Read Online The Marlowe Conspiracy by M.G. Scarsbrook - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M.G. Scarsbrook
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another ‘Doctor Faustus’ ? Yes, that’s a splendid idea. Let’s see what happens when Doctor Faustus is taken to Hell. How about that?”
Kit shook his head and waited for a decision. Henslowe paused and tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“You see,” he explained, “when people come to watch a Marlowe play they expect certain things.” He counted them out using his fingers: “poetry, violence, tragedy, a hero fighting the world...”
“Don't remind me.”
“What you're proposing isn't really a Marlowe play at all.”
“Yet I would be the author, nonetheless. I would still create it.”
“But it wouldn't be you.”
“You’re insane!”
“It would be like I'd bought the work of someone else.”
“Who?”
“An untested playwright.”
Kit threw his hands in the air.
“So you don't want it?”
“Now wait a minute. Just wait. I didn't say that, exactly.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I'll need to see it first.” Henslowe stood up slowly and patted the dust from the back of his breeches. “Bring me half and we'll discuss an advance then.”
“No,” Kit said through clenched teeth. “I need the money now.”
Henslowe shrugged and smacked his lips frankly. There was nothing more to be said.
Kit sat still for a moment. Only his leg shook, tapping his heel on the floor. Everything around him, the seats, the stage, even Henslowe, seemed so perfectly hard and defined, unmovable from its place. Anger spiked through his body. Suddenly enraged, he gripped hold of the banister rail, sprang to his feet, and thundered down the stairs to the yard. He curled his hands into fists as he marched toward the exit. In doing so, he passed near the front of the stage where the armored man lunged once more before the monsters.
“By all the powers...” said the armored man. “By all the powers... By all the powers in heaven...”
“How could anyone write such a god-awful scene?” growled Kit, finishing the sentence. He gave Tom and all the players a scathing glance. “You're just a bunch of hacks, I hope you know that!”
The girl player tore off his wig and threw it to the floor. The other players barked a host of dirty epithets in Kit's direction: cries of “Pignut!”, “Wagtail!”, “Clot-pole!”, and “Maggot-pie!” were flung roughly through the air. In particular, Tom turned pale with deep offense. He lowered his eyes condescendingly towards Kit and stepped forward.
“I'm just about tired of your mouth, Kit,” he said acidly. “Why don't you go to hell along with your last hero?” He turned back to the players for support. “That is, if Satan would have you!”
The players wheezed and snickered. Kit smiled bitterly and waited for them to finish.
“Tom,” he said, “I've seen turds in the gutter that frighten me more than you.” He raised his voice to the stands. “Come to think of it, they could write a better play, as well. I'm surprised Henslowe doesn't get some in here. Or perhaps we already have enough refuse lying about the place!”
Tom and the players stood speechless. Henslowe retreated back into the shade of the stands. Kit waved his hands as if to dismiss them all, slapped the theater door open, and stormed out of the building.
SCENE TWELVE
Outside The Rose Theater.
K it paced through Bankside and soon began to cool down. In the western hills, the afternoon sun poured into the horizon and ran through the fields in gushes of purple light. Damp grass smells lurked around the town. Gradually, he worked back toward the wherries at the riverbank.
Up ahead, ambling along in the same direction, he sighted Will. Intrigued, Kit increased his pace and caught up to him.
“Mind if I walk with you a moment?” he asked.
“Not at all,” said Will, relishing Kit's attention. “Please do.”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, really – at least that's what Henslowe thinks.”
“Quite a piece of work, isn't he?”
“Yes, and it’s a
Kit shook his head and waited for a decision. Henslowe paused and tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“You see,” he explained, “when people come to watch a Marlowe play they expect certain things.” He counted them out using his fingers: “poetry, violence, tragedy, a hero fighting the world...”
“Don't remind me.”
“What you're proposing isn't really a Marlowe play at all.”
“Yet I would be the author, nonetheless. I would still create it.”
“But it wouldn't be you.”
“You’re insane!”
“It would be like I'd bought the work of someone else.”
“Who?”
“An untested playwright.”
Kit threw his hands in the air.
“So you don't want it?”
“Now wait a minute. Just wait. I didn't say that, exactly.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I'll need to see it first.” Henslowe stood up slowly and patted the dust from the back of his breeches. “Bring me half and we'll discuss an advance then.”
“No,” Kit said through clenched teeth. “I need the money now.”
Henslowe shrugged and smacked his lips frankly. There was nothing more to be said.
Kit sat still for a moment. Only his leg shook, tapping his heel on the floor. Everything around him, the seats, the stage, even Henslowe, seemed so perfectly hard and defined, unmovable from its place. Anger spiked through his body. Suddenly enraged, he gripped hold of the banister rail, sprang to his feet, and thundered down the stairs to the yard. He curled his hands into fists as he marched toward the exit. In doing so, he passed near the front of the stage where the armored man lunged once more before the monsters.
“By all the powers...” said the armored man. “By all the powers... By all the powers in heaven...”
“How could anyone write such a god-awful scene?” growled Kit, finishing the sentence. He gave Tom and all the players a scathing glance. “You're just a bunch of hacks, I hope you know that!”
The girl player tore off his wig and threw it to the floor. The other players barked a host of dirty epithets in Kit's direction: cries of “Pignut!”, “Wagtail!”, “Clot-pole!”, and “Maggot-pie!” were flung roughly through the air. In particular, Tom turned pale with deep offense. He lowered his eyes condescendingly towards Kit and stepped forward.
“I'm just about tired of your mouth, Kit,” he said acidly. “Why don't you go to hell along with your last hero?” He turned back to the players for support. “That is, if Satan would have you!”
The players wheezed and snickered. Kit smiled bitterly and waited for them to finish.
“Tom,” he said, “I've seen turds in the gutter that frighten me more than you.” He raised his voice to the stands. “Come to think of it, they could write a better play, as well. I'm surprised Henslowe doesn't get some in here. Or perhaps we already have enough refuse lying about the place!”
Tom and the players stood speechless. Henslowe retreated back into the shade of the stands. Kit waved his hands as if to dismiss them all, slapped the theater door open, and stormed out of the building.
SCENE TWELVE
Outside The Rose Theater.
K it paced through Bankside and soon began to cool down. In the western hills, the afternoon sun poured into the horizon and ran through the fields in gushes of purple light. Damp grass smells lurked around the town. Gradually, he worked back toward the wherries at the riverbank.
Up ahead, ambling along in the same direction, he sighted Will. Intrigued, Kit increased his pace and caught up to him.
“Mind if I walk with you a moment?” he asked.
“Not at all,” said Will, relishing Kit's attention. “Please do.”
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere, really – at least that's what Henslowe thinks.”
“Quite a piece of work, isn't he?”
“Yes, and it’s a
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