
travel my clothes and calculate their cost –
cambric sixpence a yard, slashed satin sleeves –
I’m totalled, underlined.
cambric sixpence a yard, slashed satin sleeves –
I’m totalled, underlined.
‘So you are he?
The writer?’ I nod. ‘We all should learn to write
and live so sumptuously.’
and live so sumptuously.’
And I could say
I’ve other work, or I have noble friends,
but choose this line: ‘I’m kept well by my Muse.’
A tightness in me, constricting like a wire
across my Adam’s apple.
but choose this line: ‘I’m kept well by my Muse.’
A tightness in me, constricting like a wire
across my Adam’s apple.
‘But not safe.’
He closes his ledger, states my truth as bare
as Lenten tables. ‘So. We have a deal.’
as Lenten tables. ‘So. We have a deal.’
How sharp to see his name beneath my words.
Print makes it real. Erased. I’m written out.
Print makes it real. Erased. I’m written out.
‘It’s causing quite a stir,’ Thorpe offers, pouring
himself a beer from the jug he whistled up.
‘Lusty young men are learning lines by heart.
It’s selling. The second printing’s due next week.
I have an interest in the trade,’ he says,
as he notices a question in my face.
himself a beer from the jug he whistled up.
‘Lusty young men are learning lines by heart.
It’s selling. The second printing’s due next week.
I have an interest in the trade,’ he says,
as he notices a question in my face.
‘And there’s no inkling?’
‘Not a doubt, my dear.
He’s fresh discovered. Conjured out of air.’
He throws his hands up like a small bouquet
which falls again, and crumples in his lap.
‘The public love a new thing.’
He throws his hands up like a small bouquet
which falls again, and crumples in his lap.
‘The public love a new thing.’
‘So they do.’
And there! A spike in my blood, an inward punch
against myself, and all that nourished me.
So long as the public swallow up this lie,
believe me written out, then I am saved.
And yet I’m starved. But
good
he’s believed not me.
Yet dreadful, my work condemned to bastardy,
conceived as if my Muse had slept with him.
Now see, my beautiful daughter on the street,
admired by white-limbed, languid youths, and she
crediting him, while I am buried warm.
against myself, and all that nourished me.
So long as the public swallow up this lie,
believe me written out, then I am saved.
And yet I’m starved. But
good
he’s believed not me.
Yet dreadful, my work condemned to bastardy,
conceived as if my Muse had slept with him.
Now see, my beautiful daughter on the street,
admired by white-limbed, languid youths, and she
crediting him, while I am buried warm.
‘And has he kept his head down?’
‘That he has.
He’s happily in the country where the folk
don’t read a lot of poetry.’ Thorpe smiles
like a reopening wound. This agent’s young;
younger than me, I’d guess – yet old as wine
kept in its dust.
don’t read a lot of poetry.’ Thorpe smiles
like a reopening wound. This agent’s young;
younger than me, I’d guess – yet old as wine
kept in its dust.
‘You’ll want to spend some time
alone with this,’ he says. ‘But we must meet
again. I have a letter. No, not here—’
He must have read my mind, which jumped like a fish
in hope of a mayfly. ‘Not here. Somewhere private.
Where do you lodge?’ I give him my address.
And so he weaves his height back through the chairs
and leaves me with my poem, half his beer.
again. I have a letter. No, not here—’
He must have read my mind, which jumped like a fish
in hope of a mayfly. ‘Not here. Somewhere private.
Where do you lodge?’ I give him my address.
And so he weaves his height back through the chairs
and leaves me with my poem, half his beer.
As I walk out, a pair of Englishmen
fall into step beside me.
fall into step beside me.
‘Pardon us.
We were wondering, sir, what you were reading there.
It seemed to provoke such interest. Is it new?’
It seemed to provoke such interest. Is it new?’
They are both in continental clothes, disguised
in local jackets. The second man chips in:
‘My friend and I are lovers of literature
of all persuasions.’
in local jackets. The second man chips in:
‘My friend and I are lovers of literature
of all persuasions.’
‘And so inquisitive,’
I remark politely. ‘But I have no objection.’
I hand it over like a piece of bread
I don’t mind sharing.
I hand it over like a piece of bread
I don’t mind sharing.
England’s spies are quiet,
thumbing the pages, finding only poem.
No code, no masked sedition, only poem.
One shrugs, gives up. The sharper of the two
returns to the title page. ‘What phrase is this?
Can you translate?’ He jabs the epigram
which, naturally, is Latin.
No code, no masked sedition, only poem.
One shrugs, gives up. The sharper of the two
returns to the title page. ‘What phrase is this?
Can you translate?’ He jabs the epigram
which, naturally, is Latin.
‘It’s a quote.
“Let base conceited wits admire vile things.
Fair Phoebus lead me to the Muses’ springs.”
From Ovid,’ I add gently. ‘The Roman poet.’
Fair Phoebus lead me to the Muses’ springs.”
From Ovid,’ I add gently. ‘The Roman poet.’
‘I’ve not much taste for ancient history,’
the sharp man says. ‘And though I like a verse
or two, a poem this long is tedious.
Perhaps another time.’ The pamphlet’s pressed
into my chest, and they give me
Good days
and doff their hats. I’m free to walk away.
the sharp man says. ‘And though I like a verse
or two, a poem this long is tedious.
Perhaps another time.’ The pamphlet’s pressed
into my chest, and they give me
Good days
and doff their hats. I’m free to walk away.
I cannot bear to check it for mistakes.
Can hardly bear to look at it at all,
and tuck it in the trunk. So it is mine.
So young men parrot it. And there is praise
inherent in the printer printing more.
But the accident of needing some disguise
to write beneath means all the praise belongs
to my invention, Shakespeare. Who is me,
and yet divorced from all my infamy.
The poem designed to rescue me from shame
now wreaths its laurels round another’s name.
Can hardly bear to look at it at all,
and tuck it in the trunk. So it is mine.
So young men parrot it. And there is praise
inherent in the printer printing more.
But the accident of needing some disguise
to write beneath means all the praise belongs
to my invention, Shakespeare. Who is me,
and yet divorced from all my infamy.
The poem designed to rescue me from shame
now wreaths its laurels round another’s name.
I smuggle a quart of liquor to my room
and drink the afternoon into a blur:
filling the hell-hole of the thoughtless mouth
that occasioned this disaster to occur;
drumming the dumb skull of this idiot
who pushed the gods of fame to such degree
that no one, now, can know that he’s alive.
And no one abroad has been as fooled as he –
or me – for I forget now who I am,
drowned both in liquor and unyielding grief
for all that’s shipwrecked with identity.
and drink the afternoon into a blur:
filling the hell-hole of the thoughtless mouth
that occasioned this disaster to occur;
drumming the dumb skull of this idiot
who pushed the gods of fame to such degree
that no one, now, can know that he’s alive.
And no one abroad has been as fooled as he –
or me – for I forget now who I am,
drowned both in liquor and unyielding grief
for all that’s shipwrecked with identity.
At the launch of my fourth play, I’m holding court.
London is drunker with me every month,
and tables pulled together, flagons poured –
and how my mouth is like those beery jugs,
pouring a liquor that could ruin us all,
clear and intoxicating all at once.
London is drunker with me every month,
and tables pulled together, flagons poured –
and how my mouth is like those beery jugs,
pouring a liquor that could ruin us all,
clear and intoxicating all at once.
‘Religion is made by men, not made by gods.
Its purpose is to keep the world in awe
while we are robbed to gild the candlesticks.’
Its purpose is to keep the world in awe
while we are robbed to gild the candlesticks.’
Tom Watson, sucking the meal out of his teeth,
allows his mouth to crawl towards a smile.
‘Not all religion, Kit. Those candlesticks
are Papist props. So be a Puritan.
Eschew the pomp.’
allows his mouth to crawl towards a smile.
‘Not all religion, Kit. Those candlesticks
are Papist props. So be a Puritan.
Eschew the pomp.’
‘But that’s his favourite bit!’
This gibe from Nashe, then recently arrived
in London: a gag-toothed youth I rather liked
for his insolence.
in London: a gag-toothed youth I rather liked
for his insolence.
‘The scarecrow isn’t wrong,’
I say, not quite declaring he is right.
‘At least the Catholic Church puts on a show:
paintings and music, incense. What
we
get
for our pennies on the plate is threats of Hell,
and pious hypocrisy, with rituals
dead-dull enough to send a spark to sleep
if the pews weren’t hard as sitting on your bones.
Nothing to look at, sermons sour as lime
and fines for not attending.’
‘At least the Catholic Church puts on a show:
paintings and music, incense. What
we
get
for our pennies on the plate is threats of Hell,
and pious hypocrisy, with rituals
dead-dull enough to send a spark to sleep
if the pews weren’t hard as sitting on your bones.
Nothing to look at, sermons sour as lime
and fines for not attending.’
Watson smiles,
intent on baiting me. ‘So be a Jew!’
He fills my tankard to the top, then his.
He fills my tankard to the top, then his.
‘Tom, could I change my blood, I’d rather die
than offer my quill to have the end snipped off
– of all ungodly things man ever dreamed –
and join a people scorned even beyond
players and poets. No, for all their skill
at making money.’
than offer my quill to have the end snipped off
– of all ungodly things man ever dreamed –
and join a people scorned even beyond
players and poets. No, for all their skill
at making money.’
‘Be a Muslim then.’
His smile says, ‘Give up, friend, you’ll never win.’
He pitches it against my seriousness
hoping I’ll yield and turn to lighter things.
He pitches it against my seriousness
hoping I’ll yield and turn to lighter things.
Might I have saved myself by heeding him?
Not without gutting me of all my passion;
the past can’t be rewritten. And time’s shown,
for all Tom’s lightness, he too found his prison.
My bars were forged inside my drunken mouth.
Not without gutting me of all my passion;
the past can’t be rewritten. And time’s shown,
for all Tom’s lightness, he too found his prison.
My bars were forged inside my drunken mouth.
‘My point is, all religion is the same.
I can’t see why a man may not just be –
defined by no allegiance. Hold his spirit
outside religion.’
I can’t see why a man may not just be –
defined by no allegiance. Hold his spirit
outside religion.’
Quietly, you were there.
Folding your jacket, speaking with that calm
that lifts your opinion over louder mouths,
entreating, ‘Kit – be careful what you say,’
your eyes intense.
that lifts your opinion over louder mouths,
entreating, ‘Kit – be careful what you say,’
your eyes intense.
‘Can I not speak my mind?
Is England ancient Rome? Are we all slaves?’
How patient you were with me. A doting parent
whose love prevents all discipline.
How patient you were with me. A doting parent
whose love prevents all discipline.
Your voice:
‘In principle we’re free, but bear in mind
the times. You could pick a safer subject.
Be
a safer subject.’
the times. You could pick a safer subject.
Be
a safer subject.’
Like a father.
‘Kit!’
Tom Watson interjects. ‘The Bible says,
Be still and know that I am God
. What say
we let it rest at that?’ There’s nothing stirred
until Watson gets his oar in. I respond,
‘The Bible is a storybook for babes.
And the New Testament is filthily written.
It’s hard to credit that the word of God
would have no poetry.’
Be still and know that I am God
. What say
we let it rest at that?’ There’s nothing stirred
until Watson gets his oar in. I respond,
‘The Bible is a storybook for babes.
And the New Testament is filthily written.
It’s hard to credit that the word of God
would have no poetry.’
‘But it speaks of love,’
says Ned, objecting. ‘Loving one’s fellow man.
You surely can’t find fault with that.’
You surely can’t find fault with that.’
Nashe snorts,
attempting to contain within his nose
a laugh that Edward Alleyn would not enjoy.
Not to blame friends for my misfortunes, but
he cues me in to further mischief.
a laugh that Edward Alleyn would not enjoy.
Not to blame friends for my misfortunes, but
he cues me in to further mischief.
‘True.
Christ loved St John extremely, don’t you think?
Actors have ingles, Jesus had his John.
I can’t help but approve, yet worship him?
How has this man, professing love, puffed up
a cult that suckles bishops? Feeds them larks
on golden platters in their palaces?’
Actors have ingles, Jesus had his John.
I can’t help but approve, yet worship him?
How has this man, professing love, puffed up
a cult that suckles bishops? Feeds them larks
on golden platters in their palaces?’
‘Abuse of power,’ you remind, ‘is not
specifically religious. It’s a trait
that occurs throughout humanity. But love’
(oh, you were always speaking love to me),
‘the concept of God as love, is
that
not worth
the flaws in either Testament? Is love
not central to religion?’
specifically religious. It’s a trait
that occurs throughout humanity. But love’
(oh, you were always speaking love to me),
‘the concept of God as love, is
that
not worth
the flaws in either Testament? Is love
not central to religion?’
There, Nashe twitches
with such involuntary violence that his beer
flies into his lap and soaks him. Christ, your laugh
is blessed relief, but when the ragged roar
of hilarity dies down you ask again,
‘Do not the Gospels testify of love?
Are we not urged to love?’
flies into his lap and soaks him. Christ, your laugh
is blessed relief, but when the ragged roar
of hilarity dies down you ask again,
‘Do not the Gospels testify of love?
Are we not urged to love?’
‘But has it worked?’
You know I hate to lose. I do not lose.
‘As one and a half millennia attest,
religion kills more people than the plague.
Love neighbours, yes. But not if their beliefs
rest in some other holy book.’
‘As one and a half millennia attest,
religion kills more people than the plague.
Love neighbours, yes. But not if their beliefs
rest in some other holy book.’
These words
provoke a burst of laughter. Ned is cut.
‘But, Kit,’ he says, ‘you do believe in God?’
‘But, Kit,’ he says, ‘you do believe in God?’
‘I believe in truth and beauty. The divine.
But literal miracles? Water into wine?’
(‘If only!’ shouts Nashe, shaking his empty cup.)
‘The raising of the dead? A virgin birth?’
But literal miracles? Water into wine?’
(‘If only!’ shouts Nashe, shaking his empty cup.)
‘The raising of the dead? A virgin birth?’
‘So Christ was a bastard and his mother dishonest?’
Watson desires to see how far I’ll go.
Watson desires to see how far I’ll go.
‘He was a carpenter. A mortal man.
What are we meant to worship? Didn’t the Jews,
among whom he was raised, know who he was
and whence he came? And they had him crucified.’
What are we meant to worship? Didn’t the Jews,
among whom he was raised, know who he was
and whence he came? And they had him crucified.’
Ned’s brother, John, is listening from his post
behind the bar. ‘Now, now, that’s dirty talk.’
His moustache and hairy lower lip are paired
to make a second mouth, which I enjoy
watching as he negotiates the burr
of the faint West Country accent Ned has lost.
‘My customers are all God-fearing men.
Or ought to be, for all the ale they swallow.’
He crosses and sits among us, next to Ned.
‘
Brother! You’ve brought in reprobates again!
’
(A hammy whisper.) ‘And Master Marlowe too.
Always a pleasure to learn what’s in those books
and have the company of gentlemen.’
behind the bar. ‘Now, now, that’s dirty talk.’
His moustache and hairy lower lip are paired
to make a second mouth, which I enjoy
watching as he negotiates the burr
of the faint West Country accent Ned has lost.
‘My customers are all God-fearing men.
Or ought to be, for all the ale they swallow.’
He crosses and sits among us, next to Ned.
‘
Brother! You’ve brought in reprobates again!
’
(A hammy whisper.) ‘And Master Marlowe too.
Always a pleasure to learn what’s in those books
and have the company of gentlemen.’
Nashe grimaces. ‘We’re happy to oblige.
Now back to the fun. So who is next?’
Now back to the fun. So who is next?’
‘Moses,’
Ned offers. ‘Now
he
was a holy man. A prophet,
most surely.’
he
was a holy man. A prophet,
most surely.’
I snap the offer from his mouth
as a hawk takes bacon.
‘Ned, he led the Jews
to wander the wilderness for forty years,
a journey that should take no more than one.
Appalling poor direction? Or a jape
so all those privy to his subtleties
would perish before they found the Promised Land?
a journey that should take no more than one.
Appalling poor direction? Or a jape
so all those privy to his subtleties
would perish before they found the Promised Land?
Raised Egyptian, he wouldn’t find it hard
to fool some unsophisticated Jews.
The man was a conjuror.’
to fool some unsophisticated Jews.
The man was a conjuror.’
‘A conjuror?’
‘Most certainly, for when—’
‘Who has my chair?’
A kingly roar comes from a stubbled man
whose friends tug at his elbows, rein him back.
‘My chair!’ he says. ‘Has my initials on.
See? William Bradley. Give me back my chair!’
whose friends tug at his elbows, rein him back.
‘My chair!’ he says. ‘Has my initials on.
See? William Bradley. Give me back my chair!’
It’s the chair I’m sitting in that bears his mark,
carved on the armrest like a schoolboy’s desk,
and I rise, as light as thought, until a hand
presses my shoulder. ‘No, Master Marlowe, you
should stay right there. The chair belongs to me.’
carved on the armrest like a schoolboy’s desk,
and I rise, as light as thought, until a hand
presses my shoulder. ‘No, Master Marlowe, you
should stay right there. The chair belongs to me.’
The chair man stumbles back a step. ‘How so?’
John Allen: ‘Because you owe me fourteen pounds.
Deny it all you like, I have your chit.’
The men lock eyes as if those eyes were horns;
John, as innkeeper, snorting from his turf
at next door’s bull. He growls,
Deny it all you like, I have your chit.’
The men lock eyes as if those eyes were horns;
John, as innkeeper, snorting from his turf
at next door’s bull. He growls,
‘Now pay your debt.
Or you will lose more than your furniture.’
‘You broke into my house.’
‘You broke your word.’
John Allen’s accent thickens under stress.
‘And I will break your neck without a thought
if you make any trouble.’
‘And I will break your neck without a thought
if you make any trouble.’
‘That a threat?
I’ll have the law on you.’
‘We have the law
with us,’ says Watson, fingering Hugh Swift,
his brother-in-law, a Middle Temple man.
‘Now pay your debt to John or bugger off.’
his brother-in-law, a Middle Temple man.
‘Now pay your debt to John or bugger off.’
Bradley is pissed, but with this taunt he stiffens,
shakes off his helpers, and engages me
directly. ‘That chair’s mine. If you know what
is good for you, you’ll stand and pass it here.’
shakes off his helpers, and engages me
directly. ‘That chair’s mine. If you know what
is good for you, you’ll stand and pass it here.’
I feel my throat go dry, and every face
around the tavern tense for my reply.
I take a sip of beer and settle back.
It hasn’t passed my notice that his hand
is on his dagger’s hilt. ‘Dear man, I would,
if I thought you needed it. But you can stand
up by yourself, despite – how many pints?
This chair’s so comfortable, I fear you’d slump
and lose all benefit of being tall.
Once sat, a man must rely upon his wit
for his defence. Take no risks. If you stand
you can rely upon your knife. Although –’
I nod to his twitching fingers, dancing round
the hilt ‘– I wouldn’t. There are more of us.’
around the tavern tense for my reply.
I take a sip of beer and settle back.
It hasn’t passed my notice that his hand
is on his dagger’s hilt. ‘Dear man, I would,
if I thought you needed it. But you can stand
up by yourself, despite – how many pints?
This chair’s so comfortable, I fear you’d slump
and lose all benefit of being tall.
Once sat, a man must rely upon his wit
for his defence. Take no risks. If you stand
you can rely upon your knife. Although –’
I nod to his twitching fingers, dancing round
the hilt ‘– I wouldn’t. There are more of us.’
His anger narrows. ‘So superior,
with your clever words, your friends with velvet capes.’
It was you he was referring to, our lord
without the manor. ‘All is levelled though
by your being flesh. No wit is quick enough
to escape my knife. Who are you anyway?’
with your clever words, your friends with velvet capes.’
It was you he was referring to, our lord
without the manor. ‘All is levelled though
by your being flesh. No wit is quick enough
to escape my knife. Who are you anyway?’
‘He wrote
The Jew of Malta
.’
The Jew of Malta
.’
‘Good for you!’
the bastard leers across the tabletop.
‘At least you’d sense to boil the big-nosed crook.’
The farce’s subtleties were lost on him.
‘The Jews and money lenders should be hanged’
(grinning at John Allen), ‘and all the tapsters
who wait on buggerers.’
‘At least you’d sense to boil the big-nosed crook.’
The farce’s subtleties were lost on him.
‘The Jews and money lenders should be hanged’
(grinning at John Allen), ‘and all the tapsters
who wait on buggerers.’
Now Watson stands,
now Edward Alleyn, now every one of us,
comes to the battlements with daggers drawn.
comes to the battlements with daggers drawn.
‘You pus-filled cullion.’ Watson’s voice is steel.
‘You privy stool I wouldn’t shit upon.
If you’re a gentleman, procure a sword
and find me any weekday at my house.
If not, admit that you’re a parasite
who borrows from friends and doesn’t keep his word.
Let’s settle it like men, and not like scum
who murder with their eating implements.’
‘You privy stool I wouldn’t shit upon.
If you’re a gentleman, procure a sword
and find me any weekday at my house.
If not, admit that you’re a parasite
who borrows from friends and doesn’t keep his word.
Let’s settle it like men, and not like scum
who murder with their eating implements.’
Bradley is reeling back and grinning wide.
Pleasure has dropped his voice to baritone.
‘If you’re a man, then I’m a Persian whore.
We’ll settle it as you say, though. Call it a duel.
Then, when I kill you, I’ll have my defence.’
He and his cronies shamble to the door
half checking us, half fearless. As he leaves,
Pleasure has dropped his voice to baritone.
‘If you’re a man, then I’m a Persian whore.
We’ll settle it as you say, though. Call it a duel.
Then, when I kill you, I’ll have my defence.’
He and his cronies shamble to the door
half checking us, half fearless. As he leaves,
‘You challenged me. My brothers are witnesses.’
Everyone sits, and no one says a word.
Four heartbeats pass before I break the air.
‘Tom, that was madness.’
Everyone sits, and no one says a word.
Four heartbeats pass before I break the air.
‘Tom, that was madness.’
‘Well, he made me mad.’
‘The man’s a brawler.’
‘He’ll not get a sword.’
‘Who says he won’t come at you anyway?’
‘He’ll be sober tomorrow.’
‘He’ll be sober tomorrow.’
Our eyes meet, sharing doubt.
‘I liked your speech, though,’ Nashe says, ‘very neat.
Your mental side-step stole the wind from him.
You juggled him smartly.’ So the table warms
and I am toasted: ‘To Kit! To the play!
To
The Jew of Malta
!’ And Nashe contributes:
‘To pus-filled cullions, may they rue the day!’
‘To pus-filled cullions,’ we agree, and roar.
I notice Greene come in, turn round, and leave.
Your mental side-step stole the wind from him.
You juggled him smartly.’ So the table warms
and I am toasted: ‘To Kit! To the play!
To
The Jew of Malta
!’ And Nashe contributes:
‘To pus-filled cullions, may they rue the day!’
‘To pus-filled cullions,’ we agree, and roar.
I notice Greene come in, turn round, and leave.
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