‘Makes you want to yell into the ears of this rich idle bugger, doesn’t it?’
Take physic, pomp! Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, that thou may’st shake the superflux to them and show the heavens more just!
‘But he just keeps on stuffing himself.’
Every bite damnation. You shouldn’t wolf your food, Francis.
Even holding up the cloth he couldn’t stay away from the trough.
‘You should talk. You always wolfed it down. You always liked to pack it away.’
I had an excuse.
Francis tried to snort and choked instead.
Too busy scribbling. Never ate properly.
‘Well, he got his come-uppins, I see.’
Yes, you can see God’s justice plain in the picture, plain as that boozy Bardolph nose on your face. And you can see how clever God was to invent death, the great gateway and reverser. Because although this poor bugger could never get through the rich man’s gates, death was his pathway to paradise, and the rich bastard’s into hell.
‘Very neat.’
Yes, there’s Lazarus, cleansed of his sores, lying high in Abraham’s bosom. And there’s Dives lying now at the bottom of the picture, as Lazarus had done, just inside the gates.
‘But now it’s the gates of hell.’
As you say; a nice reversal. And a clever parallel too, because it shows you that Dives’ house was really a kind of hell all along, like Macbeth’s. All this time he’s been damning himself.
‘And now the flames are licking at his lower portions, the fat fucker.’
Like dogs eating him alive.
‘Forever.’
That’s the frightening thing, and that’s why it scared me, the absolute fixity of it. A play breaks up – but a picture stays the same. It never goes away.
‘So Dives burns in the flames.’
Burns on. For ever and ever. Just like Ridley.
The thought didn’t stop Francis tucking in.
‘Do you think hell’s a fable, Will?’
Hell on earth isn’t. But according to those papists, when that keg of powder went off in Ridley’s face, it wasn’t the finish for him, it was simply the signal for the lighting of the eternal flame. The poor bastard’s sufferings weren’t over, they were only just beginning. And they would never end, never. Hell is forever.
‘Jesus, let’s call up old Marlowe. I think we’ll become necromancers – and atheists.’
They’ll burn you for that too. No, the safest way forward is to provide for the poor. Ten pounds to the poor of Stratford, write it down.
‘Ten pounds! There’s no need to go mad!’
It’s modest and you know it. Do as I say.
‘Don’t take it that much to heart, Will. It’s only a picture, a story.’
It’s more than that.
‘It’s not worth ten pounds. And ten pounds is not modest.’
Item, I give and bequeath unto the poor of Stratford aforesaid ten pounds.
‘That’ll come later on. We’re going in circles here.’
No, we’re getting somewhere. Make a note of it, go on, note it down. We’ll get the order right anon. This is only a draft.
‘Well, it did haunt you, didn’t it?’
Like the moth to the arras, like the fly to the flame, hovering and enthralled, I kept coming back to it, sneaking into the room. Old Henry used to point to it and came out with the same line every time.
‘Behold the rich fucker! Fallen in purple and shorn of his glory, eaten now by the flames, the glutton consumed!’
‘Yes, that would have appealed to the old bugger.’
And yet, you know Francis, let me tell you something curious. Dives was the one I felt for, not poor Lazarus, licked by dogs.
‘Well, you always saw the other side of things – too many sides, if you ask me.’
Ah, but look at Lazarus now, clothed in purple and ringed by the radiance of eternity, he’d become a mere abstraction to me, an indifference, the apotheosis of an ending.
‘You’re losing me. Why don’t you eat something?’
It’s simple, Francis. He’d been a ragged beggar all his life, he’d no distance left to fall, his only path lay upwards – and that was no spectacle. It’s the downward path that impresses. The Hell trajectory. The higher the man rises the harder he falls. And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer. Never to rise again. That’s tragedy.
‘Hell trajectory, tragedy! Are you going to eat what’s on that plate or not, old man?’
Francis had done the rummaging and came up with a grunt from the bottom of the chest with one of the burgundies, clandestinely wrapped in another of the hangings. I always knew my hoard was safe in there. Anne hated those cloths and wouldn’t go near them. They were Ardens for a start, and she had a thing about my mother, thinking that I had a thing about her too – a different thing. But as to the cloths themselves, it wasn’t their crudity that offended her – she never had an eye for art anyway – it was their next-worldliness. Anne was always of this world – doesn’t like to be reminded of what’s to come. That’s why she’ll stay safely out of the way, till the will’s made out. Whenever that may be, with Francis now making for trough number two, fork at the ready. They call him Francis the fork because of his fancy for that entirely unnecessary tool.
‘Are you sure now?’
It’ll only go to waste.
‘You never kept dogs, did you, Will?’
They lick lepers’ sores. And worse things.
‘Well, if you’re quite certain –’
Go on, get it into your belly, you roasted Manningtree ox –
‘You elf-skin.’
You sheath.
‘You tailor’s yard.’
You dried neat’s-tongue.
‘You stock-fish.’
Bed-presser.
‘Bow-case.’
Horseback-breaker.
‘You always win. Hand it over anyway.’
Aren’t you forgetting something? Glug glug. A fair exchange.
‘What a man for Bacchus.’
And for Venus in my time.
‘No more o’ that, Master Shakespeare. We’re respectable men now, doing the right thing, parcelling out your possessions. What’s this one?’
Ah, that’s the other Lazarus. Hold it up. I’ll talk you through it.
‘I thought you would.’
That’s the Lazarus who died, and made Jesus cry, causing the angels to weep.
‘Tears of heaven.’
Sublime. But Jesus was so crushed by grief, he did what each one of us would gladly do, we’d do it in a twinkling if only we could – he brought his dead friend back to life.
‘Quite a crowd come to watch the show, I see.’
Wouldn’t you, Francis? I wish I’d been there. I’d have given anything.
‘Brrr! Not for me, thank you. Morbid stuff. A gathering of ghouls.’
Not a whit, Francis, don’t you see? This man’s been among the dead, he’s been among worms and stars, he’s known the secrets of the grave, the undiscovered country –
‘From whose bourne no traveller returns.’
And now a traveller has returned. And he’s come back trailing clouds of glory, the veils of an unknowable mystery.
‘That’s got nothing to do with it, it’s sheer spectacle, that’s all. That’s why it appealed to you.’
You’re not altogether wrong. It’s the greatest show on earth, the loftiest spectacle of all time. The crowds have gathered in the place of tombs.
‘Bit of a blur to me. Where’s my spectacles?’
And yes look here, some of Lazarus’s friends are remonstrating with Jesus. Master, we beg you, think what you’re about to do. We know you can walk on water, change water into wine, still the restless wave, feed five thousand. But this isn’t a case of deafness or lameness, leprosy, demonic possession, loss of sight, this is different. The man is gone, he’s no more, he’s dead and rotten, three days buried. And in thes
e temperatures, even in the coolness of the tomb, his flesh will be putrid already. He’ll be stinking.
‘Pooh! They have a point.’
But Jesus presses right on through the graves till he comes to the doors of Lazarus’s tomb. Just look at the audience reaction, even in this vulgar patch of daubery!
‘Ah, the audience! Where would you be without them?’
Some are fanning themselves because of the heat, some holding their handkerchiefs to their noses, one or two averting their eyes.
‘Exceedingly realistic.’
But most are straining to get a good view.
‘Important for a spectator, especially if he’s paid for a good seat.’
Standing room only, a groundling’s gala.
‘An on-the-ground event.’
Deeper than that. While from on high, sure enough, the angels rain down golden tears, because Jesus has wept.
‘Jesus wept. Hear the pennies raining. Always kept an eye on your audience, didn’t you, Will?’
Never mind about the audience. Look at these splendid sepulchral gates, stuck so absurdly in the middle of this desert.
‘Out of place, you have to say.’
Should have been a rock, a boulder, not this blazing cathedral. But never mind.
‘One door’s as good as another.’
Up steps Jesus, strikes them hard, they swing open, and he shouts the famous words, ‘Lazarus, come forth!’
Scrolling out of his mouth, look, in this lurid red paint, just like blood. You can feel the force of it, booming out, like a burst artery.
‘Right up your bum!’
Shall we say groin?
‘Fit to give you the shits.’
I always felt the thrill of it, though.
Lazarus, come forth!
Silence. Every eye riveted to that black hole in the rock, behind the yawning gates, a black mouth winding down into the gullet of the grave –
‘Steady on, old man.’
That brutal gash in the earth’s crust, into which we all go eventually, unwilling emigrants to the unknown region, where all identities disappear, all nations meet and merge. They’re all staring into it now, expectant, unbelieving. They know very well that nothing ever comes back up out of that blackness.
Lazarus, come forth!
Nothing.
Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.
But Jesus doesn’t. The crowd has already relaxed a little, knowing it’s unreal, facing the truth that we all have to face, following the first numbness, the shock of loss. And those wild ideas that the loved one is still in some sense around us, quite close by, next door, perched on the clouds perhaps, or deep in our hearts, keeping an eye on us.
‘It’s hard to let go.’
Hard? It’s impossible. But there’s no option, is there, when even Jesus can’t raise the dead. Accept the obvious then. This is one miracle that isn’t going to come off. Death really is the end. They’re never coming back, are they? And at the end of all reflection maybe there is something almost soothing about this thought, and the absolute ordinariness of it. Dead men rise up never. And in an uncertain world we can even take comfort from that one certainty, death’s complete finality.
‘Not me. I’m for life and hope. Give me a bit more of that beef. That’s what I call comfort.’
And then it happens, doesn’t it? A white speck at the end of the long black tunnel. A trick of the eye? No, it’s not one of those dancing specks bedevilling the brain, it’s something steady in the eye, a faint muslin flimsiness in the distance, but getting bigger, coming closer.
Look, my lord, it comes!
‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!’
That line again, Francis? Twice in one morning.
‘Oh, I can see him now.’
I remember when I first saw him.
A blind white figure, bound from head to foot. A blind bandaged figure, cocooned like a caterpillar, swathed like a mummy. Lazarus born again, wrapped in swaddling clothes, Lazarus in his birthday shroud, stepping out gingerly into the bright new sunshine, blinking in bewilderment when they unwrapped the bandages. Uncertain and awkward about his sudden guest appearance on this great stage of fools, this unexpected encore. And entirely without words for the occasion.
‘God, what a script you could have given him, Will!’
Yes, and to my eternal disappointment there he was, speechless in time, rescued from eternity without a syllable to spend.
‘I’d rather have syllabub.’
And why? Because everybody was so stunned by the event, nobody actually remembered to ask the most momentous question of all time. Not a soul took it into his head to put to this newly returned traveller to the next world the ultimate query, the riddle of existence, the enigma of the universe –
‘I know what’s coming.’
Lazarus, what was it like – being dead?
‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’
Returning travellers are usually more than happy to share their experiences, and the stay-at-homes always greedy to hear them. But on this great occasion nobody asked – and he never said.
‘Maybe it didn’t matter to him – the undiscovered country and all that.’
Maybe not, now that he’d come home again to the sights and shapes and sounds and scents of the dear old earth that we all know. I told you, he’d traded secrets with worms and stars, he’d heard the harmony of immortal souls. But now he was just glad to put it back on, the muddy vesture of decay, to be grossly closed in again, not to hear that impossibly perfect music.
‘Maybe the next world is – well, boring.’
Happiness can be.
‘But supposing – just supposing somebody did ask the big question that day.’
Thou comest in such a questionable shape that I will speak to thee. O! answer me: let me not burst in ignorance, but tell why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death, have burst their cerements, why the sepulchre, wherein we saw thee quietly inurned, hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws to cast thee up again? What may this mean, dead corpse?
‘And maybe Lazarus was not allowed to answer.’
But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul. But this eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood.
‘Like state secrets.’
Like the music of the spheres, which we’re too gross to hear. Like Bottom’s dream, untranslatable to a fool. Or by an ass.
‘Or it’s even possible that scripture got it wrong, missed something out. I mean, the bible wasn’t actually written by God, with pen and ink. Scribes did it. And if they were anything like the scribes in my office…’
Say no more, Francis. Suffice it to say, the moment was missed, the great opportunity neglected. It remained unexplored, that hidden space behind the stage, where the dead actors go to, once they’ve made their final exits, the unseen dimension of the great globe.
‘Talking of actors, Will –’
The drama of Lazarus stayed frozen on the cloth. But I’ll tell you something, Francis. Now, all these years later, as I approach the answer to the question myself, I know that if it had been chronicled that day, it would have spelled the death of all drama and the end of all art. I’d never have written a single line.
‘How do you mean?’
Simple, Francis. There would have been nothing left to know.
‘Well, I don’t know about that. What good does it do you to know about death? I mean, what use is it?’
The ultimate subject. The only subject.
‘Oh, come off it! Philosophy, medicine, astronomy – the law!’
Too service and illiberal for me.
‘Oh God, I know what’s coming next.’
This study fits a mercenary drudge –
‘Who aims at nothing but external trash!’ Francis pleased with his quotation.
‘And speaking of trash, how many more of these monstrosities are there
in the chest?’
Nine. There were eleven in all.
‘Jesus Christ! Right, back they go! Any more burgundy in there? By the time we go through one wee chest, moth and rust will have corrupted your entire estate!’
Or you’ll have eaten and drunk me out of house and home, you huge bombard of sack!
‘You leek!’
You trunk of humours!
‘You radish!’
You bolting-hutch of beastliness, you swollen parcel of dropsies, you stuffed cloak-bag of guts –
‘All right, all right, I can’t compete! But I congratulate you, Will. You never over-spice your meat.’
I had enough of that in London. You said something about actors a minute ago.
‘Later. One thing at a time. Who are these cloths to go to? Decide, quick.’
No, you heard what she said. Don’t mention them in particular. They can be lumped in with the rest of the domestic clutter.
‘Which is going where? Be specific.’
Item, all the rest of my goods, chattels, leases, plate, jewels, and household stuff whatsoever, after my debts and legacies paid, and my funeral expenses discharged, I give, devise and bequeath to my son-in-law, John Hall, gent., and my daughter Susanna his wife.
‘Hang on, this will’s back to front and upside down. It’s arse over tit!’
Never mind. And add on there, after John and Susanna – whom I ordain and make executors of this my last will and testament.
‘Well, that’s something settled. Now let’s get back to the beginning.’
The beginning. Ah yes, of course. That’s what I was telling you about.
4
‘They got you going though, those cloths.’
They were silent theatre, the first step on the road to the real thing.
‘A long long trail a-winding, friend.’
And yet, suddenly now, it seems short.
‘That’s life. Not short on example though, were you?’
I don’t know why everybody doesn’t become a playwright. All those images that were fed in from infancy: the biting on a forbidden fruit, a brother’s brains bright on a sudden club –
Will Page 6