The Slaying of the Shrew (Shakespeare & Smythe 2)

“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…”

“A sly wastrel named Christopher?” said Fleming, smiling. “A bit of a dig at young Marlowe, perhaps?”

Speed belched ponderously. “Sod Marlowe.”

“Bestill yourself, Robby,” Burbage said. “Thus far, it seems a good beginning. Go on, Will. What happens next?”

Shakespeare took another drink and cleared his throat once more. “Well, Sly staggers about and rails at her in a roaring, drunken speech in which he foolishly claims noble descent from the Norman conquerors and so forth, taking umbrage at her treatment of him…”

“One could have some fun with that,” interjected Kemp, clearly imagining himself in the role.

“… and then he falls into a drunken slumber in the road.” Shakespeare continued, “whereon a lord and his hunting party arrive upon the scene. Finding him thus disposed-or indisposed, as the case may be-this lord, for want of some amusement, decides to play a trick upon the drunken tinker and instructs his retinue accordingly. They shall remove the tinker to this lord’s estate, where they shall strip him of his clothing and place him in the lord’s own bedchamber. All within the household are carefully instructed, when the tinker wakes, to treat him as if he were the lord himself who, having fallen into some madness for a time, had forgot himself and was now miraculously and mercifully restored to his wits… and to his loyal servants. And so, when the tinker comes to his senses, he is at first confused by all that happens, but soon comes to believe he truly is a lord, because all around him assure him it is so, even the lord himself, who plays the part of a servant.”

“Oh, I like it!” Burbage said. “It has great possibilities for witty banter and tomfoolery. I think we should submit this play to Master Middleton as our first choice! What say you, lads?”

“Aye, ‘tis a lighthearted and amusing sort of thing,” said Bryan. “I can see how it would be received. I like it, too.”

Shakespeare looked dismayed. “But… but, my friends… the play is not yet finished!”