The Late Mr Shakespeare

Chapter Forty Jack Naps of Greece: his story

It was in the early summer of 1578 that Martin Frobisher, that great mariner, set sail on his third quest for the North-West Passage. Life must have seemed fair and full of promise for Shakespeare then, too. He was fourteen years old, and the star of the grammar school. He might well have expected to benefit by being awarded one of the scholarships which bridge-building Clopton had established for the students of his town. The gates of the University of Oxford would then have been open to Will. But now something happened which dashed such hopes on the rocks. John Shakespeare fell.

The fall of Mr John Shakespeare is no laughing matter. All the same, here are two stories his daughter told me, with a wild laugh. (She was an odd woman, Mrs Haft, but yet there is no reason to disbelieve her testimony, and there was as I've said a wild streak in all the Shakespeares.) These stories demonstrate more vividly than the fines I could otherwise cite from the municipal accounts just how addiction to strong drink brought about the father's downfall.

John Shakespeare falls asleep outside the ale-house. He's drunk and his little mate is hanging out. Two of Heicroft's choirboys come by and tie a red ribbon on it. When John Shakespeare wakes up and sees the ribbon he says to his prick: 'God knows where you've been or what you've been up to, but I'm glad you won first prize!'

Second story. John Shakespeare's drunk, as usual, and passing by Holy Trinity Church, when who should he meet but Emma Careless. Quick as a flash, he's got his John Thomas out, and he's showing it to her. 'Half-a-crown,' he says, 'if you rub this for me.' 'Rub it yourself,' says the vicar's wife, 'for nothing.' John Shakespeare thinks this over, and concludes that it sounds reasonable. So he performs the bargain while she watches.

After these, and other misadventures, it is no wonder the butcher's business collapsed. He no longer paid his tax for the poor of the parish. 'I am one of the poor of the parish,' he said, and withdrew his son from school. Will would have been asked to leave anyway, when Mrs Heicroft told her husband.

All hopes of university gone, William Shakespeare had now to complete his education in the rough school of life. Some say he ran away from home, ashamed of his father, and worked for a man in Warwick who made fireworks and squibs. William Shakespeare's part was the selling of these fireworks. He was a good salesman too, quick in phrase, apt in gesture, not averse to disputation but stinkingly polite. We may imagine that he made his customers feel better than themselves with a little Ovid; doubtless that's the trick of it.

One day Will was hawking his fireworks as usual, in the market-place, on a flat stone under the town clock, which probably stood at five to eleven, it usually did, in those days, the sun spilling on the cobbles, white as salt, and quite a crowd gathered to watch him, from the bull ring, when the constable approaches. 'Are you selling?' says the constable. 'I am selling,' says William Shakespeare. 'Do you have a licence?' says the constable. William Shakespeare shows it to him. The constable barely looks at it. He flicks it back at our poet as though he's frightened it might scratch his eyes if he holds it too close. 'Those fireworks,' he declares, 'are wicked things, calculated to assist thieves in the night.' 'Fiddle de dee,' says young master William Shakespeare, pedlar.

Fiddle de dee is not the right thing to say to any officer. 'I pronounce them an abomination,' the constable shouts, putting his face down next to Shakespeare's. 'Sixpence,' says Will, 'to you, comrade.' The constable seizes him by the scruff of the neck, kicks his squibs into the gutter, and hauls him off before the magistrate.

This magistrate, whose name was Sir Thomas Lucy, will figure again in our story, so I'd better describe him. He was a silly, short man who always powdered his cheeks. He's not pleased to see Shakespeare, having seen more than enough of his father (though not in the sense that Emma Careless had, of course). The beak's temper does not improve when he hears what the boy has been up to. 'Those fireworks,' he opines, 'ought not to have been invented. You are a scoundrel, sir, to be endangering life and limb by selling them in a public place. How would you feel,' he adds, 'if a child took it into his head to play with one of them, and caught fire, and burnt to death?'

Shakespeare thinks carefully. He likes riddles. He is not good at them, but he still likes them. He stands on his head to warm his wits in the corner. He hums and he haws a while, playing on his lips with his forefinger.

'Come, sir,' Lucy the magistrate thunders (or, more probably, squeaks). 'My question is clear enough, is it not? How would you feel if a child burnt to death because of one of your wicked fireworks?'

'Regretful,' says Shakespeare.

'How dare you!' cries the beak.

Shakespeare supposes that he has made (and not for the first time) an incorrect response. 'Mortified,' he suggests, while the beak's face grows longer and blanker, and flakes of powder peel off with his sweat. 'My heart would cool with mortifying groans,' adds Shakespeare, placatingly, or so he trusts.

'The lad's a monster,' says the constable. 'He ought to be in jail, the dirty incinerate, and that's the long and short of it.'

'Hold hard,' protests Shakespeare. 'All I have done is sell a few squibs and dragons at a bob a nob.'

'Trmph,' troats Sir Thomas, 'then you plead guilty, do you? A month!'

Shakespeare goes green. 'Are you sending me to prison?' he enquires.

'That I am, sir,' the magistrate confirms. 'A month's worth. To mend your ways. I hope you see, by the grace of God, their error.'

'It's you that's full of error,' Will says. 'I am sound.'

'Two months!' says Thomas Lucy.

Will shuts his mouth.

In Warwick Jail young William Shakespeare associated with the rest. If he had been inclined to turn thief, he once told me, he had plenty of opportunities and offers of instruction. The separate or silent system was not then in vogue. Will worked on the tread-wheel. Most of the men who worked with him had nothing to say, the labour being arduous. But one day a new man worked with him, and this one proved different.

'Good morning,' says this stranger. 'Sir, here is my prescription for a long and happy life: Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.'

Will Shakespeare intimates by a grunt and a shake of his beardless chin that he does not understand this. The stranger marches beside him on the tread-wheel. As he marches he talks. He tells from the side of his lopsided mouth the following story:

'There was once a young lady called Lady Mary who had two brothers called Forbes and Edward. My name is Forbes. I was the elder brother! The Lady Mary, rest her soul in paradise, for she was my very sister and never a sweeter girl pulled on a pair of stockings! Attend, sir, to my tale. Our parents had been killed in the wars, for this was in a foreign country, but the new King was kind to us children and we were rich, owning houses in the north, the south, the east, and the west also. When we grew up and came of an age to know our minds we chose to spend a little of each year in each house. Thus, in spring we went to the house in the north. In summer, we went to the house in the east. In autumn, we went to the house in the south. And in winter, sir, in winter we went to the house in the west. Each house was adequate in its season. Lady Mary and my brother Edward and I were happy to travel and pleased to have four places to stay. For when one has travelled then it is good to stay, and when one has stayed a while then it is good to travel. What a satisfactory arrangement life can be! Attend, sir. I have completed the preliminaries. The story proper begins.

'The house in the west was our favourite house,' the stranger went on. 'It stood on a blue cliff overlooking the sea. One winter, as soon as we were arrived there, we decided to hold some revels to which all the people round about could come. Lady Mary penned the invitations. My brother Edward and myself saw to it that there would be plenty to eat and drink, as well as minstrels for the dancing. The guests came, sir, and a merry evening began. Among the guests one man stood out. His name was Lord Fox. He was tall and dark, with a wit like a greengage. Nobody knew much about him. He was new to the west, they said. It was clear that he was not married, and that he took a great fancy to my sister. Well he might. He danced with her till dawn, and saved all his choicest epigrams for her ears alone. Those ears were like snowballs, sir, delicate whorls of intricacy, like sliced snowballs, or mushrooms opened for the inspection of an elf. They were surpassed only by the beauty of her navel, though I say it myself. Be that as it may, the Lady Mary, my sister, was charmed by the company of Lord Fox. She was charmed, sir, and Edward was charmed, and I, Forbes, was charmed also. We were all well charmed.'

The stranger trod the wheel in silence for a while. Then he went on.

'Lord Fox came back,' he said. 'Lord Fox came back again and again to the house on the cliff. It was a very strange thing, as my sister the Lady Mary soon noticed, but we never needed to send him an invitation. I had only to mention his name to Edward, or Edward had only to say something to me about him, and there he would be, strolling towards us across the lawns in sunlight peeling off his elegant black mittens or leaning in the doorway toying with the hilt of his sword, nodding and smiling and wishing us good day. As for my sister herself, she had only to think of Lord Fox, and lo, he appeared. He dined with us, hunted with us, sailed with us in the bright bay and went with us for long walks on the shore looking for shells and starfish, which latter he likened I remember to the dropped gloves of angels. His supply of amusing remarks was endless. He seemed to have been everywhere and done most things. For all that, he remained what one of your chapbook writers would call a somewhat mysterious personage. Edward and I never quite found out from his conversation who he was or where he came from - and he avoided our questions on points like these by telling us new stories, always so interesting and extraordinary that we quite forgot he had not answered us until later, when we began to feel unsatisfied and uneasy that we knew so little about him. But our sister, the Lady Mary, did not let such matters bother her. She found Lord Fox the most enchanting person she had ever met, and she was always asking him to visit our house on the cliff.'

The stranger spat, and trod, then resumed his story.

'One evening,' he said, 'towards Christmas, when Edward and I were busy in the armour room, Lord Fox turned to my sister and remarked that it had been so pleasant all these times, visiting her here in her house, that he felt he would be delighted if she permitted him to return the compliment. He had this rather cavernous way of speaking, which Lady Mary considered perfect in a gentleman. "Why, sir," my sister said, "what do you mean?" "I mean," says Lord Fox, smoothing his black moustaches, "that you should come one day, my dear, and visit me in my house." "That would be most agreeable," my sister said. But when she suggested that Edward and I might accompany her, Lord Fox said quickly: "Oh no, not Forbes, splendid fellow though he is, nor Edward, though I like to think of him as my own brother. Just yourself, dear lady." "But I go everywhere with my brothers," my sister pointed out. "Just so," says sly Lord Fox. Then he's smiling his most extreme smile and my sister felt her heart begin to melt. "You should do some things on your own, my dear," he said. "You aren't a child any more, you know," he reminded her. Well, Lady Mary felt there was some truth in these remarks, but she promised nothing. "Where is your house anyway, Lord Fox?" she said. "It's called Bold House, isn't it?" (She remembered sending his invitations there, but she did not think she had ever seen the place.) "Bold House," acknowledges Lord Fox, his black eyes sparkling, "that's right, my dear." "Well," said Lady Mary, "where is Bold House?" "Oh, you can't miss it," Lord Fox assures her, waving his vague white hand gracefully in the air. "Nobody who comes to visit me ever misses it," he added. Lady Mary was puzzled. "But which direction is it from here?" she asked him. "North of the north," says Lord Fox, "east of the east, south of the south, and west of the west." "That sounds a long way away," the Lady Mary says. "Not at all," replies Lord Fox, "in fact you'd be surprised how near it is, my darling." Well, sir, just at that moment Edward and I returned and Lord Fox said no more to my sister about visiting his house. But the next time he came, and the next, he asked her again to visit him. He always waited until they were alone before suggesting it, and he always gave the same mysteriously vile directions. Lady Mary said nothing to us, her brothers, about any of this.'

Shakespeare and his fellow prisoner worked the tread-wheel in silence for a while. Then the fellow went on.

'Christmas Day came,' he said. 'My sister found herself left on her own while Edward and I went out flying hawks that had been given to us by our aunts. She was bored and she was lonely, was the Lady Mary, and she falls to thinking about Lord Fox and his invitations. How agreeably sinister they seemed! Her cockles quivered in her marrowbone! Alas, but my sister decided then and there that she would go and visit him. She put on her best dress and hat, and she set out alone. Really, she did not expect to arrive anywhere. It seemed so hard to find a house that was north of north, east of east, south of south, and west of west. But the mystery was a challenge, so she tried. As it happened, sir, she found Bold House in no time at all. It was quite near, just as Lord Fox had said it was. Lady Mary could not understand how she had never noticed it before. It was a big house, and it had a black door. Lady Mary went up to the door and she knocked. No one answered. Lady Mary knocked again. The doorknocker was cold in her hand. There was still no answer. Lady Mary noticed that over the portal of the door some words were written. She read them. The words said: Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. She knocked a third time. This time, sir, the big black door swung slowly open. There was nobody there. Lady Mary thought to herself that the door could not have been properly locked or bolted, which meant that perhaps Lord Fox was at home but had not heard her knocking. So she went in. The hall was long, and as cold as a tomb. Lady Mary passed down it, along it, through its cold length. She drifted past the wafting tapestries. Those tapestries had a life of their own. They moved, they writhed. The carpets were like snakes. My sister glided down the twilit corridors, pale, white as salt, like a ghost with a lamp in its hand. She passed the portraits of other sisters. She sped down carpetless corridors, by bare, whitewashed walls. She was in a hospital interior, its dead veins leading towards a pumped-out heart. Her slippered feet were quaint on the chilling tiles. Her toes were benumbed, her ringless fingers aching each by each. At last she came to a spiral stair. As far as she had fallen through the house, so many levels had she now to climb. Over the spiral stair some words were written. The Lady Mary read them. The words said: Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. "Lord Fox?" called Lady Mary. "'Tis I, Lady Mary. 'Tis myself, the Lady Mary. Halloo, halloo, loo, loo! Anybody home, Lord Fox?" There came no answer. Lady Mary went slowly up the stairs. Her dress was spread, so, on the ivory steps. They were long steps, alternate black and white, like the keys of a harpsichord, save that the keys of a harpsichord of course are not alternate. Well, sir, neither was that spiral ivory stair. It was arranged even as a keyboard is arranged, or even as a keyboard has been arranged since the Ruckers got to work on it. The Lady Mary climbed three octaves towards silence. Her trailing dress ascended through the dusk. Her train was a relentment, her golden hair a coruscation. There was music where she was. At the top of the stair, sir, she came to a gallery. It was roofed I think with ice, like the inside of a wolf's mouth. The gallery was like a mouth, in any measure, a wolf's mouth agape. Over the entrance, above the entrance to the gallery, some words were written. The Lady Mary read them. The words said: Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. "Clotpoll," thought Lady Mary, "can he really have the same idiot inscription written all over his house?" Then she called. "Lord Fox," she called, "where are you, Lord Fox?" There came no answer. The listening house stood still. My sister the Lady Mary went on through the gallery. The walls glistened with frost. Her skirts made a swishing sound. At the end of the gallery she came to another door. This door was also black. But it was very small. There were some words written on it. Lady Mary had to kneel to read them. Her spectacles slipped down her nose. Her garters twanged on her plump white thighs. The words said: Be bold, be bold, but not too bold - lest that your heart's blood should run cold. My sister the Lady Mary was not a person to be frightened off now that she had come so far. She turned the key in the tight lock. She opened the door. She stuck her head and shoulders into the tiny room. The tiny room was full of tubs of blood. Skeletons hung from hooks in the rafters. Skulls grinned at her from every shelf. The floor was thick with coils of human hair. Lady Mary did not scream. She shut the door. She stood up. She went to the window for air, and saw Lord Fox. He was coming towards the house across rank lawns. It had begun to snow and his figure, dressed all in black, loomed like a devil in a mist of whirling white flakes. He snowed towards my sister. He carried in his left hand a long, thin sword. With his right he dragged a young girl by the hair. The girl screamed. But Lord Fox said nothing. The Lady Mary sprang back from the window. She snatched up her skirts and she ran through the gallery. She tried door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door after door for a place to hide, but all were locked. She hurried down the spiral stair. She flew. She spun. She fell. She glided. Her face was the colour of mushrooms. Down the black and white, white and black stair she went, note after note after note after note. What was the tune, what was the melody of the Lady Mary's fall? It was the opening bars of that song which is called Heart's-ease.* It was the sound of a snowflake falling, the world in the evening, the witches of regret that shout "All hail!", the end of it all, minutest quickening conclusion. As Lady Mary fell the last act rose to meet her. They met. They merged. They melted. Her hair streamed. Her shadow was a gleam on gleaming ivory. She could hear Lord Fox coming. She hid herself under the staircase. Lord Fox entered the hall. Lord Fox and his victim. My sister's heart was beating like a drum. "A goitre like a bladder of lard, a goitre like a bladder of lard, bladder of lard, bladder of lard, bladder of bladder of bladder of lard," cried the heart of the Lady Mary. Her heart thought she must be caught. But Lord Fox did not see her. No, sir, yes, sir, so bent is he on his own cruel business that he does not see my sister where she lies huddled in the blue pool of her dress. He begins to drag the poor girl up the stair. The girl does not go easy. She screams. She kicks. She plunges. Begging for mercy, she catches hold of a knob at the turn of the bannisters. Lady Mary, peeping up from her hiding place, sees the girl's hand tighten. The girl wears a silver bracelet round her wrist. As Lady Mary watches, Lord Fox raises up his sword and cuts off the girl's hand. Cut. Hand and bracelet fall in my sister's lap. She hears Lord Fox going down the gallery, and the dragging sound of the girl behind him. The harpsichord of the stair was silent. My sister ran, sir, ran ran ran from Bold House, ran through the snow, and she did not stop running until she reached the safety of our house on the cliff.'

They had reached the end of their afternoon stint on the tread-wheel. Shakespeare turned to his companion. 'A most strange story,' he said. The teller turned away. He said nothing. He went to his cell.

All the rest of that day, and all night, Will thought over the story the stranger had told him. He considered it one of the best stories he had ever heard. The next morning he looked for the man in the file to the tread-wheel, to tell him so. But the man was not there.

The next day Shakespeare looked for him again. Still this particular prisoner did not appear among the others. It was a week from the day when William Shakespeare first heard the names of Lord Fox and the Lady Mary before he encountered the storyteller once more. The man was already in position on the tread-wheel. Nobody else seemed keen to share his company, so Will found it an easy matter to go and work beside him.

'I wanted to tell you,' he said, 'how good I thought your story.'

'But I didn't finish it,' the storyteller said.

* An anonymous Elizabethan air later employed by John Dowland for his setting of 'Come away, come away, death' in Twelfth Night.