by Robert Nye
Chaddar (which some miscall Cheddar) was by way of being his favourite. And why not? Your Chaddar is a large, fine, rich and pleasant cheese – and so it should be, for I have heard that in that village near the Mendip Hills in Somerset where it is made, all the milk of the cows is brought every day into one common room, where proper persons are appointed to receive it, and they set down every person’s quantity in a book kept for the purpose, which is put all together, and one common cheese made with it.
But Cheshire cheese was also to Mr Shakespeare’s taste. He was partial in particular to it toasted. In The Merry Wives of Windsor he has Falstaff say, ‘’Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese’, and I heard him say no less more than once himself. But the poet noted also that eating toasted Cheshire makes your breath stink.
Parmesan pleased him less. He reckoned it was for men who lived like mice and run squeaking up and down. And as for Banbury, pah! Nothing good ever came out of Banbury, said Mr Shakespeare. ‘Not even the buns?’ I asked him. ‘Not even the buns,’ he said. ‘Not even the fine lady upon the white horse?’ I asked him. ‘Least of all, her,’ he said. ‘She would have been a Puritan,’ he added. I think I know exactly what he meant. It’s an odious town, that Banbury, and all the people there come loaded to their boots with religious zeal. Your Banbury-man is a bigot, sir. Your Banbury cheese is nothing but a paring. Bardolph compares Slender to Banbury cheese. It’s no use at all, not even with pippins.
Of cheese in general I once heard Mr Shakespeare declare that a cheese, to be perfect, should not be like
(1) Gehazi, i.e. dead white, like a leper;
(2) not like Lot’s wife, all salt;
(3) not like Argus, full of eyes;
(4) not like Tom Piper, hoven and puffed, like the cheeks you get from playing of the bagpipes;
(5) not like Crispin, leathery;
(6) not like Lazarus, poor, or raised up from the dead;
(7) not like Esau, hairy;
(8) not like Mary Magdalene, full of whey, or maudlin;
(9) not like the Gentiles, full of maggots or gentils; and
(10) not like a bishop, made of burnt milk.
I must admit that I never comprehended number 10 in his list of cheese negatives until one day during the late Civil Wars when my dear wife Jane burnt the porridge and when (mildly) I complained she shouted, ‘So the bishop put his foot in it, that’s all!’ It turned out to be a country saying where she came from, remarked of milk or porridge that is burnt, or of meat that’s over-roasted. I daresay it derives from the bishops in the bad old days being able to burn whosoever they lusted.
Well, that’s sufficient I think about cheese, although truth to tell Mr WS could never get enough of it himself. I would like it to be true, what Edmund told me.
He was a sweet, ineffectual fellow, Edmund, with long hair the colour and consistency of tow. The youngest of the family, he followed William to London to join our company, playing minor female parts and second messengers. It is not true that I was jealous of him. He fathered a bastard son, Edward, who died of a trembling fit before he could speak and we buried him at St Giles, Cripplegate, in the year Mr S wrote bits of his Timon of Athens. I think it was 1607, that bad year. Edmund himself died at the end of it. He was buried on New Year’s Eve. In St Saviour’s, Southwark. I remember the snow falling on his coffin as we carried it into the church, and the forenoon knell of the great bell over our heads. That cost Mr Shakespeare £1. If he had buried his brother outside, with the smaller bell, it would have cost no more than three shillings. Edmund’s funeral was held in the morning so that all his fellow actors could attend.
After the funeral, we played at cards for kisses. Mr Shakespeare won. He had me dress in my costume as Rosalind before she went to the woods. He cut himself on a card. (He was very thin-skinned.) I recall him looking at his fingertip and saying, ‘His silver skin laced with his golden blood’. This made no sense to me. He sniffed at his fingers also, and said that he smelt a strange, invisible perfume. But then perfumes are always invisible, I should say.
Of course, I made no such comment at the time. My dress was blue as they say the Greek sea is. It was made of silk-shag and it rustled when I crossed my legs. I wore silk stockings too, and garters pulled tight like roselets. By the time our game was finished, and all forfeits paid, Mr Shakespeare’s Rosalind had nothing on but a pair of hair-coloured satin stays and a scanty quilted petticoat.
Rosalind was always one of my favourite parts. I have reason to know that Mr Shakespeare favoured it as well.
But about that Pickleherring will be silent, for the present. My lips are sealed. They might open another night.
I only just now remembered that game of cards – thinking of Edmund’s burial after telling you how he told me his brother’s first word was ‘Cheese!’ Sometimes the mind works strangely, but I count this the best way to remember. The trouble with thinking about something often is that it becomes more and more your memory of the thing rather than the thing itself remembered. So it’s just as well I’d forgotten this till this minute.
Edmund Shakespeare had a long and ironical face.
He died of brandy, which in those days we called brandy-wine. Brandy is Latin for goose. Here, madam, is a pun between anser, a goose, and answer, to reply. What is the Latin for goose? Answer (anser) brandy!
Reader, my guest, I am myself a water-drinker. I drink no wine at all, which so much improves our modern wits. I am a rude writer too, loose and plain, I confess it. I call a fig a fig and a spade a spade. What my mind thinks my pen writes. I respect matter, not words. With Mr Shakespeare it was otherwise.
Let us consider then the time when the child Shakespeare rose up in the night, while his mother and his father slept.
He went from his cot out into the darkness. In the morning he came back. He was wet through, though it had not been raining. There were green weeds in his hair and about his shoulders. He looked, they thought, like the Old Man of the Sea.
The next night his mother could not sleep for worry about the boy. She saw her son go out again. She followed him to see what it was that he did.
Little WS went down through the moonlit meadows to the river. He walked along its banks till he came to the weir. On the shallow side of the weir he entered the water. He walked into the Avon until it came up to his neck.
There the child stood. There he stayed. He did not move. He did not cry out. No sound escaped him. The dark hours passed. The river flowed all around him with moonlight upon it. Mary watched. Her heart was sore for her son but her feet would not carry her to his rescue nor her tongue cry out. She was as one spellbound, witness to a mystery.
William Shakespeare did not come forth from his vigil in the River Avon until daybreak. Then he walked up the green bank, and he knelt down upon it, and he prayed. And, behind him, two otters came following, bounding from the shallows, slippery through the gloom, and they stretched themselves in his shadow in the thin morning sunlight, and they warmed his feet with their breath and they dried them on their fur.
Chapter Thirteen
Was John Shakespeare John Falstaff?
Mr John Shakespeare suffered badly from indigestion.
‘Are you aware,’ said the Reverend Bretchgirdle, ‘that the bile in your belly could burn a hole in the carpet?’
‘Go on,’ said John.
‘I tell you true,’ promised the lumpish ecclesiastic. ‘In the third and fourth centuries, Lampridius and Jerome established this,’ he added, ‘not to say Isidore. Your bile is one of your four humours: sangius, melancolia, phlegma, and cholera. Cholera’s what you’ve got. It’s what makes you so irascible, Mr S.’
‘Sometimes I belch hubbubs,’ admitted John.
‘Hubbubs?’ the priest invigilated. ‘What colour hubbubs?’
‘Hubbubs the colour of pixies,’ said John Shakespeare. ‘Green ones and black ones. I can’t stand my own smell when I do.’
‘Do you eat a lot of butter?’ as
ked Bretchgirdle. Then, without waiting for any answer, he went on, ‘Just last year, so I heard, Dr Timothy Bright poured half a pint of green bile onto a Turkey carpet at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in Smithfield. Do you know what happened?’
‘A hole,’ John suggested.
‘A hole as big as a saucer,’ Bretchgirdle says.
‘But my bile’s mostly black,’ John Shakespeare counters hopefully. ‘It’s only my hubbubs come green. Will I have to be purged?’
‘Not at all,’ his priest tells him. ‘Mr Shakstaff, yours is the black choler, Trevisa’s cholera nigra. All we must do is to shave off the foreign ferment from your crude ventricle.’
While the poor bewildered whittawer is failing to digest this, and before he can open his foam-flecked mouth to reply, Bretchgirdle hands over a folded sheet of paper.
‘Read this,’ he says.
It was a holograph manuscript in cursive script, the signature sprawling and sea-stained. John Shakespeare read as follows:
I have been a martyr to cholera for five years, went to divers surgeons and physicians, gained no benefit. I essayed everything, but was unable to take solid food. My wife advised BRETCHGIRDLE’S DIGESTIF CORDIAL. After using it, I improved, and was able to enjoy buttered pippin-pies and to consume a mutton chop at will. Now I carry a flask of BRETCHGIRDLE’S DIGESTIF CORDIAL in my pocket when I go on any voyage, and drink a sip of it after each and every meal. It has been to me a godsend.
(signed) Sir Francis Drake, Admiral;
MP for Bosinney, Cornwall.
John Shakespeare never bothered to learn to write, and he’s a very slow reader. When he’s read the commendation through he whistles, and then taps at his front tooth with it. ‘That’s remarkable,’ he says at last. ‘Can I ask you one thing though – do you take this drink yourself?’
‘Each bottle blessed by Edmund Grindal, the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ his vicar says neutrally. ‘It tastes just like honeysuckle,’ he explains, ‘but believe me it’s manna by the time it comes to meet all that thick, acrid fluid secreted in your kidneys. Choler, farewell. Indigestion ceases instanter. You can eat anything, Mr Shakestaff.’
‘Anything?’ John Shakespeare asks slyly.
‘Take two sips after each confession but before making your communion,’ advises the Pelagian.
Reader, you will have noticed in this colloquy that Bretchgirdle twice addressed our hero’s father as Shakstaff and Shakestaff. This is not idle fancy on Pickleherring’s part. In fact I have inspected a document in which the late Mr William Shakespeare’s father is listed as Richard Shakstaff. That makes it quite thinkable that John Shakespeare could be known as John Shakestaff. But where is all this staff-stuff leading us, you wonder?
Sir, I would like to suggest that the character of Sir John Falstaff is based directly on Mr Shakespeare’s father John! Madam, consider it without tilting your nose, if you please. I do not mean only to say that they had indigestion in common. Nor big, round bellies.
Members of the poet’s family proved understandably reticent when I broached this subject. I cannot blame them. Who would want to admit to the fat, cowardly knight in his family tree – that liar, that misleader of youth, that great drunkard? Joan Hart (Shakespeare’s sister) looked away when I mentioned it. Susanna Hall had her Puritan husband show me the door. Only Judith Quiney, the poet’s younger daughter, did not bat an eyelid at my theorem. Dear Judith, but I don’t know what she thought. She seemed never very interested in her father’s work. It was long after her own tosspot of a husband had upped and left her that I got around to asking if it had ever crossed her mind that Falstaff and her grandfather were the same. As I say, she didn’t bat an eyelid. She just stared at me. One of her tricks was to wear a medal low on her chest. Whenever I asked to see it, instead of drawing it out she leant forwards for me to look. Although I often asked to see that medal, I never did find out what it represented.
But think of what I’m saying. John Shakespeare was a drunkard. He was fat. He was witty. He spent most of his time in the ale-house. He told lies. He rose Alderman-high* in Stratford before he fell ruffian-low. The boy William’s first memories of him would have been of a great man in a red gown with white ermine collar and trimmings. And John’s fall from grace must have come in William’s youth. I am sure John Shakespeare cast a long shadow over his son’s life. Yes, and a fat shadow too, I’m convinced of that.
But don’t take my word for it. Look at the names on this black list. It’s a list that I turned up in Stratford – of men not attending Trinity Church in the year of 1592:
I have underlined the three names that prove there must be something to my case. Here we see John Shakespeare linked in disrepute with two of Falstaff’s cronies: Bardolph and Fluellen. Of the real-life Fluellen I know nothing, save that his widow died in the Stratford almhouse. But George Bardolfe was much like the rogue in the plays – in Henry IV, Henry V, and The Merry Wives of Windsor. He started as a mercer and a grocer, and ended up as a drunk. Writs of arrest were issued against him for debt. He was imprisoned for it in the year he appeared on the list. They say he had friends in high places, and that the under-sheriff of Warwickshire, Basil Trymnell, let this Bardolfe out to drink in a tavern in Warwick but when warned that he might escape kept him ‘in a much straighter manner’ and secured him by ‘a lock with a long iron chain and a great clog’.
The character and nature of John Shakespeare and his associates seems to me as near a match as you will find for the character and nature of John Falstaff and his associates. Who says the people in the plays are not real people? I think they had flesh and blood in our poet’s mind.
Besides which, Thomas Plume, the Archdeacon of Rochester, told me that Sir John Mennis once saw Mr John Shakespeare in his shop in Henley Street. This would have been at the end of the last century. He was a merry-cheeked old man, he said. He said also that the father said that Will was ‘a good honest fellow’, but he ‘durst have cracked a jest with him at any time’. Who else can this remind you of but Falstaff and Prince Hal? Do thou stand for my Father, as the poet has the prince say true to Falstaff.
I should not be surprised one day to learn that John Shakespeare died crying out ‘God, God, God’, as Mistress Quickly says John Falstaff did. Some say he died a Papist, like his son. But more of that later.
That hubbub’s an Irish war-cry: Ub! Ub! Ubub!
As for Doctor Timothy Bright, he was a very fine physician in his day, and the odious Bretchgirdle’s invoking him should in no wise be permitted to detract from his excellent fame. In addition to his treatise on preserving health, called Hygieina, he wrote a good one on restoring the same commodity, Therapeutica. He also invented a shorthand system that was used by Robert Cecil and his spies. His Treatise of Melancholy, published in 1586, distinguishes between the mental and the physical roots of that affliction. The late Mr Shakespeare was fond of this little book. I often saw him reading in it, and he may even have derived from thence the phrase ‘discourse of reason’ which comes in Hamlet’s first soliloquy.
I doubt myself that Dr Bright ever poured bile on any carpet. Nor would Grindal have blessed a bottle. He leant towards Geneva in such matters.
I met John Shakespeare myself, but just the once. I’ll be telling you all about that when we come to it.
* Falstaff in Henry IV, Part One goes out of his way to say that when younger he ‘could have crept into any Alderman’s thumb-ring’. This is followed by a passage in which he says to Hal: ‘Thou art my son.’
Chapter Fourteen
How Shakespeare’s mother played with him
Some say that the first word spoken by William Shakespeare was neither ‘Cheese!’ nor ‘Roses!’ but that as soon as he came forth from his mother’s womb he cried out with a great voice and what he cried was this: ‘Drink! Drink! I want drink! Bring me ale to drink!’
No doubt you do not believe the truth of this first saying of Shakespeare’s after his nativity. No more do I. But tell me, if it had been
the will of God that the babe should cry out not as other babes do but in this wise, would you still say that little Willy could not have done so? I tell you, it is not impossible with God that a child should speak in the first moment of his life, and that he might call out for a pot of ale, if he wanted one.
Be that as if may, the midwife Gertrude told me on her oath that at the sound of his father’s flagons clinking the baby William would of a sudden fall into an ecstasy, as if he had then tasted of the joys of paradise. So that every morning his mother would strike with a spoon upon a glass or a bottle, and at the sound her son would become happy, lolling and rocking himself in his cradle, nodding with his head, a perfect little tosspot.
And if he happened to be vexed, or if he did fret, or weep, or cry, they had only to bring him some ale in a bottle with a teat, and he would be instantly pacified, and as still and as quiet as they could wish.
WS was by all accounts a fine, handsome boy, and of a burly physiognomy. In fact he cried little, and laughed when he could. He beshat himself very smartly every hour. To speak truly of him, as Dr Rabelais says of the infant Gargantua, he was wonderfully phlegmatic in his posteriors. So what did Shakespeare do in the days of his beginning? He did, sir, what you did, and what I did, and what even you did, madam. That is to say, he passed the time like any other child since the birth of the world. He passed his time in drinking and in eating and in sleeping. And he passed his time in eating and in sleeping and in drinking. And he passed his time in sleeping and in drinking and in eating. And he passed his time in eating and in drinking and in sleeping. And he passed his time in sleeping and in eating and in drinking. And he passed his time in drinking and in sleeping and in eating.