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"Pray tell, Master Shakescene, what university did you attend?"
"I must confess that I am not a university man, sir," Shakespeare replied, without correcting him about his name, though he gave a sidelong glance of annoyance to Smythe. "I did have some formal schooling back home in Stratford, but then —"
"Not a university man, then," Greene interrupted him again. He nodded. "Indeed, I had heard as much. I had thought, however, that I might have been misinformed, that you were in truth a master of the arts and I had not been aware of it."
"Nay, sir, I make no such claim," said Shakespeare modestly. "I never went to university."
"Indeed. An uneducated man. And yet, you seem to feel yourself somehow qualified to sit in judgement upon the writings of a master of the arts, and rearrange them to suit your fancy. You take painstakingly well-crafted literary verses and then have them jet about the stage in tragical buskins, styling yourself a poet like some upstart country crow beautifying yourself with the feathers of your betters. What do you have to say for yourself, sir?"
Shakespeare sat there stunned, completely taken aback. He looked as if the floor had suddenly dropped out from underneath him, and he could think of no reply. Smythe, too, was completely unprepared for this sudden vitriol and for a moment found himself absolutely speechless, but he recovered quickly and rose to the defence of his friend.
"Sir, I see you are offended," he said. "Please let me assure you that such was never our intent. 'Twas my idea that we come here to seek you out and meet with you, for I have read nearly all of your pamphlets and thought that—"
"My pamphlets?" Greene said with a snort. "For God's sake. My bloody pamphlets. A lifetime spent in pursuit of mastering the arts, Ball, and all they truly care about are my bloody cautionary pamphlets written for the common man. Tell us, Master Greene, how to avoid being cozened by some sharper, how not to have our purses lifted, how to tell if someone is cheating us at cards, or how the alley-man plies his trade, so that we may avoid being waylaid in some alley whilst out looking for some whore to bugger. And in the meantime, we shall grow fat upon your plays, rewriting them howsoever we may choose, for what are a poet's words, after all, but a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing? Why not make a jig of them? Why must we respect an artist's original intent? Why not add a little speech in the first act and cut out one in the second, put in a jest or two, perhaps a song, take a little sample here and a little sample there, rearrange it and call it all our own. Why, 'tis brilliant, positively brilliant! What great artists we all are, eh, 'Master' Shakescene?"
Shakespeare had turned pale. He sat deathly still and speechless, a stricken look in his eyes.
"Sir," said Smythe, "meaning no disrespect, but surely a poet such as yourself must understand that plays are a collaborative medium, a crucible in which the intent of the author and the interpretation of the player co-mingle with the perception of the audience to yield a new alchemical concoction with every new performance."
"Concoction? Concoct this, you infernal jackanapes," said Greene, and dashed the remnants of his ale into Smythe's face. "You dare to lecture me? Bloody leeches! Go fatten on some other beast and leave me well enough alone!"
Smythe got to his feet, ale dripping from his chin onto his spattered runic, and Cutting Ball was just as quick to rise pugnaciously and draw his dagger once again.
Smythe drew his own dagger. "Right, then," he said grimly. "If that is how you want it, you scurvy rogue, I shall be more than happy to oblige you." Then he felt Shakespeare take him firmly by the arm and pull him back.
"Nay, Tuck, let us be gone from this place, quickly," he said. "Please, I beg of you. Let us be gone."
Smythe kept his gaze locked on Cutting Ball, who looked somewhat undecided now, but still belligerent. For a moment, they held each other's gaze, and then Cutting Ball's eyes slid away.
"Bastards," Greene was muttering to himself. "Bloody bastards."
Slowly, Smythe backed away, keeping careful track of those around them until they had cleared the door and were once more outside in the cobbled street.
"I am truly sorry, Will," he said, "for what just happened back there."
"Why?" asked Shakespeare. "'Twas not your fault, Tuck. You have done nothing whatever for which any apology is warranted."
"I fear that I must disagree," said Smythe. "'Twas my idea that we come here to seek out Robert Greene in the first place. I should have left well enough alone. I should have listened when you told me you heard that he was dissipated and fallen on hard times. The man is deeply embittered and in a bilious humour. Yet there is simply no excuse for the foul manner in which he addressed you. And to think that I admired him."
"You admired his work," said Shakespeare. "But until now, you knew nothing of the man. And I repeat, you have done nothing for which any apology is warranted. You could not possibly have known he would have responded. thus to me. 'Strewth, I never would have guessed it myself."
Smythe sighed. "Nevertheless, I feel at least in part to blame. 'Twas I who dragged you here, and more's the pity."
"And 'twas Robert Greene who took it in his head to dress me down," responded Shakespeare. "He could have greeted me in friendship as a colleague, but instead he chose to upbraid me for having the audacity to improve upon his work. Well, as
it happens, his criticism was not entirely without merit. I am not a university man, and as such may indeed be regarded as 'an upstart crow' by the academic poets, his fellow masters of the arts. 'Beautified with the feathers of his betters.' I must say, Greene may have become a bloated old sot, but soused or not, he still knows how to turn a phrase."
"'Twas a vile phrase, a most vile phrase, indeed!" said Smythe as they walked. "And I must disagree with you that his criticism was not without merit. I say 'twas completely without merit! Why, how can you possibly say otherwise!"
"But I did rewrite some of his plays."
"You rewrote some speeches here and there, and that only because the company had asked you to, for they were not working well on the stage," said Smythe. "For God's sake, Will, must I defend you to yourself? Greene's plays are full of pompous posturings and pretentious speeches that tend to ridicule the very audiences to whom he purports to play. The truth of the matter is that he fancies himself a grand literary poet superior to all but others like himself, the so-called 'masters of the arts,' if you will. Masters of conceit, if you ask me! Well, unfortunately for Master Greene, a university degree does not, apparently, elevate one above the mundane task of eating, and so for sustenance he must write plays and publish pamphlets, not for other university men such as himself, whose patronage could not support him, but for the groundlings, common people like ourselves, for whom it seems he has nothing but contempt. But then we mere mortals are not quite so ignorant as he supposes, and when he continually ridicules us in his plays, we respond accordingly and begin to look elsewhere for our entertainments. Aye, even to 'upstart crows' who may lack the advantages of a university degree, but at least do not bite the hands that feed them!"
"Upon my word, Tuck, that was as fine a speech as any Robert Greene could ever hope to write," said Shakespeare.. "I can only hope that I might do as well one day."
"I have every confidence that you shall do much better."
"You are a kind soul, Tuck, if not quite an honest one. Nevertheless, I do esteem you for your kindness. But 'twould seem now that you no longer admire Greene's work, yet prior to this, I think you did. I am sorry this encounter has soured you on him."
