Dark Renaissance: The Dangerous Times and Fatal Genius of Shakespeare’s Greatest Rival by Stephen Greenblatt
When visualizing Elizabethan England, the mind’s eye tends to summon associated grandeur. The reality is that if you were a contemporary from, say, Italy, all-things-English really wasn’t worth your time. There was no point in learning English, as anything of value written by an English author would have been available in Latin. Also pointless was crossing the Channel for a visit. London in the mid-16th century was a cultural backwater, where if there was any theatre to be had it was usually a theatre of cruelty, comprised of bear-baiting and public executions.
But then, almost in a rush, from England emerged two of history’s greatest playwrights. William Shakespeare was fortunate to live long enough to produce a vast canon of work. The other playwright was on the other side of longevity, having been murdered at age 29. And in Stephen Greenblatt’s excellent new book, Dark Renaissance: The Dangerous Times and Fatal Genius of Shakespeare’s Greatest Rival, we read about the life of this other playwright: Christopher Marlowe.
If you’re like me, you knew that there was indeed a Christopher Marlowe and that he wrote The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus. Beyond that, however, I didn’t know much. But in reading Greenblatt’s compelling narrative, I realized that I’ve known Marlowe all along. When we’re listening to a Shakespeare play, specifically Hamlet and Macbet
Greenblatt, a leading Shakespearean scholar, is the perfect guide into this world. When he says, “Virtually everything in the Elizabethan theater is pre- and post-Tamburlaine” (Marlowe’s first play), the succinctness underscores its importance. Greenblatt has spent his long academic career developing New Historicism, a literary theory that stresses the importance of studying a text within the cultural context in which it was written. How this benefits us, the general reader, is that he’s a master of not only introducing Marlowe’s works, but also of noting the caprices that marked living in the late 1500s.
It seems more than a touch improbable that the son of an illiterate cobbler would ascend to such literary heights. Given that little is known about Marlowe—other than his works—part of the fun is reading how Greenblatt builds the architecture of Marlowe’s short life. And when no definitive answer emerges, the open questions are intriguing. For example, how did an early-teen Marlowe earn a scholarship to a private school when neither of his parents were capable of teaching him how to read?
A formal education was revelatory for Marlowe, culminating in two degrees from Cambridge University. Through rigorous study, specifically studying Greek and Latin, a world of creative possibilities opened for Marlowe. His contemporary world was one of religious turmoil, where it was determined whether you were a Catholic or a Protestant based on the religious preference of the seated monarch. Religious texts were limiting and could not ultimately sustain the mind. Classic texts, on the other hand, were a way of freeing the mind. So reading Ovid, for example, appealed to more primal human emotions. Add to that working through the humanism found in early Italian Renaissance texts, you have potentially churned out a graduate who will question religious dogma.
And yet this was the exact opposite of what was expected of Cambridge graduates. It was hoped a life in the church (in the power structure) would be the subsequent choice. This was not for Marlowe.
Marlowe’s graduate degree was almost not conferred due his lengthy unexplained absence. Greenblatt consults Cambridge’s dining hall ledgers (the Buttery books) to mark Marlowe’s absence and return, replete with a marked influx of funds for food and drink. Also surviving is a document from Queen Elizabeth’s Privy Council requesting that Marlowe be awarded his MA degree, for “he had done her Majesty good service.” In short, Marlowe was a spy for the crown.
His Cambridge degrees meant Marlowe could be considered a gentleman. Yet despite the popularity of his plays, he was paid little for their productions; and given England’s strict class distinctions, Marlowe could only rise so far. His renown did put him in the orbit of powerful individuals, such as Walter Raleigh, who happened to crave knowledge beyond what was accepted by scripture.
It was around this time that Marlowe wrote the retelling of Doctor Faustus. Greenblatt’s analysis of the play as it relates to both its lasting influence and its immediate significance is about as engaging as it comes. In the end, the words Marlowe gave to his characters burned with such suggestion they led an old enemy to suggest that Marlowe was an atheist. Whether he was murdered by order of the crown or, as the official report read, stabbed to death over his share of a dinner bill, the end came in a small room inside of a tavern.
The book’s subtitle seems to have been the work of the publisher to hook potential readers. No doubt there was some literary competition between Shakespeare and Marlowe, but not with any apparent animosity. In fact, Greenblatt notes that the scholarly consensus is that Marlowe co-authored portions of Shakespeare’s Henry VI. And Shakespeare references Marlowe’s death in As You Like It when the jester, Touchstone, says, “When a man’s verses cannot be understood…it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room.”
The only known portrait of Marlowe was almost lost to history. In 1953, during renovation work at Cambridge University, someone noticed several painted boards in a dumpster. They were assembled and restored, resulting in a portrait of an insouciant young man with auburn hair. Below the Latin inscription “Aetatis suae 21 1585” (Aged 21,1585) is the Latin motto “Quod me nutrit me destruit” (“That which nourishes me destroys me”).
Review by Jason Sullivan
