Then, shaking his head as if he knew, Under the sign of the _Golden Shoe_, Touched by the glow of the setting sun, While the pilgrims passed, The little cobbler would laugh and say: "When you are old you will understand 'Tis a very long way To Samarcand! Why, largely to exaggerate Befits not men of small estate, But--I should say, yes, I should say, 'Tis a hundred miles from where you stand; And a hundred more, my little son, A hundred more, to Holy Land!... I have a work in the world to do --_Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, To good St. Hugh!_-- The cobbler must stick to his last."
"Which last," said Nash, breaking his rhyme off short, "The crowder, after his kind, would seem to approve. Well--all the waves from that great wreck out there Break, and are lost in one withdrawing sigh:
The little lad that used to play Around the cobbler's door, Kit Marlowe, Kit Marlowe, We shall not see him more.
But--could I tell you how that galleon sank, Could I but bring you to that hollow whirl, The black gulf in mid-ocean, where that wreck Went thundering down, and round it hell still roars, That were a tale to snap all fiddle-strings." "Tell me," said Chapman.
"Ah, you wondered why," Said Nash, "you wondered why he asked your help To crown that work of his. Why, Chapman, think, Think of the cobbler's awl--there's a stout lance To couch at London, there's a conquering point To carry in triumph through Persepolis! I tell you Kit was nothing but a child, When some rich patron of the _Golden Shoe_ Beheld him riding into Samarcand Upon a broken chair, the which he said Was a white steed, splashed with the blood of kings. When, on that patron's bounty, he did ride So far as Cambridge, he was a brave lad, Untamed, adventurous, but still innocent, O, innocent as the cobbler's little self! He brought to London just a bundle and stick, A slender purse, an Ovid, a few scraps Of song, and all unshielded, all unarmed A child's heart, packed with splendid hopes and dreams. I say a child's heart, Chapman, and that phrase Crowns, not dis-crowns, his manhood. Well--he turned An honest penny, taking some small part In plays at the _Red Bull_. And, all the while, Beyond the paint and tinsel of the stage, Beyond the greasy cock-pit with its reek Of orange-peel and civet, as all of these Were but the clay churned by the glorious rush Of his white chariots and his burning steeds, Nay, as the clay were a shadow, his great dreams, Like bannered legions on some proud crusade, Empurpling all the deserts of the world, Swept on in triumph to the glittering towers Of his abiding City. Then--he met That damned blood-sucking cockatrice, the pug Of some fine strutting mummer, one of those plagues Bred by our stage, a puff-ball on the hill Of Helicon. As for his wench--she too Had played so many parts that she forgot The cue for truth. King Puff had taught her well. He was the vainer and more foolish thing, She the more poisonous. One dark day, to spite Archer, her latest paramour, a friend And apple-squire to Puff, she set her eyes On Marlowe ... feigned a joy in his young art, Murmured his songs, used all her London tricks To coney-catch the country greenhorn. Man, Kit never even _saw_ her painted face! He pored on books by candle-light and saw Everything thro' a mist. O, I could laugh To think of it, only--his up-turned skull There, in the dark, now that the flesh drops off, Has laughed enough, a horrible silent laugh, To think his Angel of Light was, after all, Only the red-lipped Angel of the Plague. He was no better than the rest of us, No worse. He felt the heat. He felt the cold. He took her down to Deptford to escape Contagion, and the crashing of sextons' spades On dead men's bones in every churchyard round; The jangling bell and the cry, _Bring out your dead_. And there she told him of her luckless life, Wedded, deserted, both against her will, A luckless Eve that never knew the snake. True and half-true she mixed in one wild lie, And then--she caught him by the hand and wept. No death-cart passed to warn him with its bell. Her eyes, her perfumed hair, and her red mouth, Her warm white breast, her civet-scented skin, Swimming before him, in a piteous mist, Made the lad drunk, and--she was in his arms; And all that God had meant to wake one day Under the Sun of Love, suddenly woke By candle-light and cried, 'The Sun; The Sun!' And he believed it, Chapman, he believed it! He was a cobbler's son, and he believed In Love! Blind, through that mist, he caught at Love, The everlasting King of all this world.