“‘Tis merry, ‘tis merry, my wife’s as all;
For women are shrews both short and tall,
‘Tis merry in hall when beards wag all
And welcome merry Shrovetide.
Be merry, be merry, &c.”
“I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle,” murmured
Sir John, who, I think, by this time was beginning to get drowsy.
“Who, I?” said the meek songster. “I have been merry twice and once ere
now.”
The festivities continued, but with a somewhat languishing spirit.
Master Shallow’s angular chin began to beat double knocks against his
bony chest. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping one eye--the
weather one, doubtless--open. Bardolph confined himself to the main
business of his consistent life--good, steady drinking. Davy officiated
as Ganymede. Robin was silently contemplative. There were spoons and
tankards in the orchard, and nobody sober to watch them! Sir John spoke
not, except to give a word of encouragement to Master Silence, whose
vocal exertions he rather approved of, as calculated to save him
the labour of conversation. It is not absolutely recorded, but
circumstantial evidence makes it probable, that Sir John Falstaff,
having drowsily pledged that inveterate songster in a bumper, fell
instantly fast asleep, and was snoring in blissful ignorance of actual
circumstances--only to dream of coronets that were never to be worn and
coffers that were never to be filled--when he was roused from his nap by
a terrific knocking at the outer gate.
Everybody was on the alert. Justice Shallow, in the midst of a dreamy
platitude of welcome, breathed into the confidential recesses of his
folded arms, started into wide-awakefulness with an echoing knock of
chin against chest, which must have been highly detrimental to his
remaining dental economy. Davy flew to the gate. Master Silence
considered the startling occurrence an excuse for further melody.
Bardolph drank. Robin, it may be presumed, took some advantage of the
confusion; but as the Shallow spoons were not counted that evening, it
is uncertain to what extent.
There was cause for disturbance. In those days an Englishman was
obliged to make his house his castle. The meanest homestead--and Master
Shallow’s was not one answering to that definition--had to be carefully
guarded by moat and drawbridge. They kept early hours then. All the
family were expected to be in-doors by sunset, for it was not safe to be
out after dark. Any vassal, pig, or other retainer, stopping out
after the gates were closed, might do so at his own peril. A late
visitor--especially one making such formidable announcement of his
arrival as that which disturbed Sir John Falstaff from his comfortable
after-supper nap, and sent Master Shallow’s little dried walnut of a
heart leaping into his mouth, like a parched pea from a shovel up the
chimney--was not only a source of astonishment but of alarm. It might be
a robber at the head of a forest-band come to levy what we should term
an execution on the goods and chattels; or a travelling abbot on his
way to some ecclesiastical conference, having brought the _élite_ of his
monks and their appetites with them; or a proscribed nobleman and his
suite, to harbour whom would be certain death in the course of a month,
and to behave uncivilly to whom would be the same in the course of a
minute and a half; or it might be the king who had been kicked off the
throne, or the other king who had kicked him off in pursuit of him.
In any case, the chances were ninety-nine and nine-tenths to a decimal
fraction that the visitor would prove one who, at his departure, would
leave the proprietor a sadder and a poorer man than he had been in
the morning. The probability of a needy and harmless wight being found
sufficiently mad or intoxicated to make a disturbance at a rich man’s
door (more especially if the rich man happened to be in the commission
of the peace), just as the family might be supposed to be retiring to
rest, being of the remotest.
The speedy return of Davy to the orchard with the information that the
demonstrative visitor was merely “one Pistol, come from the Court with
news” for Sir John Falstaff must have had an immediately soothing and
reassuring effect upon the assembly.
At the word “Court” Sir John Falstaff pricked up his ears instinctively.
A momentary thrill ran through his system. Had they, at last, “sent for”
him? Was he really wanted to guide, counsel, or amuse--at any rate, to
be recognised and rewarded?
Pshaw! The very name of the messenger was a proof to the contrary.
Pistol was, doubtless, in the neighbourhood; had heard of his patron’s
whereabouts; and tracked him, as usual, in the hope of a flagon, a
supper, and a piece of silver! Sir John was a philosopher, and was
engaged in the digestion of his own supper. He would not allow that
vital process to be prejudiced by the excitement of possibly fallacious
hope. He fell back upon the garden seat, and ordered Pistol to be
admitted.
Pistol strode into the orchard, looking daggers around him. Pistol was
in the habit of looking daggers, as I might be in the habit of looking
fifty pound notes. The process was by no means a proof that he had one
about him to make use of when called upon. He said---- But you shall hear
what he said, and what was said to, and about, him, in the dramatic
chronicler’s own words, with such unwritten elucidations, or “stage
directions,” as your humble servant may consider himself justified in
venturing upon.
Sik John Falstaff (indifferently).--How now, Pistol?
Pistol (with gesticulations of extravagant homage’).--Sir John, God save
you, sir.
Sir John Falstaff (suspiciously, buttoning his pockets).--What wind blew
you hither Pistol?
Pistol.--Not the ill wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight,
th’art now one of the greatest men in the realm.
Master Silence (dimly reminded of a forgotten ballad, sings’)_“By’r
lady, I think ho bo, but goodman Puff of Barson_.”
Pistol (at once discerning that Master Silence is a man who may be
safely bullied).--Puff? Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward
base!--Sir John, I am thy Pistol, and thy friend, and helter-skelter
have I rode to thee; and tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, and golden
times, and happy news of price.
Sir John Falstaff.--I pr’ythee now, deliver them like a man of this
world.
Pistol.--A foutra for the world, and worldlings base! I speak of Africa,
and golden joys.
Sir John Falstaff.--O base Assyrian knight! what is thy news? Let king
Cophetua know the truth thereof.
Master Silence (sings seraphically).--“And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and
John.”
Pistol.--Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons? And shall good news
be baffled? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap.
Master Shallow (rising, with magisterial assumption of
sobriety).--Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding.
Pistol.--Why then, lament therefore.
Master Shallow.--Give me pardon, sir:--if, sir, you come with news from
the court, I take it, there is but two ways, either to utter them, or to
conceal them. I am, sir, under the king, in some authority.
Pistol (drawing a rusty rapier) Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or
die.
Master Shallow.--Under King Harry.
Pistol.--Harry the fourth? or fifth?
Master Shallow.--Harry the fourth.
Pistol.--A foutra for thine office!--Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is
king: Harry the fifth’s the man. I speak the truth: when Pistol lies, do
this; and fig me, like the bragging Spaniard.
Sir John Falstaff (leaping to his feet like a colt).--What! is the old
king dead?
Pistol.--As nail in door: the things I speak are just.
[Illustration: 256]
Sir John “Falstaff (quivering with excitement).--Away, Bardolph! saddle
my horse.--Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the
land, ‘tis thine.--Pistol, I will double-charge thee with dignities.
Master Bardolph--O joyful day!--I would not take a knighthood for my
fortune.
(He drinks and exits.)
Pistol (smiling sardonically).--What! I do bring good news?
Sir John Falstaff.--Carry Master Silence to bed.--Master Shallow, my
Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am fortune’s steward. Get on thy
boots: we’ll ride all night__O sweet Pistol!--Away, Bardolph.--Come,
Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal, devise something to do thyself
good.--Boot, boot, Master Shallow: I know, the young king is sick
for me. Let us take any man’s horses; the laws of England are at my
commandment. Happy are they which have been my friends, and woe unto my
lord chief justice!
Pistol:
Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!
Where is the life that late I led say they;
Why, here it is! (snaps his fingers.)
Welcome those pleasant days.