A Dead Man in Deptford Read Online Free PDF

vision of heaven in trumpet colours.
Masterless dogs scavenged and cats with staring coats darted or
limped. And so we came to the Triple Tun, with its trinity of
barrels on the sign that creaked in the sunset wind. Within,
the lamps were already swinging from the rafters, the flames
of candles danced, and fat was in the fire of the kitchen open to
the view at the far end. So we sat and were greeted by Shilliber
himself who, with his wife, bade the ordinary thrive with its
coffined meats, browned fowls, flummeries, tarts and syllabubs. Good red wine, he announced, had come the long journey from
Bergerac. Jolly eaters waved or nodded at Ned Alleyn, and some
gave him the fanfare of What outcries. So we asked for the great
veal pie with its minced dates and a mingling of cream in the
peppery gravy, also wine in a crock drawn bubbling from the
cask. And Kit, in exhilaration of his dousing the bravoes, grew
talkative. He spoke of Machiavelli and his Prince and of Simon
Patricke’s Englishing of Gentillet’s Contre-Machiavel which had
been his bed-book at Corpus Christi. He said:

    - I have lines for him. The man himself, old Nick, on
the stage in black, croaking:

    I forget the rest, but it is all writ down.
    - You spoke that too loud about the childish toy, Kyd said.
See, there is one looking and one taking it down on his tablets.
There are spies all over.
    - Not my thought though my words, Kit said. But I see
the danger. A man can be identified with his creation. Create
a villain and you become a villain.
    - Those devilish verses would be in the manner of a prologue,
Alleyn mused. But the prologue of what piece?
    - Machiavel is no Satan, Kit said. It is his honesty that
astounds. We have seen in our time men sent to the flames
or the hangman’s hands on the grounds of their rejecting the
holy word of God as our prelates interpret it. These prelates
have lifted up their eyes as they were swooning with joy at
the salvation of the sinner through deeply regretted agony
inflicted. But they were and are hypocritical. They love the
pain of others for in it their own power is made manifest. It
is the one thing men want. Not knowledge, not virtue, but
power. This Machiavel knew, this he has taught us. And so the show of holiness is in the service of the love of power.
But our prelates would be shocked to be told it is but a show.
They do not gaze deep into themselves. Machiavel counsels
this and sees virtue in dissimulation if it be exercised in the
pursuit of power. You yourselves look shocked so I will say
no more.

    By this time the coffined veal had been placed steaming on
the board by Shilliber’s younger daughter Kate, whose hoisted
bosom was well on show. Ned Alleyn took the great ladle and
dug in and the spiced aroma rose. We proffered our dishes and
he unladled with a clash of metal on metal. Kyd’s watering was
visible to the depth of his chin: saliva played in his reddish beard.
He ate greedily and Tom Watson gently disengaged his hand
from his horn spoon that grace might be said. I, at Henslowe’s
nod, said it:
    - May the good Lord bless our victuals. As our bellies
fill with thankfulness may our souls fill with grace. Amen.
    - Well, Kit said, but toying with his sauced veal, it is a
good grace. Meaning that there is no harm in it. But God’s
grace is no special condiment. And it is more of a bestowal for
the abstinent than for the gorger.
    Kyd gorged. Tom Watson ate with delicacy. Kit drank deep
and praised the Bergerac red. Watson said, delicately munching:
    - I see some great giant striding the stage in the pursuit of
power. There are such giants out there in Europe but topicality
is dangerous. Machiavel, they say, is the Bible of the French
queen mother. Put her on the stage and that would put you in
jail.
    - The topical, Kyd said indistinctly, veal sauce colouring
his beard, must ever be inserted as it were on the side. My
tragedy is of Spain and Portugal but