They entered into the doings of these new friends with spirit and amenity. And Shakespeare sustained the deception with great tact and wit. Moreover, Gervase and Anne were ever ready to second him in all his inventions and contrivances. Indeed, Gervase, who was familiar with Italy, was able to counterfeit a slight accent, which heightened the illusion of his broken English; while Anne, although not a little shy, bore herself with a modest grace, that made the young Signor Arrigo extremely popular with all the members of the Company.
It chanced, besides, that when these two Italians had made their appearance but a few hours among the Lord Chamberlain’s servants, an incident occurred which added greatly to their prestige.
It had been arranged that the chief members of the Company, who were lodged at the Crown Tavern, which was reckoned much the best in Oxford, should dine together at noon in the large parlor. This would allow plenty of time against the performance of “The Merchant of Venice,” which was to be given in the inn courtyard at two o’clock that afternoon.
The players had sat down to their meal. Shakespeare, at the head of the long table in the center of the room, was carving a sirloin with the dexterity of one who had been a butcher’s apprentice in his youth. Burbage, at the foot of the table, was dealing with a couple of roast fowls with an air of manly conviction. Anne had already been given a wing, and William Kemp, that famous comedian, was cutting a piece of ham to accompany it, with a flourish of wit as well as of knife, when the door of the dining-parlor was flung open suddenly. A man entered rudely and roughly with a clank of sword and spur. He had not even the grace to remove his hat.
One glance he cast round the room, saw no place was set for him, and then called loudly for the landlord.
“The place is full of these stinking play-actors!” he cried out. “The best inn in Oxford is now the worst. These mimes have taken all the best rooms, they infest the place like vermin. They are sticking up a filthy stage upon filthy trestles in the middle of the courtyard, so that a man hasn’t even room to water his horse, and now, by God’s blood, they crowd their betters out of the dining-parlor!”
The man was Sir Robert Grisewood, whom Shakespeare and Gervase had seen already. He was an insolent bully, of a type common in that day; a man of brutal and dangerous character, who lived by his wits and his sword, with just enough surface manners when it suited him to pass muster with those with whom he wished to consort, but whose chief pleasure was to ruffle it through the world and take the wall of those less well placed than himself.
This morning, however, Sir Robert was a little out of his reckoning. The man with the mild face who was carving the sirloin paused to look at him. And if ever a high scorn was expressed in the human countenance, it was here to be seen.
“Yes, I mean you as well as the rest, you paper-faced potboy,” said Grisewood, having failed to stare him down. “Go back to your filthy playhouse in the stews, and don’t come among your betters until they send for you, unless you want to get your nose pulled.”
The coarse bully had drunk a cup of wine too much already that morning. He was bitterly angry, besides, that his favorite chamber overlooking the garden was in the occupation of this mean fellow, who lived by the public favor instead of by cheating at cards. With a string of oaths, he advanced upon Shakespeare and shook a fist in his face.