A COINER OF ANGELS

Some three nights later, thro’ the thick brown fog,

A link-boy, dropping flakes of crimson fire,

Flared to the door and, through its glowing frame,

Ben Jonson and Kit Marlowe, arm in arm,

Swaggered into the Mermaid Inn and called

For red-deer pies.

There, as they supped, I caught

Scraps of ambrosial talk concerning Will,

His Venus and Adonis.

“Gabriel thought

‘ Twas wrong to change the old writers and create

A cold Adonis.”

— “Laws were made for Will,

Not Will for laws, since first he stole a buck

In Charlecote woods.”

— “Where never a buck chewed fern,”

Laughed Kit, “unless it chewed the fern seed, too,

And walked invisible.”

“Bring me some wine,” called Ben,

And, with his knife thrumming upon the board,

He chanted, while his comrade munched and smiled.

Will Shakespeare's out like Robin Hood

With his merry men all in green,

To steal a deer in Charlecote wood

Where never a deer was seen.

He's hunted all a night of June,

He's followed a phantom horn,

He's killed a buck by the light of the moon,

Under a fairy thorn.

He's carried it home with his merry, merry band,

There never was haunch so fine;

For this buck was born in Elfin-land

And fed upon sops-in-wine.

This buck had browsed on elfin boughs

Of rose-marie and bay,

And he's carried it home to the little white house

Of sweet Anne Hathaway.

“The dawn above your thatch is red!

Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne!

I have stolen a fairy buck,” he said,

“The first since the world began.

“Roast it on a golden spit,

And see that it do not burn;

For we never shall feather the like of it

Out of the fairy fern.”

She scarce had donned her long white gown

And given him kisses four,

When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-town

Knocked at the little green door.

They have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher;

But squarely he fronts the squire,

With “When did you hear in your woods of a deer?

Was it under a fairy briar?”

Sir Thomas he puffs,— “If God thought good

My water-butt ran with wine,

Or He dropt me a buck in Charlecote wood,

I wot it is mine, not thine!”

“If you would eat of elfin meat,”

Says Will, “you must blow up your horn!

Take your bow, and feather the doe

That's under the fairy thorn!

“If you would feast on elfin food,

You've only the way to learn!

Take your bow and feather the doe

That's under the fairy fern!”

They're hunting high, they're hunting low,

They're all away, away,

With horse and hound to feather the doe

That's under the fairy spray!

Sir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore!

But all and all in vain;

For there never was deer in his woods before,

And there never would be again!

And, as I brought the wine — “This is my grace,”

Laughed Kit, “Diana grant the jolly buck

That Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie.”

He suddenly sank his voice,— “Hist, who comes here?

Look — Richard Bame, the Puritan! O, Ben, Ben,

Your Mermaid Inn's the study for the stage,

Your only teacher of exits, entrances,

And all the shifting comedy. Be grave!

Bame is the godliest hypocrite on earth!

Remember I'm an atheist, black as coal.

He has called me Wormall in an anagram.

Help me to bait him; but be very grave.

We'll talk of Venus.”

As he whispered thus,

A long white face with small black-beaded eyes

Peered at him through the doorway. All too well,

Afterwards, I recalled that scene, when Bame,

Out of revenge for this same night, I guessed,

Penned his foul tract on Marlowe's tragic fate;

And, twelve months later, I watched our Puritan

Riding to Tyburn in the hangman's cart

For thieving from an old bed-ridden dame

With whom he prayed, at supper-time, on Sundays.

Like a conspirator he sidled in,

Clasping a little pamphlet to his breast,

While, feigning not to see him, Ben began:—

“Will's Venus and Adonis, Kit, is rare,

A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work,

On a great canvas, coloured like one I saw

In Italy, by one — Titian! None of the toys

Of artistry your lank-haired losels turn,

Your Phyllida — Love-lies-bleeding — Kiss-me-Quicks,

Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats,

Begotten like this, whenever and how you list,

Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper;

But a sound piece of craftsmanship to last

Until the stars are out.‘ Tis twice the length

Of Vergil's books — he's listening! Nay, do n't look!—

Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that;

But each a square celestial brick of gold

Laid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and know

What thorough work is. If a storm should shake

The Tower of London down, Will's house would stand.

Look at his picture of the stallion,

Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work!”

“‘ Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben!

Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow,

As the dawn breaking to its perfect flower

And golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep,

Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolves

Away!”

A hollow groan, like a bass viol,

Resounded thro’ the room. Up started Kit

In feigned alarm — “What, Master Richard Bame!

Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine!

Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of Venus

That stained the rose!”

“White wine for Master Bame,”

Ben echoed, “Juno's cream that”... Both at once

They thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lips

And smote him on the back.

“Sirs, you mistake!” coughed Bame, waving his hands

And struggling to his feet,

“Sirs, I have brought

A message from a youth who walked with you

In wantonness, aforetime, and is now

Groaning in sulphurous fires!”

“Kit, that means hell!”

“Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of hell,

Written by Robert Greene before he died.

Mark what he styles it — A Groatsworth of Wit

Bought with a Million of Repentance!”

“Ah,

Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk,

Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he died

Young. Let me see now, Master Bame, you say

Rob Greene wrote this on earth before he died,

And then you printed it yourself in hell!”

“Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sin

To make mirth for Beëlzebub!”

“O, Ben,

That's you!”

“‘ Swounds, sir, am I Beëlzebub?

Ogs-gogs!” roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt!

“Nay, sir, I signified the god of flies!

I spake out of the scriptures!” snuffled Bame

With deprecating eye.

“I come to save

A brand that you have kindled at your fire,

But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed,

One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to all

He was persuaded to turn atheist

By Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him,

But find him still so constant to your words

That only you can save him from the fire.”

“Why, Master Bame,” said Kit, “had I the keys

To hell, the damned should all come out and dance

A morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night.”

“Nay, sir, the damned are damned!”

“Come, sit you down!

Take some more wine! You'd have them all be damned

Except Dick Cholmeley. What must I unsay

To save him?” A quick eyelid dropt at Ben.

“Now tell me, Master Bame!”

“Sir, he derides

The books of Moses!”

“Bame, do you believe?—

There's none to hear us but Beëlzebub —

Do you believe that we must taste of death

Because God set a foolish naked wench

Too near an apple-tree, how long ago?

Five thousand years? But there were men on earth

Long before that!” “Nay, nay, sir, if you read

The books of Moses....” “Moses was a juggler!”

“A juggler, sir, how, what!” “Nay, sir, be calm!

Take some more wine — the white, if that's too red!

I never cared for Moses! Help yourself

To red-deer pie. Good!

All the miracles

You say that he performed — why, what are they?

I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street,

Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pie

In patience, friend, the mouth of man performs

One good work at a time. What says he, Ben?

The red-deer stops his — what? Sticks in his gizzard?

O — led them through the wilderness! No doubt

He did — for forty years, and might have made

The journey in six months. Believe me, sir,

That is no miracle. Moses gulled the Jews!

Skilled in the sly tricks of the Egyptians,

Only one art betrayed him. Sir, his books

Are filthily written. I would undertake —

If I were put to write a new religion —

A method far more admirable. Eh, what?

Gruel in the vestibule? Interpret, Ben!

His mouth's too full! O, the New Testament!

Why, there, consider, were not all the Apostles

Fishermen and base fellows, without wit

Or worth?” — again his eyelid dropt at Ben.—

“The Apostle Paul alone had wit, and he

Was a most timorous fellow in bidding us

Prostrate ourselves to worldly magistrates

Against our conscience! I shall fry for this?

I fear no bugbears or hobgoblins, sir,

And would have all men not to be afraid

Of roasting, toasting, pitch-forks, or the threats

Of earthly ministers, tho’ their mouths be stuffed

With curses or with crusts of red-deer pie!

One thing I will confess — if I must choose —

Give me the Papists that can serve their God

Not with your scraps, but solemn ceremonies,

Organs, and singing men, and shaven crowns.

Your protestant is a hypocritical ass!”

“Profligate! You blaspheme!” Up started Bame,

A little unsteady now upon his feet,

And shaking his crumpled pamphlet over his head!

“Nay — if your pie be done, you shall partake

A second course. Be seated, sir, I pray.

We atheists will pay the reckoning!

I had forgotten that a Puritan

Will swallow Moses like a red-deer pie

Yet choke at a wax-candle! Let me read

Your pamphlet. What,‘ tis half addressed to me!

Ogs-gogs! Ben! Hark to this — the Testament

Of poor Rob Greene would cut Will Shakespeare off

With less than his own Groatsworth! Hark to this!”

And there, unseen by them, a quiet figure

Entered the room and beckoning me for wine

Seated himself to listen, Will himself,

While Marlowe read aloud with knitted brows.

“‘ Trust them not; for there is an upstart crow

Beautified with our feathers!’

— O, he bids

All green eyes open:—‘ And, being an absolute

Johannes fac-totum is in his own conceit

The only Shake-scene in a country!’”

“Feathers!”

Exploded Ben. “Why, come to that, he pouched

Your eagle's feather of blank verse, and lit

His Friar Bacon's little magic lamp

At the Promethean fire of Faustus. Jove,

It was a faery buck, indeed, that Will

Poached in that greenwood.”

“Ben, see that you walk

Like Adam, naked! Nay, in nakedness

Adam was first. Trust me, you'll not escape

This calumny! Vergil is damned — he wears

A hen-coop round his waist, nicked in the night

From Homer! Plato is branded for a thief,

Why, he wrote Greek! And old Prometheus, too,

Who stole his fire from heaven!”

“Who printed it?”

“Chettle! I know not why, unless he too

Be one of those same dwarfs that find the world

Too narrow for their jealousies. Ben, Ben,

I tell thee‘ tis the dwarfs that find no world

Wide enough for their jostling, while the giants,

The gods themselves, can in one tavern find

Room wide enough to swallow the wide heaven

With all its crowded solitary stars.”

“Why, then, the Mermaid Inn should swallow this,”

The voice of Shakespeare quietly broke in,

As laying a hand on either shoulder of Kit

He stood behind him in the gloom and smiled

Across the table at Ben, whose eyes still blazed

With boyhood's generous wrath. “Rob was a poet.

And had I known... no matter! I am sorry

He thought I wronged him. His heart's blood beats in this.

Look, where he says he dies forsaken, Kit!”

“Died drunk, more like,” growled Ben. “And if he did,”

Will answered, “none was there to help him home,

Had not a poor old cobbler chanced upon him,

Dying in the streets, and taken him to his house,

And let him break his heart on his own bed.

Read his last words. You know he left his wife

And played the moth at tavern tapers, burnt

His wings and dropt into the mud. Read here,

His dying words to his forsaken wife,

Written in blood, Ben, blood. Read it,‘ I charge thee,

Doll, by the love of our youth, by my soul's rest,

See this man paid! Had he not succoured me

I had died in the streets.’ How young he was to call

Thus on their poor dead youth, this withered shadow

That once was Robin Greene. He left a child —

See — in its face he prays her not to find

The father's, but her own.‘ He is yet green

And may grow straight,’ so flickers his last jest,

Then out for ever. At the last he begged

A penny-pott of malmsey. In the bill,

All's printed now for crows and daws to peck,

You'll find four shillings for his winding sheet.

He had the poet's heart and God help all

Who have that heart and somehow lose their way

For lack of helm, souls that are blown abroad

By the great winds of passion, without power

To sway them, chartless captains. Multitudes ply

Trimly enough from bank to bank of Thames

Like shallow wherries, while tall galleons,

Out of their very beauty driven to dare

The uncompassed sea, founder in starless nights,

And all that we can say is —‘ They died drunk!’”

“I have it from veracious witnesses,”

Bame snuffled, “that the death of Robert Greene

Was caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wine

And pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirt

Was very foul, and while it was at wash

He lay i’ the cobbler's old blue smock, sir!”

“Gods,”

The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear,

“I had a dirty cloak once on my arm;

But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, take

Yon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oil

And bring it hither. Bring a candle, too,

And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it,

And then I'll seal his lips.”

“No — not to-night,”

Kit whispered, laughing, “I've a prettier plan

For Master Bame.”

“As for that scrap of paper,”

The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed,

“Why, which of us could send his heart and soul

Thro’ Caxton's printing-press and hope to find

The pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trust

The spoken word, no, not of my own lips,

Before the Judgment Throne against myself

Or on my own defence; and I'll not trust

The printed word to mirror Robert Greene.

See — here's another Testament, in blood,

Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn.

Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me.

Read it.‘ Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone;

And when‘ tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks.”

Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe took

A little scroll, and, while the winds without

Rattled the shutters with their ghostly hands

And wailed among the chimney-tops, he read:—

Greeting to all the Mermaid Inn

From their old Vice and Slip of Sin,

Greeting, Ben, to you, and you

Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too.

Greeting from your Might-have-been,

Your broken sapling, Robert Greene.

Read my letter —‘ Tis my last,

Then let Memory blot me out,

I would not make my maudlin past

A trough for every swinish snout.

First, I leave a debt unpaid,

It's all chalked up, not much all told,

For Bread and Sack. When I am cold,

Doll can pawn my Spanish blade

And pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host!

But... I have chalked up other scores

In your own hearts, behind the doors,

Not to be paid so quickly. Yet,

O, if you would not have my ghost

Creeping in at dead of night,

Out of the cold wind, out of the wet,

With weeping face and helpless fingers

Trying to wipe the marks away,

Read what I can write, still write,

While this life within them lingers.

Let me pay, lads, let me pay.

Item, for a peacock phrase,

Flung out in a sudden blaze,

Flung out at his friend Shake-scene,

By this ragged Might-have-been,

This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene.

Will, I knew it all the while!

And you know it — and you smile!

My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather,

While the quill that Ben, there, wields,

Fluttered down thro’ azure fields,

From an eagle in the sun;

And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing,

A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain,

Dropt out of an angel's wing.

Only a Jackdaw's feather mine,

And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine,

And yours the pure Pierian streams.

But I had dreams, O, I had dreams!

Dreams, you understand me, Will;

And I fretted at the tether

That bound me to the lowly plain,

Gnawed my heart out, for I knew

Once, tho’ that was long ago,

I might have risen with Ben and you

Somewhere near that Holy Hill

Whence the living rivers flow.

Let it pass. I did not know

One bitter phrase could ever fly

So far through that immortal sky

— Seeing all my songs had flown so low —

One envious phrase that cannot die

From century to century.

Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind,

As if indeed the night were all one ghost,

Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once more

Its desolate passion through the reader's voice:—

Some truth there was in what I said.

Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade;

And something of the rest you learned

From me,— but all you took you earned.

You took the best I had to give,

You took my clay and made it live;

And that — why that's what God must do!—

My music made for mortal ears

You flung to all the listening spheres.

You took my dreams and made them true.

And, if I claimed them, the blank air

Might claim the breath I shape to prayer.

I do not claim it! Let the earth

Claim the thrones she brings to birth.

Let the first shapers of our tongue

Claim whate'er is said or sung,

Till the doom repeal that debt

And cancel the first alphabet.

Yet when, like a god, you scaled

The shining crags where my foot failed;

When I saw my fruit of the vine

Foam in the Olympian cup,

Or in that broader chalice shine

Blood-red, a sacramental drink,

With stars for bubbles, lifted up,

Through the universal night,

Up to the celestial brink,

Up to that quintessential Light

Where God acclaimed you for the wine

Crushed from those poor grapes of mine;

O, you'll understand, no doubt,

How the poor vine-dresser fell,

How a pin-prick can let out

All the bannered hosts of hell,

Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth —

I had spilt my wine of youth,

The Temple was not mine to build.

My place in the world's march was filled.

Yet — through all the years to come —

Men to whom my songs are dumb

Will remember them and me

For that one cry of jealousy,

That curse where I had come to bless,

That harsh voice of unhappiness.

They'll note the curse, but not the pang,

Not the torment whence it sprang,

They'll note the blow at my friend's back,

But not the soul stretched on the rack.

They'll note the weak convulsive sting,

Not the crushed body and broken wing.

Item, for my thirty years,

Dashed with sun and splashed with tears,

Wan with revel, red with wine,

This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine.

Other wiser, happier men,

Take the full three-score-and-ten,

Climb slow, and seek the sun.

Dancing down is soon done.

Golden boys, beware, beware,—

The ambiguous oracles declare

Loving gods for those that die

Young, as old men may; but I,

Quick as was my pilgrimage,

Wither in mine April age.

Item, one groatsworth of wit,

Bought at an exceeding price,

Ay, a million of repentance.

Let me pay the whole of it.

Lying here these deadly nights,

Lads, for me the Mermaid lights

Gleam as for a castaway

Swept along a midnight sea

The harbour-lanthorns, each a spark,

A pin-prick in the solid dark,

That lets trickle through a ray

Glorious out of Paradise,

To stab him with new agony.

Let me pay, lads, let me pay!

Let the Mermaid pass the sentence:

I am pleading guilty now,

A dead leaf on the laurel-bough,

And the storm whirls me away.

Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing wind

That round and round the silent Mermaid Inn

Wandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors,

Like a most desolate ghost.

A sudden throng

Of players bustled in, shaking the rain

From their plumed hats. “Veracious witnesses,”

The snuffle of Bame arose anew, “declare

It was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wine

And pickled herrings. His shirt was very foul.

He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed,

And his boots broken...”

“What! Gonzago, you!”

A short fat player called in a deep voice

Across the room and, throwing aside his cloak

To show the woman's robe he wore beneath,

Minced up to Bame and bellowed — “‘ Tis such men

As you that tempt us women to our fall!”

And all the throng of players rocked and roared,

Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hush

Held them again.

“Look to the door,” he said,

“Is any listening?” The young player crept,

A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped.

“All's well! The coast is clear!”

“Then shall we tell

Our plan to Master Bame?”

Round the hushed room

Went Kit, a pen and paper in his hand,

Whispering each to read, digest, and sign,

While Ben re-filled the glass of Master Bame.

“And now,” said Kit aloud, “what think you, lads?

Shall he be told?” Solemnly one or two

‘ Gan shake their heads with “Safety! safety! Kit!”

“O, Bame can keep a secret! Come, we'll tell him!

He can advise us how a righteous man

Should act! We'll let him share an he approve.

Now, Master Bame,— come closer — my good friend,

Ben Jonson here, hath lately found a way

Of — hush! Come closer!— coining money, Bame.”

“Coining!” “Ay, hush, now! Hearken! A certain sure

And indiscoverable method, sir!

He is acquainted with one Poole, a felon

Lately released from Newgate, hath great skill

In mixture of metals — hush!— and, by the help

Of a right cunning maker of stamps, we mean

To coin French crowns, rose-nobles, pistolettes,

Angels and English shillings.”

For one breath

Bame stared at him with bulging beetle-eyes,

Then murmured shyly as a country maid

In her first wooing, “Is't not against the law?”

“Why, sir, who makes the law? Why should not Bame

Coin his own crowns like Queen Elizabeth?

She is but mortal! And consider, too,

The good works it should prosper in your hands,

Without regard to red-deer pies and wine

White as the Milky Way. Such secrets, Bame,

Were not good for the general; but a few

Discreet and righteous palms, your own, my friend,

And mine,— what think you?”

With a hesitant glance

Of well-nigh child-like cunning, screwing his eyes,

Bame laughed a little huskily and looked round

At that grave ring of anxious faces, all

Holding their breath and thrilling his blunt nerves

With their stage-practice. “And no risk?” breathed Bame,

“No risk at all?” “O, sir, no risk at all!

We make the very coins. Besides, that part

Touches not you. Yours is the honest face,

That's all we want.”

“Why, sir, if you be sure

There is no risk...”

“You'll help to spend it. Good!

We'll talk anon of this, and you shall carry

More angels in your pocket, master Bame,

Than e'er you'll meet in heaven. Set hand on seal

To this now, master Bame, to prove your faith.

Come, all have signed it. Here's the quill, dip, write.

Good!”

And Kit, pocketing the paper, bowed

The gull to the inn-door, saying as he went,—

“You shall hear further when the plan's complete.

But there's one great condition — not one word,

One breath of scandal more on Robert Greene.

He's dead; but he was one of us. The day

You air his shirt, I air this paper, too.”

No gleam of understanding, even then,

Illumed that long white face: no stage, indeed,

Has known such acting as the Mermaid Inn

That night, and Bame but sniggered, “Why, of course,

There's good in all men; and the best of us

Will make mistakes.”

“But no mistakes in this,”

Said Kit, “or all together we shall swing

At Tyburn — who knows what may leap to light?—

You understand? No scandal!” “Not a breath!”

So, in dead silence, Master Richard Bame

Went out into the darkness and the night,

To ask, as I have heard, for many a moon,

The price of malmsey-butts and silken hose,

And doublets slashed with satin.

As the door

Slammed on his back, the pent-up laughter burst

With echo and re-echo round the room,

But ceased as Will tossed on the glowing hearth

The last poor Testament of Robert Greene.

All watched it burn. The black wind wailed and moaned

Around the Mermaid as the sparks flew up.

“God, what a night for ships upon the sea,”

Said Raleigh, peering through the wet black panes,

“Well — we may thank Him for the Little Red Ring!”

“The Little Red Ring,” cried Kit, “the Little Red Ring!”

Then up stood Dekker on the old black settle.

“Give it a thumping chorus, lads,” he called,

And sang this brave song of the Mermaid Inn:—