“The Queen’s Men are, without a doubt, a most estimable company of players,” the poet said, apparently none the worse for wear from the previous night’s tippling. “And as they were assembled on the orders of Her Majesty, membership in their company would, of course, provide the opportunity to display one’s talents in performances at court, and there can be no more prestigious audience.”
“I saw Dick Tarleton and Will Kemp perform with the Queen’s Players while they were on tour,” said Smythe. “ ‘Twas then that I decided to become a player myself. And I thought from the first that was the very company that I would wish to join.”
Shakespeare smiled. “Well, I felt much the same when they played the Stratford Guildhall. In truth, I was of a mind to leave with them right then and there, and though they did not seem unwilling to take me on as a hired man till I could prove my worth to them, circumstances for my leaving were not favorable at the time. And perhaps ‘twas just as well. One should never make such decisions without proper planning and consideration. Choices made on impulse often have unfortunate results. As for Dick Tarleton, he is an amiable clown, if you like that sort of thing. He is famous for his drollery, but Kemp isn’t half the man that Tarleton is. He can never seem to remember his lines, probably because he does not bother overmuch to learn them in the first place. From what I’ve seen, he fills in what he forgets with extempore or some silly piece of clowning. Some of your more dull-witted groundlings may like that sort of thing, but it is not my meat. I have never cared much for pratfalls and silly prancing and whatall myself. I believe that audiences respond much better to a story, not clowning, jigs, pratfalls and posturing, and silly prancing. And while it is true that a play is a thing to which the entire company usually contributes, a poet labors much too hard over his words to have some clownish player disregard them altogether.”
“You do not like Kemp?” asked Smythe, with some surprise, recalling that he had quite enjoyed Will Kemp’s performance, pratfalls and all. “Is it merely because he cannot measure up to Tarleton or is it something more personal?”
“Oh, I have no personal quarrel with him, if that is what you mean, although I think he is an ass,” said Shakespeare. “Tarleton is no longer young, and his energies are clearly waning. You can see the difference from one performance to another. And as his successor, Kemp is clearly champing at the bit. He thinks rather well of himself, and is not hesitant to inform anyone within earshot just how well of himself he thinks. Yet if Tarleton should retire from the stage, I fear the Queen’s Men would lose much of their luster, despite their bombast to the contrary, much of which, I fear, has been inspired by Kemp himself.”
“Bombast?” Smythe said. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, why, they are the best actors in the world, you know.” Shakespeare’s voice took on a mocking, portentous tone. “For tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited, these are the only men! Or at least,” he added, pulling out a piece of paper and unfolding it, “so they themselves inform us, by virtue of this bill they post.”
He passed the playbill to Smythe. “Tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical…” read Smythe, aloud. He raised his eyebrows. “They seem to have counted all the points of the dramatic compass.”
“Save for bawdry and pederasty, and those points they doubtless count offstage. However, Tuck, old bean, we shall forgive them their trespasses if they forgive ours and enlist us among them.”
Smythe glanced at him and shook his head, not certain whether he was more astonished or amused. “That remark verges either on blasphemy or slander, I am not sure which.”
“Blasphemous slander, then. Or slanderous blasphemy. Or slanderous-blasphemous-tragical-comical-what-have-you. Either way, those are more the province of Christopher Marlowe than myself. I prefer to remain somewhat less controversial and contentious. ‘Twill be easier to avoid prison that way. Damn me, I need a drink. Hold up a moment.” He stopped in the middle of the road, leaning on his staff, and pulled out a small wineskin from underneath his cloak. He squeezed a stream into his mouth and didn’t miss a drop.
“I should have thought you would have had enough last night,” said Smythe, shaking his head at the thought of drinking wine so early in the day. The birds were barely even up.
“There is no such thing as ‘enough,’ my friend. Life is thirst and hunger, and then you die. So drink your fill while you yet live.”
“That reminds me somewhat of what my Uncle Tom said. ‘Life is short, so live it as you like it.’ ‘Twas his parting advice to me.”
“Indeed,” said the poet, nodding. “Your uncle is a wise man. Live life… as you like it. I must remember that. ‘Tis pithy.”
“Do you never feel the morning aftermath of drink, Will?”
“What? No, never. Well… Hardly ever. Hair ‘o the dog, y’know. And experience. A veritable cornucopia of experience.” He squeezed another stream of wine into his mouth.
“Veritas in vino?”
“Oh, dear me. Not again. Was I spouting poor man’s Latin in my cups again last night?”
“A bit. I caught a little of it, but then I am no scholar.”
“Tell me, for my memory of recent events seems somewhat hazy for some peculiar reason… last night, was I angry drunk or maudlin drunk?”
Smythe considered for a moment. “Somewhere in between, I’d say, with a little touch of each.”
They started walking once again, keeping an easy pace. “Well, ‘tis all right, I suppose,” the poet said, with resignation. “I simply cannot stand it when I become unutterably maudlin. That is to say, I cannot stand hearing about it later. Howsoever, unlike my sweet Anne, at least you have the grace not to throw it up at me when I am sober.”
“Belike you’re the one who does the throwing up,” said Smythe, grinning.
“Odds’ blood, I did no such thing! A man who throws up his drink is naught but a profligate wastrel. If you are likely to throw it up, then at least have the good grace not to throw it down. Save it for a man who can hold onto it.”
“Anne is your wife then?”
“Were we speaking of my wife?”
“You were, I think, just now.”
“Ah. Careless of me. Remind me not to do it again.”
“I shall make note of that. You do not love your wife?”
“Well…” The poet grimaced, wryly. “I love her well enough to tup her, I suppose. A dangerous bit of business, that. She is as fertile as a bloody alluvial plain. She swells with child merely at a sidelong glance.”
“It seems to me that you would have to do some swelling of your own to aid in that,” said Smythe, with a chuckle.
“You swine! You dare banter with me?” Shakespeare smiled, rising to the bait. The poet in him, Smythe saw with amusement, could not resist the challenge. “Aye, young Tuck, you prick me to the quick! And I, alas, have pricked too quickly. But ‘tis hard to refrain from hardness at such a tempting pair of bosoms and such well rounded buttocks.” He grinned. “Damn me, but her arse is a wondrous piece of work. And thus have I worked my piece. Thrice have we increased the population of the realm and so I have fled Stratford before we further swelled the ranks of the Queen’s subjects and placed a further burden on the land’s resources.”