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!3)A U ^£» 3 /.6"".^ 7
r.
.'tArr'
&
HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY
THE GIFT OF
RALPH BARTON PERRY
Edgar Pierce Professor
of Philosophy
;|P6^
(■-i \
r
MARLOWE.
"T5 A- <— "2
MAttVABI> COUUteC LItUVT
«1FT OF
ITAlPi if^RTOH PfHiY
y/
COPYRIGHT, I9OI, BY JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Published November t iqoi.
MARLOWE.
DRAMATIS PERSON2E.
Christopher Marlowe.
Robert Greene, ^
Thomas Lodge, - ls j ^ - j
y , . . . Playwrtgnts and friends
of Marlowe,
-^ South-Londoners*
Davy,
Thomas Nashe,
George Peele,
Giles Barnby Of Canterbury
Gabriel Andrew . . . A young kinsman of Barnby* s,
Richard Same.
Owen, )
Francis Archer.
RowsE A sailor.
Host of Dbptford Tavern.
Jermyn Servant to Her Ladyship.
Boy At The Bee-Hive.
The Watch.
Bellman.
Her Ladyship Of the Court,
AusoN Barnbfs Daughter,
Dame Benet Hostess of The Bee-Hive,
Gill Of Deptford.
The Watchmen, link-boys, taverners, prentices, men and
women.
The action takes place between London and Canterbury^
A. D. 1 589-1 593.
Marlowe.
Act I. Scene I.
Scene : Interior of * T*he Bee-Hive ^ South Lon-
don. A late Spring morning. Centre^ a
wide door-way y showing the street. Left
{up)y a door leading from a short flight of
steps ; {down) another door open on the inn
garden. Right y a large chimney-place ; a
door beyond. Rushes on the floor. Sundry
musical instruments hanging on the wall. —
Downy to the lefty a table set forth with
mugs. Right y near the chimney y a smaller
table ; chairs. — Discovered at rise : Dame
Benet and the Boy busied with Taverners
going and coming. At the smaller tabUy
alonCy throwing dicCy Peele.
Enter Nashe and Lodge, calling hilariously.
M A RLO W E.
Nashe.
O, ^ Faustus ! '
Lodge.
— Faustus, O ! The hour is on.
|Come forth !
Nashe.
— Come forth, wherever thou art hid !
{To Benet.) Dame, we are bidden here, and he
is pledged
To pay the score. Reveal his hiding-place.
Lodge.
Sing, Muse !
Benet.
What manner o' man ?
Nashe^ Peek {laughing).
O, Faustus, Faustus !
Lodge.
— Where are thy laurels ? — Why, Kit Mar-
lowe then. {They join Peele.)
Benet.
Eh, Marlowe ? Will you call him by his name ?
[Hallooing without.
Enter Greene.
Greene.
Where is our Faustus ? {Seeing Benet.)
Soft. . . .
Marlowe. 5
Benet {incensed).
O, Master Greene !
'T is Master Greene again !
Greene.
It is, it is. —
I am an honored guest : forbid me not !
I come to celebrate Kit Marlowe's play
Of Faustus ; but I swear to pledge thee first.
In thy most superfine —
Benet.
I warrant you ! —
. Greene.
— Of muscadine. Do so, my Inspiration !
These gentlemen are slack, but I am constant.
And I '11 begin, if thou wilt fetch the pint.
Benet.
You are most constant, sir, in pledging me.
But Master Peele there, has begun already ;
Share cup with him.
Greene.
She doubts me ! George, you knave.
Could you not save your thirst a little while
And drink a rouse to Kit, his tragedy ?
{^0 Benet.) Come, if you will be stern, Zeno-
crate, —
There is the test of notability
6 Marlowe.
In all this verse. Come, chick, I '11 take thee
out
To see 't some day. Thou shalt hear Faust us
swear !
And when Kit empties out his pocketful
To pay his score, and many scores to come.
And thine, and mine, and ours and every
man's, —
Why, thou shalt grant me that it is a play !
\yoins the others.
Enter Barnby, in haste.
Barnby.
Good hostess, — pray you, dame !
Benet.
Give you good day.
Barnby.
Canst thou, good woman, tell me anything
Of Gabriel Andrew ?
Benet.
Master Andrew ? Ay
He 's wont to come here for a packet, sir.
Each week and sometimes more; some news
it is
Of Canterbury.
Barnby.
Ay, we 're kinsmen there.
Marlowe. 7
Benet.
He should be' here this noon.
Barnby.
Eh, heaven be praised !
I will return anon, and bring my daughter.
We met with mischief here upon our way
To London, — where I go for marketing.
And she to visit. — Wilt thou keep a place
Where she may rest ?
Benet.
O, sir, as neat as heaven.
Barnby.
That 's well ; that should suffice. {Going.)
For let me not
Conceal from you, — I am of Canterbury —
It was my chance to have my money stolen.
Some cut-purse in the street —
Benet {coldly).
Then, sir, you 'd better
Try * The Three Tuns ' or —
Barnby.
Nay, nay, I '11 be plain.
This Gabriel Andrew is some kin of mine
And he will gladly lend me what I owe.
Benet {curtseying).
Oh, — Master Andrew ! [Exit Barnby.
8 Marlowe.
Enter Davy and Owen, talking.
Davy.
Come, that should be brave !
Owen.
I say, I saw it ; and I '11 go again.
That will I !
Peele {aside).
Hist!
[Davy and Owen sit at the longer tabky left.
Owen.
Boy, fetch a pint of ale.
Davy.
But what 's a * Faustus ' ?
Owen.
Why, it is the man !
This man you hear me tell of, in the play ! —
Peele.
(Come, listen here !)
Owen.
And Faustus is his name ;
And he it is, doth sell him to the Devil.
\^he playwrights approach^ one by one^ affect-
ing a thirst for information. Other ^av-
erners gather about.
Peele.
What man is this ?
Marlowe. 9
Davy.
It is a man i' the play —
Owen.
'T is a new play ; I saw it yesterday.
He sells his soul to the Devil.
Nashe {hastening up).
For how much ?
What did the Devil pay for him ?
Lodge.
— What man ?
Owen.
Why, Faustus is his name. — It is a scholar
That doth most rare high talking; full of
names
Of all the arts that ever you shall hear.
He tells of magic — and of Zodiac —
But yet he will have more !
Nashe.
Who 's Zodiac ?
Owen.
Well, let that be. . . . He signs away his soul
Unto the Devil, and he signs with blood.
Greene.
Nay, in plain sight ?
Enter Marlowe. — He is reading a ballad that
he carries in his hand. He is unobserved
lo Marlowe.
by the TavernerSy who are absorbed in this
account of * Faustus ' ; and the name catches
his ear. He stands behind his friends and
hears with repressed excitement.
Owen (to the group).
Ay, you should see it, you !
'T is marvellous high with every kind of words ;
And beyond that, 't is full of devilry.
And divers charms of magic and hell-fire ;
Until his hour is come that he must die, —
When clock strikes twelve. And by and by
he says,
^ O Faustus y — Faustus ! ' Ye should hear him
say —
Greene {ranting).
— O FaustuSy O ! — And what ado in that ?
Shall this waste pennies? Shall this bring a
crowd
By bridge, by water, — horse and heels, to see ?
To pay a penny for a's standing-room.
And hear a dismal speech of * Faustus, O I
Thou hast one hour to live ! ' —
Owen.
— So cufF me, now !
'T is a brave play.
Marlowe. ii
Davy.
— Od'sbody ! I will go
And see that very play this afternoon.
I '11 try it at a penny, and if 't be
As good as thou wilt say, I '11 have a chair, —
That will I !
Lodge.
This is madness. — Spendthrift, stay !
Lend me thine ear. {Taking him by the ear.)
Nashe.
Friend, friend, you force the loan !
Lodge.
Why should a man desire to witness this
Poor raven inspiration ?
Peele.
Why dost thou
Waste a good penny on a dolorous tale
Of how a man sells his immortal soul
To the Devil ?
Marlowe.
Ay ! {They turn.)
What think you strange in that ?
'T is an old tale, — a tale of every day.
Owen {doggedly).
I never heard it ; and the play is brave.
He signs away his soul for twenty years
12 Marlowe.
Of power and glory; power and power and
power !
He will have, and he must have, and he will.
Whatever 't is, why he will have it ! —
Marlowe,
Ah! —
Doth thy tongue stick at that ?
Owen.
But his doth fire !
He in the play, there is no holding him.
(Marlowe HstenSy with burning eyes.)
A made my ears hum ! — 'T is a godless
thing, —
But for to see the arts he does, and all.
How he will raise up spirits to do his will.
And has Fair Helen out o' the history
To be his love —
Marlowe,
So ! Does he that ?
Owen.
Fair Helen ?
He '11 have the very Sun out o' the sky !
And in the end —
Marlowe
— The end —
Marlowe. 13
Owen.
The hour comes on ;
The hour it strikes. — And after all. Hell has
him ! {Loud laughter.)
Marlowe.
So merry ?
Davy.
Brave !
Owen.
But you should see it, you !
How when he signs with Mephistophilis, —
A poor sad devil, Mephistophilis —
I never saw a devil sad before —
Lodge.
Marry, wake up !
Owen.
You would be thanking heaven
It did not fall to you : else who could say ? . . .
But later, look you, when his hour was come,
I did not grudge him, — by the mass, not I !
He talked of heaven and did make much of
God,
So I began to heed, against my will.
And came nigh to a terror. (Rises.)
Marlowe.
That were base.
14 Marlowe.
Owen iyext).
Oh, say you so ! But if you see the play.
Grin if you can at that ! — It is a wonder
How this man Faustus, who is damned in the
end.
As all men know, should so call out on God
As to put me in a terror !
\Exeunt Owen and Davy. I'averners dis^
perse, ^he playwrights rush on Marlowe.
Marlowe consults his ballad.
Marlowe.
What is the air,
' Fortune, my Foe ' ? [They hum^ meditating.
Lodge.
Come, have you spent the morning
Making a riddle ?
Peele.
Come, wool-gatherer !
Have mercy. I am dry.
Marlowe.
Boy, bring the sack. [Exit Boy.
Help me. I have a rival in the street. —
' Ballad of Faustus * !
Greene.
Go up higher. Kit.
The gods invite thee.
_i^pnji^ II -I .«.L,^ WJ^i^^gg»gi-lv>*J. J-^:^"^^
M A RLO W E. 15
Nashe.
Bite not, bite not, envy !
Lodge.
Fame, O Fame, I see thou art resolved
To sup with us to-night.
Marlowe {looking up hastily).
To-night ? What say you ? —
Lodge.
1 speak of Fortune — *t is a fickle lady. —
[Marlowe recovers himself.
But not the only one. Come, read.
[X^ey sit at the table j to the right.
Marlowe {reading).
' I'he Judgment ' —
The Judgment, mark ! — ^ of God, showed upon
One John Faustus, Doctor in Divinity.
Tune, Fortune is my Foe* — What tune is that ?
^ All Christian men, give ear awhile to me.
How I am plunged in pain, but cannot die : * —
Greene {reading).
^I liv*d a life the like none did before ! * —
Reenter Boy, with wine.
Peele.
Alas, alack ! —
Lodge.
No more — no more —
i6 Marlowe.
All.
No more ! —
Enter Gabriel Andrew. (Benet meets him.)
Gabriel.
Good-day to you !
Benet.
You 're called for. Master Andrew.
Some kin of yours in Canterbury —
Reenter Barnby.
Bamby.
Hey, lad —
'T is I ! — What, Gabriel, lad !
Gabriel {turning).
God save you, sir ! —
[I'heir loud greeting attracts the notice of
the playwrights.
Nashe.
Who 's the old Puritan ? I scent Puritan.
Gr-r-r-r !
Peele.
Down, down, sir ! Naught but yeoman.
Greene.
— Russet, boy !
Barnby {to Gabriel).
I saw thee, lad. I saw thee, over yon
Just out of hearing. Eh ! There is a smack
Marlowe. 17
Of Canterbury still about thee, sir,
N o guilds nor crafts nor prenticeships can take.
Nor City, nor the Borough. — Well, 'tis
brave ! —
No city like our own ; and so say all
That come to see it. — Stay now, wait a bit.
Well done, well done. Here *s more of us ;
my girl !
[^He hastens to the doorway and beckons.
Our Alison. — I brought her up to visit
With our she-cousin Fenwick, over Bridge.
And well I put small money by my purse, —
Barely enough, mark that ! — I lost it all.
Some cut-purse, lad, some prigger or some rook
Hath fleeced us on the way. And but for one
Young fellow passing, of a sober tongue.
Who showed us hither —
Enter Alison, followed by Richard Bame.
She stands in the doorway timidly ^ looking
about her. Barnby still talks to Gabriel.
Greene,
Ah, look there, look there !
Lodge.
Hey, nonny !
Marlowe,
I was born in Canterbury.
I did not know such grew there.
i8 Marlowe.
Lodge.
You are blind.
You are as blind as Love. I told you so.
Marlowe.
But see her stand, the little Quietude !
Greene.
She is my only shepherdess. Behold,
My next Song knocking at a hovel-door. —
O gods, how I will sing her !
Barnby {turning).
Alison.
[She comes downy followed by Bame.
Lodge.
Name for a honeysuckle !
Nashe.
Oh, scholastic !
Greene {aside).
O eglantine and hawthorn. Lady May ! —
And strawberries — and dew, — and clotted
cream !
Barnby.
Our girl, sir Master Andrew. Alison,
Give him good day.
Gabriel.
You '11 not forget me, mistress ?
Alison.
No, Gabriel, No !
!y
Marlowe. 19
Barnby.
No, sooth ! Well said, well said.
You were a prentice when she saw you last.
Good master-craftsman, eh ! — But it takes
years
To season our green lads of Canterbury.
None like *em. Eh ? — None like 'em.
Marlowe {aside).
None, indeed !
Here 's too much welcome, look you, for one
man.
Eglantine, hawthorn, dew, and Lady May ! —
He cannot have it all. — I *m russet, too !
[Rising impetuously and approaching the
country group.
What news from Canterbury ?
Nashey Greene^ LodgCy Peek {behind him).
'Ware Tamburlaine ! —
Hist, Russet !
\The Canterbury people turn to look at him.
Bame, hanging about for a word draws
near. The playwrights ply Marlowe
with asides.
Marlowe {to Barnby, naively).
I beg indulgence, but methought I saw
20 Marlowe.
Some Canterbury tan upon that face.
Sure, no mistaking such ! —
[Barnby and Gabriel consult.
Nashe.
Kit, this is better
Than thy whole course of playing at The Cur-
tain.
Greene.
Inspired Shepherd —
Peek.
— Dog!
Marlowe {winningly).
Doth no one know
Christopher Marlowe ?
{To Benet, aside.) What *s the old man's name ?
\She whispers.
Marlowe {to Barnby).
I see, I am forgotten.
Barnby {puzzled).
Nay, nay, come : —
Marlowe.
I pray your pardon.
Barnby.
Marlin, didst thou say ?
Alison.
Christopher Marlowe?
Marlowe. 21
Lodge {aside).
Soft!
Marlowe.
Madam, your voice
Sounds of the sky-lark rising from the downs,
At home ! [Alison is dumb with admiration.
Bame {moodily to Barnby).
Well, I may go, sir, since you find
Friends everywhere about you. —
Barnby.
Nay, come, come !
This is the young man, Gabriel, whom we met.
After I missed my purse. —
[Playwrights delighted.
*T was he did show us —
Marlowe.
But surely you Ve a welcome for Kit Marlowe ?
Barnby.
Eh ! Son of Marlowe ? John, the shoemaker ?
I know thy brothers well. [Consults Alison.
Marlowe.
The devil he does ! —
Lodge {aside).
Down, Tamburlaine !
Alison {to Marlowe).
Sometimes they speak of thee.
22 Marlowe.
Marlowe.
Sometimes ? Indeed, I hope ! —
{Apart.) But not too often !
[Alison, lefty talking to her father. Bame
accosts Marlowe,
Bame.
Wilt have thyself the only man in Kent ?
I too have kin in Canterbury.
Marlowe.
Too late.
The kinsfolk are all gone. You know you
are
Some borderer, some third wife's second-cousin.
Some stranger-in-law to a step-farther-on !
Now, I have never seen you till to-day ;
And, as a Kentish man, I will commend
No other man unto a Kentish maid.
Go to, go to. Thy conduct may approve thee.
When time lets all be seen. Patience, good
soul !
Remember that the meek inherit the earth, —
When other men are done with it !
{To Barnby) I, sir.
Glory to call my own our blessed City ;
How timely happy, I have never known
Until this happy morning, — that dear Shrine
Marlowe. 23
Of the most holy Martyr — {aside) and of me,
*T was at the King's School —
Alison.
I remember thee ! —
When I was little.
Marlowe {aside).
Save me, Reminiscence ! —
{To her.) And I a school-boy? — As I live!
Wert thou —
Wert thou the little poppet, used to cling
Fast to my hand when I was sent to buy
A pennyworth of bread ? And was it thou, —
Growing no taller than a wild sweet-brier —
Used to reach up a piteous little hand.
To stroke the pigeons at the poulterer's.
Strung up to buy, — and call them 'pretty
birds,*
And blow their feathers soft, to wake them up ?
Alison.
Why that was I ! Father, he knows me
well.
Marlowe {to Greene).
How now. Cock Robin?
Greene {aside).
And I swore he could
Never create a woman ! — Name us to her.
Or I denounce thee.
24 Marlowe.
Peek.
Share and share alike.
Gabriel {to Marlowe).
There be not many of our town, you mind.
That share your quality.
Marlowe.
Yet, oftentime
I dream of those old days and turn about
Whether it were not better to go back
To the old folk, — the sheep. —
Nashe {prompting).
The shoes, the shoes ! —
Lodge.
O Scythian Shepherd, now assume thy Shoes !
Bame {to Benet).
He is a knavish player, as thou dost know.
Speak up for me. I shewed them on their
way.
And they Ve not asked my name.
Benet.
Stay till they do. —
Marlowe.
Dear Mistress Alison, have I your leave
To do my fellows honor ? For they crave
To wear their names before you. They have
heard
wam^^^^r^^^^mmm^p^^^Km^mm
M A R L O WE. 25
Of Canterbury days ! (Here Tom, here Tom.)
This is my fellow-student, Thomas Nashe ;
The gentlest soul that ever spitted man
Upon an adder-tongue, — the scourge of vice.
Sleepless protector of all Puritans.
{Presenting Lodge)
Step hither, Tom. Here is another Tom,
Tom Lodge, the Second Son of our Lord-
Mayor ;
Our nobly born. This is our Sunday Tom.
A poet, too. And smile upon him, mistress.
Trust me, that smile of yours shall never die
Out of the world. — My good friend, Thomas
Lodge. —
Entreat him kindly, for my sake.
Lodge (aside).
O, Faustus !
Marlowe.
And Master Peele, of whom the world relates
A thousand jests he had no knowledge of.
It is the price of his most fertile wit
That every quip, to pass for current coin.
Must stamp it with his name. Come hither,
Robin.
Let me commend to you this gentleman.
Master of Arts, indeed !
26 Marlowe.
Benet {apart).
Of the black arts !
Marlowe.
His nature, like his name, o*ergreens whatever
He looks on, with such pastoral invention
As would enchant your wits and hold you bound
With charms as innocent as ring-me-round ! —
His very name 's a lure to every rhyme.
Bame {to Marlowe).
By all you say, you are great folk to know.
If I were trained a player, I could tell
My worth as aptly.
Marlowe.
So ? Good Master Barnby,
Here is a friend suspects you have forgot him.
He says — he too has kin in Canterbury.
Do you not know his face ? Bethink you, sir.
I heard you speak of mischief by the way.
And one you met thereafter ?
Barnby.
Ay, so, so {bewildered).
There is a look about him —
Marlowe.
Richard Bame
His name is. — And that look? — Now might
it be
Marlowe. 27
The man, by chance, who took your purse ?
Bame {violently).
The devil !
Benet.
Good gentleman —
Lodge {clapping Bame).
Tush man, a foolish jest !
Come, Kit, the hour is on. — You must be go-
ing.
On to the play ! {Hastening Marlowe.)
Gabriel,
What play is that ?
Lodge,
Why, * Faustus,'
Kit Marlowe's tragedy.
Alison,
— Is he a poet ?
Gabriel.
About the scholar who did sell —
Alison.
Oh, father.
Oh, father, let us go !
Bamby.
No, no, my girL
Here is no place for us, though Gabriel
Bid his friends find him here.
28 Marlowe.
Gabriel.
* The Bee-Hive/ sir.
Is never riotous ; bide here and see.
Oh, do not go to-day — sir, Alison !
Marlowe {to Alison).
I '11 comfort thee full measure for the play.
But stay awhile, I '11 teach thee my best song.
And 't is of shepherds and as white as sheep.
This, for the sake of home !
Alison.
Do thou remember.
Gabriel.
And, Master Marlowe, tell me, what are you ?
Marlowe.
Why, sir, I am the man who wrote the play
Of Faustus who did sell him to the Devil !
I am the man, the devil and the soul, —
Good-day to you !
\Exeunt Playwrights.
■^■'^^^■•i
Marlowe. 29
Act I. Scene II.
Scene: T!he same: evening. — T^here is now a
fire in the chimney-^lace. — Candle light.
The street door is closed. Discovered at rise^
Dame Bent and the Boy, at backy counting
up scores. Alison and Bame near the fire.
Bame.
So now you stand assured of me and mine.
Will you go with me soon to see the Fair ?
I have as good a right —
Alison.
Oh, Master Bame,
Here are no rights ! — It is a courtesy.
Bame.
You look as if you dreamed.
Alison.
Well, it is late.
Enter Jermyn.
Jermyn {to Benet).
Harken, is Master Marlowe here ?
Benet.
Eh, ' Master ' ?
And * Marlowe ' here and * Marlowe * there !
— I tell thee
30 Marlowe.
He is grown great thus sudden ! — Nay, good
sir.
He is not here as yet. Will you be served !
Jermyn.
I come to bid him wait a message here
From one — some one that 's never asked to
wait.
Benet.
Oh, sir, he should be with you very soon :
He said as much ; within the hour, I swear.
\Exit Jermyn.
Bame (to Alison).
Come, mistress. Will you find some closer
place ?
Here 's too much noise if that one be upon us.
* Devil,' — I well believe it ; as to * Scholar *
I am not wise enough to spell out * Scholar '
From Knave and Roisterer.
Alison.
Will you not learn
Rather to use your eyes than to give ear
To what a grudge may say ? Indeed, I think
It was a gentle thing for him, a poet.
That he should so entreat our memories.
And we but country-bred !
Bame.
Ay, very gentle !
Marlowe. 31
Enter Gabriel Andrew.
Alison.
Ah, here is Gabriel. Tell me, Gabriel,
Did father find my cousin ? — Nay, not yet !
Gabriel.
That did he, and he bade me fetch you there
Before 't is darker — if you wish to go.
They are on fire to see you.
Alison.
This same night ?
Gabriel.
He will be back ; and if you are not eager.
Or if you should be weary, or if —
Alison.
Please,
I will rest here to-day. To-morrow *s soon
Enough to see my cousin. I would rest.
Benet {coming down).
Why, so thou shalt. Too many gentlemen.
All bowing fit to dizzy a maid's mind !
Come, come, good Master Andrew ! She shall
rest
With me to-night. Her father lends her to me.
And he '11 return anon. Why, hair o' silk.
But this is rare in London !
Gabriel.
That I warrant.
32 Marlowe.
Bame {to Alison).
Since you will wait here, mistress, I will go.
Commend me to your father. It was he
Said you should go with me to see the Fair
To-morrow.
Alison.
Then ? Will not the next day serve ?
And since you know our cousin. Master Bame,
You will know where to find us.
Bame {going).
I will find you.
Alison.
Good even. [Turns back to Gabriel.
Bame {to Benet, going).
As to thee, I say, — I say.
Take care. There will be soon no gentle-folk
To pay thy rents, if thou wilt entertain
Such brawlers as were here at noon. Thine ale
Is good, thy cakes are honest, but I *11 eat
No more of them if I share board with such !
Benet {incensed).
' Brawlers ? ' And * Such,' — and ' Such ! ' Nay,
I '11 be bound -^
This is Extravagance! — What, Master Mar-
lowe?
Bame.
The devil take him ! —
Marlowe. 33
[/ilfout to make his exit, he collides with the
playwrights who enter in high feather.
Peek, Greene intoxicated. Lodge, Nash,
last of all Marlowe.
Peele {stopping Bame).
What, that Face, that Face ! —
Nashe.
Stop Face ! — * Thou hast a look of Canter-
bury/
Greene (singing).
Hey, Canterbury !
Sing hey, sing ho !
Be merry, be merry.
With briar and berry.
And down-a-down deny —
Lodge (singing).
And buds in the snow !
And merrily so.
So ho !
[^Exit Bame angrily.
Nashe.
More matter, Tom. This is a bacchanal
For laurelled brows.
(To Greene.) Come, Shepherd of black sheep ;
Take up thy crook, — thy one of many
crooks —
34 Marlowe.
Greene {seeing Alison).
Don't use me so — before the Shepherdess ;
She puts me out of favor with myself.
Go on, go on, let no man interrupt. —
I am a Master of Arts.
{Exeunt Benet and Alison, left.
Peele.
But will you rime
* Zephyr * with * heifer * for a pastoral ?
Greene.
Pastoral ? Bah, go to, go to ! — I know.
I have a sentence for you. * Even as . . •
By the pale light of Hesper, Philomel,
Who singeth while a thorn doth pierce her
heart' . . .
Where am I ? [Exit Gabriel.
Nashe.
— Where ? In Southwark.
Greene.
Nay, nay, nay ! —
Where i' the sentence ?
Nashe.
Oh, * Doth pierce her heart.'
Greene.
* Heart, that is pierced by the cruel thorn ' —
Where am I ?
Marlowe. 35
Lodge.
In * The Bee-Hive/ of the Borough.
Greene,
Nay, in the period ?
Marlowe.
Why, * The cruel thorn ! *
Come pluck it out, for pity sake.
Greene.
* The thorn.
Which, by the light of Hesper, Philomel,
Who singeth ' . . •
Nashe.
When she singeth ! —
Lodge.
— Where she is !
So safely home again.
Greene.
But where —
Nashe.
Lost, lost.
Poor Robin ! Hold by me, and when the
Watch
Comes by, he shall to rescue with his lanthorn.
And tell us where we are. [Reenter^^ntt.
Greene {laughing).
O, Tom, O Tom,
36 Marlowe.
I feel as merry as a madrigal.
Oho ! Oh, this would stir you up to laugh.
Could I but get it out ! See you not why
They call it madrigal ? — It hath a point
To prick your nose upon — a mad — mad —
mad —
[Benet hastens towards Greene.
Lodge {to Benet).
Why, this is genius, not intoxication.
Benet.
Under my roof? Again ? O Master Greene,
You, you ! — I could have sworn. Come sir,
be ofF!
To The Three Tuns, — The Owl, The Owl 'j
the place !
If you '11 go down, why to The Owl you go ;
Ay, low and lower down, and worse and worse.
To a bad end ! — It 's in your face. I see it.
Greene.
To a bad end ? No, no.
Benet.
It is as sure
As gospel-spelling. Ho, who need be born
With a caul upon her eyes to see the end
Of Such, — of Such ! — Out with you !
[Hurrying him out to the street.
Marlowe. 37
Nashe.
Robin, flit !
Benet {calling nfter).
To a bad end ! — {Reenter Greene.
BeofF!
Greene.
O, wait, good woman ! —
Good Benet, take it back.
Benet.
What then ?
Greene.
The curse.
You did not see it ? Nay, the end — the end.
Benet.
I will not say a word.
Greene {doggedly).
Nay, I '11 not go.
Until you take it back.
Benet.
— Saint Ananias !
Will you begone ?
Greene.
Ah, take it back, good Benet.
Benet.
Well, then, I take it back. — Now take thyself.
[Exit Greene, between Nashe and Peele.
The crazy-pate ! — [Exity right.
38 Marlowe.
Marlowe {to Lodge).
Good-night.
Lodge.
What ails you, Kit ?
Here 's hospitality, — no ears, no eyes.
Even for that selfsame little country-maid
Who so remembers you !
Marlowe {going up).
Benet, I say —
[Rouses the Boy, who starts up.
Is there a word for me ? A messenger ?
Boy.
There was the footnian from My Lady —
Marlowe.
Hush ! —
Boy.
Said one desired to see thee, — will be here —
Marlowe.
When, when ?
Boy.
— ' Know not.
Marlowe {aside and coming down).
To-night, then, — ay, to-night.
Gods ! — What imperial largess ! I shall see
her.
See, speak with her, and then ... I do believe
The world is mine to-day !
I I ■» .1. I ■■ ■i*^^>'^^^W^^^va^i9^E^SBHBM!l0Vt
Marlowe. 39
Lodge.
Well, Tamburlaine,
Give me a word before your chariot
Shall whirl you out of hearing. Tell me now.
Who is ' My Lady — Hush ' ?
Marlowe.
You ask me this ?
Lodge.
I ask it. Modify thy royal kick.
For sake of old acquaintance.
Marlowe.
Jest not, Tom.
It is none else but — Heletiy the world's joy.
The world's triumphant torment.
Lodge.
Ah, heigh-ho!
Marlowe.
Hers is the Beauty that hath moved the world,
Since the first woman. Beauty cannot die.
No worm may spoil it. Unto earth it goes.
There to be cherished by the cautious spring.
Close folded in a rose, until the time
Some new imperial spirit comes to earth
Demanding a fair raiment ; and the earth
Yields up her robes of vermeil and of snow,
Violet-veined, — beautiful as wings.
And so the Woman comes !
40 Marlowe.
Lodge.
Heigh-ho ! — A dream.
Marlowe,
Immortal, then ! What have we but our
dreams ?
Why, to fetch wisdom out of the Holy Book,
That hath a saying or two, — *tis such as
dreams
Alone, that moths corrupt not. Actions,
deeds, —
Realities you call them, — all are sham.
Tangible dust, true death, most real decay !
The worm can prove them real, — by eating
them !
And then, where, where ?
\Xouching his own breast.
Is this Kit Marlowe, think you ?
Bah ! I am what I say and what I dream.
Ay, what I dream and dream ! — this fellow,
here.
Is none of me.
[Alison appearSy lefty on the threshold stepSy
looks down wistfully y then exity unobserved.
Lodge.
O Faustus, Faustus O f
Thou art far-sighted ; so far sighted, boy.
''"P*^^-" MJ U*
Marlowe. 41
That thou wilt waste away with longing for
The one lost Pleiad ! In the sad meanwhile
Thou wilt not see what 's nearest to thy nose.
Take it : 't is wisdom. So some Helen smiles
On you ?
Marlowe.
To-day ! For all things smile to-day.
I know, I know, fortune may cloud again.
But now the Sun will have his sovereign whim.
One triumph brings another by the hand.
And all the rest come crowding.
Lodge.
— For a day !
And she would crown you with a laurel wreath.
In secret ?
Marlowe.
Think ! For her to seek me out,
A goddess to a beggar ! Why, my lair
Is more uncertain than a tiger's rest ;
And yet she did not summon me to Court.
Lodge.
No. {Apart.) And I wonder why !
Marlowe.
She speaks with me
Here in the Borough ; sometimes at this place
Whither I come, thou knowest, when I have
more
42 Marlowe.
Than a bad penny ! — I would not have her
step
Too near some thresholds I am driven to.
Such as poor Robin haunts.
Lodge.
But —
Marlowe.
You will ask -
Why, then, to-day is more than other days ?
Because to-day, 't is true, 't is true, — I won !
* Faustus ' — is Fame. The people and the
Court
Were all one voice. Ned AUeyn had his
laurels ;
And I win mine and wear them. Oh, I knew
Her, through her mask, — and those applaud-
ing hands !
'T is come at last. Even the mongrel ballad
I found this morning, tells me, welcomely,
I have attained. — Oh, she shall not confer
All, all, forever. I '11 be glorious, —
No beggar poet ! She is Helena !
Was it a little gift, think you, to say
Such things of woman ?
Lodge.
So. * Was this the face ' —
Marlowe* 43
Marlowe.
^ Was this the Face that launched a thousand
ships
And burned the topless towers of Ilium ! *
Lodge.
Sun yourself while ye may. Kit, — sun thyself.
Thou sayest true ; thou art a glorious madman.
Born to consume thyself anon, in ashes^
And rise again to immortality !
Marlowe.
The only immortality, of Fame, —
Glory on glory ; of unflinching gaze,
A pride that shall outstare the northern lights.
And when I die ? — An arrow from the Sun !
Oh, if she cease to smile, as thy looks say.
What if? I shall have drained my splendor down.
To the last flaming drop ! — Then take me,
darkness.
And mirk and mire and black oblivion :
Despairs that raven where no camp-fire is.
Like the wild beasts. I shall be even blessed.
To be so damned.
Lodge.
I cannot follow you.
You would be arrogant, boy, you know, in
hell.
44 Marlowe.
And keep the lowest circle to yourself!
So mad are you ? — And yet I could have sworn
Your eyes took interest in the little saint
We saw to-day.
Marlowe.
The little country shrine ?
Why so they did. And therefore she was made.
'T is only she will look with pitying gaze
On me in gorgeous torment. Snowflake pity.
Destined to melt and lose itself in fire,
Or ever it can cool my tongue ! Ay, Tom.
I owe the Faith more tribute than I pay.
For its apt figures. Con thy Bible, Tom.
I 'm glad they chanced here. I shall think,
sometimes.
Just of her face : the little Quietude,
Standing in shelter, quite immovable, —
And reach my hand up for a tear, a drop
Of holy water from those hands of hers.
She fills the only need was left to me ;
And sooth to say, I never thought of it
Before I saw her.
Reinter Alison.
Lodge.
Look you, there she is.
Marlowe.
Ah, cousin Alison !
Marlowe. 45
Alison {on the steps).
Good-even, sir, —
Sirs. But I am not ' Cousin ' Alison.
Marlowe.
Forgive. I have a longing to make sure
Of anchorage somewhere. You did not see
The play this afternoon ? [She comes down.
Alison.
My father would not.
He should be here by now. He went to see
If he could find our cousin, over Bridge.
I am to stay with her till market 's over ;
And if she wish, until Midsummer-Day.
[Lodge retires up and tickles the Boy, who
is dozing, with a rush.
Marlowe.
What can I do to hasten this bare hour.
Or sweeten it for you ?
Alison.
If you would sing —
The song you promised . . .
Marlowe.
She remembers that?
{To Lodge.) Come here, you Second Son, and
ply your art.
Boy, where 's the lute ?
46 Marlowe.
[Boy starts upy takes lute down from the
wall and gives it to Lodge. Lodge
comes down and they seat themselves near
the table y Lodge and Marlowe opposite
Alison. Reenter Benet to listen^ at backy
with drowsy satisfaction.
I showed thee of this air.
Did I not, Tom ? Now set me off my verse.
*T is called ' The Passionate Shepherd to His
LOVCy
And listen to the words, and you shall learn.
[Lodge plays; Alison watches Marlowe
artlessly.
Song.
* Come live with me, and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
^hat hills and valleys, dales and fields.
Woods or steepy mountains, yields.
* And we will sit upon the rocks
Seeing the shepherds ' —
Enter Barnby.
Barnby.
Well done, well done now ! How is this my
girl?
Too weary — wert thou ?
[Coming down, followed by Benet.
Marlowe. 47
But thy cousin's house
Would better feed this cheek with red again.
And I to know thee for my Alison ?
Tired of London ? So ?
[Exif hodgty yawning.
Marlowe {aside to Benet).
Oh, take him hence.
I shall be going soon. But till I *m gone —
[Gives her a coin.
Benet.
Now, Master Barnby, will you see the Inn
And have your comfort ?
Marlowe {to Barnby).
Only let her stay
A moment more, until I end the song.
[Goes up to the street door.
Barnby.
What song is this ? Well, tarry if you will.
Be cheery, wench, and pipe up for thyself
And show them how we sing in Canterbury.
Ay, so ! Well done. -
\Exity leftypreceded by Benet with a candle-
dip. Marlowe opens door^ centre^ and looks
up and down. The Bellman's voice passes
chanting.
48 Marlowe.
Bellman,
Hang — out — your lights ! —
[Marlowe lets the door fall shut and comes
down abstractedly towards the lute which
Lodge has left on the table. , He sits and
takes it up. Alison sitSy dreamily y on the
other side of the tablcy and listens spell-
boundy while Marlowe watches her face.
Bellman {passing without).
Past — nine — o'clock and a — starlight —
night.
Marlowe (sings).
* Come live with mcy and be my LovCy
And we will all the pleasures prove
^hat hills and valley Sy dales andjieldsy
Woods or steepy mount ainSy yields.
* And we will sit upon the rocks
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow river Sy to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
* And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies y
A cap of flowers y and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ;
^•i^wF
Marlowe. 49
^ A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pully
Fair-linid slippers for the coldy
With buckles of the purest gold.
• ••••• •»
' ^he shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
T'hen live with me and be my Love ! *
\At the end of the song, she does not move,
but sits looking straight before her^ held
by his eyeSy as if she were charmed. He
reaches his hand across the table towards
her. She does not move.
Marlowe.
Why, this it is to listen ! — Art thou dreaming ?
Alison {like a child).
I do not know.
Marlowe.
And will you not say Thanks ?
Alison.
Oh, Master Christopher —
Marlowe.
The song went ill ?
Alison.
Thou knowest that it did not.
50 Marlowe.
Marlowe {laughing).
Alison,
Sweet friend, thou art so frugal of thy praise !
And yet this song is often paid in honey.
Alison.
It is most wonderful.
Marlowe.
Then why so still ? ^
/ Alison.
Oh, everything is changed.
Marlowe.
Why ? Tell me why.
Alison.
Indeed, I do not know — I do not know.
I never heard these things. — Thou art a poet.
I never saw a poet — and I wish —
I could know more.
Marlowe {laughing aloud).
You do ? And so you shall.
Look, Eve new come to Eden! Well, of
all
New things, thou art the newest new-comer I
Was it the song?
Alison.
The song — ay, that, and thee :
And everything.
F w " M.^ ^i^—^^^^^^^irw^fiim
Marlowe. 51
Marlowe.
The song and everything —
Within the song! And what is there, stray
child.
What strangeness ? — What but love, as I am
blest, —
Love — love ! {wifh great enjoyment).
\She riseSy startled.
Where are .you going, Alison ?
What would you know of poets ? All things
new !
Gods ! For the boon of such a listening ear.
Eager and charmed to listen, such a soul.
Wide as the first, first morning ! — Alison,
Poets have need sometimes: I would be
thanked
As only you can thank me. For the Song,
I '11 give it to you — (rising)
Alison.
Wilt thou ?
Marlowe.
And for that.
Give me a kiss • . .
\She looks at him with candid amazement.
Sure, that *s a little thing. Our English maids
Give kisses where they will. Do you not so ?
52 Marlowe.
Alison.
Yes . . .
Marlowe.
Why, then, give it me. — You do not know.
But yet I have a fancy that from you
Some charm must come with it, some blessed-^
ness.
Such as I have no name for. — Alison.
[She moves towards him unconsciously y ever
delaying.
Are you so frugal ? There *s the way of maids.
The smallest boon they will deny ; but ask
With arrogance, and have what is to have !
Well, I '11 be arrogant, to make it dear.
[Stepping farther away and holding his arms
towards her^ where she poises^ regarding
him.
What are you ? Faith, no woman, and no child :
A little Dream that pities not a prayer, —
Will come no nearer tho* the dreamer starve.
For fear a kiss might bind you ! — Faith, I
know
You will not stay. Bird-shadow! You will fade.
At the first omen of —
Enter Jermyn, from the street.
Jermyn.
— Her Ladyship.
Marlowe. 53
[Exif Jermy n, leaving the door wide. Enter
Her Ladyship. Marlowe's arms drop;
he turns y brilliant and bewilderedy towards
the door as Her Ladyship, the upper part
of her face masked^ advances. — Alison
shrinks away^ puzzled^ regarding them.
Her Ladyship.
Well, * Faustus,* do you know me ?
Marlowe.
'Helena'!
Her Ladyship.
I was in doubt lest I should find you here.
Beset with mad companions, noisy wits.
Such as I saw resorting to thy side
Where thou wert sitting, poet among poets.
But none like thee ! — Come, let me hear yet
more ;
But no, it must run dry.
Marlowe.
No, never, never !
Will you have more ?
Her Ladyship.
Yes, more of it, more, more !
This is new wine you pour me. I am fired
To know how much your tongue may dare.
You climb
54 Marxowe.
Such dread audacious height. I watch, in ter-
ror
To see you fall, and dash this god to clay.
More of my music ! — I am thirsty now,
I, who have had such words as not the Queen
Ever commanded yet, and knew them mine.
I was thy Helena ? Thou swearest it ? —
Nay, by the rood ?
[Alison slips out^ lefty into the garden.
Marlowe.
Thou knowest thou art she.
Her Ladyship {holding off her mask exultantly).
* Was this the face that launched a thousand
ships ! *
More, more ! — You *re swift to promise, but,
my Faustus,
You can no more.
Marlowe.
Helen, you draw me on
From world to world and whither none can
follow.
'T is you discover to my insatiate mind
Seas, countries, spheres I never dreamed be-
fore;
All longing, and the imperious will to be
A glory that shall hold your looks, I swear.
Marlowe. ^^
As the Sun compels his flower to turn to
him.
Yes, you shall listen ! — Yes, you shall drink
down
Imperial draughts of honey, fire, and dew;
And if you will, my last pale, savage pearl.
To make more precious with unpitied death.
That fearful wine !
Her Ladyship.
Are you then so much mine ?
Marlowe.
Thine and the Sun*s !
Light draws me, and I follow. Drink my song.
Grow fair, you sovran flower, with earth and
air;
Sip from the last year's leaves their memories
Of April, May, and June, their summer joy.
Their lure for every nightingale, their long-
ing;
Fill you with rain and sunset ; live and thrill.
Whose master-work is only to exist !
Terrible Beauty, that can so enthrall
And bind the service of all elements.
As they were serving-maidens : eyes and mouth.
You give back to the silence of the Earth
Whose treasury you beggar, only, silence.
56 Marlowe.
Her Ladyship.
— And this.
[She kisses him. Reinter Alison from the
garden^ unnoticed. Her Ladyship and
Marlowe go towards the doorway. Out-
side appear two link-boys with torches.
Act II.
Scene: Garden of The Bee-Hive three weeks
later. — At back a high wally with a postern-
gatCy centre, showing a distance with house-
tops and trees. — Right y an entrance to the
Inny with steps. Another door below the
stepSy leading to a cellarage. Lefty wall
covered with vines. A little to right of
centrcy in front y a large vine-covered arbor y
openy front and back; the sides trellised.
Withiny a rude table with two bencheSy an-
other seat outside ; upon it a trencher with
beans and carrots. Between the arbor and
the garden-wally lefty a row of hop-vines
trained on poleSy planted thickly. Other
shrubbery. A bench behind the hop-vines.
Summer afternoon.
Discovered at risCy Gabriel Andrew,
standing moodily in the entrance of the arbor y
as if waiting for some one. Enter y hurriedly y
from the Inny Bame.
58 Marlowe.
Gabriel.
WELL, what 's to say ?
Bame.
You know as well as I.
'T is all of Alison.
Gabriel.
I had rather think
Of Alison to myself than talk with any.
Bame.
But will you reason ?
Gabriel.
Deeply, if I can.
Bame.
You know our talk. You saw as well as I,
How that quill-spoiler cozened you and her.
And had her eyes and hearing, so none else
In all the town made any sound to her !
Not you yourself, although you had the right.
Knowing them well at home; while I was
strange.
And strange I *m like to stay ! And yet I
paid
Some little service ; met them on the way
And showed them to The Bee-Hive. I can
name
My kin among the towns-folk that they know.
I have as good a right —
Marlowe. 59
Gabriel.
To wait — to wait.
Bame.
Ay, then, to wait ! But wherefore, ask thyself.
Do you not see we are waiting for this Marlowe
To have her up and off and out of reach
Before our eyes ?
GabrieL
That maid is not the maid
To shake from any bough.
Bame.
But do you see
How she is altered ever since that day.
And day by day, of late, with watching for him ?
GabrieL
So you have seen her, day by day, of late.
Bame.
As well as you.
Gabriel.
Marry, as well as I !
H'm, with two daily suitors the poor maid
Should feel her hearing worn. I cannot marvel
That she is pale.
Bame.
Ay, she is pale enough.
Yet still she visits with her cousin there.
Week in, week out.
6o Marlowe.
Gabriel {troubled ) .
I do not grudge her London.
A maid should see the sights.
Bame.
And she sees none.
I have entreated her to come with me.
To Paul's, to Chepe, to hear the singing-
boys;
And she will stay indoor as if she feared
To lose some jewel, an she left her house.
Gabriel.
Ay, doth she so ?
Bame.
Thou wilt not boast to me
It was thy face.
Gabriel {whimsically).
No, no, faith, if I could
I would ; but have thy slender satisfaction.
Eke it out with a carrot ! — Well, you say
She will not go with you ? Nor yet with me.
Bame.
Until to-day. To-day ! — Ah, listen now ! —
I 'm on my way to bring her to the Gardens
Yonder, * to see the shows.*
Gabriel.
You shall be proud.
Marlowe. 6i
Bame.
To see the shows, forsooth ! But until now,
I had begged her to come with me anywhere
Save hither, to the Borough.
Gabriel.
Well, poor maid.
Must all her joy be bounded north by west ?
Bame.
Thou hast my meaning. When I spoke of
this.
She gave me such a smile as I dare vow
Thou never hadst, and promised me to come ;
Begged me to bring her to see Benet here.
That same * old hostess that was kind to her.*
I go to meet her at the waterside.
Since this is all of London she would see ! —
*T is Marlowe — Marlowe — and thou knowest
well
The maid is pining for him. Ay, by heaven.
Waiting to catch a grain of hews, as pigeons
Flutter and flock to peck a lentil up.
She treasures every word that folk let fall
About these players, — covering her ears
To words that mar, as true word only can ;
Denying all with shudders ; and sometimes, —
The music that he taught her —
62 Marlowe.
Gabriel.
Music? what?
Bame4
Oh, I was not far off.
Gabriel.
I warrant you
I was ; or had I caught you listening,
I would have —
Bame.
Save abuses. You shall use them
To better purpose yet. I say the man
Made merry for an hour with charming her,
A hunter, weary of his fowling-piece
Until to-morrow ! But the charm has worked.
She dare not breathe till he shall come to say
Breathe so, or so. She lives not in to-day.
I tell you more. He shall not have the girl
An if he wanted her. And yet if not,
I hate him more, that he can spoil the day
So lightly. — And the more, for it was he
Made me a butt before you all —
Gabriel.
A jest !
No more. What grievance ? People of this
part
Are used to rougher jesting.
Marlowe. 63
Bame.
You conceal
What you are building.
Gabriel.
Under simple thatch !
Bame.
Come, you are fair.
Gabriel.
Well, then I will speak out.
This is my first thought. My maid is not one
Whose whims or fancies are to be set down
By russet folk. She may think as she will :
I do receive it. I could no more dream
Of climbing up a wall to peer and pry
Into the garden of her mind, than steal
The blossoms from her father's orchard-close
To rob him half a harvest. Go your way.
And I '11 go mine. — 'T is all with you, to-day.
Enter from the lower door of the inn. Dame
Benet. Bame goes to inn-steps and turns.
Bame.
Take thought once more.
Gabriel.
I will take thought once more :
And if need be, why once more after that !
\Exit Bame, right.
64 Marlowe.
[Benet recovers her carrots and beans ^ from
the bench; sits down^ and prepares them.
Gabriel stands against the arbor-trellis
beside her^ abstracted and gloomy.
Benet.
This were a pretty tale now. Master Andrew !
What would The Bee-Hive do without you,
then?
Gabriel.
Why, when, dame ?
Benet.
Lack ! So far away, are ye ?
Why, when you take to farming once again.
In Canterbury.
Gabriel.
Oh, 't is years away —
If I should do so ever. I was dreaming.
'T was hearing of — old Barnby — set my wits
Veering to homeward like a weather-cock.
Tell me, is Master Marlowe hereabout ?
Benet.
Until the day is over, who can tell ?
There is no dial for these player-folk
And poets. 'T is all Swallow-while-you-may !
When they are paid, why so am I, betimes.
Then to The Bee-Hive, oh, I warrant ye —
Marlowe. 65
They swarm to me ; for there is no such ale
Brewed, nor cakes baken, here in all the Bor-
ough;
And that they know. But when the times will
change.
And they split quills with writing of bad plays
And get scant payment as all such deserve, -^
Then to The Merry Friar ; to The Owl ! —
Until your Owl will none of them, — so down.
To some I never name.
GaMel.
The tide will turn.
Benef.
And peacock moult. 'Ods life ! Such velvet
clothes.
And footmen bringing messages all day
From Lady Here and There. And yet to-
morrow.
Gone, like last Mayday, where ? Your peacock
hides
Throughout a moulting season.
GaMeL
But this Marlowe,
He is the best of them? Come, is he not?
Benet,
Best ? What is best ? This * Faustus * paid
his score.
66 Marlowe.
I doubt not 't was a play — but there be plays
Of far more noise than that. He will make
free.
As if he built The Bee-Hive! Now he '11 pay,
And now he '11 owe. He is not given to talk
With me. — I do hear tales of him.
They say
He is a fearsome Atheistical.
Gabriel.
Do they say that ? Bah, dame ! What right
have men
To spread abroad this pestilent They-Say,
And take us with infection ere we know?
I care not for this Marlowe, good or ill ;
But yet I have a left-hand, country-bred.
Shuffling affection to a slandered devil ; —
Comes of a zeal for driving my own kick
Where my own wit shall aim.
Benet.
Ay, ay, now there ;
This is discourse.
\^he Boy appears at the lower door.
Boy.
Have ye the lentils ready ?
Gabriel. ^
Say, now, is Marlowe like to be about.
To-day ?
Marlowe. 67
Benet.
Who knows ? This moment or next year.
Boy {entering).
She *s calling for the lentils. [Takes trencher.
Benet.
Here, you boy ! —
It shall not leave my sight.
Boy {going).
Come after, then !
\Exit Boy ^ the lower door ^followed by Dame
Benet in haste. Gabriel, after a pause,
turns decisively and exit by the postern-gate.
Immediately after, reenter Bame from the
Inn. He pauses on the lowest step, speak-
ing back. Alison appears in the doorway.
Bame {lagging).
Nay, if I must go back — But blame not me.
If the day goes awry. I did not think
You set such store by pur Dame Benet here.
To send me to the stairs again to find
A paltry hood. It was not in my thought.
And so I left it with the waterman ; —
But if you made it, \ is another thing.
I will go back. [Alison comes down the steps.
Alison.
And I will wait for you.
Here.
68 Marlowe.
Bame {sullenly).
— Will you so ? I did not know you were
So fond on Benet . . .
Alison.
She did much befriend me
The day we came to London. Young as I,
She saith she doth not see us often here ;
And so I made that keepsake with all care.
To show her I remembered. Master Bame,
Why will you be so dark with me ?
Bame.
I '11 go
And find the bargeman. Shall I find you here.
When I come back ? 'T is cooler than indoor.
Alison.
Sure I will wait.
\He watches her come downy then exit Bame
hurriedly by way of the Inn.
Ah me, but I will wait !
How long, how long, with nothing else to do ?
But I am here again. — It cannot seem
The way I saw the threshold that first day.
Before the world began. Why, it was he
Told me I looked a very new-comer.
And laughed, and guessed a little of the truth.
How new it was to me ; but yet not all.
Marlowe, 69
{Beside the arbor ^
litde vine, I wonder if the first
Long draught of rain when you are budding
first,
May be like that ? — The first high noon ? I
love you, —
1 know not why ; I love you. Dear you were
And pleasant to me, ever ; but I think
I never saw before. He called me Eve.
I took it for a jest, but now indeed
I think I never lived at all before.
God made me only now ! . . .
Oh, here again, —
Again where he is —
\N0i5e in the street of laughter and men^s
voices. Alison looks from the postern-
gate to the Inn^ between fear and delight^
shrinking behind the shrubs and hop-vines.
Marlowe's voice is heard from the unseen
group in the street.
Oh, not now — not yet ! . . .
Yes, listen, listen, listen ! — Mother of God !
My prayer is answered, and I cannot stay ! —
I cannot stay. [Gate opens.
Enter Marlowe, speaking back. He shuts the
gate.
yo Marlowe.
Marlowe.
No, no I tell you, no.
This is my hour. — No, no, another time !
Leave me alone.
[He stretches his arms and comes down indo-
lently. He has a book in his hand. He
enters the arbor y and sits ; opens the book,
pulls a leaf or two from the vine^ reads a
bity leaning his arms on the table before
him ; then shuts his eyes and after a heavy
sigh or twoy falls asleep. — Alison, listening
in an agony of suspense^ peers through the
vine-'Covered lattice^ left. She shakes the
vine softly and he does not stir. She speaks
in a very low voice, with rapturous wist-
fulness.
Alison.
Do you not hear ? Praise God, he is asleep.
But I have seen him. — Ah, so you can tire.
Yes, even you. Oh, this is more than I
Could dare to pray for, — that you should be
near
And never see me. She is grown more patient,
This Alison. Ah, if I only knew —
But I do know : I *m walking in a dream.
I saw — I heard. Did I not hear enough ?
Marlowe. 71
I 'm nothing : only eyes to watch for you.
I 'm nothing, only silence.
\Sobbing into the vine.
If I dared
To wake you and to ask you what it meant :
Oh, if I only dared to give you — now —
\He stirs y turning his face towards her. She
is motionless for a second. But he sleeps*
Why am I such a nothing, with no gift ?
I who would keep you guarded if I might.
From all things ill. Oh, if I were the Moon,
How I would shine upon you, brow so dear.
How white your dreams would be —
Oh, guard him well,
For me — for me.
Enter from the Inn, Gabriel Andrew.
Gabriel.
Is Master Marlowe there ?
[Alison retreatSy lefty behind the hop-vines*
Alison {apart).
What, Gabriel ? Oh, how shall I begone ?
Gabriel {coming down).
Heigh-ho ! I Ve spoiled a dream for you, I see.
Marlowe {waking).
Yes, true enough. Nay, sit. 'Tis not my
garden.
72 Marlowe.
Although I lord it, of an afternoon,
In dreams and out of them. A patch of
green
Must serve us for an Eden.
Gabriel.
Ay, sometimes.
And yet when I do plant my garden-plot
Of Eden, I would have it further off
From here.
Marlowe.
Oho, in Canterbury !
Gabriel {reluctantly).
Ay.
Does your mind go there ?
Alison {aparty rapturously).
He remembers all !
Enter quickly from the Inny Bame. He comes
down to the arbor and sees only Marlowe and
Gabriel talking. Alison is hidden. He casts
a suspicious glance about.
Gabriel.
Well, Master Richard Bame ?
Bame.
Give you good-day.
Marlowe.
What do you lack ?
Marlowe. 73
Bame.
Something I lost but now.
[Exit into the Inn. Gabriel puzzled.
Alison {apart).
Alas, poor man, I meant to keep my word.
Indeed.
Marlowe.
It is the most aggrieved devil !
I cannot walk out, of a holiday.
But I must run against his raven-beak.
Croaking above some harvest. Hath a grudge
Against me, — what, I know not. Well, your
worm
Must needs be here to make it Holy Eden.
Gabriel.
You spoke of home. I wonder now — Wouldst
ever.
If the way came, think to go back again.
To live ?
Marlowe.
My kindred do not yearn for me.
Gabriel.
Nay, but perchance if you do yearn to have
The downs again, and all the comely ways
You spoke of; and the cherry orchards too.
As poets may, tho* I know nothing of it ! —
74 Marlowe*
That song of shepherds, you were bound to
sing.
It will have been a song, now, as I guess.
Only for singing ; but you cherished it.
Marlowe.
What song ? * Come live with me^ and he my
Love ' ?
Marry, you good old homebodies have ears
Of kinder welcome to a madrigal
Than I dreamed, ever. I remember now*
The little Quietude was full of wonder
Her tongue refused to tell, at that same song.
GabrieL
The little Quietude ? —
Marlowe.
Your Kentish maid.
The Eva of this Eden, to whom I sang.
She had great eyes — \Alison rapt.
Gabriel {heavily).
— The little Quietude.
Marlowe.
And silken hair. She was all made of stuff
Too fine for country wear. I marvel Nature
Who plans such ruddy milk-maids, should have
set
A hand to make that lonely masterpiece
Marlowe. 75
Among the hop-fields. Why, she was a maid
Of crystalline ! If you looked near enough.
You 'd see the wonder changing in her eyes
Like parti-colored marvels in a brook.
Bright through the clearness !
Gabriel.
— Ay, *t is Alison ;
As like as if you saw her, to read off
What 's in her face. Now I could never say.
Marlowe.
And do you see her, now ?
Gabriel {dully).
She hath a cousin
Over in Cherry Lane — and —
Alison (apart y hidden in the shrubs).
Gabriel dear !
Marlowe.
Oh, *t is the cousin, then ! Ay, trust a man
Bred in the fields to lose his wit in London,
And take up with some painted city-madam
Would give her hope of a celestial throne "
Eor that swan-quiet, and the morning gaze !
Heigh-ho, you farmers, living face to face
With the untarnished loveliness of Earth
And with no eyes to see it ! Sullen red
Of sunset and dove-plumage of the dawn
76 Marlowe.
Are weather, weather, weather ! — and the
Wind
That bloweth where it listeth — ha, brave
Wind ! —
Muzzle it, would you ? — lest it should make
free
With the young orchards ! Why, for this same
maid.
Her name might be —
[She listens rapturously y nearer and nearer.
Gabriel.
— The little Quietude.
But you should see her sometimes when she
laughs.
'T is like — I cannot say. Well, you can say
Whatever comes to mind, and more, belike.
Marlowe.
1 could do honor to Her Quietude
Till song run dry !
Gabriel.
— So then. You love her ?
[Alison stands with her eyes shut.
Marlowe.
Love?
GabrieU
Ay.
Marlowe. jj
Marlowe.
Do I love her ?
GahrieU
Is it Yea or Nay ?
[Marlowe laughs long.
Marlowe.
Come, tell me ; do you love the Evening Star ?
But that *s a riddle, man. — I know to thee
It is a timely taper, lighted high.
Before the curfew bell !
Gabriel {fighting off his relief).
You love her not ?
Well, then. I know not why I talk so long
Of all these things apart. I was but think-
ing;
You spoke of home, and you can see her face
And talk of it such wise, I thought — may-
hap,—
They being my neighbors there at home, I
thought —
If 't were your mind to take up life again
And have our maid to share it — if it were,
I might so do you service — speak a word.
Seeing I know her father.
Alison {apart in an agony).
— Gabriel !
78 Marlowe.
Gabriel.
And as you mind, at home your quality
Are held in less esteem than —
[Marlowe still laughs.
Alison {apart).
Gabriel ! —
Marlowe.
Come, is it I ? — Good sooth ! I tell thee, man,
I like thee ; come !
Gabriel {rising).
What laughter is in this ?
Marlowe.
None, none, but all in me ! Nay, come sit
down.
[He leaves the arbor y and goes to the steps
of the Inn to call.
Hey, there, — bring out a tankard.
[Returns y and continues to move up and
downy talking animatedlyy while Alison
is driven back to her hiding-place. It is
now sunset.
Come, give ear,
And I will teach thee a philosophy
Shall save thee many a making of thy mind.
To ravel out thereafter. I '11 be plain.
I asked thee, would one love the Evening Star ?
Marlowe. 79
To thee it was a riddle. Listen, then :
What is all Love but I-JVilUHave, WilUHave
What I must have, — I love. And I will have
it.
But, for the Evening Star, I have it, there.
\Pointing to the sky.
I would not have it nearer. Is that Love,
As thou dost understand ? — Yet is it mine
As I would have it : to look down on me.
Not loving and not cruel ; to be bright.
Out of my reach ; to lighten me the dark.
When I lift eyes to it, and in the day.
To be forgotten. — But of all things, far !
Far-off, beyond me, else it were no star.
Gabriel.
Ay, that *s a star. A woman, then —
Marlowe.
A woman ?
A woman must be near, to be a Woman !
Dreams change their color as they leave the
stars
For this engrossing air that folds the world.
The birds fly lower, lower, to a nest ;
The small uncounted brightnesses, that fleck
The thwarted sunbeam with such lively gold,
Settle into a kindly earth again, —
8o M AR LO W £•
The dust that men are made of! Glory close.
Love near at hand ? — Must-Have, Will-Have,
indeed !
World beauty not to dream of but to hold, —
Woman ! What else ?
Gabriel.
And wilt thou love no woman ?
They say not so of thee.
Marlowe.
Oh, leave * They Say ' !
I serve a lady so imperial fair,
June paled when she was born. Indeed, no
star.
No dream, no distance, but a very woman
Wise with the argent wisdom of the Snake ;
Fair nurtured with that old forbidden fruit
That thou hast heard of. It was made for her.
Oh, and she eats thereof and lives forever !
And what she is, and breathes, that I Will
Have;
Yes, — though the fruit were twenty times for-
bidden.
Yes, by a God who should walk here and
now, —
Here in the garden, in the cool of the day.
Yes ! — I would eat, and have all human joy.
And know — and know.
Marlowe. 8i
My kingdom of the air,
I have it : spaces where no thought may rest,
Unfooted heaven lighted by lone stars.
And gulf on gulf of dark. But here is Earth ;
And Earth I will have, too, and we will leave
The garden - place together, under the
Frown ! —
And smiling back upon the flaming sword.
Out of the closure. — Love ! —
[Stir in the Intij and voices. Gabriel ready
to leave the arbor. Alison behind the
vinesy exhausted.
Alison.
Ah, God forgive this pitiful eaves-dropper ! —
I am so much the wiser. Let me go.
Home.
Enter from the Inn, the playwright Sy Nashe and
Lodge, followed by the Boy with a tankard^
and Peele carrying the cups.
Gabriel (going).
Well, I will bid you —
Nashe (meeting him).
Whither away so fast ?
Who pays the score ?
Lodge.
Come, come, our old friend Andrew !
82 Marlowe.
[The two conduct Gabriel back to the arbor.
Alison looks for some way of escape and
returns to her hiding-place. Boy sets down
tankard and exit.
Nashe.
Face it out with us ! If we go alone.
Kit, here, will pelt us with his dithyrambs.
Know you these dithyrambs? 'Tis a green
plum
Sweet in the mouth, but in the belly bitter.
Like the little book within the little Book
Our pious Kit doth swear by.
Lodge.
You shall drink
God-speed to me ! I go upon a voyage.
Peek.
Alas, dear Tom, now after all this going —
Nashe.
At last he goes. And we, a year in wait
Drinking Farewell and Yet-again-good-bye !
And more Godspeed, and so Your-safe-re-
turn ! —
But now, it seems he *s going.
Marlowe.
Where is Robin ?
[A cuckoO'C all from the street.
Marlowe. 83
Lodge.
Ask not. Discretion. Nay, it cannot be.
hardly Robin, even under ban !
[Greene climbs over the postern-gate and
comes down cautiously.
Greene.
Is my sweet Hostess there? Or doth she
dream
Within, and dream of me ? — Bah, what is she ?
1 'm a new man. Go tell her, with my scorns,
I 'm at The Mermaid.
Nashe.
Liest, — Robin Redhead !
'T is a good twelve-month since The Mer-
maid saw thee.
Greene.
Tell her The Mermaid hath such company,
I never show my head there, when my wits
Are rusty. Then, I burrow in The Bee-Hive,
A dull, safe place ! And tell her that my wits
Are damaged by the quality of her ale. —
Once was I the salt of wit. But now ye see
I 'm damaged. Fellows all, say if I be not ?
Peele.
Ay, ay, good Robin.
Lodge.
So thou art.
84 Marlowe.
Peek.
Come, come.
[He pours the ale at the arbor table ^ singing
carelessly. Marlowe sits to left of the
tabky Gabriel beside him; Lodge out-
side j with his back towards the vines;
Nashe within the arbor. Greene comes
down to the bench just outside the arbor.
Peek {singing).
If you have a heart, you break it ;
Have a purse, a knave will take it.
Therefore wise men all beware !
Save your head, but nothing in it.
Spend an hour and waste a minute :
Nothing have, and have no care.
Nothing keep, for there 's a plenty !
Fill the bowl, but drink it empty.
Hey, lo-lo ! Sing Nothing with a Naught !
When I was born, 't was Nothing I brought.
And when I leave this world of thought.
May the devil take me, if I take aught !
\Under cover of the noise j Alison tries to
steal out. It is twilight. But Greene
hears the leaves shakcj and catches a
glimpse of her behind the vines. She re-
Marlowe. 85
treats in haste and clings thercy quiet and
watchful.
Greene.
Soft, soft !
\He begins to sing romantically^ accompany-
ing himself upon an imaginary lutCy and
keeping an eye on the vines,
{Singing.)
Her cheek is hawthorn and her voice the rain ;
Her eyes are window lights that never wane,
So morning-clear.
Alas, dear April, when she conies again.
Shall I be here ?
Marlowe.
He 's mad, poor Robin !
Greene.
— 'Sh ! Don't startle her.
{Singing.)
For she is kind as all the fields are fain.
And she will cheer the grass with sun and rain.
And cowslips dear.
Alas, sweet April, when they spring again.
Shall I be here ?
Soft — soft —
Marlowe.
What do you see ?
86 Marlowe.
Greene {boisterously).
A farthingale !
[Laughter. Gabriel starts and takes thought.
Lodge.
This is The Bee-Hive, Robin, — you should
know!
Peek.
— Where? Where?
Greene.
What is a hive without a queen ?
Come all, — a serenade ! — Each man his own.
\In great good spirits^ but not noisily ^ they
burst into songy each man his own melody ^
making a cheerful tangle of noises. Gabriel
moves cautiously towards the front of the
arbor.
Marlowe (singing).
* Come live with me^ and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valley Sy dales andfieldsy
Woods or steepy mountains^ yields.
' And we will sit upon the rocks
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks ^
By shallow rivers y to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.*
Marlowe. 87
Nashe {singing).
let me win some warmth within.
And then I will be merry,
For Grief is but a chilly thief
Grows fat in February.
Hey, hey ! Ho-ho !
'T was ever so.
Since Adam ate the cherry.
Lodge {singing).
With 'But ' and 'But ' and good ' What-if
1 still make shift to tarry.
The man who cannot cheer him so.
Oh, let him go drown or marry !
Greene {singing).
Hey, merry maid !
Leave your lattice window, pretty ;
Sure to hide you were a pity.
Never be afraid.
Look forth and see
Who it is that comes to borrow.
Never wait until to-morrow ;
Come and kiss — me !
[During this mingled singing, Gabriel comes
down close to Alison. She starts back.
88 Marlowe.
Gabriel {with compassion).
Stay — stay ! 'T is only Gabriel. —
Alison {faintly).
Ask me not —
Gabriel.
I will ask nothing, sweet.
Alison.
No, Gabriel, no !
Gabriel.
Dear child, come home, — come home.
\Behind the vines y he disposes her scarf about
her face ; steps forth from the shrubbery
and turns toward the postern-gate. The
playwrights leave their seatSy amazed
utterly.
Peek.
— Now, here was shyness !
Nashe.
The country-man ? O moral upside down !
Greene {calling).
Stop, Angel Gabriel ! Stop, disciple Andrew !
Only a word to ease my mind, — one word !
Was it thy sweetheart ?
Gabriel {turnings between Alison and the play-
wrights).
Ay.
[Exeunt Gabriel and Alison by the gate.
..AM
Marlowe. 89
Marlowe.
Who was the girl ?
You saw her face ? — Well, by the shooting-
stars!
Nashe.
Sweet opportunity, she passeth by.
Lodge.
Oh, the lost Pleiad !
Greene {singing with the others).
* When she comes again.
Shall I be here?'
Act III.
Scene : A tavern in Deptford. — A lapse of three
years between Acts II. and III. — // is a
shabby interior^ with scores scrawled in chalk
upon smoky walls and wainscot. — Doorway
centre giving on the street. From right to
centre at backy the corner of the room is cut
off in a series of casement windows y all openy
showing a bench outside against the inn wall;
and a distance. Beside this casement y a table
and a seat. Books on the tablcy ink-horn and
quills. — Lefty upy door leading into tap-room.
Against the wally other tables with draught-
boardsy etc. — // is afternoon.
Discovered at riscy Lodge, looking bronzed
and somewhat older y on the threshold. He
enter Sy looks about y peers out of the casement y
sees and tries the quills ; opens a book ; smiles
and turns a few pages.
Marlowe. 91
Lodge.
HIS. They were right : he must be here.
[Calling.
Hola !
Enter from the tap-roomy Richard Bame ; on
seeing Lodge, he pauses and makes as if to
go off again.
Eh, not mine host ? Stay, do I know thy
face?
\Bame faces him.
Why, surely, — Richard Bame.
Bame {with constraint).
Ay, Richard Bame.
You are home again.
Lodge.
After a sorry voyage.
To a worse home-coming. Nothing but the
plague ! —
The sickness widens round our city-haunts
Like rings around a pebble. They do tell me
There 's scarce a player to be found in London.
Bame.
Ay, they are out of work, the feathered ones !
And we that have no feathers, — out of work.
Lodge.
Drowned out, by all this tolling of the bells —
92 Marlowe.
Bame.
And pageants of the dead men.
Lodge {turning to the casement).
Here 's fresh air ! —
And Marlowe 's here ? Odd chance. I never
used
To look for him, but you were thereabout.
You, who mislike all players and all poets !
\Looking out of the casement.
Bame.
I like — to hear him talk. [Between his teeth.
Lodge.
— And Canterbury ?
Enter Host.
Bame.
There is no news of late. I come to-day
Looking to meet old Barnby when he passes.
Deptford is come to be the market now
For South o' London.
Host.
Ay, the countrymen
Cannot go nearer to the city folk.
They sell their poultry in the open fields
Here, while the sickness rages. Ay, fat times
For Deptford, — if our dock yards were not full
O* journeymen and sailors out o' work.
Marlowe. 93
These were fat times for Deptford ! Still, —
no shows.
No wandering singers now, no plays, no bait-
ings.
'Prentices, players, all with naught to do.
And seamen roving free ! Your rope-makers.
Idle all day ...
Enter Jcrmynj from the street. Bame makes
him a sign to keep silence. He enters and
comes down to meet Bame. Host leads
Lodge towards doorway y while Bame and
Jermyn stand watching them out of the way.
Lodge.
I will wait here awhile
For Master Marlowe. Know you not the
name ?
Host {cautiously).
There be some fellow — of some name like
this —
Is wont to come here of an afternoon
And sit there by the lattice, gazing out.
'Oweth me much. But I do let him sit.
Freely, for nothing, an he will be quiet.
[Lodge looks at him in bewilderment^ then
goes to the doorway and steps out. Host
follows to discourse with apparent anxiety.
They talk apart just outside the door.
94 Marlowe.
Jermyn {to Bame).
It is her Ladyship would have me say
She is beholden to your evidence,
For all the court ; altho' they do not know.
But this will have him barred from the Queen's
Players.
My Lady bids me have you greatly thanked
For your true zeal — against this atheist —
And sends you here — \JIolding out a purse.
Bame {pushing it away).
No, no ! I '11 none of it.
Jermyn.
Not as a price ; yet for thy pains to follow.
And keep close track on all his blasphemies.
Thou hast the paper, setting forth the same ?
Give it to me. — The man is dangerous.
\J&2imt produces a document from his coat.
And this same writ may serve to stop his
mouth.
Another day ! Give me the writ. So. Wit-
nessed ? \Reads.
* A Note containing the Opinion of
Christopher Marlowe ' —
Bame.
Silence ! — Come apart.
It is to keep —
Marlowe. 95
Jermyn.
Until the time be ripe.
— * That he persuadeth men to atheism * —
[Glances through it.
And thou wilt swear that thou hast heard it all ?
Batne.
Day in, day out, from his own lips I have it.
Over his meat and drink with other men. —
Sworn, laughed, and sung ! There 's nothing
out of reach.
To make them bow, — there 's nothing left,
too high ! —
But the created Earth, and God that made,
Are level with the laughter and the dregs.
Jermyn {still reading).
And you will testify ?
Bame.
Take it ! — have done. [Exit Jermyn, left.
Reenter Host and Lodge.
Host {pointing through casement).
Look, there he comes.
Lodge {boyishly y standing away from the casement y
with his back to Bame).
He knows not I am here ! —
[Bame watches the casement for a moment y
clenching his hands with bitter exultation^
96 Marlowe.
then exit noiselessly into tap-room. Mar-
lowe appears outside the window^ walking
slowly. He is greatly altered^ haggard^
pahy somewhat shabby, ^he Host linger s^
curiously.
Enter Marlowe. With the same unseeing ab-
straction, he passes Lodge, goes to the chair
by the casement^ sits down, and looks out as
if watching for something.
Lodge.
Kit ! — Art asleep, man ? — Hast no word for
me?
Marlowe {after looking at him).
Ay, is it Tom? I had thought it was some
trick
Of fancy ; or thy ghost. — So, is it Tom ?
Lodge {clapping him, vexedly).
I have a mind to wake thee in good sooth ! —
I am just landed these few days ago, —
After the seven plagues, — to one plague more ;
And here 's a welcome ! — Here 's a cheek, an
eye,
A humor ! Do I know thee ? Is it thou ?
Marlowe.
Eyes? Worn with watching. Cheek, indif-
ferent lean.
Marlowr. 97
Humor? Time wears. You should know
that, explorer.
You find us. Second Son, in moulting season.
Talk not of me — But you. —
[^Exit Host.
Lodge.
But all of us !
Where 's Dekker now ?
Marlowe.
Redeemed again, last week ;
Dick Henslowe paid. So, while the sickness
wears.
He 's patching plays to earn some wherewithal
To patch a doublet 1
Lodge.
Ay, old Tom. And Ben ?
Marlowe.
Married.
Lodge.
There 's Ben ! And is there news of Will —
Marlowe^
I know not. He is come to print of late
With a sometime poem, * Fenus and Adonis.*
Nashe ? gnashing with his teeth ! — but you
have heard.
And now our Lyly languisheth.
98 Marlowe.
Lodge.
And Greene. —
Alas, poor Robin !
Marlowe.
Ay, you well may say.
Poor Robin ! But for pity of his end,
I could still rate him for the pious stuff
He wrote a-dying ! — Had he saved his breath.
He had made it last the longer! Bah, let
be.
He 's dead, poor Robin. — Dead of nothing-
ness.
And the ten thousand follies. End the drone.
He was a Poet, as the mire can tell.
And the poor keeper of that uttermost den
Did honor to his wreck, as beggars may.
And crowned him with a laurel. Thankless
brow
Of death, that could not feel! — But it was
there.
[Looks out of the casement again.
Lodge.
What dost thou see there. Kit ?
Marlowe.
Why, dust, Tom, dust.
Marlowe. 99
Lodge.
Kit, I had something I would say to thee.
But thou art in no mood to hear it now.
1 11 to the dock, and I will come again —
Marlowe {rising).
When I have cast my shell ? Nay, — nay, go
not.
Thy news was nothing good. So much I know.
Lodge.
There have been foolish rumors in my ears.
Even in these few days, — some old wives' tale
Of painted devils ; yet these frighten some !
Why wilt thou mar thine image ?
Marlowe {impatiently).
Is it marred ?
Along then, with the rest !
Lodge.
You know me better.
Enter from street y Rowse a sailor y and several
Tavemers. ^hey go into the tap-room, ^he
open door lets in some noise of roistering. — A
jangle of horses^ bells is heard approaching.
Marlowe points to the bench outside the
window. Exeunt Marlowe with Lodge,
centre, ^hey are seen to pass the window and
loo Marlowe.
to sit talking without , as the inn-yard noises
increase. Reenter from tap-room Host,
and exit^ centre. After him Bame in haste.
Enter from street^ old Barnby, dusting off
his frock.
Barnby.
Well, Master Richard, I was nigh to miss you !
I 'm homeward bound. — Ay, home 's the
happier
After those borders. — Eh ? No sickly air
With us, sir !
Bame.
True enough. I have a mind
To go along with you, may-hap —
Barnby {troubled).
Ay, so ?
Bame.
What tidings ? There will be some ? — Tell
me, sir.
Barnby.
Tidings enow. 'T is tidings bid me stop.
I would not have ye come by all the news
Through any other man. Well, clap my hand
And take it manly. Thou wilt wish her joy.
Our Alison is wed. A month ago.
On Easter Monday ; Alison is wed . . .
Marlowe. loi
Ay, Gabriel wins ; and thou wilt wish him well.
So, so. I know thou 'st counted on the lass.
And many another man. — A month ago.
Bame {wildly to himself).
So it was all for nothing ! — All for nothing !
Barnby.
Take it not thus.
Bame.
For nothing — nothing — nothing !
Barnby.
I marvel ye4iad patience to hold out
This good three year. — A maid like Alison
To wear me out three harvest-times, and sigh,
A-making of her mind ! But she is wed.
And happily ; and thou wilt wish them well.
Like every honest man. There be not many
Such as our Alison ! — Nay, nay, there be !
The fields are full of them, — no downcast
looks.
There be a score o' wenches still in Kent
As good as — mark, in Kent — no other place ;
And we will have thee wed.
Bame.
— Talk not of that.
Barnby.
Come out and drink a pot of ale to them.
I02 Marlowe.
Bame.
Another day. Prithee go see the host. —
Farewell.
Barnby.
Ay, ay, now. Take it manly, lad.
[Backing away with an anxious eye on
Bame.
Reenter Lodge and Marlowe. Exit Barnby,
centre. Bame, turning suddenly^ sees the
two men.
Batne.
So. You have heard it all.
Lodge {gloomily).
O man, man, man !
There be some things to listen to, beside
Thee and thy business.
Bame.
Do not put me by ;
I say he heard.
Marlowe.
Heard what ? — And if, what then ?
Bame {fiercely).
Why, the wheel turns, and it shall grind thee
too ! —
Thou wilt not have her.
[Marlowe looks at Lodge.
Marlowe. 103
Lodge.
Peace. The fellow 's mad.
Bad news has turned his brain.
Bame.
Stand off from him.
No feigning now ! — ye heard it all. She 's
wed
To Gabriel Andrew — wed to him — at last,
Through thee, through thee.
Marlowe.
What is all this to me ?
Bame.
It shall be something yet. I saw thee first,
Ay, from the first day when you cheated them
With tales of old acquaintance, and made fond.
And charmed the eyes of her, and took her
heart.
But for a whim. — Oh, I was not far off !
Tho' you had made me a butt before them all.
And turned her favor from the laughing-stock.
Nothing to you it was ! — All other folk, —
Their homes, so many ant-hills ! — All the
world
A show for you, a cheaper show than yours ; —
A pageant wagon, — with the people, here.
And overhead, their angels and their God,
I04 Marlowe.
Another show ! — And you to laugh at all.
Laugh, laugh ! Whatever *t was, 't is all gone
by.
Never to laugh at more.
But I can tell you.
Oh, I can tell you, now it is too late.
That she was pining for you. — Now she 's
wed.
Alison 's gone ! You will not have her now.
Ah, now you are no more to her than I !
[Murmuring.
The spell is broken. She would see you now
But what you are — a strolling devilry,
A knave and a blasphemer. Atheist !
Marlowe.
The fellow 's mad. But mad-men should be
bound.
Call me what names your rage will foam in,
fool.
But never cut me with that lash of spite
The pious use ! 'T were much to thy discredit.
Be thy poor venom, venom. Hate and hate ! —
Seek not to find a reason.
[Bame staggers to the door of the tap-room
and exit.
— ' Atheist '
Marlowe. 105
While such do name me so, I wear the name
As proudly as an honor. — * Atheist/
Lodge.
Ah, Kit, too many hands have got this lash
Against thee. Here it is, to bear me out.
The common voice is risen. Thou canst hear
In that man-hunting tumult, every threat.
From the indignant cry of simple folk
Stung by thy jesting, even to the hiss
Of a trodden worm. But now, forbidden, —
barred
From the Queen's Players ! —
Marlowe.
So I am turned out.
Lodge.
Out of the Court, thou seest, with all disfavor.
How did it go so far ?
[Marlowe shrugs his shoulders^ looking out
of the window.
I beg thee, listen.
What now ? More dust ?
Marlowe.
Ay, dust turned into woman.
[Her Ladyship is seen to pass the casement.
— * My Lady Hush.' — Go not. It is soon
over.
io6 Marlowe.
[Lodge falls back. Marlowe comes dowtiy
step by stepy half turning his face to the
door as if he were drawing some one after
him. Her Ladyship appears in the door-
way with a falcon on her wrist y and a
riding-mask in the other hand. On the
instant Lodge slips out of the casement ^
righty into the court, and disappears.
Marlowe faces the doorway squarely. —
Enter Her Ladyship : she blows a little silver
whistle. Enter Jermyn.
Her Ladyship {to Jermyn, holding forth the
falcon).
Take her; and see thou make the jess se-
cure.
'T was basely mended. Bring it to me here.
And speedily. - [Exit Jermyn, left.
£Her Ladyship comes down a step or two
towards Marlowe.
I would not have you think that I am come
In answer to a summons.
Marlowe.
No indeed !
Her Ladyship.
I have been slow to teach you as I should ;
Trying the tedious way of silence.
Marlowe. 107
Marlowe.
Ay,
Most tedious ! But I would not understand.
Her Ladyship.
And since your importunity would still
Beat at the gate, nor take no word from reason,
Last, I have come, as you demanded of me.
Demanded, sooth ! —
Marlowe.
Forgive the violence
Of a charlatan who doubts his art at length.
Reluctant Helena !
Her Ladyship.
No more of this.
Your fantasy outwears the day of welcome ;
And you are grown too arrogant. You own
No height above your own vain-glorious spirit
That threatens everything. It is too plain, —
Your climbing blasphemy.
Marlowe.
Ay, let me hear.
Is this the charge against me, from your
lips ? —
Why I am barred ? — And I have wounded you
This long time with my godless pride of
thought ! —
io8 Marlowe,
I am thus slow to take it for my eyes
Detected not your suffering loyalty
To the true Faith.
Her Ladyship.
Be bitter, if you must.
I would have warned you, but 't is late to warn.
Take a last word : come not about the Court.
Your reasonings are known there; they are
known —
Marlowe.
To the Queen's Players. [She starts.
So : keep from the Court.
My reasonings are known. — I am in danger.
You come to warn me of it ?
Her Ladyship.
You have heard.
Marlowe*
Why do you fear me ?
Her Ladyship.
Nay, I fear you not.
Marlowe.
Why do you fear the world ?
Her Ladyship.
I fear it not.
Marlowe.
No, no ? The world nor me ? Then why not
say.
Marlowe. 109
'T is all because you love me not ? — Because
Now you would have me hence ? —
O Helena,
How cheaply at the last you sell your God !
Thirty pieces of silver, I had sworn
Would be too little ! Ah, but not for you.
Not even with a kiss, but with a lie,
You shew me how you rate Him, — all of
you !
I waited for the reason. There had been
A chance to make you glorious with some
truth, —
And me to blink at unaccustomed gold :
A brave * / love you notj — / wish you gone ! * —
Such valor of the devil as he respects !
But this poor coinage of an outcast metal.
Stamped with God's image ! Ha, deny Him, I ?
What have I seen of Him that I should know
Where He is or is not ? I have searched the
mire ;
And found Him not, indeed ; and for such
temples
As Holy Writ would have it that He dwells in.
Look you, how cold and empty ! — Cold, not
pure.
No flame of heaven or hell, — no fire at all.
no Marlowe.
[She shrinks backward. He follows step by
step.
Deny Him, I ? And thou, dost thou af-
firm ? —
Living denial I — Gentle blasphemy !
\She lifts her riding-mask to her face : he
catches it from her and holds it aloft.
Will you begone ? Nay, hear my parting word.
Unmask you, Helen. — Truly you must go
The way of dreams. Will you believe you live ?
No, no, I think not, no indeed, not you !
The fire burns out and leaves the ashes there.
The cock crows and the spirits must begone.
I took you for a Woman, thing of dust, —
I — I who showed you first what you might
be!
But see now, you were hollow all the time,
A piece of magic. Now the air blows in.
And you are gone in ashes. Well, begone !
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! — Nay, go.
\He flings the mask across the room. Her
Ladyship before the threshold watches
him a second^ then blows the little silver
whistle.
Reenter Jermyn with the falcon. They look
at each other.
Mar low e. hi
Jermyn.
I have the jesses mended.
Her Ladyship {suavely).
. . . And the Writ ?
[Exeunt Her Ladyship and Jermyn.
[Lodge reappears at casement^ peers after
thetUy then enters by the window and
hastens toward Marlowe. Seeing the
mask J he picks it up.
Lodge.
Stay, what is here ? Shall I go after her ?
Marlowe.
There 's nothing to go after. 'T is a mask ;
All that is left of something that did seem
A most rare woman. — Remnant of black art,
O riddle of the world !
{Taking the mask.) Behold her here.
Behold, the place for eyes to beckon through ;
Here the red mouth that spoke reproaches to
me.
Yes, in behalf of God ! — Consider, look ;
'T was this that would convert me. Small and
black ;
The headsman wears another.
[Flings it away.
Lodge.
'T is over, then ? Thou dost not love her ?
112 Marlowe.
Marlowe.
No.
Lodge.
Nor for this long time ?
Marlowe.
No.
Lodge.
Nor ever ?
Marlowe.
— No!
Lodge.
Then break my soul if I may understand ! —
Art thou the man to fall into despair
Over some lie, some game of hide-and-seek
This Madam plays ? Nay, tell me ; there is
more.
Marlowe.
More, is there ? What ?
Lodge.
— Never tell me these buffets
Of a poor harvest, or a heavy rain.
Dismay thee, arrogant devil of us all !
But here I find thee. Kit, inscrutable
In thy torn splendors.
Marlowe.
H'm ! Torn splendors, are they ?
Marlowe. 113
Torn splendors, — 't is a phrase ; and gorgeous
threadbare ;
Fine ruin. Well ?
Lodge.
Speak out. There is yet more.
Never tell me a woman's falsity
Comes like a thunder-clap at this late day.
Marlowe,
It was not the one woman. It was all.
She meant the world, — the world.
Lodge {eagerly).
Well, there 's the sky !
Whip up the horses of the Sun ; be bold
There 's thy dominion. What hast thou to do
With tangibles ? — I quote thee to thyself.
Whatever is or is not on the ground.
Make to thyself some image of the air.
Thou art a master-architect. Come, come ! —
Thou, who couldst speak for * FaustuSy in the
play.
Such longings, fit to turn a Prodigal,
As if thy soul were homesick after God !
Marlowe.
— Asif! —
Lodge.
I say, what matters it to thee ?
Thine own philosophy, thy fame —
114 Marlowe.
Marlowe.
Fame, fame ?
Forbidden the Queen's Players ? — Hounded
out
By a Court scandal ? Nay, hands off the
sun!
Drone holy, poet, drone, or hold thy tongue ;
Will it not lie ? — Be off then, atheist !
Lodge.
This is not like thee.
Marlowe (restlessly).
— Bah, the plague 's about !
Here you may see Belshazzar at his feast.
[With a grand gesture indicating the tavern.
Nor do we lack our writing on the wall.
Traced in a fiery hand.
[He picks up a piece of chalk from a gaming-
table and scrawls some figures on the wain-
scot.
So, Mene — Mene —
Tekel — Upharsin. — Being interpreted.
Nine pounds, three shillings, tuppence on the
score !
[He comes downy abstractedly tossing the
piece of chalk.
Marlowe. 115
What is there left ? Give the poor worm its
triumph.
I will go back to Sodom.
Lodge {laughing).
Not for this !
Man, man, what is it now that thou Must-
Have,
Having had all ? — I tell thee thou art sour'd
To hear the little country-maid is wed.
As the poor devil clamored in thine ears !
Marlowe,
So she is wed.
Lodge.
And therefore safe and precious.
Come, think upon a far removed fairness
That is not thine ; and bring dead beauty back.
Marlowe,
Dead beauty. Nay, the plague hath every-
thing.
Lodge.
The plague hath thee ! I swear thou shalt not
spread
Infection so : come here and take thy mark.
[He catches the bit of chalky then scores a
cross heavily on Marlowe's breast j laugh-
ing.
ii6 Marlowe.
Here is a warning for good honest folk. —
The man is stricken. — * Lord Have Mercy
Upon Us ! '
Nay . . .
[Marlowe moves away from him, s taring
fiercely.
Marlowe (in a low voice).
— Wilt thou open that raw curse? — Hands
off!
Lodge.
What hath
Marlowe.
Hands off.
Lodge.
I hurt
Marlowe.
Hands off, I say !
[Rulfting the mark.
It will not out — it will not out ? So, so.
Stay then, and every devil may come to hear.
And heaven may have its laugh ! —
I ever speak
As if there were a Something there to listen :
The shadow of the little mind, grotesque.
Confident, helpless, thrown upon the clouds
To serve him for a god. And I have sworn
There is no God.
Marlowe. 117
— Ah, but there should be one !
There should be one. And there 's the bitter-
ness
Of this unending torture-place for men ;
For the proud soul who craves a Perfectness
That might out-wear the rotting of all things
Rooted in earth, that bloom so piercing fair,
A little while, a little while, — O God !
The little, little while. . . .
No, something, something perfect, man or
beast !
What is it all, without ? — And what 's a man ?
To go a blind way seeking here and there.
Spending and spending, for the Beautiful,
On shams and shows, and clay that worms de-
vour ;
Banquet of famine, till all 's gone, all 's gone ;
And he is fain to fill that tortured craving
With husks the swine do eat.
[Clenching his hand against the sky.
— Almighty Void !
And there is nothing there for me to curse.
In this despair.
I tell thee, I have come
Unto a horror no man dreams upon.
Nothing is left and nothing is, to curse.
ii8 Marlowe.
For you may hear the crying of the wind.
Crying despair and darkness round the earth.
Without a hope of rest. But who has caught
That torturer by the gray, ancient locks.
Or who can stab the wind ? —
Hast ever thought
Of the thirst of hatred with no thing to hate ?
Here, here behold me with my enemy ! —
The Void.
Lodge {sadly).
I have no answer for you.
Marlowe.
No.
*
None ; there is none.
Reenter B^mt from the tap-roomy in a daze.
There is no pilgrimage ;
No answer and no healing, and no hope.
How simple, if there were a shrine for me.
Beyond some journey ; as the pilgrims went.
So late, to Canterbury ! — But for me
There is no shrine.
Bame {coming down).
Thou shalt not think of that.
Thou shalt not go, I tell thee.
Lodge.
Peace ! — Go where ?
Who talks of going ?
M A R LOWE. 119
Bame {cunningly).
Nay, I am not fooled.
He thinks to go to Canterbury now.
Now that it is too late. ^ The shrine,' saith he !
Oh, that would be a jest; but I will warn
them . . .
Pilgrimage, pilgrimage ! Eh, denier of God ?
Thou shalt not go.
Marlowe.
What 's this I shall not do ?
Bame.
Thou shalt not find her. [Exit.
Marlowe.
Shall I not, in faith !
Mad-men have wit. -^- There 's one thing left
to see, —
The little Shrine. We called her that — Tom
Lodge,
Dost thou remember her ? — The clearest eyes
I ever looked into ; nay, the first eyes
I ever saw deep down unto the well !
And what was that he babbled of her first, —
That she was mindful of me ? — [// is sunset.
Lodge.
Ay, come, come.
There is some virtue breathing in the world.
I20 Marlowe.
Give up your dark dreams, all, unto their
grave.
Look not upon them now ; but tell yourself
You hail the summons of * Bring-out-your-
dead,'
And leave a piteous burthen. — Pluck up
heart !
Here 's the free air, and sunset and the May :
Fill you with freshness. — Why, the summer 's
here.
Marlowe,
Wait ; I will see. Dost thou remember her ?
A little figure, standing white and shy.
Like those above the Portal there at home.
On the Cathedral. And by now — by now —
{harshly)
What wilt thou wager ? She is worn with rain
And sodden leaves. There 's nothing lovely
left.
The storms have hurt her fairness, — and per-
haps
Her hands are broken. She was beautiful ;
And so there is some ruin come upon her.
Yes, I will see !
Lodge,
— No ! To what end were that ?
Marlowe. 121
Marlowe.
And if there be no change, then I am saved.
Yes, I am saved ! She will remember me.
Come, I will take the Song I promised her.
Too long ago. I did forget, — but now,
I have it all ! — I bring my wedding-gift —
\Goes to the table and shakes papers out of
the books J madly knocking over a chair.
Yes, she is wed. But what of that? You
heard ?
She had a mind to me. — Oh, but she lis-
tened ! —
And she shall have her song. — And I will
have
The kiss she would not give me, for a token !
Reenter from the tap-room Rowse, five or six
Tavemersy and the Host.
A pilgrimage, a pilgrimage, Tom Lodge !
Host.
What 's on ?
Rowse.
— Nay, that should be a merry humor !
* A pilgrimage,' says he, ^ a pilgrimage ' !
[Laughter.
[Marlowe /tf^^j the group with contemptu-
ous enjoyment. They hail his speech de-
lightedly.
122 Marlowe.
Marlowe.
Give ear unto the Preacher : It is written.
That for the sake of but one righteous man,
A city shall be saved. But I, in truth.
Seeing the sickness wear in London yonder.
Am sore in doubt to find a perfect soul.
[Loud laughter.
I have been with you long, and I do think
I find it not among you.
Rowse.
— Shall I laugh
Like this another twelve-month ?
Marlowe.
Who can say ?
Look to yourselves ! — For me, I must be-
gone.
[7(t? Lodge exultantly over their heads while
they cheer.
Ay, to the Shrine ! — to heal me of my curse.
A pilgrimage !
-—--'"'■'"" -~^-'-
a^fc^^— ttti-^t i ii '-' ■ »■ .,— ^— ^jgn^^^iig^
Act IV.
Scene : Whitsun-eve near Canterbury^ the last of
May. Moonrise. Interior of a spacious farm-
house. Casements at back open to the twilight.
— A stair to left of centre leading to a gallery
abovcy from which opens a door to an upper
chamber. There is a remnant of fire in the
open chimney^lace left, with a settle against
the landing of the stairway y making an ingle
nook. Right J a dresser with a few pieces
of Tudor silver and a pitcher of water.
Rushes on the floor. — Flowering boughs
hung about. Door at back, centre.
Discovered at rise, Alison and Gabriel
side by side at the open casement ; Gabriel
with his viol. They sing softly together:
he humming and occasionally chiming in
with a deep note. At intervals there is
sound of a cathedral bell from Canterbury.
124 Marlowe.
Song.
UMMER-MOON, Summer-moon,
Bless thy golden face.
Come above the downs, now ;
Do the garden grace.
While we are thy care to keep.
Bless the field, bless the sheep ;
Shine on our sleep.
While the nightingales do sing.
Come, bonny guest.
Thy foot-fall is a silver thing.
West, — west.
Morning goes and afternoon ;
Summer will be going soon.
Ay, Summer-moon I
Alison.
— See.
Gabriel.
She is coming.
Alison.
Just above the trees,
The blessed moon.
Gabriel.
Thanks to our wakening '•
Ay, 't is a golden. But she cannot give
A light like thee.
Marlowe. 125
— Come, thou art wearied out.
What hast thou done with Hugh and Jen-
nifer ?
Alison.
I bade them go and have their Whitsun-ale
With all the neighbors. We will watch at
home.
And let them take their turn of merriment.
I am content. [Gabriel puts by his viol.
Gabriel.
A little vigil then ;
A few hours more, and then 't is the Moon's
watch.
While Alison may sleep. So the good world
Will turn and take its rest.
Alison.
You laugh at me.
Oh, the long, long, bright day ! I 'm wearied
out
Most sweetly. What a brave font-hallowing
It was ; and then the morrice-dances there.
Around the maypole. — Dost thou see the
green
Upon the hem of this ? — Dear grass of
May ! —
Little green kisses on my Whitsun-shoes ! —
126 Marlowe.
And then the neighbors all. — And home with
thee.
A long, bright day.
[They come down to the settle.
Gabriel.
Ay, now we 're home again.
Alison.
And still it is so like a bridal time.
You keep my eyes wide open with your praise
Stolen from the moon. Take care: she may
not bless
The harvest, goodman !
Gabriel.
I may come to be
Some poet-hood, altho' I have few words.
Sweet-cheek, I have a mind to say a thing.
Alison {drowsily).
Say on. Indeed I hear thee. Come, what
news ?
Gabriel.
Oh, is it so ? Do I say nothing then
Unless it be some news ? Of men or sheep ?
Well, some day I shall get this trick o' words.
Mark what I learn: 'tis just the pointing
out
A family resemblance. If I say.
Marlowe. 127
* Thou art my hawthorn, and my marigold.
And a white swan moreover/ simple men
May say I lie ; for thou art not, in faith.
But if I say thou 'rt like them, in that all
Be goodly things and gladden heart to see.
Why this is true ; and so I am a poet.
But for the things I care to dwell on most.
Like other men, — for I am daily wear ! —
They are Moon and Rose, — and such a Sum-
mer-eve.
Now mark me what I say : my Moon, my
Rose,
My own Midsummer- Eve, thou art all these.
[^He looks into her face y stroking her hair.
She is asleep.
Eh, half-asleep ? Marry, 't is ever so ;
I wax most eloquent to thy shut eyes.
Here is my schooling-hour in gentle speech.
I can say over all the things I read.
Sweet-one-by-one : marry, 't is ever so ;
I never tune my tongue while thou art waking !
[A pause broken by the sound of steps on
the walk and up to the door at back.
Enter Barnby.
Barnby.
Well, well — [Alison wakes.
128 Marlowe.
Alison.
What, home so soon ?
Barnby.
An errand, lass.
An errand only ; I am off again —
Eh, a fine night ! — Whom should I meet with
now,
Only a half hour back, in Mercery Lane,
But some one — nay, a friend. 'T is Richard
Bame !
And he would have me stop and bid thee,
lad.
To meet him at The Chequers-of-the-Hope,
Ay, this same even, to a Whitsun-ale.
Alison.
Bame ?
Bai^nby.
Ay. And do it, lad. The fellow *s sore.
Thou knowest. I did see him last at Dept-
ford
To tell him of thy wedding. — But by this.
See you, he plucks up heart to be a man
And make his peace with Gabriel.
Gabriel.
I '11 go.
But why, I wonder, did he not come here ?
Marlowe. 129
Alison.
Oh, he were best to see you, Gabriel,
Alone. — And come back early,
Barnby.
I '11 along
With you, lad, to the turning.
{Exeunt Barnby and Gabriel.
[The twilight rapidly darkens. Alison
watches them from the casement. Gabriers
voice is heard singing, as he goes down the
road.
* While we are thy care to keep.
Bless the field — bless the sheep y
Shine on our sleep*
Alison {half-singing as if it were a charm).
Summer-Moon, Summer-Moon,
Now the day is done ;
Shed a little silverness
Down on Alison.
Summer-Moon, Summer-Moon,
Since he loves thee well.
Bless as I can never do,
Gabriel.
Heigh-ho ! When he is by, I do not mark.
But when he 's gone the house seems very still.
Heigh-ho ! — But I 'm asleep.
130 Marlowe.
[She goes upstairs slowly y humming^ and into
the upper chamber ^ closing the door, *The
place is dark for a moment. A pause;
then footsteps on the garden walk. Some
one looks in at the casement ; comes to the
door and knocks ; knocks again loudly •
Enter Marlowe. — He goes to the stair and
beats upon it with his dagger once or tiviccj
looking about him^ half evilly. Abo'VCy the
door opens slightly.
Alison.
What, Gabriel ?
Nay, who ? — Are you come back again ?
\He makes no reply. Alison appears in the
gallery y without her coif a lighted can--
die in her hand. She is uncertain and
troubled^ but full of calmness. Unable
to see who it iSy she descends the stairs
deliberately y holding the candle high. He
watches her. On the last step^ she lifts
the candle so that the light falls upon his
face^ and looks at him steadily for a second;
then grasps the post of the stair y with a
shock of grief and amazement.
— 'T is thou !
Christopher Marlowe.
Marlowe. 131
Marlowe {watching her).
Alison.
Alison.
"T is thou !
Marlowe.
So I am changed, then.
Alison.
Nay, I cannot see.
The fire is dying.
[She goes to the fire-place.
Marlowe.
Come and look at me.
The fire is dead. — Light up the candles
here.
If thou art feared of shadows !
Alison.
Nay, I am not.
Marlowe.
I frighted you with knocking on the door ;
Though, sooth to say, sweet friend, no high-
wayman
Would so compel a welcome. — I am changed.
Regard me not. — I see you had forgotten
My face.
Alison.
No, no ; indeed it is not true.
■
I
I
I
132 Marlowe.
Marlowe.
What irks you then ? That I am something
pale ?
Older ? — By more, indeed, than these three
years.
For so youth wears — and damask may grow
dull —
In sodden weather. Well. But you, you
keep
The face of May time. Let me see it.
Alison {with an outburst of compassion).
Ah,
Thou art all wearied out !
Marlowe.
. . . Set down the light.
It dazzles. — No. I prithee, pardon me.
Yes, I am weary. I have frighted you ?
You were alone ?
Alison.
Ay, they are gone awhile.
Marlowe.
No neighbor near ? Nay, Bride ! And you
alone !
Why are you left alone ? {winningly)
Alison.
'T is Whitsun-eve.
Marlowe. 133
Marlowe {looking at the boughs).
These breathe of holiday. So, Whitsun-eve.
They are not bridal then ?
Alison.
Oh, we were wed
Beyond a month ago.
Marlowe.
The bridal boughs
Are faded, are they ? — No ? But I am late
To bring you bridal wishes, though I come :
And here 's my wedding gift. — Stay —
[Feels in his breast.
Alison.
— Oh, it is —
Marlowe.
The Song, ^Come live with me, and be my
Love.^
Have you forgotten ?
Alison.
I ! — But you — 't is not —
Marlowe {at a loss to find it).
Gone ? But it is. — I set it down for you
In a fair copy ; and it is not here.
Where should I lose it ? — At the inn, belike,
Where I did spend some moment but to
ask —
134 Marlowe.
The road. — I am more a beggar than I
dreamed.
You should have had the song.
Alison.
Ah, vex you not.
Indeed, I have it. [Smiling.
Marlowe.
Where ?
Alison {simply y touching her heart).
It is all here.
Marlowe.
Nay ! — It was true, then. — You, you do not
mean —
You do not mean that you remember all.
With the one hearing.
Alison.
Nay, not all, not all.
Marlowe.
With the one hearing ! Will you tell me
this?
Alison.
With the one hearing? Ah, friend Christo-
pher,
You sang it to me once ; but I could hear
Over and over, many, many days.
As if you sang.
Marlowe. 135
Marlowe {watching her).
You were a dreamer, then.
I took you for a little country child.
That sleeps without a dream.
Alison.
Oh, children dream.
Marlowe.
And are you happy ? — Bride ? For as to me.
You see that I am altered ; you will say.
With dreams and waking: dreams of powers
and thrones
And principalities, as the Book will have it, —
And waking in the mire. You do not know
The sense of waking down among the dead.
Hard by some lazar-house.
Alison {turning to the fire).
Nay ; but I know
The sense of death. And then to rise again.
And feel thyself bewildered, like a spirit
Out of the grave-clothes and the fragment
strewings ;
Early and tranquil, — happy ; — and yet thin.
Thin for the dawn to shine through as a shell.
And some way older grown.
Marlowe {behind her).
Thou sayest this ?
136 Marlowe.
Alison.
Ah, I am older.
Marlowe.
Where didst thou learn this ?
[She is silent, looking at the fire with en-
durance.
Where didst thou learn ? Of what extremity ?
Long, — unto death ? — It was a sorrow then ?
Some grief that wore thee so —
Alison.
It was a grief.
Marlowe {ironically).
A bitter grief?
Alison.
Ay, it was bitter then.
Marlowe.
Tell me of it. There is no grief for thee
By right ; it cannot be. There was no grief.
Sure, but a dream. Tell me the dream.
Alison.
No.
Marlowe.
No? —
Alison.
It is not now my own.
Marlowe. 137
Marlowe {eagerly).
Thou wilt not tell me?
Alison.
No.
Marlowe.
Wilt thou do one little service then, —
But for a whim ? Stand here and let me see
Thy face, if it has altered. When you came
Downstair but now, I could not see you well.
For light. \Re aching a candle.
Is this the same you helci ? Another,
\He takes another and she stands tremulously
quiet while he faces her^ watching her
always.
Another, then — so, prithee. Thou hast heard
Of Light that shined in darkness, hast thou not ?
And darkness comprehended not the Light ?
So. But I tell thee why. It was because
The Dark, a sleeping brute, was blinded first.
Bewildered at a thing it did not know.
Nay, think, to have seen it never, never yet !
Have pity on the Dark, I tell you. Bride.
For after all is said, there is no thing
So hails the Light as that same blackness there.
O'er which it shines the whiter. Do you think
It will not know at last ? — it will not know ?
138 Marlowe.
[She slowly turns towards the fire again j and
listens^ as he sets down the candle ivith
a shaking hand.
What of the darkness ? Will you ever try
To fathom that ? Nay, nay, why should you so.
You or another ? Yet I tell you this :
There is one side of the earth that even now
Groans in the darkness, covered up with gloom
And the low tide and dregs of sodden wreck.
Waiting and waiting, lightless. Even now.
While you can bless the Moon that blesses you.
And here the wildest valley and the down.
Oblivious of all shadow, — silver brimmed.
Turn to her whiteness, like a dreaming face
Unto the eyes that love ; a wistful cheek,
A heart of earth, for her all white, all white.
Thou dost not know.
Alison.
I hear.
Marlowe {behind her).
But yet not all.
I will not tell thee all. Yet think of this.
There are a thousand things men know of me
To my dishonor. There are thousand more
Their own dishonor blackens me withal :
Lies, slanders, fear ! — My sins 'they have by
rote.
Marl o w e. 139
And never miss one ; no ! no miser of them
Who, prying in the mire with hands of greed.
After a missing groat, could let that go, —
But not a jest of mine ! — My blackest depth
They know ; and more than I they know of
it,
Who live and hunt me there, yes, only there.
Avid of foulness, so they hound me out.
Away — away — from any chance of grace, —
Away from blessing that they prate about.
But never saw, and never dreamed upon, —
And know not how to long for with desire !
The Dark, yes, yes. But stranger times than all.
The few, few times that I have looked at sin.
Facing it, longing, — passed it, — (why, in-
deed ?)
They know not ! Ay, the one time in the world,
I put from me — I strove to put from me —
My Heart's Desire, none knoweth, no, not
one.
And none will ever know.
Alison {turning suddenly).
But I will keep
Thy word, with mine eyes dark.
Marlowe.
Thou dost not know !
140 Marlowe.
Alison.
But I will keep it. Leave it here with me.
Thy heaviness, — thy grief.
Marlowe.
Believest thou ?
Alison.
Ay, as God liveth !
Marlowe.
— Dost thou think on Him ? —
Well, I have seen thee; thou art here, at
least.
Alison {gently).
Art thou an unbeliever ?
Marlowe.
I believe
«
In thee.
\She looks towards him wistfully. He hesi--
tates. Then, as she sits in the corner of
the settle by the fire, suddenly he crosses
and flings himself passionately on his knees
beside her^ burying his face against her
gown.
. . . Oh, take my heart into thy hand.
Thou virgin-mother ... if it will not stain.
Thou knowest that the figures carven out,
Above the Portal . . . sometimes rest a bird.
Marlowe. 141
And hold secure — a nest, for pity's sake ;
A sorry nest, — a beggar thatch of straw
And stolen bravery, that yet will cling
To that home shelter, proud it is so white.
This fantasy — thou wilt not understand ;
But thou art patient. — So, I trust to thee
All that I dream of that no man could guess :
The dreams that come not true ; the broken
hope ;
Some manhood which I know not in myself.
That will not be consoled. . . .
Whatever thou believest, — in thy hands !
I shall look back and think it is not dead ;
But thou wilt keep it for me.
[Bell in the distance. He rises.
— Wilt thou not ?
Alison.
Oh, I will keep it*.
[They face each other radiantly.
See, 'tis Whitsun-eve.
To-morrow, —
Marlowe.
Then ?
Alison.
You know, the old wives say
Whatever one shall ask and pray to have,
142 Marlowe.
Of the Sun, that rises dancing in that dawn,
Why, you shall have it surely. I will pray —
Marlowe.
Some boon for me ?
Alison.
Indeed, for thee : thy peace.
Marlowe.
I must go far for that !
Alison.
To thine own heart.
For if thou have it not within thy heart.
The world will never spend a thought for thee ;
And all things fail.
Marlowe {with passion).
How camest thou so wise ?
Alison.
Nay, I am old !
* Marlowe.
How camest thou so wise? —
And I have naught to give thee. — It is gone.
Strange, that I cannot think. Ah well, what
need ? —
What need of songs for you ? Your people come
Home to you, soon ?
Alison.
Yes, father and — Gabriel.
Marlowe. 143
Marlowe {watching her).
'T was he belike that passed me on the road.
Singing, as I came hither. — Hear the bell.
'T is a long road. Mayhap, before I go . . .
Wilt thou . . . wilt give me — nay, I am
athirst —
A cup of . • • water ?
Alison.
Oh, but only that ?
Marlowe {after a pause).
A cup of water.
[She hastens to bring it from the dresser.
He drinks y and hands her the cup.
Alison.
Nay, no more ?
Marlowe.
No more.
Indeed, I am most happy. Fare you well.
If there were any blessing in my tongue —
But — keep thee well.
Alison.
All good go with thee !
Marlowe {going).
Yet,
Come to the door with me and hold the light.
So that I see my way.
144 Marlowe.
Alison {between laughter and tears).
Why, there 's the moon
Over us all. What shall I say of thiee ?
Marlowe.
Ay, but she doth not give so clear a light
As thou.
Atison.
I shall believe thou art afraid !
Marlowe.
So am I, — of the Dark.
Alison {in the doorway^
Lo, now !
Marlowe.
Good-night.
\He steps hack^ looking at her for a moment \
turns ; goes out. She stands in the door-
way with her candle uplifted.
Act V.
Scene: "Deptford tavern^ i June^ iS93- Early
evening. — Doors and casements wide. No
lights within the tavern. — Outside^ a red
afterglow. — A solitary figure blots the light
from the window, right; it is Marlowe
sitting in his accustomed place, his cup before
him. Without, at a little distance, the Bell-
man's voice is heard in a sing-song call.
Marlowe lifts his head and listens.
Bellman.
PAST — seven — o'clock — and a sultry
evening.
Marlowe.
^ It strikes, it strikes! Now body turn to air^
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
O mercy, heaven ! look not so fierce on me !
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile^ —
Bellman (passing).
Past — seven — o'clock — and a sultry evening.
146 Marlowe.
Enter from tap-roomy Host with three or four
Taverners. They light the place squalidly y
order the tables^ et cetera. — Marlowe con-
tinues his ' Faustus ' monologue^ murmuring
to himself ironically.
Marlowe.
' Stand stilly you ever-moving spheres of heaven^
That time may cease and midnight never come :
Fair Nature* s eyCy riscy rise again and make
Perpetual day ; or let this hour be but
A year, a monthy a weeky a natural dayy
That Faustus may repent and save his soul !
O lentCy lentCy curritCy noctis equi ! '
Bellman {in the distance).
Past — seven — o'clock — a sultry — evening.
Marlowe.
* The stars move stilly time runsy the clock will
strike —
The devil will come and Faustus must be damned.
[Looking out at the afterglow.
See where Christ* s blood streams in the firma-
ment I
One drop of blood will save me : O my Christ ! —
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ ;
Tet will I call * —
Enter from the street y Francis Archer, Rowse,
Marlowe. 147
Gill, and otherSy men and women. They
cluster about the tables^ left, noisily. The
Host and a tapster bring in ale.
[Marlowe mutters on to himself ^ and the
words are lost in the street noises of
rough singing and footsteps.
Rowse {to Archer and Gill).
Yare, yare !
Archer.
— Here is a nook.
\They come down to a tabky left.
Rowse.
A quiet haven for a cup o' comfort.
After a scorching day. {To Host.) What cheer ?
Bestir !
Gill.
Hurry thy heels. We 're all as dry as mow-
ers ! —
Archer.
Now for a song and sack.
Rowse.
— Nay, first the sack.
And then a rowse and three, to Mistress Moll.
Gill {cuffing him).
'T is Gillian is my name, — I am no Moll.
Here 's for a gentle spirit. Wear my favor !
[Laughter.
148 M A RLO W E.
[Marlowe looks at the revellers with fixed eyes,
Marlowe.
' This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast. — All beasts are happy y
For when they die^
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements ;
But mine must still live to be plagued in helU
Rowse {looking at Marlowe).
There is that merry devil over yond !
He sits there like Beelzebub the devil.
Gill.
That 's the wrong name. Beelzebub 's a prince.
Archer.
Will you be learned ? — Nay, I know not
which !
Call him and see what name he '11 answer to.
Rowse {calling Marlowe).
Ho, devil, devil, devil, — here, good devil !
Gill.
Nay, he 's too proud for us.
Archer.
Marry, too gloomy !
A game, a game ! How stand you for a game ?
And Mistress, you shall cast your eye upon it.
And so amend me.
\Lays some coins upon the table. They play.
Marlowe. 149
Enter Bame. He comes down slowly y as if
according to hahity then turns to look at the
seat by the window, and sees Marlowe. As
if doubting his senses, he points to him.
Bame.
Look you ... he is there.
Look, — It was all for nothing. He is there.
Rowse {turning).
Why, here am I, and here 's some other he's !
Will 't do ye ?
Archer.
Here 's a man that hath one wit.
Bame {madly).
He is come back, ye know it, — here again !
But will you shield him ? Nay, not long, not
long.
'T is I will shew . . . Come, turn him to the
street !
[Marlowe listens contemptuously. Bame
appeals to the Host.
Host.
To humor thee? Nay, mind thy tongue, I
say.
If thou wilt make complaint.
Bame.
... I say, you 're all
150 Marlowe.
Set upon ruin if you harbor him.
They are upon his track, as ye shall see ! —
And you will let him stay, — make arrogant.
Eat, drink, sit idle by the window there.
To drive you mad. — I say, to drive you mad !
[LouJ laughter.
Ay, will you laugh ? Not long. — Ye are all
sold
Unto the devil . . . But if ye take it light
To hobanob with the blasphemer there.
Ask what he waits, and wherefore ? I am
by.
As any good and honest man, to shew
That he is lay'd for. Ask him if he come
From Canterbury.
Rowse.
What ado in that ?
He did not burn the city, did he so?
Or rob the shrine ? [Laughter.
Bame (eagerly).
The shrine — the shrine, says he ! —
Ay, you have said it best, what he would do ! —
Robbing a man — my friend — of a young
wife ! — [Marlowe rises.
Look there, look there ! See him ; I knew, —
I knew.
Marlowe. 151
I went to warn them ; but they would not hear !
I found the cursed letter that he wrote, —
Made like a ballad, all to charm her eyes
With vows and promises ; all love ; and she.
So young — a gentlewoman —
Marlowe {coming down towards Bame).
Strangle thee ! —
Thou cast-ofF devil of madness —
Host.
Sirs, — good sirs —
The Watch —
Archer.
Ah, hold thy drone and let us hear !
Bame {holding up a paper).
He shall not fool ye, — I have witness; — read!
He bids her come — {Reading.
' Come live with me, and be ' —
Marlowe {snatching the paper).
* And be my Love.* — The song — sole inno-
cent !
{He thrusts it in his breast.
Here, come — come home.
{To Bame.) — For thee, thou primal worm.
Turn, turn again ! I would not bruise thy
head
With my own heel. — Thou ineffectual adder !
152 Marlowe.
Bame.
Shall it be suffered for another day ?
I told you he is lay'd for . . . You shall see
The law upon him, and upon yourselves.
To fellow with him. He, — a lying player,
A conjurer, an atheist, that drinks
And wagers with a swarm of outcast knaves.
Thieves, ruffians, and the women worse than
all! —
The women, after —
Marlowe {fiercely).
Peace !
Bame' {pointing to the whole group).
He comes back here.
Here, from his own town and from her, from
her —
From her —
Gill.
Now mend thy manners ! By the mass.
And what is she ? —
Marlowe {crossing hastily to Gill and bowing).
Madam, you hear !
Bame {beside himself).
Look there !
Marlowe {with ceremony).
Madam, the fellow speaks despitefuUy
r
Here of your graces.
Marlowe. . 153
Gill.
Ay, he did, he did !
So thank you, you 're an honest gentleman.
Archer {to Marlowe).
Hold off. Will you be merry ? But not here.
Have off with you! — Xhis quarrel's mine.
Do you
Keep to your own !
Marlowe {to Bame, indicating Gill).
... In defence of the gentlewoman
Here. \T!he Tavemers gather about.
Archer {to Marlowe).
'T is my quarrel, — I shall do for him !
What make you meddling here ?
Marlowe {savagely y trying to put aside Archer).
Out of my way ! —
What, fool ? Will you be dead ? — Why,
have your will ! {Drawings
Bame.
Stay them
Marlowe {to him).
— You, second ! — This is but a moment !
Archer.
Ah, do you reckon so ? — [Drawing.
Host.
Stay — stay !
154 Marlowe.
Marlowe.
— Not I !
\T!he crowd closes abouty murmuring. It
parts suddenly. — Archer is flung across
the room. Marlowe falters^ upright^
hands over eyeSy then falls. — There is
a shudder among the people. A fezv rush
out. Some one blows out several lights.
Bame stands in a dazcy looking at Nf ar-
lowe, as he lies. The Host and others
stand by Archer, who is breathing hard.
Rowse.
Hist — hist !
Archer.
— He 's ended.
A Bystander.
Call the Watch I
Others.
— The Watch !
[Exeunt y calling.
\Noise of horse* s hoofs y then
Enter Gabriel Andrew, breathless and travel-
stained.
Gabriel.
— What 's here ? . . . Already ! . . .
{^0 Bame.) Thou —
Marlowe. 155
Bame.
— It was not I.
[Gabriel hastens to Mariowe, and leans
over him^ kneeling to raise his head.
Gabriel.
Dost thou not know me ? — Canst thou hear ?
No — no ?
Marlowe.
O God . . . God . . . God ! \He dies.
\X^^ /r^^^ of the watch is heard a little way
off. Within there is silence. — Bame still
regards the body of Mariowe vacantly.
As the tread of the watch sounds nearer
he moves towards NlB.rlowCy fascinated ;
then draws back again.
Bame {to the body).
Will you be looking yet? — Ah, shut the eyes!
Enter the watchmen led by the Watch, with a
lanthorn. — T!he Taverners^ murmuring^
stand back.
"The Watch.
What 's here ?
A Bystander.
A man is dying.
Second Bystander.
— Nay, he *s dead.
156 Marlowe.
The Watch.
Who is he ?
Host.
— Nay, I know not. 'T is no guest
Of mine.
Rowse.
His name is Marley. —
Host.
— 'T is a player —
\^he watchmen come down to the body of
Marlowe and lift up the lanthorn over
his face. Gabriel is kneeling stilly with
his hand on Marlowe's heart.
'T was done with his own dagger. He would
die.
Ye see ! — and that with cursing to the end.
Gabriel.
Peace !
Host.
— Did ye hear the oath ?
Gabriel.
I heard the cry.
^ FINIS
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