Scene V.
Herbert:
[Enters; the ladies flock together and giggle; he goes to them.] Well, Lady Cynthia, what’s the story?
Lady Cynthia:
Story?
Herbert:
The story that made you all laugh as I came in.
Lady Cynthia:
There was no story.
Herbert:
It was truth, you mean. [Lady Cynthia curtsies.] Something pointed at me. What was it?
Lady Cynthia:
Why should you think it was about you?
Herbert:
What was it, then? You silly girl, if you don’t tell, the others will.
Lady Cynthia:
[Turning to them in appeal.] You won’t, will you, girls?
Miss Fitton:
Of course they will; women always tell of each other, so I’ll save them the trouble. Lady Cynthia said, she’d rather be the Queen you knelt to, than the Captain you struck.
Lady Cynthia:
Oh, I didn’t, I didn’t. I’ll never forgive you, Mary Fitton, never!
Miss Fitton:
Well, if you didn’t say it, I do, so protest’s useless.
Herbert:
And would you be the Queen, lady?
Miss Fitton:
Perhaps; for women can win, though conquered.
Herbert:
Then conquest does not frighten you?
Miss Fitton:
Nothing frightens us but indifference. We women are fortresses, only sure of our valour when we’re attacked: only convinced of our strength when we’re taken, and as proud of being won as men are of winning.
Herbert:
If the fortress is as strong as your tongue is sharp, ’Twould need a Paladin to attempt it.
Miss Fitton:
Only cowards fear the strength of their opposites, and you, my lord, are no coward.
Herbert:
[Laughing, as if flattered.] How do you know that, lady?
Miss Fitton:
By double proof, my lord.
Herbert:
Double proof?
Miss Fitton:
Yes: you strike a Captain of thirty, and kiss a Queen of sixty. Give you good e’en, my lord!
[Curtsies, and turns to go.]
Herbert:
You shan’t escape like that! [Catches her by the waist.] You must pay for your impertinence. Come, give me your lips, beauty.
Miss Fitton:
[Holding her head away.] That were to turn play into earnest.
Herbert:
So much the better. [Their eyes meet.] I can be earnest, too. [He kisses her; she draws away.]
Lacy:
If I intrude, I flex the knee: I’m sage-green with jealousy; or shall I scent the lambent air with flowered gratulation?
Herbert:
[Irritably.] I wish you’d talk naturally, like a man, and not like a popinjay.
Lacy:
In verity I belong to the brutish, bearded sex, as you may prove, my lord, when the occasion pleases you. [Bows to Herbert.] But “naturally” offends my sense, ’tis a gross and vulgar birth. Prithee, my lord, do you dress“naturally”? or eat “naturally”? or house “naturally”? And if to be natural in all these is savage-vile, why should a man talk “naturally,” like a lewd barbarian?
Herbert:
I mean why be singular in speech—fanciful, peculiar?
Lacy:
The first man who made a girdle of skins instead of the fig-leaf was so admonished, and with equal consistency. Why wear a slashed doublet, my lord—most “fanciful-peculiar”?
Herbert:
It becomes my place.
Lacy:
And so my speech is more ornate than peasants use.
Herbert:
But my doublet isn’t tagged with silly, useless ornaments, like your “scent the air,” and “sage-green with jealousy”! Green is good enough.
Lacy:
Green means nothing; but sage-green paints the bilious tinge of soured vanity; still, a dispute about the shade concedes the principle.
Herbert:
No, I think the common speech better, stronger.
Lacy:
No! No! Ten thousand negatives! I abhor your common fustian speech. Words, like coins, grow lighter in the using; so I mint a new word to charm the ear, as a jeweller sets a gem to catch the eye. [Turning to Miss Fitton.] But I’ve tired you, most divine fair, with peevish argument, instead of pleasing with example. I entreat forgiveness: am carmined with confusion. [A bevy of girls come up: the first cries—] “We are allowed to dance”: [the second—] “How shall we begin, with the galliard or the Coranto?” [They speak chiefly to Lord Herbert and Mistress Fitton, because Lord Lacy is staring at one of their number, Lady Joan Nevil. Lacy, turning again to Herbert.] What heavenly pulchritude! casting light, not shadow, upon earth. Who is the wonder, nymph or angel? My eyes are blinded by her celestial radiance.
Herbert:
[Stepping forward.] Lady Joan, let me present Lord Lacy here, who professes himself your admirer.
Lacy:
[Bowing to the ground.] Admirer [with a reproachful glance at Herbert], worshipper of your most angelic loveliness! Lady, my senses are all your slaves.
Lady Joan:
I free them at once, my lord. I would not slavish service.
Lacy:
O voice most tuneful and beyond music harmonious!
Lady Joan:
Praise, my lord, should keep a measure; sweets are quick to surfeit.
Lacy:
Lady, if I cannot win your favour, I am like to die of grief.
Lady Joan:
Live, my lord, live, and now if it please you letus join the dancers. [They turn off together; the dancing goes on with directions changing the galliard to the Coranto.]
Miss Fitton:
[Looking after Lacy.] A curious jay.
Herbert:
A soldier, scholar, traveller, all masked with this extravagance.
Miss Fitton:
Lady Joan may cure his distemper.
Herbert:
Perhaps; but why did you refuse my kiss? Am I so hateful to you?
Miss Fitton:
No, no.
Herbert:
Why then withhold so small and usual a favour?
Miss Fitton:
One sometimes fears to give—not from penury; but——
Herbert:
You dear! How did you know I love you?
Miss Fitton:
I do not know it, my lord. Shall we dance?
[They pass, and Sir John Stanley and Lady Jane Wroth come in their turn to the centre.]
Stanley:
What do you women see in him? He’s impudent; but good-looking boys are always impudent. I could forgive the Queen for loving Essex; he’s a man, a great Captain, too; but this raw Herbert—pshaw!
Lady Jane Wroth:
Perhaps it’s his youth pleases her, Sir John. And then he’s marvellous well-featured. [They pass, Lacy and Lady Joan, after a couple or two pass, return toC.]
Lacy:
[Earnestly.] My speech, lady, shall follow your taste, like my dress. If you prefer plain cloth to murreyed sarsenet, it shall be as you wish, I will speak poor drab. But taffeta phrases have a rich distinction, and silken terms are soothing to the sense.
Lady Joan:
I would not have you altered, the gay doublet suits you: the fanciful speech, too. But just a touch of—austerity in ornament—is that how you speak?
Lacy:
Rosebud of maidens, you delight my heart!
[They pass. Lady Cynthia Darrel and a Courtier come to the front.]
Lady Cynthia:
Do you think Mistress Fitton good-looking?
A Courtier:
Good-looking, yes; but swarthy.
Lady Cynthia:
Too tall for my taste, and bold. Ha! Ha! If that’s your country innocence, I prefer the town. Those black eyes in that pale face—ugh! Now Herbert is a model, perfect.
A Courtier:
He’s very well, and he knows it. [They pass. Slowly Lord Herbert and Miss Fitton return. The Mistress of Ceremonies orders the cushion dance: the pages arrange the cushions.]
Miss Fitton:
I know you don’t; too well I know it.
Herbert:
I swear I do; put me to the proof.
Miss Fitton:
What’s the good?
Herbert:
All the good; you’ll have the proof, and be convinced, and yield. Try me.
Miss Fitton:
[They dance: at the end of the bar, Herbert kneels on a cushion.] How easy it is to gull oneself when one wishes to. If the Queen entered now, my lord, you’d be at her feet in an instant.
Herbert:
Not I. Not if you promised to come to me: Will you? [Miss Fitton kisses his forehead.]
Miss Fitton:
Do you mean you would stay by me even if she called you?
Herbert:
Even if she called, if you promise.
Miss Fitton:
You would not dare.
Herbert:
Dare! indeed; wouldn’t I! [They dance round, and when their turn comes to kiss, Miss Fitton gives her lips. Immediately afterwards the doors are thrown open and the Queen announced,R.Some servants enter backwards; then the Queen moves to throne,R. C.The dancers stop; all bow and curtsey.]
The Queen:
Let the dance go on! [The Queen looks round; Herbert and Miss Fitton are standingL.C.The Queen calls“Lord Herbert.”Herbert goes on talking to Miss Fitton as if he did not hear.]
Miss Fitton:
[In a loud whisper.] Go, the Queen calls, go.
Lord Herbert.
[To Miss Fitton.] But will you promise?
The Queen:
Lord Herbert!
Miss Fitton:
Go, I’ll forgive you, go.
Herbert:
But will you promise?
The Queen:
[Turning to a Servant.] Send Lord Herbert to me.
Miss Fitton:
[As the servant nears the couple.] Yes, I promise—sometime—go! [Herbert, bowing low to Miss Fitton, swings round, walks to the Queen, and puts one knee to the ground.]
The Queen:
[Angrily.] You forget your manners, my lord, and your duty.
Herbert:
[Smiling.] Manners, ma’am, and duty are worthless frozen words: my allegiance to you is an irresistible passion; as, you know, the desire of the moth for the light.
The Queen:
Methinks, the moth is quite content with blackness, here. [With a glance at Miss Fitton.]
Herbert:
The eyes that suffer through excess of radiance close of themselves to rest.
The Queen:
[As if pacified or negligent.] You may dance, my lord. [Amid the astonished silence and observation of all, Herbert bows and draws backward towards Miss Fitton.] Go on with the dance. The Coranto, not that kissing thing. [The Pages remove the cushions.]
Lady Jane Wroth:
[To Sir John Stanley.] She hates to seeotherskissing.
Stanley:
That’s morality. [The talk breaks out again, and the dance goes on. In a moment or so Herbert is at Miss Fitton’s side, and they dance round.]
The Queen:
[As they pass, calls] Lord Herbert! [He dances on as if he didn’t hear. The Queen descends fromher throne, and takes him by the ear.] Are you deaf to-night? I will dance with you. [Lord Herbert bows, smiling, and they dance a measure or two; the Queen holds up her dress very high and marks each step elaborately in bygone fashion: when they come toC.]
Herbert:
I knew I’d win you.
The Queen:
Win me?
Herbert:
And now I have succeeded.
The Queen:
What do you mean?
Herbert:
Jealousy is the best proof of love.
The Queen:
You saucy boy! [They dance to the entrance,R.He holds the cloth, and the Queen passes through. As the cloth falls, Herbert turns and hastens back to Miss Fitton, who moves to meet him: the others are dispersing; the servants begin to dismantle the tent.]
Herbert:
Did I keep my word?
Miss Fitton:
How bold you are!
Herbert:
And you—beautiful. Remember! you promised.
Miss Fitton:
[Hesitates, then looking at him nods as if reflecting.] I did promise.
Herbert:
Come, then.
Miss Fitton:
Oh no; not to-night. To-night I must—I could not. I could not. It is so late. I said “sometime.”
Herbert:
You are too proud to cheat. I have your word. Come: it’ll soon be midnight.
Miss Fitton:
Midnight!
Herbert:
Yes, midnight. What of that?
Miss Fitton:
Nothing: nothing——
Herbert:
Come, then. You are not afraid of the dark with me.
[While speaking he puts his arm round her, kisses her and draws her towards entrance,C.There he takes cloaks; wraps her in one and puts the other on. They go. The stage darkens. A servant comes in, takes up something and goes away. The stage darkens; stars appear. Midnight sounds from some neighbouring clock. On the first stroke Shakespeare enters fromL.,moves to trysting-place and waits. No one comes. In the distance faintly he hears his own song growing clearer as if the singer were passing by: “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.” He moves about restlessly while the song dies away.]
Scene I.
In the Mitre Tavern.
Host:
[Wiping the table.] I can trust no more. I’m a poor man, Master Chettle.
Chettle:
[Aside.] Poor in flesh and poorer in spirit. [Aloud.] Go to, man, I don’t ask you for trust. From now on the drink of the day shall be paid in the day. What can you want more?
Host:
Ay, that were good enough if——
Chettle:
Oh! Your “if” ’s a scurvy coward, a water-drinker dripping with doubts; no host for a generous tavern. Hark ye, ye don’t send in the reckoning before the meal; but an hour after. Make the hour three and ye shall have your money. Send me the drawer, man, and before night ye shall be paid. Was ever such an unbelieving sinner!
Host:
Sinner, I may be, Master Chettle; but unbelieving, no. I have trusted you these ten years, Master Chettle, and the reckoning grows; every year it grows. That’s not want of faith, Master Chettle.
Chettle:
Ha, ha! Ye have me there: quick wits, Master Fry, and the riposto tickles. There, I’m glad it’s settled. Send me the drawer and you shall have your money to-night. I never could haggle with a man of mind. And I bring you custom, man, more custom than any dozen, and such custom, the wits of London, the heads o’ the world!
Host:
Ay, ay; but——
Chettle:
There, there; it’s settled: honest men have but one word. I know you good, Master Fry; but hard like this new religion; hard. There, there! we are old friends. Send the drawer; he knows my ways and quickly; this tongue-fence hath made me dry. Here come my friends, a goodly company and all thirsty; despatch, man,despatch! [Exit Host: Jonson and Burbage enter together; Fletcher, Dekker, Marston follow; the drawer brings back Chettle his sack.]
Jonson:
I thought we’d find you here, Chettle; but what are you doing?
Chettle:
[Writing.] Writing, lad, for a meal, as a poet must in these niggard-tradesman times.
Burbage:
Have you seen Shakespeare?
Chettle:
Shakespeare? No. Why do you ask? Is there any news?
Burbage:
Great news! The Lord Chamberlain writes me to be in readiness to play before the Queen. I must to the theatre at once.
Fletcher:
I’m with you.
Dekker}
Marston}
And I!
Chettle:
A drink, lads, before you go, to keep out the river-mist; water’s the cause of all my pains!
Jonson:
Sack, you mean; sack and canary that make your blood boil with gout.
[The drawer brings wine in large flagons.]
Chettle:
Not so, bully Ben. Not so. Rheumatics, not gout. Ah, had my mother but given me sack when I was young and tender, I had never known these whoreson tweakings. A pious upbringing, Ben, and a watery diet have been my undoing.
Burbage:
Do you go with us, Jonson?
Jonson:
No. I’m not known to your Lord Chamberlains.
Fletcher:
Nor I. Yet I go to see the stir.
Jonson:
You are of the company.
Fletcher:
No. I take Foster’s place; you can have Browne’s.
Jonson:
No, no! I’ll keep my own name and my own place. [Enter Shakespeare.] Ho, Will! you’re to be a courtier; have you heard?
Shakespeare:
No: what is it?
Burbage:
We must be ready: we may be summoned any day to play at Court: I have the order.
Jonson:
What’s Chettle chuckling over there?
Chettle:
[Looking up from his writing.] Angling for supper, lads; just a snack.
Dekker:
Let’s see Chettle’s snack.
Fletcher:
[Pounces on the paper and reads.] It’s a letter to Mistress Tagge of the “Tabard.”
Marston:
Let’s hear it!
Jonson:
Read it, Fletcher, read it!
Chettle:
No. No! Mad lads! That forked radish there shall not clapperclaw my work. If you must hear it I’ll read it myself. No whipper-snapper shall squeak my words! Now, lads, listen! [Reads.] “To fair Mistress Tagge, the best hostess in London;argalin the world! I kiss your hands most beauteous and bountiful; I have but now seen your drawer and heard that you want twenty angels to-night. The time’s short, but I’ll bring them as I’m a true man unless the rascal bookseller lies in his promise to me and that he’ll not dare——
Jonson:
What a poor cheat! Who’s the bookseller, Chettle?
Chettle:
[Reads on.] “This very night I’ll bring the angels to my angel!”
Jonson:
Oh, foul jest!
Chettle:
“But as I shall come late will sweet Mistress Tagge prepare me a mouthful of supper—any little thing’ll do—a snack just to provoke appetite, for indeed I’m far from strong.
Jonson:
Oh, mountainous weakling! Tun of lard!
Fletcher:
Now for the snack, boys! Listen.
Chettle:
Ay, a snack, you pizzle; a snack for a man. [Reads.] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey and——
Shakespeare:
[Interrupting.] “Or indeed both,” Chettle, put in “or indeed both,”—the salmon and the lamprey.
Chettle:
Right you are, bully boy. Right! [Corrects the letter and reads again.] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey or indeed both, [looks up at Shakespeare and laughs] and then a loin of young pork dressed with your own select and poignant sauce and then a few oiled mushrooms——
Shakespeare:
Too many “thens,” Chettle. “A few oiled mushrooms and one is ready to loose a button and begin.” [All laugh.]
Chettle:
True, true, lad; ’tis but a beginning. [Writes and reads on.] “For something to eat, a shoulder of mutton and a cantle of one of your noble pasties [Shakespeare interjects“just to quiet the stomach’s craving,”and Chettle writes and repeats the phrase] just to quiet the stomach’s craving, and then a bird, say a pheasant for choice,and afterwards a goose [Shakespeare interjects“to trifle with,”and again Chettle writes and repeats the words] to trifle with, and instead of salad some barbel’s beards—you know how I like ’em—and nothing more an’ you love me—nothing, unless it be a morsel of cheese [Shakespeare interjects“to take away the cannibal taste of the meat”and Chettle writes and repeals the words with a loud laugh] to take away the cannibal taste of the meat.”
Jonson:
You gulf of gluttony! No wonder you’re lame with gout!
Chettle:
It’ll tweak you worse at my age, old gamecock! Ah, lads! My suppers are all numbered; I can’t increase ’em by one and so I want ’em all good. This world owes Hal Chettle a living.
Fletcher:
Are you finished?
Chettle:
[Reads on.] “And you’ll not forget the wine, dear Mistress Tagge: nothing but your old sack—sackwithout taint of sugar or cow’s juice—pure milk o’ the grape; and afterwards, if you will, a tankard of canary with my pipe, just to keep me warm thro’ the long night. And as for the angels, count on ’em; if I can, I’ll bring you twice twenty; for I love an open hand.” [Shakespeare, going to the door, interjects, “‘In others,’ Chettle, ‘in others.’”All laugh; but Chettle cries, “No, no, mad wag,”as Shakespeare goes out.]
Jonson:
You unspeakable liar, you; you haven’t two coins in the world to clink together!
Chettle:
That’s the virtue of the promise, thickhead! Ha; Ha! lads! He knows how to write and how to fight, the great boar, but not how to live. That’s Chettle’s art. Ben has no kindling fancy, no procreate imagination. I’ll tell you a secret, lads, a rich secret, a secret of gold; in this world large promises excite more goodwill than small performances, and praise to a woman is more than sacks of money. He! he! Oh, the sweet creatures; how should we live without ’em! And how angry I shall be to-night with that cozening, lying bookdealer! Ha! ha!
Jonson:
Haven’t you any conscience?
Chettle:
No, bully boy, no: I’ve never been rich enough to keep a conscience: never! With us poor devils conscience is like a court-suit put by for state occasions and then used as little as may be: we pawn it sometimes for a dinner. Conscience, look ye, is a jade that still cries “No, no!” and never helps with brave encouragement: a good defender of the rich; but a born foe of the poor, laming enterprise. No, no, lad, no conscience for me; a bad one’s worse than a belly-ache, and with a good one I’d starve. Conscience is like a shrewish wife (have I touched ye there, Ben?), as long as you listen to her she makes you miserable, and when you no longer care for her, why should you keep her? To conclude: Conscience, boys, is a bogey to frighten the feeble from frolic. Ha ha!
Jonson:
But as a man, aren’t you ashamed to cheat a poor woman?
Chettle:
Have at ye again, lad! In this world we allcheat and are cheated. You cheat the groundlings and orange-girls out of their crosses with a bad play when they’ve paid to hear a good ’un, and I cheat by giving soft words instead of coins. And the conclusion! The girls are angry with you, while my hostess is in love with me. True virtue is good-humour, Ben: and a pleasant smile’s more than all the commandments.
Fletcher:
Chettle’s putting up for a saint.
Chettle:
And why not, lad, why not? The greatest sinners always make the greatest saints. Reason: they’ve more stuff in ’em for good or evil and better wits to shape the mass to a purpose. Reason again. How can you help others to resist temptation unless you feel the strength of it in your own flesh?
Jonson:
You are the sum of all sins—a glutton, drunkard, letcher and shameless to boot: how can you talk of being a saint!
Chettle:
Sins of the flesh, my lad, find pardon easier than malice of the spirit; I’d be a saint to-morrow,but the living’s thin and ye’re all such unbelieving rascals that ye’d make me misdoubt my own virtue!
Jonson:
Virtue in you would be like a lump of butter in a raging fire, ’Twould feed the flames!
Chettle:
That’s the unbelief in ye, that still keeps me a sinner, a villainous sinner!
Burbage:
At this rate, Chettle, you’ll make us all late. Come, boys, come, there’s much to do.
Chettle:
’Tis a churl would leave a good dinner, but no one would leave good talk but a chough, and that was good, wasn’t it, Ben?
Jonson:
Like your dinners, Chettle; more to be praised for quantity than quality, but still——
Chettle:
Have with you, lads: I’ve a Court cloak in white sarsenet; the colour of fear and ofconscience, it takes a stain in every weather and from every touch! Ha! ha! ha!
[Exit all save Jonson, who calls the drawer by stamping on the floor.]
Jonson:
[To drawer.] Bring me inkhorn and paper: I would write.
Drawer:
[Wiping the table.] Coming, sir, coming!
[Exit drawer.]
Enter Shakespeare.
Jonson:
[Watching him.] What is it? Will: what is it? You wander in and out like one becrazed—The poisoned dart of old Virgil—Eh? Yet surely you won your beauty?
Shakespeare:
I have not seen her for weeks.
Jonson:
What have you done?
Shakespeare:
Herbert said he would speak to her.
Jonson:
Well?
Shakespeare:
I have not seen him since.
Jonson:
Humph! Like consequence, like cause.
Shakespeare:
No, no! he’s my friend unwearied in kind offices. If you but knew——
Jonson:
Then why not find him and solve the riddle?
Shakespeare:
I will: I must. To-day; now. [Goes to door and returns.] But if she has changed to me—ah, Ben, hope is something; we mortals live by hope.
Jonson:
Hope balanced by despair. Have done with the ague-fit, man!
Shakespeare:
You’re right: I’ll go at once. [Exit.]
Jonson:
[Siting dozen again to write.] So honest Trust has always Cheat for friend.