One Dagger For Two Read online

  He rode slowly to Pudding Lane, carried his cap-case into his little room — a wretched room it looked after the comforts of Scadbury. It had been cleaned — for he paid an old woman sixpence a week to look after him — but there was grime soaked into the walls and dirt on the floor that no sweeping or washing could ever cleanse. He could never afford rushes — they cost fifteen shillings a load — and had but one Bedfordshire mat on the floor, a poor worn thing of broad-leaved, coarsely plaited rushes. On the walls, no pictures or tapestry; on the shelf, but half a dozen books and a few pamphlets; a truckle-bed with the rollers broken off to stop it from slipping (for the house had a decided slant forward); a trestle-table with top unscrewed from the legs and leaning against the wall; an old oak chest for his clothes; an iron box for his papers. A dirty room! It stank with the decay of the butcher-shambles near by, with the smell of sooty London.

  Sadly, he left the room, then darted down the stairs to his horse. He returned that to Clement’s Inn, and walked home, purposely avoiding the quarters where his friends might be. That was not possible to so well-known a figure as Marlowe in such a city. He was caught by Poley, dragged into a tavern and forced to swallow two pints of charneco before he could escape; he saw Shakespeare trotting hurriedly along Holborn, but managed to dodge him by sneaking into a tavern: another pint. He bought one of their famous pies from the Dagger in Cheapside, then rushed swiftly home, determined to work.

  It took him all that day to get into the swing of work, but soon he was busy at Hero and Leander and mightily happy. He went to bed that night with his own poetry singing in his head; he fell swiftly asleep, not bothered much by phantoms of Awdrey, although she persisted in his thoughts, and darted at him the moment he opened his eyes in the morning.

  But the exaltation of his own work took all the sting from her memory, he wove her loveliness into the loveliness of his created heroine, surrounded Hero with all his desire for Awdrey, felt the quickening of his pulse and the heady joys of Leander tumbling his maidenly sweetheart in the magic world of old Greece, as if the excitement of Hero’s capture was his own.

  It was in the afternoon while he sat, rapt in the glory of words, head cocked, eyes bright, as if he actually listened to his muse whispering over his shoulder, that suddenly a timid rapping on the door broke the spell.

  He started round, frowning.

  “Who the devil’s that!” he shouted and flung down his pen.

  For answer, the door opened slowly, he heard the rustling of a woman’s dress, and for one mad moment thought that Awdrey had come to visit him. He leaped to his feet, painfully conscious of the fact that he had not washed, that his hair was uncombed, that he wore no doublet, only a torn blue shirt, a ragged pair of breeches and the oldest of woollen hose.

  “One minute!” he shouted, and rushed for his cloak, but he was too late; the visitor had entered and stood at the door, gazing, smiling, at him.

  Marlowe stared back at her, suspended in mid-action, leaning to reach his cloak. He knew her but he did not know her; in his surprise, he struggled to recall her face out of the garrets of his mind amongst the lumber of past days. Where had he seen her? Where had he seen that pale oval face, the smallish painted mouth, the wide, very deep blue eyes, the heavy brown hair drawn curling back from a high forehead and falling into ringlets at the back? He noticed that she wore a small pie-shaped velvet hat and that her gown under the wide ruff reached to her throat, and knew by that that she was married, for maidens uncovered their hair and their bosoms temptingly to show that they were as yet no man’s property and were open to a bidder. Her clothes were simple but expensive, a semi-circular farthingale, a taffeta doublet, perfumed yellow gloves reaching to above her wrists, a gold pomander at her velvet girdle, a small fur muff dangling from one hand. She smiled at him shyly, and stood, resting on one foot, looking up at him.

  “You don’t remember me?” she said with a nervous laugh. “Perhaps this will help.”

  From her muff she drew a red velvet mask and held it over eyes and nose.

  “Of course!” cried Marlowe. “My lady of the pendant!”

  “Ay!” said she. “Your lady of the pendant!”

  Then they both looked foolishly at each other, neither knowing what to do. At last, she laughed, put down the mask and slowly entered the room, gazing around her with quick, little bird-like gestures, examining everything with her eyes. Apparently she was surprised to see the poverty of the room, for she bit her upper-lip and did not know what to say.

  “I am disturbing you?” she murmured awkwardly.

  “Oh, no,” said Marlowe, “I was only writing.” He went to his table and shuffled the papers contemptuously. “Wasting my time with verse,” he said.

  “You are a poet?” She walked in her swift tripping way to the table and saw the poetry scribbled there. Then suddenly she gazed into Marlowe’s face, her eyes very bright, lips parted as if she caught her breath in a moment of great joy or excitement. “Of course!” she cried. “I am a ninny! You are Tamburlaine! Why didn’t I know it before! Kit Marlowe! I never realized!”

  “Yes,” said Marlowe with a nervous smile, “I wrote Tamburlaine.”

  “And Faustus! I wish I had known you when you wrote Faustus! ‘Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!’ Oh, I wish I’d known you! ‘Her lips suck forth my soul. See: where it flies!’”

  “You really know it?” said Marlowe, pleased, yet feeling curiously ashamed.

  “Know it! My dear!” She sprang into the middle of the room, pirouetted, flung out her arms, went swiftly on her knees, and pouted up at an imaginary Helen.

  “‘Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,’ she cried,

  “‘And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?

  Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.

  Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!

  Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.

  Here will I dwell, for heaven is in those lips,

  And all is dross that is not Helena…’”

  Marlowe listened entranced by his own poetry. He had never realized before how splendid it was. Somehow, the stage had not given him this feeling of greatness. There, on the stage, was the noise of the populace, the chewing of apples, drinking of beer, arguing, jeers, the clatter of stools — everything to break the illusion. But here in his own room, with an unknown beautiful woman reciting his lines, they sounded magnificent. He was captured as never before, transported to some lotus-land of unimaginable joy. Love had never given him this ecstasy, drink had never given it to him: he was intoxicated by his own poetry. He sat down on his stool and watched her as she ran through different parts, tossing her head on one side to say swiftly: Mephistopheles, Faustus, Wagner, Evil Angels, Good Angels, Clown, Seven Deadly Sins, or whatever the part might be, then taking off the actors with astonishing ease: a man one moment, a woman the next, a clown, a hero, a pope, a devil… Swiftly, she would say the name of the character over her shoulder in a husky aside, then would swagger into the role.

  She switched from Faustus, and as Tamburlaine wept over dead divine Zenocrate, then swung around and shouted of riding in triumph through Persepolis. Never had Marlowe known such happiness. It was cruelty not to let these creatures on the stage. By God, if he were king, he’d banish every shrill-piped boy and let the whole stage, male and female parts, fall to women!

  Day faded in the west and dragged the darkness after it, hiding the sky in a net of stars. The room grew dim but for the glare in the grate, and in this red glare she darted from part to part, hermaphroditic, man and woman, all humanity in that one sweet voice. It was like a dream. He did not consider where she came from, who she was or why she came. He accepted her as an emanation of his own poetry. And he was astounded at her knowledge of his plays, she seemed to know them all by heart, even the Jew; for she untwisted a ringlet of her hair, curled her upper-lip and caught the ringlet between it and her nose like a long moustache, and s
troked it villainously, pretending to be Barabas counting “infinite riches in a little room.” It was more than flattering, it gave him for the first time in his life, a feeling of power, of being really important and necessary. He did not know that his writings could affect people so strongly.

  He dared not move to light a candle lest he disturb her; in the red light, a Mephistopheles indeed, she pranced and crowed his lines; until even she was awoken from her pleasure and realized suddenly the lateness of the hour.

  “My fai’!” she said, “it’s dark! I must go! I forgot time went!”

  “You can’t go alone.” Marlowe rose to his feet. “I must see you home.”

  “No, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “But it’s not safe at this hour.”

  “It is. I don’t live far. Please, I don’t want you to. Your poetry drove everything out of my head. Forgive me.”

  “You have made me the happiest man alive,” said Marlowe. “I can never thank you.”

  “Oh, I love it,” she said, “I’ve never missed a showing of your dramas. I act at home for hours before the glass and… Never mind! I must hurry. Can I come again? I hadn’t time to say anything I wanted to say.”

  “Please, please, come again.”

  Marlowe went to her, took her little hand, and kissed it. “Come whenever you can,” he said. “I could listen to your voice all day.”

  She gazed at him in the dim light, then leaned suddenly forward and touched his forehead with her lips.

  “I did not know you were the great Christopher Marlowe,” she said gently, and abruptly dropped down into a profound curtsey. Then she was swiftly on her feet and had run to the door.

  “Farewell, Faustus!” she cried.

  “Ay,” said he, “ I’m Faustus, right enough, for I’ve conjured up a Helen.”

  “A very miry Helen, I’m afraid,” she laughed; and was gone.

  He listened to her high cork heels tapping on the stairs, then he went to the window and gazed out. He saw her come from the front door, through the carpenter’s shop, hurriedly fix her mask under her hair, and turn to the left, towards Cheapside.

  She gazed up, saw him watching her, and blew him a quick kiss. Then, with skirts lifted, she went running up the hill and did not look back again.

  *

  Feeling that indeed he was Faustus and that by some magic of poetry he had conjured up a Helen, Marlowe returned to his table, lit the candle in its iron sconce, and sat over the lines of Hero and Leander he had written; but he did not read them. He sat, open-eyed, going over all the extraordinary events of the last hour. Almost, he questioned if it had ever happened; it seemed incredible that a strange woman should knock at his door and suddenly metamorphose herself into his creations. God was not usually so kind to poets.

  It was like a dream, something too beautiful to be true. He did not look upon her as a woman of flesh and blood, she was to him a spirit, spiritually beautiful, a creature to be gazed at with complete detachment; yet he longed for her to return as strongly as ever he had longed to take Awdrey into his arms. Not that he wanted to embrace this strange Helen; he never conceived her in physical contact with himself, he wanted her to return so that he could bask in the joy of his own work. She was a fairy, not a woman.

  *

  Other interruptions came, not quite so pleasant. Next morning, Nashe darted into his room, followed by George Peele, just back from the country. Pleased as Marlowe was to see Peele again, being particularly fond of him, he resented the interruption and flung down his pen petulantly.

  “A damn nice way to treat your friends,” growled Nashe, “staring at them like Harry Hunks at Palace Garden looking at the dogs come to bait him. What’s wrong with you? Never a nice word to say to Georgie here?”

  “Of course,” said Marlowe, ashamed of his bad temper, “I’m pleased to see George’s Bedlamite grin about the place; but I’m working.”

  “Didn’t Walsingham give you the yellow-boys?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a purseful here…”

  “And you’re working!” cried Nashe. “Lord love us, who ever heard of a poet working when he’s got a purseful of sovereigns? Throw the newt down the stairs, George, and stamp on him.”

  Sighing, Marlowe stood to his feet. There was no escape. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said suddenly, “I’ll leave it to the gods. I’ll take this packet of money to Madame Cotton’s, and if I double it I’ll drink till every groat’s gone.”

  “None of that,” said Peele, a dumpling of a man with round blue eyes, a well-clipped beard and a squeaky voice. “Don’t tempt the gods. What’s the good of gambling unless you want to throw your last coin on the table?”

  “Hear, hear!” said Nashe. “Methinks I hear the drawer cry ‘Anon! anon!’ for I’m so thirsty my teeth are glued together. Let’s to the Rhenish, boys!”

  “No,” said Marlowe firmly, “either I stay to work or we go to Cotton’s.”

  Nashe and Peele stared at him.

  “Aw, now, Kit,” said Nashe, “be sensible, for once.”

  “You can’t let your friends go thirsty,” said Peele. “Don’t be a mome, Kit.”

  “I tell you I’ll do that or nothing,” said Marlowe, changing his stockings and breeches and tightening Walsingham’s purple doublet across his chest. “Who the hell told you I was back, at any rate?” he demanded.

  “Frizer,” said Peele: “we just saw him in the Mitre.”

  “The fool’s always interfering!”

  Nashe stared at him. “Now that’s a nice thing to say to your friends!” he cried.

  Marlowe laughed, clapped them both upon the shoulders.

  “Come!” said he, “to Madame Cotton’s!”

  They drank, from tavern to tavern; all the way, Nashe and Peele tried tearfully to dissuade him from his disastrous intentions, but Marlowe was determined. It was his only way of getting rid of the money, and he knew he would find no peace so long as he had a crown left in his purse.

  Nashe won his point enough to make Marlowe shift out of his course to the Swan in Crooked Lane — “the only tavern left,” as Nashe said, “where the Rhenish isn’t drowned in cider.”

  They took command of the large fireplace where Kyd was lounging on a settle, picking to pieces the wickerwork that shielded his stockings from the flames. He was very miserable, painfully thin, and was sipping a small glassful of peter-see-me, but he cheered up at sight of his friends.

  “Thank the Lord,” he murmured. “I thought I was going to starve. I haven’t eaten for a week. Who’ll buy me a pie?”

  Marlowe bought him three chicken pies and a small loaf of bread, then discovered that he himself was hungry. More pies. Kyd’s glass of peter-see-me emptied into the grate, a quart of Rhenish each, and they settled cosily about the table, to quarrel, to laugh, and to boast of past deeds in the manner of friends in a tavern.

  There was a playbill tacked to the wall, and Kyd drew Marlowe’s glance towards it. “Isn’t that yours?” he asked.

  “Mine? Good heavens, so it is!”

  This daye being the 25th of Januarie (read the bill) shal bee Acted a New Playe, by Christopher Marlow, M.A., never Play’d before, call’d THE MASSACER AT PARTS, Containing the pittiefull murther of the Hugonots by the tyrannicall Papists of France, the treacherous Plottings of Queen Cathyrne, the poysininge by gloves of the Queen of Navar, the murther of the Adymrall and how Henry of Navar wrought GOD’S vengyance and brought the detested Guyse to his most deserved Death, at the ROSE THE A TRE, Southwarke, at three this daye. No advance in pryses.

  “I thought Henslowe might have lost the wretched thing,” growled Marlowe. “It’s a re-write of an old play, scrubbed up by you, Nashe, more than me.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Nashe, watching him narrowly, “your name is on it, not mine; and no first play by Kit Marlowe, however Nasheian, must be placed on the proscenium without us to give it a cheer or two and be damned to the gr
oundlings.”

  Marlowe smiled at him, ordered another round of drinks, and carefully toasted his legs at the fire before answering.

  “All right,” he said at last, “Madame Cotton’s to-morrow then!”

  Both Peele and Nashe jumped to their feet, flung their hats in the air and bellowed thanks to heaven.

  *

  The narrow streets of Southwark were packed with people off to the Rose Theatre for the first day of a new drama by Christopher Marlowe, M.A.; ladies in caroches — small coaches — trying to look pleasant while being jolted until the steel and whalebone in farthingale and doublet ripped their tender flesh; gallants on horseback, curling moustaches, and kicking a path through the mob; tawdry wenches; pedlars and orange-girls; apprentices on holiday in blue coats and yellow stockings; chapmen; merchants with their families. Here could be seen every form of London life (save the Court life), all merry and singing, making a mighty noise like a pack of hungry animals.

  Marlowe, Nashe, Peele and Kyd sat in a near-by tavern and watched the coloured throng race past the leaded windows.

  “Doesn’t it give you a feeling of power,” said Kyd, drooping against the mantelpiece, “to think that all these people are flocking to be entranced by your magic? I love it! I’ve never missed one of my plays.”

  “Bah!” sneered Marlowe, “that rabble’s only going to show how clever it is by pulling what I write to pieces. The only power I want on earth is a diamond crown, to be a prince like Machiavelli teaches one to be.”

  “Oh, that dreadful man!” said Kyd with a groan, throwing up his hands.

  “Dreadful be damned! The only sane man since Rome bled under Christ. I wish I’d known him.”

  “You’d have hated him,” said Nashe; “ you’d have done naught but quarrel together.”

  “We’d have set up a dynasty together!”

  “And been assassinated! All this Machiavellian garbage,” scoffed Nashe, “ brings a man to the gallows. Power, power, power. You’re crazy after power. A poet wanting power! He’s lucky if he doesn’t starve, writing forty-shilling-dedications.”