little like Cupid,” said Shakespeare.
“He had Venus for a mother?”
“His mother was rather plain, God rest her,” said Shakespeare. “No, Hugh is like Cupid in looks. I don’t think he’d be offended if I said that, no. He has plump enough cheeks, and a mischievous glance sometimes, and he used to hunt with bow and arrow when he was young. We used to hunt together. Shooting harts with horns rather than
hearts
with an ‘e’ . . . ”
He paused to see whether I’d got the joke but, being familiar with his style of humour, I just made a grimace, so he carried on, “Of course we were not permitted to shoot harts or anything else.”
He paused to see how I was taking this admission that he’d once poached deer. I was a little surprised but struggled not to show it (and so most likely did show it).
“Anyway,” continued the poacher turned playwright, “when it comes to people in love or those who might be, only a fool would attempt to bring them together, and Hugh Fern’s no fool. He has Sarah Constant’s best interests at heart too for he is Sarah’s sponsor, her godfather.”
I waited for WS to enlighten me as to why it was foolish to make matches for would-be lovers – since I was always ready to gather up the crumbs of wisdom dropped from his table, even if I could have left his puns to grow cold up there – but we were interrupted by the appearance of a doleful man, who stood looking down at us.
“Master Shakespeare,” said this person. His voice matched his appearance, subdued and gloomy. “What are you doing here?”
“I am a guest of yours, staying in one of your rooms,” said WS. “And if you mean what are we doing now, then we are innocently drinking, John Davenant. How are you?”
“Could be worse.”
But his look seemed to say, not much worse.
“Business is good,” said WS.
The tavern called the Tavern was full, and there were plenty of clamouring customers and much coming-and-going by the drawers and pot-boys, but this gentleman shrugged his shoulders.
“Could be better,” he said.
“Landlords are like farmers,” said WS to me. “They would find fault with a summer in paradise.”
“I heard your company of players was in town, my wife told me,” said Davenant, who I assumed was the owner of this place. “My beds are no worse than my beer. If
you’re
staying here why doesn’t the rest of your Company stay here?”
“Oh, your beds are more than good enough for me, Jack. But when it comes to the whole Company, it’s because we are playing
next
to here,” said Shakespeare, jerking his thumb in the direction of the Golden Cross further up Cornmarket. “We stay where we play, if it’s possible.”
“You’ll draw all my trade,” said this dolorous host.
“Nonsense, Jack. You know perfectly well that for every citizen who loves plays there’s another one who can’t stand them.”
“So?” said Davenant.
“So,” said Shakespeare, “all the regulars who normally go to the Cross and can’t abide plays will come a few yards down the road to you. And they’ll drink your beer and wine, and drink it all the faster because they won’t be distracted by somebody spouting verse.”
“Miserable sods,” said Davenant. I wasn’t sure whether he was describing those citizens who didn’t like plays and would therefore come flocking to his inn or the Chamberlain’s players who had chosen not to lodge with him. In fact the description best fitted himself.
“I promise you, Jack, that when we come back to Oxford, we’ll put up with you.”
“Put up with me, that is good of you,” said Davenant, but he seemed slightly mollified by the promise.
“This is Nicholas Revill,” said WS, perhaps to divert the conversation into a different channel. “Nicholas, this is John Davenant, whose fame is spread far and wide throughout Oxfordshire.”
I muttered something about his being famous for being a tavern host, no doubt, but WS was quick to correct me.
“No,
“He had Venus for a mother?”
“His mother was rather plain, God rest her,” said Shakespeare. “No, Hugh is like Cupid in looks. I don’t think he’d be offended if I said that, no. He has plump enough cheeks, and a mischievous glance sometimes, and he used to hunt with bow and arrow when he was young. We used to hunt together. Shooting harts with horns rather than
hearts
with an ‘e’ . . . ”
He paused to see whether I’d got the joke but, being familiar with his style of humour, I just made a grimace, so he carried on, “Of course we were not permitted to shoot harts or anything else.”
He paused to see how I was taking this admission that he’d once poached deer. I was a little surprised but struggled not to show it (and so most likely did show it).
“Anyway,” continued the poacher turned playwright, “when it comes to people in love or those who might be, only a fool would attempt to bring them together, and Hugh Fern’s no fool. He has Sarah Constant’s best interests at heart too for he is Sarah’s sponsor, her godfather.”
I waited for WS to enlighten me as to why it was foolish to make matches for would-be lovers – since I was always ready to gather up the crumbs of wisdom dropped from his table, even if I could have left his puns to grow cold up there – but we were interrupted by the appearance of a doleful man, who stood looking down at us.
“Master Shakespeare,” said this person. His voice matched his appearance, subdued and gloomy. “What are you doing here?”
“I am a guest of yours, staying in one of your rooms,” said WS. “And if you mean what are we doing now, then we are innocently drinking, John Davenant. How are you?”
“Could be worse.”
But his look seemed to say, not much worse.
“Business is good,” said WS.
The tavern called the Tavern was full, and there were plenty of clamouring customers and much coming-and-going by the drawers and pot-boys, but this gentleman shrugged his shoulders.
“Could be better,” he said.
“Landlords are like farmers,” said WS to me. “They would find fault with a summer in paradise.”
“I heard your company of players was in town, my wife told me,” said Davenant, who I assumed was the owner of this place. “My beds are no worse than my beer. If
you’re
staying here why doesn’t the rest of your Company stay here?”
“Oh, your beds are more than good enough for me, Jack. But when it comes to the whole Company, it’s because we are playing
next
to here,” said Shakespeare, jerking his thumb in the direction of the Golden Cross further up Cornmarket. “We stay where we play, if it’s possible.”
“You’ll draw all my trade,” said this dolorous host.
“Nonsense, Jack. You know perfectly well that for every citizen who loves plays there’s another one who can’t stand them.”
“So?” said Davenant.
“So,” said Shakespeare, “all the regulars who normally go to the Cross and can’t abide plays will come a few yards down the road to you. And they’ll drink your beer and wine, and drink it all the faster because they won’t be distracted by somebody spouting verse.”
“Miserable sods,” said Davenant. I wasn’t sure whether he was describing those citizens who didn’t like plays and would therefore come flocking to his inn or the Chamberlain’s players who had chosen not to lodge with him. In fact the description best fitted himself.
“I promise you, Jack, that when we come back to Oxford, we’ll put up with you.”
“Put up with me, that is good of you,” said Davenant, but he seemed slightly mollified by the promise.
“This is Nicholas Revill,” said WS, perhaps to divert the conversation into a different channel. “Nicholas, this is John Davenant, whose fame is spread far and wide throughout Oxfordshire.”
I muttered something about his being famous for being a tavern host, no doubt, but WS was quick to correct me.
“No,
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