Page 79 of The Two Wills

“Alas, I’m sad, Mother. Love has failed me at every turn.”

“Tush! It will, dear. It will. Love is just the cheap lace veil on the poxy face of betrayal. It’s a lesson one must learn. But why not go back to one of them playing companies? You was happiest there. I think it’s what you truly want. Certainly, the money was better than what you get here.”

“I can’t. The stage reminds me of all I’ve lost. I just need more time to think. I’ll sort it out soon.”

“Please do, son.” She lowered her voice. “The customers have been complaining your never-ending melancholy is souring their beer.”

Before I knew it, the bitter winter turned to rainy, gray spring, which then in turn became warmer, though still gray, early summer. I was still paralyzed in my despair and indecision. But then one evening, as I was mucking out the cesspit, two actors, while relieving themselves, began speaking of the impressive new playhouse the Lord Chamberlain’s Men were constructing in Southwark, indeed, as Beeston said, by using the old Theatre’s timber and hardware they had pinched from Mister Henslowe.

“Why are they building way over there in Southwark?” one of the men asked the other.

“Because it’s outside the jurisdiction of the city fathers,” he answered with certainty, “who, we all know, are wary of the playhouses. They will call the new arena the Globe, since it shall be built in the shape of a large letter O to represent the shape of the world.”

The men finished their business and left the privy. I stood there overcome, thinking how this grand new playhouse in Southwark would be so near the Rose, the place where I had performed Gaveston, and the last place I ever heard the cheers of the crowds. Tears fell down my cheeks. Was I weeping because, like my mother said, I truly wanted to be part of it all again? Or was I merely happy that the Poet’s dream was finally coming true?

One steaming afternoon in late July, as I was wiping down the tables before the evening rush, I saw the Poet enter the empty alehouse with his hat in his hands. My heart tripped, and I became most bumfuzzled. At first, I pretended I did not see him, but then when I looked up, I saw how he stared at me with such kind eyes yet seemed afeared of speaking. It had been close to two years since we had been in such proximity. His appearance was mostly the same, though he had lost a hair or two more from his head, but his dark eyes were still as crisp and direct as before, and his handsomeness still turned a head. I should have been embarrassed that he found me back in my old situation—though surely rumor had told him as such. I was sweating, filthy, and looking far from the beauty he had last seen on his stage. But instead of shame, I felt an uncontrollable anger rise in me. Why hadn’t he come sooner? Why had he allowed me to suffer with Kit’s death alone? And so, I wanted him to see me in my ruin—I wanted him to recognize how much Marlowe had meant to me. How this more mature love’s loss had undone me. I wanted him to see how much I hurt.

“How long have you known I was working here?” I finally asked with a chill in my voice.

“A while,” he said. “But I felt you may not want me to intrude.”

“Intrude?” I repeated. The word sounded so odd and ill-chosen. Intrude upon what? My grief? Between me and Marlowe’s ghost?

“I mean,” he corrected himself. “I wanted to go to you as soon as I heard about Kit, but I feared you would not want to see me, considering how things ended between us.”

“So that is why you came now? To offer your late condolences?” I said sharply, though there was a catch of tears in my throat. “Kit died months ago. I was all alone. They kicked me out onto the street.”

The Poet’s face twisted with anguish. “Why didn’t you come ask me for help? You know I would have been there for you.”

“Why didn’t you come?” I blurted out angrily, surprising even myself. “Or you could have at least done something, said something. Even sent a note …”

“I know, but I …” His shoulders fell. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

“There’s something the world has never heard before.” I scoffed, wiping away an angry tear that had foolishly fallen down my cheek. “Very well then, you’ve offered your condolences. Now you can bugger off.”

“Don’t speak that way, Willy.” Willy. He never called me by my first name; why now? “No matter what happened between us, we are still friends—we shall always be friends. You’re absolutely right—I should have come sooner or sent a note, but I was so afraid I’d do something wrong, say something wrong. I hope you know that I’m most sorry about what happened to Kit. As much as he and I quarreled at times, I felt incredible admiration for him.”

“Say you so?” I said. “Did you not warn me against him most strongly?”

“I did. You now know as well as I, he lived a dangerous life. He was a spy for the Crown and had many enemies. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. But … but I was also jealous.”

I turned away from him, not wanting to be moved by his honeyed words.

“Can you blame me?” the Poet said, stepping nearer behind me. “Any writer would be jealous. Kit was the greatest England has ever known, and he was taking away one of my greatest actors.” I rolled my eyes at him, but the Poet continued, his voice now powdered with humility. “But I would not be the poet I am if Kit Marlowe hadn’t first done the thing to which I aspired—if he hadn’t challenged me to be a better writer with his own superior brilliance.”

I could feel my insides bending toward him, allowing his warm presence and shocking humility to affect me, but I wanted to resist, so I grunted as if to agree with him. Then, as I faced him, I muttered, “You’re right. He was better than you.”

I saw how my arrow had hit its mark, but the Poet did not bite back. Instead, he looked at me with still softer eyes. “Fair, that cut. I might be most jealous of all because, with him guiding you, you became an even better actor.”

I felt the tips of my ears go red, my anger now interrupted by his flattery. “How would you know?” I bristled, wanting to flame my own ire.

He smiled shyly, as if he was embarrassed to admit it. “I snuck into one of your early performances of Edward the Second. I didn’t let you know because I didn’t want … well, I thought it best not to distract you. I came two more times after that, so enraptured by both the play and your performance.”

My head felt dizzy. Is he lying? He must be lying! Others would have seen him at the playhouse and told me. Unless he bribed the gatherers to keep silent. How cruel he is, trying to sway me so! The beast!

“You were truly extraordinary,” he said, smiling. “The way in that one scene, how you cocked your head at the King and slowly smiled, revealing Galveston’s dastardly cunning underneath.” His eyes watered with admiration. I knew exactly the moment he meant, and indeed what he described had been both my action and my intention. He was telling the truth.

“I wish you had announced that you had come to see me,” I said, my voice almost a whisper for I was trying to control my gladness that he had seen me in the triumph. “At least once.”