Work Text:
But thy eternall Sommer shall not fade,
Nor loose possession of that faire thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wandr’st in his shade,
When in eternall lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long liues this, and this giues life to thee.
威廉·莎士比亚亲自去了一趟印刷厂。
按理说，他这样有名的诗人和剧作家不该再亲自去那种会让皮袄都沾上油墨味的地方了。更何况人到中年之后，连坐久了马车都会感到腰酸背痛，他几乎怀念青年时期能在剧院后台的地板上睡着的日子。只不过，他第一部出版诗集的样稿居然印错了字，出错的还是他最满意的那首诗。
印刷机被用力压下的声音规律地在耳边响起，他直奔几个昏昏欲睡的排字工，后者黑黢黢的指尖将一个磨损得只剩尾巴的“s”放在了“e”之后。“停一停，看看这是什么！”莎士比亚大喊，一把抓住了青年的手腕，冲过去看那几个词：“in eternall——没错，这和我的拼写习惯一样——lies……不对，我就说不对劲！瞧瞧，那个词该是“lines”，我的诗行，也就是你眼前这对雕刻着这堆古怪英文字母的字盘！要是这张版面出了错，这第一批印刷本全部都得变成错误的单词；再想想，要是碰巧由于这是一位伟大诗人的第一诗集的初版本，又碰巧女王的官员、爱好文艺的贵族、富有的藏书家……不论谁，想珍藏这个版本，再碰巧他手中的这本书有幸免于搬迁、遗失、大火、战争、王朝的兴——噢抱歉，国王陛下万岁——总之，被几百年后的学者奉为最接近威廉·莎士比亚原作的版本，这句错误的单词岂不是毁了一整首诗，毁了我今后的名声！”他在排字工的抗议中揪出了那个磨损的小木块，特意挑选了一块曲线完美的“s”，又选了一块看着最顺眼的“n”，愤慨地把它塞进了“i”和“e”中间。
做完这一切后，莎士比亚如释重负地抹了把汗，甚至忘记了将手上的油墨先擦干净，以至于光滑的脑门上被印上了一个诗行的句点。
他在印刷厂呆了很久，仔细盯着自己写过的每一个字被金属条排成整整齐齐的一行，被和纸张一起压进机器里。等纸张晾干等到了快要天黑，工人刚将它折成四开的大小摞在一起，他就眼疾手快地抢走，不，拿回了属于自己的第一本诗集，甚至来不及等它被送去装订。
回住所的马车在泥泞坑洼的道路上晃荡着。莎士比亚抱着那本薄薄的册子，被和刺鼻的油墨味关在一起，混杂着不时从街上钻进来的粪便、烟草和皮革的臭味，他光是抵抗反胃就已经费尽了力气。二十年过去了，二十年前，他甚至还能在车上抓起笔写上几句，或者探头张望伦敦脏兮兮的街景——对于一个从斯特拉福德来的年轻人来说，这些肮脏的妓院、酒馆、街上的排泄物，甚至瘟疫和老鼠都充满了机遇：除此之外，剧院还会和什么共生呢？靠着剧本出名是个不错的选择，可仅仅是剧本还是不够，我想－－
“我想把这首诗出版。”威尔鼓起勇气说道。
“出版？”那个年轻人将朝着车窗的脑袋转回来。
“是的，这两天我想了许多……”
他们都沉默了。显然，他听说了那份亵渎的手稿，听说他从几天前就要每日被枢密院传唤。他预感到上帝认为他该预感的，但奇怪的是，他只是迫切地想为他写一首诗。
对威尔来说，诗是偶然的。他的大部分诗都不在他的手中，许多赠予了该赠予的人，有些变成了稿纸，在背面写几行剧本或是别的，甚至丢到了不知哪里。但这首诗不同。他亲自誊抄了一遍，如今这首诗的另一张副本正躺在他书桌的柜子里。
威尔读过斯宾塞的诗；尽管不懂意大利语，他也多少对彼得拉克的诗句感到熟悉。在十四行诗广大的疆场上，身着铠甲的爱神催促着他挥舞笔墨征战，可他停住了笔——他无法让爱情走向斯宾塞的婚姻，更不愿让它走向彼得拉克的死别。而归根到底，归根到底，他们不可能走向任何一种结局。上帝祝福这两条路，一条是神圣的合一，一条是天国的再会。上帝安排了这两条路，却没有安排他们的。罪恶不是道路，罪恶是堕入上帝之外的他处。因基督说，“我即语言”，于是威尔想，被基督诅咒的事物恐怕也被剥夺了语言，包括诗的语言。许多人选择走向近旁那条名为友情之爱的小路——它从不会被当做罪恶，罪恶的只有行为；在某些时刻，它甚至比欲望之爱更加宽敞——来偷得上帝的语言，可那真的是他所想的吗？
威尔看到他的眼睑垂了下来，好似在遮蔽命运的影像。“啊，可是你为什么要给予他虚假的永恒？永恒的诗句不过是一句修辞。不论你想将它命名为什么，从这朵花萌芽之始，就生活在时间的阴影之下了。不如说这是对一切造物平等的诅咒，不论自然与否。”
“我想，即使我不能拥有合适的语言，我至少还可以拥有诗句，印在纸张上的诗句本身。你在剑桥读过的诗应该比我多得多……我不想走任何一条路，因为所有诗中的故事都会有它的尽头，但是诗没有！几百年前，就算是维吉尔也得被锁在修道院里，一点火星就能将萨福湮灭；但如今一首诗可以从伦敦的印刷厂逃到最远的郡，到大陆，到西班牙敌人的手中，到美洲……这首诗可以有数不清的读者，只要有一个人把它小心保存到橱柜中，只要有一个人的子孙愿意翻开……原谅我的亵渎，我有时候想，印刷机器恐怕是上帝的一种样子——你从没幻想过吗？”威尔急促地呼吸着。
“永恒的诗，还是永恒的生命，包括牧师常说的那种？我对永恒没有兴趣。我只写转瞬即逝的作品，我的剧本只会和我一起活着。如果有一天我死了，即使爱德华·艾林一直做我的主角，我的剧作也不会死而复生。我不留下手稿，甚至不在乎出版剧本；我有时候写下台词，有时候说出来，指着剧本让他们在今晚的演出上就这么改。醉着酒，或者没醉，连我自己也不记得说了什么。那些演员们认得活着的我，于是他们按着我的样子演出。准确来说，我的剧本只在演出的两小时里活着，我也只在那时才算真正地活着。我坐在最上层的座位，看成百张面孔随着我格律的呼吸而呼吸，把他们巨大而庞杂的生命汇入我的生命——就像大洪水的灾难，一瞬间仿佛能淹没整个伦敦，整个英格兰。然后——”他满足地伸了个懒腰，眼里闪烁着残忍的喜悦。
“然后我会死去，或早或晚，但在注定的某一天。然后浮士德死了，帖木儿死了，所有踏入过剧场的人失去了他在观看时流逝的生命。如果上帝真的存在，我倒要看祂如何审判这么多有罪的灵魂！”
他带着幻想引发的微醺的困倦，靠在威尔的肩头，又去读他的诗。那张稿纸被他紧攥在手中，似乎因为刚刚承受了如此多生命的宣泄而不堪重负。威尔预感到了他那番话的目的，他看到他们站在名为永恒的十字路口，他选择了剧院，而把诗句交给了自己。
“我——我相信诗。”
“到什么时候？”
“下一个千年。”
“到第二个千年？”他大笑，“如果这世界真能存续到那时候，那这一定是无神论的世界，堕落的世界，终末论者们正认为基督恐怕连一百年都等不及！”
“不……我要抵抗它，我要用我的笔抵抗。你我的时间是上帝的，但还有印刷机的时间，纸张的时间，铅和炭的时间；还会有新的装订，新的机器，新的书籍，也就是说——新的语言，新的眼睛……”
“……啊，你想让我活着。”他紧盯着威尔，屏住呼吸，生怕惊扰了命运三女神的织线，“我会在我的剧中死去，却在你的诗中活着。你想将我此后的生命永远据为己有，你要和宙斯、和死神、和魔鬼、和上帝抢夺它——凭着一张稿纸！”
威尔仿佛被扼住喉咙，他艰难地颤动嘴唇许久：“凭着一张纸。不，不止一张。”
“凭着把诗集堆叠成攻打奥林匹斯山的天梯——”
“我接受你的赌注，以灵魂永恒的消散，或者永恒的生命。”
“哪怕我无法写上你的名字？”
“如果你赢了，那么等到我的名字变得不再罪恶的那天，他们会想到我的。”克里斯托弗·马洛说道。
But thy eternall Sommer shall not fade,
Nor loose possession of that faire thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wandr’st in his shade,
When in eternall lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long liues this, and this giues life to thee.
William Shakespeare personally made a trip to the printing house.
By rights, a poet and playwright of his renown ought no longer to visit such a place, where even a fur coat would come away smelling of ink. All the more so now that, in middle age, even a long carriage ride left his back aching—he almost missed the days of his youth, when he could fall asleep on the theater’s backstage floor. Yet the proof sheets of his first published collection had been misprinted, and the error lay in the very poem he prized most.
The press thudded rhythmically in his ears. He strode straight toward a few drowsy typesetters. One of them, with blackened fingertips, was placing an “s” with barely more than its tail remaining after an “e.” “Stop—look at this!” Shakespeare shouted, seizing the young man’s wrist and rushing over to inspect the words. “In eternall—yes, that matches my spelling—lies… no, that’s wrong, I knew something was off! Look here, the word should be ‘lines,’ my lines of verse—the very forms before your eyes, engraved with these strange English letters! If this page is wrong, then every copy in this first print run will bear the error. And think—if, by chance, this happens to be the first edition of a great poet’s first collection, and by chance some court official, or a noble lover of the arts, or a wealthy collector—whoever it may be—wishes to preserve this version, and by further chance that very copy escapes relocation, loss, fire, war, the rise of dynasties—ah, forgive me, long live His Majesty the King—then centuries hence scholars will take it for the version closest to William Shakespeare’s original. Would not this one mistaken word ruin the entire poem, ruin my reputation for all time!” Amid the typesetter’s protests, he plucked out the worn wooden block, deliberately selected an “s” with a perfect curve, then chose the most pleasing “n,” and angrily wedged it between the “i” and the “e.”
When it was done, Shakespeare wiped his brow in relief, forgetting even to clean the ink from his hands, so that a dot from a line of verse was stamped upon his smooth forehead. He remained in the printing house a long while, watching intently as every word he had written was arranged into neat rows of metal type and pressed into paper. By the time the sheets had dried and dusk was near, just as the workers folded them into quarto and stacked them, he swiftly snatched—no, reclaimed—his own first collection, not even waiting for it to be sent for binding.
The carriage back to his lodgings jolted along muddy, rutted roads. Shakespeare held the thin booklet close, shut in with the acrid smell of ink, mingling with the stench of dung, tobacco, and leather drifting in from the streets. All his strength went into suppressing his nausea. Twenty years had passed. Twenty years earlier, he might still have seized a pen in such a carriage to write a few lines, or leaned out to take in London’s filthy streetscape. To a young man from Stratford, those foul brothels, taverns, street refuse, even plague and rats were full of opportunity. What else, after all, could a theater coexist with? Gaining fame through plays was a fine choice, yet plays alone were not enough. I want—
“I want to publish this poem,” Will said, gathering his courage.
“Publish?” The young man turned his head from the window.
“Yes. I’ve been thinking these past few days…”
They fell silent. Plainly, Will had heard of that blasphemous manuscript, heard that he had been summoned by the Privy Council. He sensed what God would have him sense, and yet, strangely, he only felt an urgent desire to write him a poem.
For Will, poetry was accidental. Most of his poems were no longer in his possession—many had been given to those who ought to receive them; some had become scrap paper, with a few lines of a play written on the back; others had been lost who knew where. But this poem was different. He had copied it out himself, and now another copy lay in the drawer of his desk.
Will had read Spenser; though he knew no Italian, he was somewhat familiar with Petrarch’s lines. Upon the vast battlefield of the sonnet, Love in armor urged him onward, yet his pen faltered. He could not let love end in Spenser’s marriage, nor in the death of the beloved in Petrarch. And in truth, they could not reach any ending at all. God blessed two paths: one of sacred union, one of heavenly reunion. God had ordained those paths, but not theirs. Sin was no path; it was a falling into a place outside God. For Christ is the Verbum, and so Will thought: what Christ curses is stripped of language, including the language of poetry. Many choose the nearby path called the love of friendship—it is never deemed sinful; only acts are, and at times it is even broader than the love of desire—as a way to steal God’s language. But was that truly what he wanted?
Will saw his eyelids lower, as though veiling the image of fate. “Ah, but why would you grant him a false eternity? Eternal lines are but a rhetorical device. Call it what you will, from the moment this flower sprouts, it lives under the shadow of time. Better to say it is a curse laid equally upon all creation, natural or not.”
“I think—even if I cannot possess the language, I can at least possess the lines themselves, printed on paper. You’ve read more poetry at Cambridge than I… I don’t want to take any path, because every story in poetry has its end—but poetry itself does not! Centuries ago, even Virgil had to be locked away in a monastery, and a single spark could erase Sappho. But now a poem can escape from a London press to the farthest shire, to the Continent, into the hands of Spanish enemies, even to the Americas… This poem may have countless readers. If even one person preserves it carefully in a cabinet, if even one descendant opens it…” He breathed rapidly. “Forgive my blasphemy, but sometimes I think the printing press may be a form of God. Have you never imagined it?”
“Imagine the eternal poetry, or eternal life, the kind the ministers speak of? I have no interest in eternity. I write only what is fleeting. My plays live only as long as I do. If I die one day, even if Edward Alleyn continues as my lead, my works will not rise again. I leave behind no manuscripts, nor do I care to have my plays published. Sometimes I write lines down, sometimes I speak them aloud, pointing at the script and having them changed for that very night’s performance. Drunk, or not, I scarcely remember what I’ve said. The actors know me alive, and so they perform in my likeness. To be precise, my plays live only in those two hours on stage—and I, too, only truly live then. I sit in the highest seats, watching hundreds of faces breathe with the rhythm of my verse, pouring their vast and tangled lives into mine—like a great flood, as if in an instant it might drown all of London, all of England. And then—” He stretched with satisfaction, a cruel delight gleaming in his eyes.
“And then I shall die, sooner or later, on a destined day. Then Faustus dies, Tamburlaine dies, and all who have entered the theater lose the life that slipped away while they watched. If God truly exists, I should like to see how He judges so many guilty souls!” Drowsy with a drunken, dreamlike fatigue, he leaned against Will’s shoulder and read the poem again. The manuscript trembled in his grasp, as though it could scarcely bear the outpouring of so many lives. Will sensed the purpose behind his words. He saw them standing at a crossroads called eternity: he chose the theater, and placed the poetry in Will’s hands.
“But I—I believe in poetry.”
“For how long?”
“Until the next millennium.”
“The second millennium?” He laughed. “If the world endures that long, it will be a godless world, a fallen one. The apocalypticists think Christ may not even wait a hundred years!”
“No… I will resist it. I will resist with my pen. Our time belongs to God, but there is also the time of the printing press, the time of paper, of lead and carbon. There will be new bindings, new machines, new books—and thus new language, new eyes…”
“…Ah, you want me to live.” He stared at Will, holding his breath, afraid to disturb the thread spun by the Fates. “I will die in my plays, yet live in your poem. You would claim my life thereafter as your own. You would wrest it from Jove, from Death, from the Devil, from God—with a sheet of paper!”
Will seemed to have his throat seized. His lips trembled for a long while before he managed to say, “With a sheet of paper. No—not just one.”
“With stacks of poems piled into a ladder to storm Olympus—”
“Then I accept your wager: the eternal dissolution of the soul, or eternal life.”
“Even if I cannot write your name?”
“If you win, then when my name is no longer a sin, they will think of me.” Christopher Marlowe said.