A Mystery Of Errors

“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.”

Smythe was taken aback. “You have not abandoned her, surely? With children?”

“Nay, I would not do so mean a thing.” The poet shook his head. “That is to say, I have left her back in Stratford with the children, aye, that is true, but I have not abandoned her. Even though the marriage was not of my own choosing, ‘twas surely of my own making. Had I but held my piece, so to speak, instead of being too quick to dip my quill in her all-too-willing and inviting inkwell, I would have written a different scene entirely and married better and more wisely. And for love, unfashionable as that may seem. But for want of better timing, ‘twas another Anne I would have married.”

“You loved another, also by the name of Anne?”

“Aye. For while a rose may be a rose, and while by another other name it may still smell as sweet, it is only once the bloom is off the rose, my friend, that you discover what is truly at the root. The Anne I loved was young and innocent; the Anne I got was older, more experienced and much craftier. And relentless, untamed shrew though she may be, she is nevertheless my shrew and the mother of my children, who could have done better, certainly, than to have a besotted, weak-willed poet for a father, though perhaps they could not have done much worse.”