“Is anything more wanting to restrain one in the flourish of one’s pen?”
“Next we shall hear of prizes for stupidity,” ejaculated Shakespere, replacing his pipe between his lips, from where it had been withdrawn during the interval of legal discussion. “My wonder is,” he continued, “that you ever write a line beyond God save the Queen and damn the Pope. Praise God, that my temporary calling is licensed, and that not yet have I been tempted into fields where pitfalls lie concealed, and all else is open to the blazing sky.” [Note 29.]
“Well said, friend Will, but let once the honied praise for children of thy brain melt into thy being, and no threat or dread of bodily ill can keep thee wholly from the permanent expression of thy thoughts. And now it is my livelihood,” returned Peele.
“For one of thy calling it would be safer to live in obscurity,” remarked Tamworth.
“Yes, as though dead,” the dramatist answered in a whisper, as though there were others who might overhear his words.
A knock sounded at the door. The two visitors looked at Peele inquiringly. He said “Come in,” but the door did not open, and again the knock sounded.
“The fellow is like a beggar for coin who refuses a purse without looking into it,” remarked Peele, arising and going to the door.
“More like a lady who wishes to know who is within before venturing,” said Shakespere significantly.
Peele had opened the door. A man stood there in the passage and raised his finger warningly. Peele paused in the greeting he was about to utter, and then, moving his head slightly backward in gesture, said in a low voice: “Shakespere and Tamworth.”
“And none other?” asked the man.
“None.”
He stepped within, but did not seem to notice Peele’s extended hand.
“Lock the door,” he said.
“Right,” said Peele, “the warrant is already out.”
“What, so soon?” exclaimed the other, throwing his hand to his face, which grew ghastly as he stared at his friend.
“Marlowe,” exclaimed Shakespere in greeting, “even now we were talking about you.”
The man addressed continued, gazing speechlessly at Peele, who said, “Well ’twas no more than we were apprehensive of when last we met.”
“You talk in riddles,” gasped the other, “’Tis only two hours since his death. A warrant already issued: You know it? My God! do I dream?”
Peele now displayed a questioning face; “Riddles; two hours since his death?” he asked, and then after a short pause, continued: “I mean the charge of blasphemy. That warrant is out. Of what do you speak?”
Marlowe’s visage cleared to some extent.
“Ah! I understand,” he murmured.
He removed his hat, and sank as though in exhaustion into a cushioned chair close before the chimney. Tamworth and Shakespere were already up, and the three had gathered before him.
Shakespere spoke sympathizingly: “They are not likely to search in this quarter. To-morrow I will intercede with the Queen, for she has already given me recognition—”
“And the offense is only of an ecclesiastical nature,” continued Tamworth.
“In the eyes of the law it is considered murder,” said Marlowe.
The three looked questioningly at each other, while Marlowe, throwing off the last trace of qualm, continued:
“I have just fled from the place of its commission, and thy first utterance, Peele, unnerved me. I killed the man and he lies dead at the Golden Hind in Deptford. It was in duel forced upon me. Francis Frazer, the Count, they call him. I say that he lies dead, but others will say that it is I. You look at me as though there were more riddles and there are. You see the clothes I wear? Well, they are none of mine. Mine are at the Golden Hind and on the dead. You see it was this way. He came upon me when I was with the woman, his wife, it seems. He demanded that I draw and defend myself. I did, and well, and then thrust home. He fell. Here I have come. What way is clear?”
“A duel,” exclaimed Shakespere, admiringly, “and you killed him? Bravo!”
“Wherein lies the offense?” interrupted Peele.
“You do not understand; the combat was in his apartments where I had intruded. There were no witnesses save his wife. She sides with me, but what a cloud would be cast upon me before the Court, with the woman swearing in my favor as against the dead husband? I say that death would be the penalty.”
“But you say that you stripped the dead,” said Tamworth, “and whether it was a vindictive murder, a duel, or done in self defense, such fact must weigh heavily against thee. Art thou crazy, Kit? Why this garb? I do not understand it.”
He had finished his questions with visible excitement, and with it Marlowe arose.
“You are my friends,” he said, “the occasion calls for staunch ones. Come, I need the aid of all.”
Instinctively they drew about the table as though closeness begat confidence and strength. The light shown upon a true brotherhood of souls united by common interests both for advancement and preservation. Peele with clear and thoughtful eyes, and face still displaying wonderment; Shakespere with the smooth-shaven visage of an actor, and open, generous countenance; Tamworth with clear-cut features, cold eyes and bearded chin and lip—all sat silent as their companion vividly narrated the events of the night at the Deptford tavern. At its close he paused, and then in the ensuing silence resumed:
“The past hath ended in a grave. You all see that. No broad road of the life of yesterday is open to me. Henceforth darkness and obscurity is my sole store. And wherein lies solace for such continuance of life? Aye,” and his voice rang with the intensity of his feelings, “even a livelihood is debarred me unless a mask conceals my workings.”
Again for an interval no words were spoken. Outside the fog had lifted and a midnight rain was falling on the roof and beating against the windows. Its patter pervaded the room. The Greek vases seemed waiting to be filled; the red king on the arras appeared listening expectantly for words of deliverance; the halberds glittered defiantly, as though raised by hands ready in defense.
The Gloom that pervaded the great city during the prevalence of the plague was a figure of changing size that at times came with a rush, and again grew into place beside the hearth-stone, slowly and almost imperceptibly, and then at length assumed such dreadful proportions that the affrighted watchers buried their sad faces in trembling hands, as if to drown the vision. A pall covered him from head to foot, and his face was unseen; but there was a suspicion that it was fleshless, and whether he came to the open stall or closed shop, before or after, the visit there of the plague, his presence numbed the hands of toil, and then either folded them in prayer, or dropped them in stolid apathy. He pervaded almost every dwelling; he was where the morning orisons arose in churches and cathedrals; he walked the open streets even in the sunlight; he sat with the judge upon the bench; he knelt with the bride at the altar, and even where full cups were lifted high, with nods indicative of good health and peace, he came and went like a restless spirit.
As Tabbard and Gyves slowly crossed the street from the office of the Justice, a cart delayed their steps for a moment. Their breasts were almost against its heavy wheels as it passed, and their eyes were on a level with the top of its box, which was filled above its edges. The jolting of the stones shook the contents so that the man in black beside the driver, through fear of losing part of the load, kept his eyes fixed upon the rear end-board of the cart.
“Ugh!” exclaimed Gyves, drawing back with a shudder, “’Tis the death cart. See, they have piled them in like dead mutton.”
“Look at that stiff beggar with fallen chops hanging over the wheel,” remarked Tabbard, with face wrinkling in his disgust.
“They are in too great haste to keep them properly covered. And this is the earliest load I have seen hurried through the streets.”
“Don’t they carry at all times?” inquired Tabbard.
“Nay, only after sundown and just before sunup.”
“The plague must be growing worse,” remarked Tabbard, for the moment longing for the fresh, sweet air of Kent, and heartily wishing that he was out of that foggy street, which had suddenly grown as melancholy as a church-yard of new-made graves. He almost forgot to limp, or lean heavily on the constable as they reached the opposite walk.
“God save you, sir. It is breathing in every ward both north and south of Holborn, Cheapside and Fenchurch, and as far west as Gray’s Inn and Temple Bar. Red paint has gone up in price, I hear, for nearly every house owner has had to buy some to daub the cross on his door. I saw one man fall on Coleman street to-day, and in less than an hour he was dead in the alley where they had moved him. Oh, man! it would be well for you, if you had never ventured in from the fields; for I see that you have the healthful looking face and air of a countryman.”
“Does one die quickly?” asked Tabbard, with a quaver in his voice.
“Too quickly to send either for doctor, or priest, in some cases,” replied Gyves.
“And is there no help?”
“Little before and none after the black spots appear.”
“And do many die?”
“Thousands.”
“Near here?” inquired Tabbard, shuddering as he looked at the gloomy buildings around him.
“Nay, mostly in the dwellings and tenements. With one death in the family, you can count that every member will follow. Ah! here is the Windmill.”
They turned from the sidewalk to mount the steps leading to the tavern. The building was a quaint structure built by the Jews at least three hundred years before. Once a synagogue, next a dwelling and then a tavern, it had, despite all these changes in its use, maintained some of the characteristics of each. Like a minister, who had become a soldier and then deserted for some safer but less honorable calling, it had retained an outward expression of sanctity in the narrow, pointed lancet-windows in its front and its six-columned portico; while, as evidence of its passage through an intermediate period, oriel windows jutted out from what might be second and third stories. The painting of a windmill, hanging between the two middle columns of the portico, published the present purposes of the place with as loud a flourish as trumpets might announce.
Into what was once the inner narthex of the synagogue, they passed. A stone floor was under foot, while a low vaulted ceiling rose overhead, its base being supported by attached columns with decorated capitals and elaborately carved corbels. Here, where devout Hebrews had once paused to arrange their gabardines, or stamp thoughts of usury for one short session from their minds before entering the body of the church, the sacrilegious Gentile had set his snares of destruction. It had become the tap-room of the tavern.
Near the foot of the rood-stair, which once led to the gallery, stood a brilliantly lighted bar, with a range of butts of Malmsey, kegs of beer and sack, deep in the recess behind it; and on the near shelves, against a bastard wall, was a glittering line of decanters, mugs and tankards.
The heavy round tables were encircled by many persons drinking under suspended lamps, and several groups of men were standing here and there on the sanded floor. A quietness, except for the low buzz of conversation and an occasional laugh, pervaded the room, thus speaking well for the sobriety of the inmates and the respectability of the tavern; still the crowd was as mixed as could be found anywhere except in the middle aisle of St. Paul’s. There, in the nave of that famous cathedral, dedicated to pious uses, in the aisles, before the ambries, and beside the font, during intervals between divine service, horsemen, usurers, cut-throats, beggars, bargainers of all kinds, doctors, lawyers and noblemen, plied their avocations, held their meetings, hatched their conspiracies and settled accounts.
Here there were no beggars, such being barred entrance; but their tatters could be seen on the portico whenever the door swung open. But men, in apparel fit for noblemen, walked in and out; others, with the hardened visages of men who dreamt continually of the gallows and shuddered at every flash of light across their paths, drank at the bar, or gathered under some of the isolated columns.
At one table was a country squire in dun-colored serge coat, with full bearded face, bending over a trencher filled with a half devoured pheasant. Before him was his city cousin, in velvet cap, with a lovelock suspended from under the green rim down across his ruffled collar. Decorated with pointed mustachios and framed in powdered periwig and high ruff, he was typical of the dandy of the period.
If the raw-boned, ungainly young man, with repellant features, who monopolized the conversation at another table, was not Ben Jonson [note 33], then Gyves, who pointed him out to Tabbard, had selected some one who looked enough like that genius, just rising to eminence, to be confounded with him.
“He is an actor,” said Gyves, “who lately returned from the Low Countries with the company of soldiers of which he was a volunteer, a most companionable man: can drink deeper and swear louder than any one around him.”
“Doth he make no choice of companions?” questioned Tabbard, noticing that some of the group looked misplaced anywhere but dangling from a gibbet’s arm.
“Not he,” said Gyves, “according to his stories, he has messed with the worst of the cut-throats of the Straits, kept by the side of clapperdoggers on their rounds, learned all the slang of the purlieus of Cheapside, and would as lief hobnob with a ruffler as with a nobleman or parish priest.”
“Hath he good sense?”
“The very best, I think, for I heard the Justice say that he wrote plays of the people, and must mingle with them to learn their ways.”
By this time they had approached a vacant table, and as Tabbard seated himself with pretended difficulty, he said, “Now sit you there; my friend, and have one cup with me before you venture out.”
Gyves required no second invitation.
“’Tis a bad night to hunt the highways for clapperdoggers,” said he, as he dropped into a chair, and pulling his whiskers glanced around the room with an air of familiarity as great as that of a chained mastiff in his own kennel.
“Is it a beggar you are after?” asked Tabbard with a forced air of unconcern.
“Not exactly, and I correct my expression,” returned Gyves, “but one even less harmful.”
“Some poor devil who has failed to attend church for a Sunday or two, eh?” [note 34.]
“Nay, I took in two on such complaints this morning, but to-night I shall hail in a blasphemer.”
“Hardly to-night,” thought Tabbard, and then he added aloud, “Doth not thy conscience prick thee at times for dragging such men to jail?”
“I am but an instrument of the law,” replied the constable in deep tones, at the same time striking his chest with his fingers evidently in imitation of the voice and action of the Lord High Sheriff. “The man who should have cold sweats is the accuser, the public informer.”
“Are there many of such curs?”
“Enough to keep us busy,” answered Gyves.
“And who has held thy nose to the hot scent?”
“Out cow-herd! I like not thy terms of address,” exclaimed Gyves, bringing his fist down with a ring upon the table, “A hot scent with a nose upon it raises the figure of a dog. It takes no keen wit to see that. And as thou hast called it my nose, then forsooth, I am the dog.”
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed Tabbard, “I meant no offense. Here, I clink glasses with thee as evidence of good-fellowship.”
They raised the glasses of wine which the drawer had set before them.
“Who was the accuser of the man you bear a warrant for?”
“Bame,” said the constable, lowering his voice. “He is one of the prime movers against Papists and scoffers of religion.”
“Of the established church, eh?”
“Nay, a sour, morose Brownist, who strikes at all but his own sect.”
“A gad fly,” said Tabbard.
“An asp, more like; a carrion-eating swine!” exclaimed Gyves, as though the words were the froth of bitter recollections.
“Is his rope long?”
“As long as the laws under which he acts.”
“And who is the accused in this case?”
“Chris—”
He checked himself and then continued:
“’Sdeath! When I get the reviler where liberty is a sweet memory only, I will if I choose call aloud his name in every quarter but St. Paul’s.”
“And why not there?”
“He hath attacked the church, ’tis said.”
“Canst thou not recollect his name, over this second glass?” inquired Tabbard, smoothly.
“I said nothing of my recollection being faulty.”
“Hast thou the warrant? If thou hast let me see it,” said Tabbard, with the air and tone of one in command. “Here, some more of that best Rheinish wine,” he thundered to the drawer.
Gyves had never encountered so reckless a spendthrift. His admiration was rising as every glass was lowered. He was in no hurry to go on his quest. The foggy night, and the dark miles between the Windmill and the Roman Wall caused him to embrace the glittering present. The tap-room of the Windmill never appeared so enchanting. Tabbard, despite his rusticity, was growing into a prince. The cultivated caution of the constable oozed away, and he placed the warrant in Tabbard’s hands. Just at that moment Bame walked into the tap-room and came hurriedly toward the table. Tabbard had caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye. He thrust the warrant in his pocket, at the same time giving a significant glance at Gyves, who, with at first a motion that he would retake the paper, subsided on noticing Bame. The latter said, as he reached the table, “How now, Gyves, has the arrest been made?”
“Shortly, sir, shortly,” exclaimed Gyves, scarcely able to conceal his surprise at seeing the sanctimonious-looking Brownist beside him in the tap-room.
“Good faith, man! Get thee out quick, or the fellow will be fled. Thou hast already squandered an hour here. Come, stir thyself!”
The tones were peremptory and husky with suppressed anger. Gyves knew Bame’s power. He felt that temporary action was necessary to preserve his office. True, he could not act without the warrant, and he dared not expose to Bame his folly by demanding its return. So, hoping that he could see Tabbard later, and, having procured the warrant, make the arrest, he arose.
“I am off at once—” he said.
“Odds end!” exclaimed Bame savagely, “Don’t stop to mouth words. Push along.”
“And where will you lodge?” asked the constable of Tabbard, who, rejoicing over the complete relief he had secured for his friend Kit, sat there apparently unconcerned.
“Here,” answered Tabbard.
Gyves turned and walked away from them. In going, Bame’s back was toward him, but he saw the smiling face of Tabbard, and striking his own breast, he made a motion with his hand as though to say, “The warrant you have in your pocket deliver to me a little later.”
Tabbard nodded his head understandingly, and the troubled arm of the law passed out of the old Jewry entrance.
Bame scrutinized the late companion of the constable for an interval without changing his position. Tabbard stared back at him with an expression of contempt and hatred, which changed to a smile of triumph as he thought with what exultation he could tear the warrant into shreds before Bame’s eyes. He itched to do it on the instant; but the other man wheeled round and sought a table in a retired corner, from where he continued his scrutiny of Tabbard. There was something about the latter man which jarred a chord in Bame’s memory, and suddenly he recognized him as the person who had been with Marlowe at the Dolphin. This recognition, connected with the fact of the lately interrupted meeting between Gyves and Tabbard, raised his suspicions, and his watching became like that of a hawk.
Tabbard took out the warrant. He opened it curiously and examined the seal. It was the only portion of the paper that assured him of the legal character of the writ. Words in Greek could have conveyed as much meaning as those printed and written on the paper. If he had been convicted of felony, Tabbard would have suffered the severe penalty; for the benefit of clergy would not have availed him. He could not read the Lord’s Prayer in English print.
He folded the paper and then began tearing it into small bits. These he scattered around him, feeling like a life convict taking the first breath of air outside the broken wall of the prison. As he ground the last pieces into the sand under his feet, he lifted his glass of Rheinish wine and threw his head back to drain the contents. The thought of “Sir Kit” was in his mind, a smile played upon his lips.
Could death strike us at the moment of accomplishing good for a friend or for the human race, we might not parley but pass with glorified faces into a peace assuredly in keeping with the joy kindled by the generous act. With few the end comes so gloriously. To the soldier, the martyr, the mother, such passing of the spirit is oft vouchsafed; the first, falling at the head of the victorious forces on the captured battlements; the second, amid flames at the stake; the last, with the first breath of her infant upon her lips already damp with the dew of dissolution.
In the position assumed by Tabbard for his last draught, the bright flame of a suspended lamp flared in his eyes. To him it appeared to swing in a circle, although in fact it was stationary; and the vaulted ceiling seemed rising in air higher and higher, until he looked into the darkness of absolute night. It was his head that swayed instead of the lamp; it was the gradual failure of his eye-sight that raised the phenomenon of the fading ceiling. A violent nausea seized him, so that every fiber of his body shook and his glass fell shivered upon the floor. He groaned so loudly that every one in the room turned his face in his direction. And thus, before staring and startled faces, the quivering man rolled from his chair to the sanded floor. A whisper rose from every lip, except from the pair which grew white in distress. The words were the same from all:
“The plague!”
The stricken man may have heard the two words, but it could have conveyed no new tidings to his mind. Even the shiver of his frame from a draught of cold air would have sprung the belief that the first symptom of the Black Death had appeared. But there was no mistaking the pang that shot through him, like an arrow from a long bow. Could he have seen his face a few moments afterward as Bame saw it, turned upward on the floor, he would have died more suddenly from fright; hæmorrhagic spots discolored it—the unmistakable symbol of internal dissolution. They looked like the black imprints of the fingers of a hand that had been thrust with violence against it.
“Tell him he is safe,” came the broken words from lips moved by a wandering mind.
“Who?” asked Bame, leaning over him.
The dying man did not answer, but the words “Deptford” and the “Earl’s actors” were uttered in his rambling speech.
The silence in Peele’s chamber at the Boar’s Head had continued many minutes. The three hearers of Marlowe’s vivid recital looked at each other expectantly; but as all had quaffed his cup of misery, silence was alone the fit expression of their depth of feeling and interest. The intense personality of the man had aroused in them sentiments like those he entertained. They recognized his genius [note 18 to 24], the height from which he had fallen, the deplorableness of his situation. It was as though his intellect had unseated theirs and mounted on the thrones thus vacated. Thus the boon companion of their riotous follies, the good fellow, the well-beloved and revel-loving Kit, had in a thrice vanished in thin air, and a veritable king of men assumed his place.
He had simply summoned the power that he knew was lodged within him, deep in the inexhaustible fountain from which he had drawn his lines of fire and figures of immortal mold.
“Let us calmly consider your situation,” at length said Tamworth, looking feelingly at Marlowe, “Against thyself lieth now an accusation of blasphemy upon which a warrant hath been issued. Even now, undoubtedly, with this in hand, the officers shadow thy customary haunts. During their search, news will soon come of thy death at Deptford; for, from what thou sayeth of the unfortunate Frazer’s resemblance to thee, he will be buried under thy name. The warrant will be returned; the information pigeonholed, and thou wilt have little to fear from that source.”
“Unless he goes abroad among those who know him,” ejaculated Peele.
“That can not be,” whispered Marlowe.
“Then we will take it, that, as Marlowe, thou art like one dead beyond all resurrection,” continued the lawyer with emphasis.
“It can not be otherwise,” rejoined the subject of these comments, “unless in some retreat of assured safety, and at some future time, I reveal myself.”
“As the slayer of the Count?” was asked.
“There’s the rub,” whispered Marlowe, shaking his head.
“Well that is for later consideration,” said Tamworth calmly. “Let me continue. On the morrow a hue and cry will be raised for the arrest of Francis Frazer. The character which you have assumed for the last few hours cannot avail thee further. It has answered its purpose. Thou hast kept thy name from being sullied with the crime of murder. But as the Count, or Francis Frazer, thou canst not walk forth.”
“Assuredly not,” said Peele.
“An arrest before noon would follow,” interrupted Shakespere, “and then, thy trial, in which, perchance, the true situation of affairs would come to light.”
“Wherein lieth safety?” asked Marlowe, raising his eyes and glancing from one face to the other of his friends.
“A life of obscurity,” answered Tamworth, “is all I can see for thee, unless thine efforts at concealment are undone; you deliver yourself up and stand trial. I cannot guarantee an acquittal, but it is not going too far to place firm hope in one.”
“No,” exclaimed Marlowe, “rather the concealment and obscurity than such course. The die has been cast; so far it worketh well, and even with an acquittal, this untried charge of blasphemy would stick in the burr. What is it? How far doth it reach? Hast thou a copy of the accusation?”
“I have,” said Peele, again producing the paper and handing it to Marlowe.
“The severity and falsity of the charges appall me,” exclaimed Marlowe, “nothing could be blacker. Are there no means to vindicate my name?”
“Your memory,” suggested Shakespere.
“True, that is all the world hath of me, but in all seriousness can not this false swearer, Bame, be punished?”
“He can, if you desire it,” answered Tamworth.
“Desire it? What man would not demand it?”
“I know of none.”
“Much of it is too vile for utterance, and that I knew one Poole in Newgate, and intended coining English shillings is as false as Hell. When shall his prosecution be pushed?”
“At once,” answered Tamworth.
“On what charge?”
“Perjury.”
“The penalty is what?”
“He can be tried either under the statute or the common law. Under the latter, the punishment is death.”
“Let it be the latter,” said Peele and Shakespere before Marlowe could answer.
“But to return to the suggestion of your concealment,” said Peele, “How can you remain concealed for any length of time?”
“No one will look for me. All who know me will hear the account of my death at Deptford.”
“But someone besides us and the wife of Frazer will doubtless encounter thee.”
“Can I not lie safely housed until passage can be secured for the continent?”
“But in what quarter?”
“Far from the old familiar places, Peele,” answered Marlowe. “Not at the Black Bull, nor at Gerard’s Hall; nor at the Mermaid Tavern. And are these names to be but memories? Why, it is not two weeks since we secretly played Tancred and Gismund to the crowded galleries in the Bull; and then the dance around the fir-pole in the high-roofed hall at Gerard’s! That was not a month since, Peele. And verily my lips have not yet dried from the last glasses of fine old wine drank with thee, Nash, Jonson and the other merry wags at the round table within the bow-window at the Mermaid.”
Peele rocked backward and forward without speaking.
“Ah well, such frivolity should have ended long ago,” Marlowe went on, in a tone growing sterner with every word. “When mine enemy, Greene, dying of his surfeit of Rheinish wine and pickled herring, besought his friends in his Groat’s Worth of Wit [note 35] to abandon dissolute companions and in solitude nourish their spirit’s fire, why should I, despite his attack upon me, have not listened to his warning voice addressed to others, and not have waited for a finger dipped in blood to write, ‘Here endeth thy career?’”
A pause followed in which no one spoke, and again he continued: “’Tis well that this has happened. Without it what could have stayed me from wasting the hours which henceforth can be spent only in intellectual effort? Now the devil is chained. I can not even sell my soul to him. The world with its temptations lieth as distant as the fields of Trasymene. Is it not a subject for congratulation? What campaigns may I not enter; what conquests may I not gain?”
With the egotism of a god, knowing himself, and the source from which he drew his inspiration, he continued his torrent of words:
“Tamburlaine was written with the collar of the university about my neck; Faustus, while my hatred of the existing laws designed to chain one’s belief, prevented a just appreciation of true religion; the Massacre of Paris, with my mind disturbed from the effects of continuous dissipation; Hero and Leander, while deep in Love’s young dream; and so on with the list. But now what is there to clog or muddy the fountains? Is my mind not broader; are not the impediments to studious application and undisturbed contemplation removed? For twenty, thirty, yea forty or fifty years, what is before me but the opportunity to produce immortal and transcendent work? Nay, give me ten years in solitude, O thou dread force, and under my hand all form, all thought, shall find expression in written words!”
He fell forward on the table with outstretched arms and clenched hands. Shakespere lifted him up; pityingly brushed back the hair from his face, and said: “Forget the matter for a moment.”
No other words were spoken; still the rain pattered on the window opening towards St. Michael’s, and no sounds came up from the narrow walks in Crooked Lane.
At length Tamworth broke the silence. “I do not doubt, dear Kit, that whatever may be thy aim, thy arrow will reach. But life can not be maintained without capital or revenue. Your design being linked with an ambition for personal immortality precludes the publication of thy productions till after thy death or when hope of life is gone. Now, where will come the fund for thy maintenance?”
“Thou canst not appear as an actor,” suggested Shakespere.
“And neither can the works you may produce be sold as thine,” said Peele.
“Could they not be sold under some one else’s name?” asked Marlowe. “At the proper time their authorship could be confessed and established.”
“But in whose name?” queried Peele.
“Why not thine; at least temporarily?”
“Bah,” ejaculated Peele, “I could not pass thy dramas off as mine. The style, my dear fellow, the style. Henslowe would at once say, ‘What Peele, this thy drama? Marry, and where didst thou steal this new fire? Off with thee. It is none of thine. Leave it. I will look up the older dramatists, Greek and Latin, from which I ween thou hast taken its entire,’”
“Then why not as thine, Shakespere?”
“Mine,” exclaimed Shakespere, shaking with laughter which he could not control, “Greater objections than those stated by Peele would arise. Only a few years ago I held horses before the Curtain and Theater. I write a play; Ho! Ho!”
He laughed so heartily that Tamworth joined with him.
“Stop,” said Peele, endeavoring to interrupt the sudden mirth, “The suggestion is a good one. What does Henslowe know of your horseholding, friend Will?”
“But,” answered Shakespere, “he knoweth that I came from the miserable village of Stratford-on-Avon only six years ago, where there are few books and nothing better than a grammar school. [note 36] Although I can say ‘Stipendium peccati mors est,’ as being learned from thy Faustus, Marlowe, I would die in the attempt to give its meaning.”
“He surely will not question thee about thy Latin or thy Greek,” said Tamworth, joining in with the scheme, “and as thou hast never turned a hand at such work, there are not, as in Peele’s case, fair-skinned children of earlier birth to give the lie to the paternity of the later ones of different complexion.”
“And am I to claim them as mine?” asked Shakespere.
“Only as may be necessary for the sale to theatrical managers,” answered Marlowe.
“And perchance grow famous; for we know the depth and strength of thy work.”
“Only for a time,” said Marlowe, impressively, “In the end all will be clear.”
“So be it then,” said Shakespere.
“But thy handwriting, Marlowe, is too well known. Still,” continued Tamworth, “the manuscript may be copied, and as I write a clear hand I would gladly aid thee.”
“But where are you to live, Kit?”
“At Southwark?” questioned the latter.
“Nay,” exclaimed Tamworth, “the Rose is there, with many players who know thee, and its numerous hangers-on. The heart of this city is far better. I know of a retreat. No hunted deer ever found so secure a covert. It is the building known as the Prince’s Wardrobe on the Old Jewry. Its corridors are unfrequented except by the few tenants who, through the benevolence of the present keeper, dwell in some of the chambers. Its demolition, begun many years ago, has been stayed. Once vacated because of notice of its contemplated razing, it is again being occupied through the apparent inertness of its owners. But this inaction is due to other causes—”
“I have heard of secret chambers there,” interrupted Peele.
“There are,” continued Tamworth, “It was once used as a palace, but its early history is lost. Some of its stone walls are down, and above the cleared ruins at one end, divers lordly buildings have been reared; but the half portion towards St. Olave is intact. A question concerning its title being now unsettled in the courts, no progress can be made either in its repair or its destruction. Years may pass before the question is finally determined. The receiver appointed by the courts is a descendant of Sir Anthony Cope, who purchased the property from the crown in 1548, and, due to my acquaintance with him, and late services rendered, I now have a furnished chamber therein. The way out, or in, may be easy of discovery, and my quarters are occasionally visited by friends, but to me alone is known an inner room where you can dwell in perfect safety.”
“Thy words are of good cheer,” exclaimed Marlowe, “and no delay must be incurred.”
“Did you encounter no one upon entering here?” asked Peele.
“No; I came in at the side entrance. It was open. Crooked Lane was deserted as far as I could see.”
“And on the road from Deptford?”
“No one who knew me appeared upon the road. At the Golden Hind as I passed the tap-room door I caught a glimpse of the drawer, one of the actors who had been with me early in the evening, and the wife of Frazer.”
“Ah; she has not escaped then?” exclaimed Tamworth. “This is serious. She may be held until after the discovery of the deed.”
“Undoubtedly she has been,” answered Marlowe, “I could not catch the occasion of her resting in the tap-room, neither could I pause, for discovery would have been certain.”
“Did she see thee?”
“I think not, for the drawer stood before her, so that only a portion of her gown was visible to me. I mounted hurriedly in the inn-yard and riding to the gnarled oak I waited under it, and in the thick fog for at least an hour. She did not come.”
“She will testify against thee.”
“Never,” exclaimed Marlowe.
“Ah,” said Tamworth, prolonging the word and opening wide his eyes.
“Have no fears of that,” continued Marlowe, firmly, and then as though to turn their thoughts into another channel, he continued: “The ride over that country road was lonely beyond all comparison. I slunk by the lights at Redriffe like one unarmed passing by the known lair of a sleeping lion. At the moment they struck my face I could have fallen from the saddle. But no eye of careless watcher was apparently following their seams into the darkness; for no haloo broke the night. The wood of oak and elm fencing the road this side the half-way house was resonant with swaying limbs. A wind was coming from the river, and the fog was like rain.”
“Was it dark?”
“So dark I could not see the ground.”
“Thy horse found the way and reached the bridge?”
“No, I turned not in towards it; but passing Bataille’s Inn, I rode down to a waterman’s house close by the river’s bank. There I dismounted, tied my horse and found the waterman. He was tying his wherry at the foot of the landing. With much persuasion, I induced him to row me across and, reaching the stone steps somewhere near the Swan, I came here with all haste.”
“And when were you last at your quarters in Coward Lane?”
“Just before starting for Deptford.”
“Whatever is there must be left.”
“Nay,” exclaimed Marlowe, “I have much unfinished work there.”
“Doth not Nash lodge in the same tenement?”
“Yes, in the room adjoining.”
“Doth he know of these writings?”
“All about them. He is engaged with me in writing the tragedy of Dido. I read him the two sestiads of Hero and Leander only two nights since.”
“Well then such things can not be taken unless Nash is numbered with us.”
“’Twould not be well,” said Tamworth, “the lesser the number holding the secret, the less fear of discovery.”
“Thy judgment is sound, Tamworth,” said Marlowe, “let Nash finish the tragedy, and have him place the poem of Hero and Leander in the hands of Chapman with word that it was my dying request that he complete it [note 37].”
“Good,” exclaimed Peele, “and perchance embodying within it some golden lines touching thy unfortunate demise.”
“Most excellent,” said Marlowe, smiling at the thought of reading of his own death and the estimate of his own worth expressed in the poetic language of a loving friend.
“These matters,” said Tamworth, “will be attended to as strictly as bequests should be by an executor. We must at once reach my lodgings.”
“Leave the Count’s cloak and take this of mine,” said Peele, taking down a short mantle from a hook against the wall.