It happened, at that time, that the Master of Balliol had staying with him in college a young man of promise, Mr. Francis Bacon by name, who knew his way about the Court. And when the Dean chanced to mention that this man, whose name he had forgotten, desired to perform three of his interludes within the precincts of that ancient home of learning and that the Queen approved him mightily, Mr. Francis Bacon, who even at that time had taken all knowledge for his province, exclaimed, “By God, it must be that plaguy fellow, Shakescene, that all the Court is mad about!”
“Shakescene is the man’s name, undoubtedly,” said the eminent divine, gravely. “An importunate Shakescene, moreover, who would play three of his rustical interludes within the precincts of this old foundation.”
“Importunate enough, I grant you,” said Mr. Francis, taking snuff with a great air. “Wat Raleigh tells me the numskull comes to Court in a barred cloak and affects the style of a gentleman. However—fine feathers make not fine birds. But why not let the rogue play his interludes, eh, Master? How say you, Mr. Dean? And we will go ourselves and witness ’em. I have long sought the opportunity to watch one of the performances of this ripe scholar.”
“The rogue shall perform in the town, Mr. Francis,” said the Dean of Christ Church, “if perform he must, but not, I promise you, within the precincts of this old and honorable foundation.”
“I doubt not he would perform still better at the whipping post, where such knaves more truly belong,” said the Master of Balliol, taking a prodigious pinch of snuff from the box of the Dean. “But as you say, Francis, let the rogue set up his booth in the city, and thither we will repair of an afternoon. We can then judge for ourselves what it is that the taste of Gloriana the peerless approves.”
Thus it happened that Gervase and Anne, who had been stowed away in a corner of the gallery out of the sight of the multitude, were able to gaze directly down upon these three grave and serious gentlemen, who were seated upon the stage itself.
Grave and serious they might be. Yet as they decked the proscenium, their demeanor was spiced with not a little levity. Not only their surroundings, but the whole of that which was taking place, seemed to provide food for their sly mirth.
Gervase had marked one of the three in particular immediately upon his entrance.
“I know that man,” he whispered to Anne. “Yes, the fellow in the feathered bonnet and the blue cloak. He is always about the Court. Sit close, dear soul. He’s got the eye of a hawk, but, thank God, he won’t look to see me like this.”
Indeed, Mr. Francis Bacon had eyes for nothing save the comedy that was being performed for his benefit. Greatly condescending, the future Lord Chancellor had come in the company of two learned pundits with no better intention than to deride the piece and its author.