he is famous for his wife. She is the nonpareil of beauty.”
I couldn’t tell from WS’s tone whether he was being mocking or not (though I rather think he was serious), nor could I tell from the expression on the landlord’s face whether he was pleased to have his wife referred to like this. Probably not as, if anything, Davenant’s expression grew longer.
“Take care you make your pieces boring and long-winded,” he said to Shakespeare.
“Come and see for yourself.”
“Perhaps I will. But I would still have your audiences desert you half-way through and come down to me for liquid refreshment.”
“We’ll do our worst,” said WS.
And seemingly content with this, the landlord turned round and made his way to another corner of the tavern, probably to abuse more of his customers.
WS, however, didn’t seem offended by Davenant’s comments. Instead, he said, “He is a good fellow although a dry one. You get used to him in time.”
“And his wife?” I said, greatly daring.
“No, you wouldn’t get used to her, not in a lifetime,” said WS. “Not Jane Davenant.”
This was more than interesting and I waited for details. But nothing was forthcoming. Since WS seemed about to get up and move away, and being reluctant to lose his company, I ordered another drink for each of us and turned the talk back to the subject of the Constants, the Sadlers, and the ancient feud between the two families. From what the playwright had said, it seemed as though there was no violent objection to the marriage of Sarah and William from either side.
“So what’s the difficulty then?” I said.
“Oh, there should be no difficulty,” said WS, “but our play will serve as a kind of warning, a gentle warning.”
“Shouldn’t they have a comedy at a wedding? I realize that
Romeo and Juliet
is about two families at war and two young people who want to marry. But it’s a tragedy.”
Even as I said these words I thought that it was foolish to be defining Shakespeare’s own work to himself, but if the playwright was annoyed – or amused – at my presumption he didn’t show it.
“I don’t usually believe that we can learn anything at all from plays,” said WS, “but, in the case of the Constants and the Sadlers, Hugh Fern considers that it might be . . . instructive . . . for the two sides to watch a piece in which things go wrong . . . ”
“So that they can avoid any actions which might lead to a similar conclusion?” I suggested.
“Yes,” said WS. “Tragedy can be averted sometimes.”
“Otherwise it would not be tragedy, but fate,” I put in.
“Perhaps . . . ” he said, apparently unwilling to discuss my interesting insight. “Besides we are being well paid for this. My old friend Hugh Fern has prospered since he came to this town. He is doing better than if he had become a player, much better. Being a good friend also to the Constants and Sadlers he is ready to subscribe to a private performance of my piece in the hopes of providing the two families with some diversion – and a very gentle warning. And the Chamberlain’s with some cash.”
I was always a little taken aback by the nakedness with which Shakespeare and the other shareholders referred to money. They made no bones about it. As if he could read my thoughts WS now said, “You know what our motto is in the Chamberlain’s?”
“Our motto?”
“It is ‘You pay, we’ll play’.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“That’s because I just invented it, Nick. You ought to be a bit more wary of what you’re told.”
I must have looked a little crestfallen because WS put his hand on my arm and hastened to reassure me, “But it ought to be our motto. I’ll have a word with Dick Burbage. Perhaps we could get up a coat of arms. Money-bags on an argent field.”
“And are you playing in this story of the Montagues and the Capulets?” I said quickly.
“I’ve played Friar Laurence more than once. I may do so again on this
I couldn’t tell from WS’s tone whether he was being mocking or not (though I rather think he was serious), nor could I tell from the expression on the landlord’s face whether he was pleased to have his wife referred to like this. Probably not as, if anything, Davenant’s expression grew longer.
“Take care you make your pieces boring and long-winded,” he said to Shakespeare.
“Come and see for yourself.”
“Perhaps I will. But I would still have your audiences desert you half-way through and come down to me for liquid refreshment.”
“We’ll do our worst,” said WS.
And seemingly content with this, the landlord turned round and made his way to another corner of the tavern, probably to abuse more of his customers.
WS, however, didn’t seem offended by Davenant’s comments. Instead, he said, “He is a good fellow although a dry one. You get used to him in time.”
“And his wife?” I said, greatly daring.
“No, you wouldn’t get used to her, not in a lifetime,” said WS. “Not Jane Davenant.”
This was more than interesting and I waited for details. But nothing was forthcoming. Since WS seemed about to get up and move away, and being reluctant to lose his company, I ordered another drink for each of us and turned the talk back to the subject of the Constants, the Sadlers, and the ancient feud between the two families. From what the playwright had said, it seemed as though there was no violent objection to the marriage of Sarah and William from either side.
“So what’s the difficulty then?” I said.
“Oh, there should be no difficulty,” said WS, “but our play will serve as a kind of warning, a gentle warning.”
“Shouldn’t they have a comedy at a wedding? I realize that
Romeo and Juliet
is about two families at war and two young people who want to marry. But it’s a tragedy.”
Even as I said these words I thought that it was foolish to be defining Shakespeare’s own work to himself, but if the playwright was annoyed – or amused – at my presumption he didn’t show it.
“I don’t usually believe that we can learn anything at all from plays,” said WS, “but, in the case of the Constants and the Sadlers, Hugh Fern considers that it might be . . . instructive . . . for the two sides to watch a piece in which things go wrong . . . ”
“So that they can avoid any actions which might lead to a similar conclusion?” I suggested.
“Yes,” said WS. “Tragedy can be averted sometimes.”
“Otherwise it would not be tragedy, but fate,” I put in.
“Perhaps . . . ” he said, apparently unwilling to discuss my interesting insight. “Besides we are being well paid for this. My old friend Hugh Fern has prospered since he came to this town. He is doing better than if he had become a player, much better. Being a good friend also to the Constants and Sadlers he is ready to subscribe to a private performance of my piece in the hopes of providing the two families with some diversion – and a very gentle warning. And the Chamberlain’s with some cash.”
I was always a little taken aback by the nakedness with which Shakespeare and the other shareholders referred to money. They made no bones about it. As if he could read my thoughts WS now said, “You know what our motto is in the Chamberlain’s?”
“Our motto?”
“It is ‘You pay, we’ll play’.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“That’s because I just invented it, Nick. You ought to be a bit more wary of what you’re told.”
I must have looked a little crestfallen because WS put his hand on my arm and hastened to reassure me, “But it ought to be our motto. I’ll have a word with Dick Burbage. Perhaps we could get up a coat of arms. Money-bags on an argent field.”
“And are you playing in this story of the Montagues and the Capulets?” I said quickly.
“I’ve played Friar Laurence more than once. I may do so again on this
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