The Slaying Of The Shrew Read online

  “Drivel it may be,” Shakespeare had replied, “but if ‘twill help to pay our rent and put food into our empty, growling bellies, then to drivel shall I fix my compass and grandly sail forth.”

  And so he did, often working late into the night by candlelight, writing at his desk, a small, crudely made trestle table now covered with candle wax and ink stains. He was often writing when Smythe fell asleep, and sometimes was still to be found writing come the morning. To date, he had not yet managed to find a wealthy patron, but he had sold some sonnets to a few well-born young gentlemen, thanks to an admiring word or two dropped casually by Sir William at court, and his name was beginning to become known as a rising young poet. He was yet a far cry from being a rival to the likes of Robert Greene or Thomas Lodge, but then he was still new in London and did not have the advantage of a university degree to buttress his ambitions. However, he did not let that deter him, not when it came to writing sonnets, nor when it came to writing plays.

  Thus far, he had yet to write a complete play of his own, though he had made extensive notes on various ideas. Shakespeare’s first opportunity to show the company what he could do came when Alleyn left them in the midst of a production that had not been working to begin with. It was unclear who was the original author of the play, for companies frequently performed plays that were rewritten from earlier versions, which were often rewritten from earlier versions still, which in turn often came from other sources. The original author was often impossible to pinpoint, though as Smythe recalled, this particular production had all the stamp of Robert Greene upon it.

  Though he could not say that it was Greene for certain, the play had a pomposity and a pretentiousness, a smug condecension in its mocking attitude towards the rising middle class that had all the earmarks of the university men-Greene, in particular-who seemed to despise the very audience for whom they wrote. Or perhaps, as Shakespeare had put it, for whom the companies performed the plays, for Will believed that the university men actually wrote less for the playhouse audiences than for one another. Therein, he insisted, lay their true failing.

  For the Queen’s Men, the problem was, perhaps, less clearly defined, but nevertheless immediate. The play was a disaster and their featured player had summarily quit them for a rival company. Something needed to be done, and quickly. Seeing his opportunity, Will had stepped forth, volunteering to try his hand at doctoring the play. Dick Burbage had decided they had nothing to lose by letting him try. If the young ostler fancied himself a poet, Burbage had told the others, then why not see what he could do? So what if he was not a university-trained man of letters? Who was to say that he might not come up with an amusing verse or two that could add some much needed spirit to improve the play? It certainly could not, Burbage had admitted wryly, be made a great deal worse.

  Shakespeare had not only improved the production by deleting a few lines here and adding a few there, rewriting the most troublesome scenes, but he had continued to rewrite in stages, after each performance, until an almost entirely new and much improved play had emerged. The company was so well pleased with the result that they gave him the opportunity of looking over the other plays in their repertoire, to see if they might be improved, as well.

  For Shakespeare, this had brought about a change in fortune that had elevated him from the lowly post of ostler at the Burbage Theatre to book-holder and sometime actor. Both positions carried more prestige within the company and brought with them slightly better pay, but as book-holder especially, Will now had a great deal more responsibility. While not quite as important as the role of stage-manager who assembled the company, assigned all the parts, and saw to it that all the actors received their parts in manuscript sheets of paper pasted together to form rolls upon which were written each actor’s cues and speeches, the book-holder worked closely with the stage-manager, assembling all the properties and keeping them in good order for every performance, as well as acting as a prompter and arranging for all the music, fanfares, alarums, stage thunder and other incidental noises, and keeping track of all the cues and entrances and exits during the performance.

  Smythe, meanwhile, remained an ostler, though more and more, he found himself performing menial work around the theatre, sweeping and maintaining the stage, and making sure there were fresh rushes strewn across the yard for each performance. It was not quite the glamorous life he had envisioned for himself when he had embarked for London. Instead of basking in the warmth of audience applause, as he had so many times imagined in his daydreams, he often sweltered in the all too real stench of what they left behind after each performance.

  From time to time, there was a small part for him to play, but the company had learned not to depend upon his ability to memorize his lines, nor upon his execrable sense of timing. Smythe was at a complete loss to explain these shortcomings. His memory never seemed to fail him save for when he stepped out upon the stage, at which point it inexplicably went blank and he could not recall even the simplest, briefest line. As a result, he was never sent out on stage alone. To make certain he did not miss his cue, Will was usually there to shove him out in the direction he needed to go, and whoever was already on stage always stood prepared to prompt him if the need arose, as it usually did. For Smythe, it was exasperating, but he seemed completely helpless to overcome the situation.

  “Stage fright,” Dick Burbage called it. “ ‘Tis a thing to which most players fall victim at one time or another. To some, it means merely an unsettled stomach and a slight trembling of the hands or knees, a sort of giddy, momentary weakness overcome the moment they step out onto the stage and plunge into the role. For others, it is a nearly unbearable, oppressive pressure in the chest, the heart beating like a wild thing trying to claw its way free of the flesh, violent shaking and cold sweats, a paralyzing fear that becomes completely all consuming. And yet, for all that, it often goes away once they step out onto the stage and become caught up in the play. Most players get over it in time. Still, with a few… it never truly goes away.”

  “What do such people do?” Smythe asked him.

  “Well, if they wish to remain actors, then they must act as if it does not bother them,” Burbage had replied.

  “And if they cannot?”

  Burbage shrugged. “Then it must inevitably become evident to them that they might well become good ostlers, or perhaps masons, or smiths or carpenters or coopers, or else merchants, ironmongers, jewelers, butchers, saddle-makers, rivermen or scribes, but sadly, they never can be players. Lack of talent may be compensated for to some degree with industry and diligence, but nothing in the world may compensate for lack of courage. Mind you now, having courage does not mean having a lack of fear. It means having the ability to persevere in spite of it. The principle is the same, you see, whether one stands upon the stage or upon the field of battle. The soldier who faces enemy troops and quails before them is, in some respects, no different from the player who faces an audience and is struck with fear. The singular difference between them is that in the soldier’s case, the fear might well cost him his life. And thus far, Tuck, I have never heard of an audience so hostile that they have actually killed a player. Still, there is always a first time, I suppose…”

  “Look, Tuck,” Shakespeare said, interrupting his thoughts, “I have written enough for one night. I need a respite. Let us go downstairs and have some ale. You need to stop this lying about and moping. Most of the others will be down there still, discussing their preparations for the journey. At least, the ones who have not yet drunk themselves insensible. You need to get your mind on other things. There will be other girls in other towns, doubtless a few pretty enough to make you forget all about Elizabeth Darcie. And they will doubtless be much more accessible.”

  “Perhaps, but they shall not be Elizabeth,” Smythe said. “ ‘Twould never be the same.”

  “Blow out the candles, then,” Shakespeare replied, wryly. “All cats are gray in the dark, my friend. Come on, let us go and have ourselves a dr
ink or two or three.”

  They made their way downstairs to the alehouse of the Toad and Badger, where they found most of the members of the Queen’s Men still enjoying one another’s company after their last performance and their ordinary supper of meat pies, ale and cheese. Beer, the poor man’s drink, was filling the small hours as they smoked their pipes and eagerly discussed their forthcoming departure.

  “Ah, Will, Tuck, come join us!” called John Fleming, waving them over to the table where they sat. “Dick has just been telling us about our new engagement at the commencement of our tour!”

  “What new engagement?” Shakespeare asked, as he signalled the tavern maid for a drink.

  “We are to be performing at a wedding,” said George Bryan, a recently hired member of the company who had come to them from another troop of players that had been disbanded. There were fewer acting companies now that licensure was being more strictly enforced, especially in London, and only those companies with aristocratic patrons were licensed to perform.

  Smythe sat down next to Bryan and at once found a tankard of beer placed before him. He reached for it, thinking that he never used to drink anything but milk, water or his special infusion of herbs until he came to London, where no one seemed to drink anything but wine or beer or ale. Here, water was only used for cooking or else washing up. No one ever thought to drink it. Wine and ale, however, flowed as freely as the Thames and drunkenness was so common in the city as to be completely unremarkable. It was not unusual to see men lying passed out on the streets, utterly insensible with drink and vulnerable to any pickpocket who came along to lift their purses. Most citizens generally gave these supine souls a wide berth, however, especially at this time of the year, for it was by no means certain from outward appearances, unless one made a risky close inspection, whether it was a drunkard fallen into stupor or else a victim of the dreaded plague.

  Each year, when summer came, the plague took a heavy toll among the citizenry. There were so many new graves in St. Paul ’s Churchyard now that the minister complained about the stench of all the decomposing bodies. Smythe grimaced at the thought and took a drink, enjoying the feeling of the rich and heavy brew sliding down his throat. He had developed a taste for it, but reminded himself to be sure to visit Granny Meg so that he could obtain a fresh supply of dried herbs for his infusion, a recipe taught him by another cunning woman from back home. He had been strong and healthy when he came to London and he intended to do everything he could to stay that way, even if it made everyone think he was peculiar for imbibing a hot beverage brewed from weeds. However, the ursine Courtney Stackpole would not countenance such a curious concoction in his tavern, and so Smythe drank beer as he listened to Fleming and the others, anxious for more news about their tour.

  “There is to be a wedding celebration held at the estate of one Godfrey Middleton, a wealthy merchant and projector,” said Richard Burbage, “who is a good friend of Henry Darcie, well known to us all as my father’s partner and thereby part owner of our illustrious theater. ‘Tis through the good offices of Henry Darcie that this special engagement has been arranged for us.”

  “So then we are to be performing at some fat merchant’s wedding?” Shakespeare said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “ ‘Tis to be a private performance for the guests, held in some dim, stuffy, and ill-suited hall?”

  “Nay, ‘twill be the wedding of his eldest daughter, Catherine,” said Dick Burbage. “And the performance will be held out of doors!”

  “A grand pavillion and a stage shall be built especially for the occasion on the grounds of the estate,” said Robert Speed, another member of the company, who had the singular ability of speaking lucidly and clearly no matter how drunk he became. His bleary-eyed gaze was the only indication of his inebriated state as he raised his tankard in a toast to the efforts that would be made to ensure a fine performance and a memorable wedding. “Separate pavillions shall also be erected as banqueting houses and galleries to house the audience,” he added in stentorian tones, “all of whom will come barging down the river in a grand progress like Drake’s own bloomin’ fleet after the defeat of the Armada! ‘Ere’s to ‘em all, God bless ‘em!” He emptied his tankard and belched profoundly.

  “There are to be three hundred guests or more, most of whom shall be participating in the progress,” explained Burbage. “There shall be work aplenty for the rivermen, what with boats and barges all assembled in a flotilla to bear the wedding guests. And the theme for this grand celebration shall be that of Queen Cleopatra greeting Julius Caesar.”

  “Oh, what rot!” said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes.

  “Indeed,” said Kemp. “One would think that it was some elaborate court masque held in honor of the queen, herself!”

  “Very nearly so,” said Burbage. “Godfrey Middleton seems intent on putting on a lavish spectacle in honor of his daughter, who is marrying into the nobility, thereby doubtless improving his own prospects for an eventual knighthood.”

  “Ah, just what we need, more knights,” Will Kemp said, puffing on his long clay pipe. “At the rate that knighthoods are being handed out these days, they shall soon be stacking them up like cordwood in the church.”

  “Oh, and speaking of knights, there is to be a joust, as well,” said Burbage.

  “A wedding joust?” said Shakespeare. “Well, why not? Tis an apt metaphor for the combative state of holy matrimony. Has a decision yet been made about which play shall be performed? Perhaps the groom, as Caesar, could be stabbed to death on stage while the bride, as Cleopatra, made a complete asp of herself in front of all the wedding guests.”

  “I vote for that one,” Speed said gravely, raising his tankard once again and quaffing it in a single swallow.

  “We have been asked to submit a number of suggestions for plays that would be appropriate to the occasion.” Burbage said.

  Fleming added, “Master Godfrey, in his anxiety that everything should be just so, has apparantly appointed himself our personal Master of the Revels for this particular occasion.”

  “We could perform The Unconstant Woman,” Shakespeare said, with a straight face.

  Will Kemp snorted. “That should prove a popular choice with Master Middleton.” The others chuckled.

  “You think perhaps The Holy State would be appropriate?” asked Bryan, seriously.

  “With Nashe’s long, windy soliloquies and moralistic pedantry?” said Shakespeare. “Do you wish to entertain the wedding guests or stupify them all into a slumber?”

  “Well, then, what would you suggest, Will, as our aspiring resident poet?” Fleming asked, wryly. “Which play from among our vast repertoire do you suppose would be the best for such an occasion?”

  Fleming might have meant the remark somewhat in jest, thought Smythe, but at the same time, he marked the fact that no one laughed. It was the first time that anyone had suggested, seriously or not, that Will might one day hold such a position in their company and that no one laughed at the idea was evidence of just how much Shakespeare had risen in their general esteem. He felt pleased for his friend, but at the same time, he felt a little envious.

  “Well, to be serious for a moment-but only for a moment-I am not certain it is needful that our choice of play reflect on the occasion,” Shakespeare replied. “That sort of choice would not be without its risks, you know. After all, what gentleman would wish to see a group of motley players make comment, through their sport, upon his daughter’s marriage? Were we to play something comedic concerning the general state of matrimony, then Middleton might feel that we were poking fun at his own family. On the other hand, if we chose something like Nashe’s play to perform, for all its fine, moralistic sentiments and tone, then he might perceive his daughter and her husband were being preached to by their inferiors. Namely, ourselves.”

  “Aye, he makes an excellent point,” said Burbage, nodding. “While this shall not be a court performance, there shall nevertheless be a great many powerful and wealthy peo
ple in attendance. We want to make this occasion a memorable one, to all of them as well as Master Middleton, and not for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Well, why not a comedy?” asked Kemp. “We could play something spirited and amusing that has naught to do with marriage, and yet would still entertain the better sort of people with its subject matter. The Honorable Prentice would be an excellent choice, methinks.”

  In other words, something that would play more to his talents as the company’s clown and jig-dancer, Smythe thought. It was a predictable response from Kemp, who liked anything that would showcase his abilities, but at the same time, it was not without merit. An idea suddenly struck him.

  “What about that new play you have been working on, Will?” he said, turning to Shakespeare. “You know the one, you have read me portions of it.”

  “What new play?” asked Burbage, immediately interested. “You have been working on another adaptation?”

  Shakespeare glanced at Smythe with irritation. “Well, no… not quite. ‘Tis something new, entirely of my own composition…” His voice trailed off and he looked a bit uncomfortable.

  “Indeed?” said Fleming, raising his eyebrows. “What is the matter of it?”

  Shakespeare cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. He did not seem anxious to discuss it. Nevertheless, he answered Fleming’s question. “It concerns a matter of identity,” he said, “something I have been playing about with in a sort of desultory fashion.”

  “Go on,” said Burbage. “Tell us more. How does it begin?”

  Shakespeare paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Well… it begins with an itinerant young tinker, an impoverished wastrel by the name of Christopher Sly, who is thrown out of an alehouse by his hostess for drunkenness and loutish behavior and for refusing to pay his bill…”