AT THE TAVERNS.
"We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow."--_Henry
IV., Part II._
That this narrative--which is to be an account of things done, not an
antiquarian "picture" of a past age--need not at every step be learnedly
arrested by some description of a costume, street, house, aspect of
society, feature of the time, or other such matter, let the reader be
reminded at the outset that the year 1601 was of Elizabeth's reign the
forty-second; that England was still in the first thrill of the greatest
rejuvenescence the world ever knew; that new comforts, and new luxuries,
and new thoughts, and new possibilities, and new means of pleasure, had
given Englishmen a mad and boisterous zest for life; that gentlemen
strutted in curiously shaped beards, and brilliant doublets, and silken
trunk-hose, and ruffs, and laced velvet cloaks, and feathered hats; that
ladies wore stiff bodices and vast sleeves, and robes open in front to
show their petticoats, and farthingales to make those petticoats stand
out; that many of these ladies painted their faces and used false hair;
that the attire of both sexes shone with jewels and gold and silver;
that London folk were, in brief, the most richly dressed in the world;
that most ordinary London houses were of wood and plaster, and gabled,
and built so that the projecting upper stories darkened the narrow
streets below; that the many-colored moving spectacle in those streets
was diversified by curious and admiring foreigners from everywhere; that
although coaches were yet of recent introduction, the stone paving
sounded with them as well as with the carts and drays of traffic; that
gray churches, and desolated convents, and episcopal palaces, and
gentlemen's inns, and turreted mansions of nobility, abounded in city
and suburbs; that the Catholics were still occasional sufferers from
such persecution as they in their time had dealt to the Protestants;
that there were still some very proud and masterful great lords,
although they now came to court, and had fine mansions in the Strand or
other suburbs, and no longer fostered civil or private war in their
great stone castles in the country; that bully 'prentices, in woollen
caps and leather or canvas doublets, were as quick to resent real or
fancied offence, with their knives, as gentlemen were with
silver-gilt-hilted rapiers; that the taverns resounded with the fanciful
oaths of heavily bearded soldiers who had fought in Flanders and Spain;
that there were eager ears for every amazing lie of seafaring
adventurers who had served under Drake or Raleigh against the Spanish;
that tobacco was still a novelty, much relished and much affected; that
ghosts and witches were believed in by all classes but perhaps a few
"atheists" like Kit Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh; that untamed England
was still "merry" with its jousts, its public spectacles, its rustic
festivals, its holiday feasts, and its brawls, although Puritanism had
already begun to show its spoil-sport face; and, to come to this
particular first Monday in March, that the common London talk, when it
was not of the private affairs of the talkers, had gone, for its theme,
from the recent trial and death of the brave but restless Earl of Essex,
to the proceedings now pending against certain of his lesser satellites
in the Drury House conspiracy.
Before entering the Falcon, Hal Marryott sent a last sweeping look in
all directions, half daring to hope that the lady in gray and murrey had
not yet left the vicinity of the theatre. But the audience had gone its
countless ways; at the Falcon river-stairs the watermen's cries and the
noise of much embarking had subsided; and the only women in sight were
of the Bankside itself, and of a far different class from that of her
whom he sought. He sighed and followed his companions into the tavern.
They were passing through the common hall, on their way to a room where
they could be served privately, when they were greeted by a tall, burly,
black-bearded, bold-featured, weather-browned, middle-aged fellow in a
greasy leather jerkin, an old worn-out red velvet doublet, and patched
brown silk trunk-hose, and with a sorry-feathered remnant of a
big-brimmed felt hat, a long sword and a dagger, these weapons hanging
at his girdle. His shoes barely deserved the name, and his brown cloth
cloak was a rag. His face had been glum and uneasy, but at sight of the
players he instantly threw on the air of a dashing, bold rascal with
whom all went merrily.
"'The actors are come hither, my lord,'" he cried, with a flourish,
quoting from the play of the afternoon. "A good piece of work, Master
Shakespeare. Excellent! More than excellent!"
"Despite thyself, for doing thy best to spoil it,--bawling out in the
fencing match, Kit Bottle," put in Will Sly.
"Captain Bottle, an it please you, Master Sly," said the other,
instantly taking on dignity; "at least when I carried Sir Philip Sidney
off the field at Zutphen, and led my company after my lord Essex into
Cadiz."
"And how goes the world with thee, Captain Kit?" inquired Mr.
Shakespeare, with something of a kindly sadness in his tone.
"Bravely, bravely as ever, Master Will," replied Kit. "Still marching to
this music!" And he shook a pouch at his belt, causing a clinking sound
to come forth.
As the players passed on to their room, Kit plucked the sleeve of Hal
Marryott, who was the last. When the two were alone in a corner, the
soldier, having dropped his buoyant manner, whispered:
"Hast a loose shilling or two about thy clothes, lad? Just till
to-morrow, I swear on the cross of my sword. I have moneys coming; that
is, with a few testers to start dicing withal, I shall have the coin
flowing me-ward. Tut, boy, I can't lie to thee; I haven't tasted meat or
malt since yesterday."
"But what a devil--why, the pieces thou wert jingling?" said Hal,
astonished.
"Pox, Hal, think'st thou I would bare my poverty to a gang of
players--nay, no offence to thee, lad!" The soldier took from the pouch
two or three links of a worthless iron chain. "When thou hast no coin,
lad, let thy purse jingle loudest. 'Twill serve many a purpose."
"But if you could not buy a dinner," said Hal, smiling, "how did you buy
your way into the playhouse?"
"Why, body of me," replied Bottle, struggling for a moment with a slight
embarrassment, "the mind, look you, the mind calls for food, no less
than the belly. Could I satisfy both with a sixpence? No. What should
it be, then? Beef and beer for the belly? Or a sight of the new play, to
feed the mind withal? Thou know'st Kit Bottle, lad. Though he hath
followed the wars, and cut his scores of Spanish throats, and hath no
disdain of beef and beer, neither, yet as the mind is the better part--"
Moved at thought of the hungry old soldier's last sixpence having gone
for the play, to the slighting of his stomach, Hal instantly pulled out
what remained of his salary for the previous week, about five shillings
in amount, and handed over two shillings sixpence, saying:
"I can but halve with thee, Kit. The other half is owed."
"Nay, lad," said Kit, after a swift glance around to see if the
transaction was observed by the host or the drawers, "I'll never rob
thee, persuade me as thou wilt. Two shillings I'll take, not a farthing
more. Thou'rt a heart of gold, lad. To-morrow I'll pay thee, an I have
to pawn my sword! To-morrow, as I'm a soldier! Trust old Kit!"
And the captain, self-styled, in great haste now that he had got the
coin, strode rapidly from the place. Hal Marryott proceeded to the room
where his fellow actors were. His cup of canary was already waiting for
him on the table around which the players sat.
"What, Hal," cried Sly, "is it some state affair that Bottle hath let
thee into?"
"I like the old swaggerer," said Hal, evading the question. "He hath
taught me the best of what swordsmanship I know. He is no counterfeit
soldier, 'tis certain; and he hath a pride not found in common rogues."
"I think he is in hard ways," put in Laurence Fletcher, the manager,
"for all his jingle of coin. I saw him to-day lurking about the door of
the theatre, now and again casting a wishful glance within, and then
scanning the people as they came up, as if to find some friend who would
pay for him. So at last I bade him come in free for the nonce. You
should have seen how he took it."
"I warrant his face turned from winter to summer, in a breath," said Mr.
Shakespeare. "Would the transformation were as easily wrought in any
man!"
A winter indeed seemed to have settled upon his own heart, for this was
the time, not only when his friends of the Essex faction were suffering,
but also when the affair of the "dark lady," in which both Southampton
and the Earl of Pembroke were involved with himself, had reached its
crisis.
Hal smiled inwardly to think how Bottle had seized the occasion to touch
a player's feelings by appearing to have spent his last sixpence for
the play; and forgave the lie, in admiration of the pride with which
the ragged warrior had concealed his poverty from the others.
As Hal replaced his remaining three shillings in his pocket, his fingers
met something hairy therein, which he had felt also in taking the coin
out. He drew it forth to see what it was, and recognized the beard he
had worn as the elderly lord. He then remembered to have picked it up
from the stage, where it had accidentally fallen, and to have thrust it
into his pocket in his haste to leave the theatre and see if the girl in
murrey was still about. He now put it back into his pocket. After the
wine had gone round three times, the players left the Falcon, to walk
from the region of playhouses and bear-gardens to the city, preferring
to use their legs rather than go by water from the Falcon stairs.
They went eastward past taverns, dwelling-houses, the town palace of the
Bishop of Winchester, and the fine Church of St. Mary Overie, to the
street then called Long Southwark; turned leftward to London Bridge, and
crossed between the tall houses of rich merchants, mercers, and
haberdashers, that of old were built thereon. The river's roar, through
the arches beneath, required the players to shout when they talked, in
crossing. Continuing northward and up-hill, past the taverns and
fish-market of New Fish Street, their intention being to go at once to
the Mermaid, they heeded Master Condell's suggestion that they tarry on
the way for another drink or two; and so turned into Eastcheap, the
street of butchers' shops, and thence into the Boar's Head Tavern, on
the south side of the way.
On entering a public parlor, the first person they saw was Captain
Bottle, sitting at a table. On the stool opposite him was a young man in
a gay satin doublet and red velvet cloak, and with an affected air of
self-importance and worldly experience. This person and the captain were
engaged in throwing dice, in the intervals of eating.
"What, old rook--captain, I mean," called out Mr. Sly; "must ever be
shaking thine elbow, e'en 'twixt the dishes at thy supper?"
"An innocent game, sir," said Kit, promptly, concealing his annoyance
from his companion. "No money risked, worth speaking of. God's body,
doth a sixpence or two signify?" And he continued throwing the dice,
manifestly wishing the actors would go about their business.
"'Tis true, when Captain Bottle plays, it cannot be called gaming," said
Master Condell.
"He means," explained Bottle to his companion, in a confidential tone,
"that I am clumsy with the dice. A mere child, beshrew me else! A babe
in swaddling clothes! 'Tis by the most marvellous chance I've been
winning from you, these few minutes. 'Twill come your way soon, and
you'll turn my pockets inside out. Pray wait for me a moment, while I
speak to these gentlemen. We have business afoot together."
Kit thereupon rose, strode over to the players, drew them around him,
and said, in a low tone:
"What, boys, will ye spoil old Kit's labor? Will ye scare that birdling
away? Will ye keep money from the needy? This gull is clad in coin, he
is lined with it, he spits it, he sweats it! He is some country beau,
the dandy of some market town, the son of some rustical justice, the
cock of some village. He comes up to London once a year, sees a little
of the outside of our life here, thinks he plays the mad rascal in a
tavern or two, and goes home to swagger it more than ever in his
village, with stories of the wickedness he hath done in London. An I get
not his money, others will, and worse men,--and, perchance, leave him in
a worse condition."
"We shall leave him to thy mercy, and welcome. Kit," said Mr.
Shakespeare. "He shall never know thy tricks from us. Come our ways,
lads. These village coxcombs ought to pay something for their egregious
vanity and ignorance. This fellow will have the less means of strutting
it in the eyes of the louts, when Kit hath had his way." The poet was
doubtless thinking of the original of his Justice Shallow.[7]
So the players went on to another room, Hal remaining to say in Kit's
ear:
"I knew fellows like this ere I came from the country, and how they
prated of London, and of their wildness here. Gull such, if thou must be
a cheater."
"Cheater," echoed Kit. "Nay, speak not the word as if it smelt so bad.
Should a man resign his faculties and fall back on chance? Do we leave
things to chance in war? Do we not use our skill there, and every
advantage God hath given us? Is not a game a kind of mimic war, and
shall not a man use skill and stratagem in games? Go to, lad. Am I a
common coney-catcher? Do I cheat with a gang? Do I consort with
gull-gropers? An this rustic hath any trick worth two of mine, is he not
welcome to play it?"[8]
Whereupon Kit, making no allusion to the borrowed two shillings,
although he had already won several times two shillings from the country
fopling, returned to the latter and the dice, while Hal joined his own
party.
The sight of savory pastry and the smell of fish a-cooking had made some
of the players willing to stay and sup at the Boar's Head; but
Shakespeare reminded them that Mr. Burbage was to meet them at the
Mermaid later. So they rose presently to set forth, all of them, and
especially Hal Marryott, the warmer in head and heart for the wine they
had taken. Hal had become animated and talkative. A fuller and keener
sense of things possessed him,--of the day's success, of his own share
therein, of the merits of his companions and himself, and of the charms
of the lady in murrey and gray. So rich and vivid became his impression
of the unknown beauty, that there began to be a seeming as if she were
present in spirit. It was as if her immaterial presence pervaded the
atmosphere, as if she overheard the talk that now rattled from him, as
if her fine eyes were looking from Gothic church windows and the
overhanging gables of merchants' houses, while he walked on with the
players in the gathering dusk of evening. The party went westward, out
of Eastcheap, past London stone in Candlewick Street, through Budge Row
and Watling Street, and northward into Bread Street. The last was lined
with inns and taverns, and into one of the latter, on the west side of
the street, near "golden Cheapside," the actors finally strode. Its
broad, plastered, pictured front was framed and intersected by heavy
timbers curiously carved, and the great sign that hung before it was the
figure of a mermaid in the waves. The tavern stood a little space back
from the street, toward which its ground-floor casements projected far
out; and, in addition to its porched front entrance, it had passageways
at side and rear, respectively from Cheapside and Friday Street.[9]
The long room to which the players ascended had a blaze already in the
fireplace (chimneys having become common during the later Tudor reigns),
a great square oak table, a few armchairs, some benches, and several
stools. The tapestry on the walls was new, for the defeat of the Spanish
Armada, which it portrayed, had occurred but a dozen years before. Ere
the actors were seated, lighted candles had been brought, and Master
Heminge had stepped into the kitchen to order a supper little in accord
with the season (it was now Lent) or with the statutes, but obtainable
by the privileged,--ribs of beef, capon, sauces, gravies, custard, and
other trifles, with a bit of fish for the scrupulous. For players are
hungriest after a performance, and there have ever been stomachs least
fishily inclined on fish-days, as there are always throats most thirsty
for drink where none is allowed; and the hostess of the Mermaid was
evidently of a mind with Dame Quickly, who argued, "What's a joint of
mutton or two in a whole Lent?"[10] After their walk in the raw air, and
regardless of the customary order at meals, the players made a unanimous
call for mulled sack. The drawer, who had come at their bidding without
once crying "Anon," used good haste to serve it.
"Times have changed," said Mr. Shakespeare, having hung up cloak, hat,
and short rapier, and leaning back in his chair, with a relish of its
comfort after a day of exertion and tension. "'Tis not so long since
there were ever a dozen merry fellows to sup with us when we came from
the play."
"'Tis strange we see nothing of Raleigh," said Sly, standing by the
carved chimneypiece, and stretching his hands out over the fire.
"Nay, 'twould be stranger an he came to meet us now," said Laurence
Fletcher, "after his show of joy at the earl's beheading."
The allusion was to Raleigh's having witnessed from a window in the
Tower the death of his great rival, Essex.
"Nay," said Shakespeare, "though he was a foe to Essex, who was of our
patrons, Sir Walter is no enemy to us. I dare swear he hath stood our
advocate at court in our present disfavor. But while our friends of one
side are now in prison or seclusion, those of the other side stand aloof
from us. And for our player-fellowship, as rivalry among the great hath
made bitter haters, so hath competition among actors and scribblers
spoilt good comradeship."
"Thou'rt thinking how brawny Ben used to sit with us at this table,"
said Sly.
"And wishing he sat here again," said Shakespeare.
"Tut," said Condell, "he is happier at the Devil tavern, where his
heavy wisdom hath no fear of being put out of countenance by thy sharper
wit. Will."
"A pox on Ben Jonson for a surly, envious dog!" exclaimed Laurence
Fletcher. "I marvel to hear thee speak kindly of him, Will. After thy
soliciting us to play his comedy, for him to make a mock of thee and our
other writers, in the silly pedantic stuff those brats squeak out at the
Blackfriars!" Master Fletcher was, evidently, easily heated on the
subject of the satirical pieces written by Jonson for the Chapel Royal
boys to play at the Blackfriars Theatre, in which the Globe plays were
ridiculed.[11] "A pox on him, I say, and his tedious 'humors!'"
Whereupon Master Fletcher turned his attention to the beef, which had
just arrived.
"Nay," said Shakespeare, "his merit hath had too slow a greeting, and
too scant applause. So the wit in him hath soured a little,--as wine too
long kept exposed, for want of being in request."
"Well," cried Hal Marryott, warmed by copious draughts of the hot
sugared sack, "may I never drink again but of hell flame, nor eat but at
the devil's own table, if aught ever sour _me_ to such ingratitude for
thy beneficence, Master Shakespeare!"
"Go to, Harry! I have not benefited thee, nor Ben Jonson neither."
"Never, indeed! God wot!" exclaimed Hal, spearing with his knife-point
a slice of beef, to convey it from his platter to his mouth (forks were
not known in England till ten years later). "To open thy door to a
gentleman just thrown out of an ale-house, to feed him when he hath not
money to pay for a radish, to lodge him when he hath not right of tenure
to a dung-hill,--these are no benefits, forsooth."
"Was that thy condition, then, when he took thee as coadjutor?" Fletcher
asked, a little surprised.
"That and worse," answered Hal. "Hath Mr. Shakespeare never told you?"
"Never but thou wert a gentleman desirous of turning player. Let's hear
it, an thou wilt."
"Ay, let us!" cried Heminge and Condell; and Sly added: "For a player to
turn gentleman is nothing wonderful now, but that a gentleman should
turn player hath puzzled me."[12]
"Why," quoth Harry, now vivacious with wine, and quite ready to do most
of the talking, "you shall see how a gentleman might easily have turned
far worse than player. 'Twas when I was newly come to London, in 1598,
not three years ago. Ye've all heard me tell of the loss of mine estate
in Oxfordshire, through the deviltry of the law and of my kinsman. When
my cousin took possession, he would have got me provided for at one of
the universities, to be rid of me; but I had no mind to be made a poor
scholar of; for, look you, my bringing up in my father's house had been
fit for a nobleman's son. I knew my Latin and my lute, could hunt and
hawk with any, and if I had no practice at tilt and tourney, I made up
for that lack by my skill with the rapier. Well, just when I should have
gone to Italy. Germany, and France, for my education, my father died,
and my mother; and I was turned out of house, wherefore I say, a curse
on all bribe-taking judges and unnatural kin! I told my cousin what he
might do with the dirty scholarship he offered me, and a pox on it! and
swore I would hang for a thief ere I would take anything of his giving.
All that I had in the world was a horse, the clothes on my body,--for I
would not go back to his house for others, having once left it,--my
rapier and dagger, and a little purse of crowns and angels. There was
but one friend whom I thought it would avail me to seek, and to his
house I rode, in Hertfordshire. He was a Catholic knight, whose father
had sheltered my grandfather, a Protestant, in the days of Queen Mary,
and now went I to him, to make myself yet more his debtor in gratitude.
Though he had lived most time in France, since the Babington conspiracy,
he now happened to be at home; yet he could do nothing for me, his
estate being sadly diminished, and he about to sail again for the
country where Catholics are safer. But he gave me a letter to my lord
of Essex, by whom, as by my father, he was no less loved for being a
Catholic. When I read the letter, I thought my fortune made. To London I
rode, seeing myself already high in the great earl's service. At the
Bell, in Carter Lane, I lodged, and so gleesome a thing it was to me to
be in London, so many were the joys to be bought here, so gay the
taverns, so irresistible the wenches, that ere ever I found time to
present my letter to the earl I had spent my angels and crowns, besides
the money I had got for my horse in Smithfield. But I was easy in mind.
My lord would assuredly take me into his house forthwith, on reading my
friend's letter. The next morning, as I started for Essex House, a
gentleman I had met in the taverns asked me if I had heard the news. I
had not; so he told me. My lord of Essex had yesterday turned his back
on the queen, and clapped his hand upon his sword,--you remember the
time, masters--"
"Ay," said Sly. "The queen boxed his ears for it. The dispute was over
the governorship of Ireland."
"My lord was in disgrace," Hal went on, "and like to be charged with
high treason. So little I knew of court matters, I thought this meant
his downfall, and that the letter, if seen, might work only to my
prejudice and my friend's. So I burned it at the tavern fire, and
wondered what a murrain to do. I went to lodge in Honey Lane, pawned my
weapons, then my cloak, and finally the rest of my clothes, having
bought rags in Houndsditch in the meantime. Rather than go back to
Oxfordshire I would have died in the street, and was like to do so, at
last; for my host, having asked for his money one night when I was drunk
and touchy, got such an answer that he and his drawer cudgelled me and
threw me out. So bruised I was, that I could scarce move; but I got up,
and walked to the Conduit in Cheapside. There I lay down, full of aches;
and then was it that Mr. Shakespeare, returning late from the tavern,
happened to step on me as I lay blocking the way. What it was that moved
him to stop and examine me, I know not. But, having done so, he led me
to his lodgings in St. Helen's; whence, for one in my condition, it was
truly no downward step to the playhouse stage,--and thankful was I when
he offered me that step!"
"I perceived from the manner of thy groan, when I trod on thee, 'twas no
common vagabond under foot," said Shakespeare.
Later in the evening, Mr. Burbage came in, not to eat, for he had
already supped at his house in Holywell Street, Shoreditch, but to join
a little in the drinking. The room was now full of tobacco smoke, for
most of the players had set their pipes a-going. Mr. Shakespeare did not
smoke; but Hal Marryott, as a youth who could let no material joy go by
untasted, was as keen a judge of Trinidado or Nicotian as any sea-dog
from "the Americas."
"'Tis how many hundred years, Will, since this Prince Hamlet lived?"
said Heminge, the talk having led thereto; and he went on, not waiting
for answer, "Yet to-day we players bring him back to life, and make him
to be remembered."
"Ay," replied Shakespeare, "many a dead and rotten king oweth a
resurrection and posthumous fame to some ragged scholar or some poor
player."
"And we players," said Burbage, with a kind of sigh, "who make dead men
remembered, are by the very nature of our craft doomed to be forgot. Who
shall know our very names, three poor hundred years hence?"
"Why," said Condell, "our names might live by the printing of them in
the books of the plays we act in; a printed book will last you a long
time."
"Not such books as these thievish printers make of our plays," said Sly,
himself a writer of plays.
"Marry, I should not wish long life to their blundering, distorted
versions of any play I had a hand in making," said Shakespeare.
"But consider," said Condell; "were a decent printing made of all thy
plays, Will, all in one book, from the true manuscripts we have at the
theatre, and our names put in the book, Dick's name at the head, then
might not our names live for our having acted in thy plays?"
Mr. Burbage smiled amusedly, but said nothing, and Shakespeare answered:
"'Twould be a dead kind of life for them, methinks; buried in dusty,
unsold volumes in the book-sellers' shops in Paul's Churchyard."
"Nay, I would venture something," said Master Heminge, thoughtfully,
"that a book of _thy_ plays were sure to be opened."
"Ay, that some shopman's 'prentice might tear out the leaves, to wrap
fardels withal," said Shakespeare. "Three hundred years, Dick said. 'Tis
true, books of the ancients have endured to this day; but if the world
grows in learning as it hath in our own time, each age making its own
books, and better and wiser ones, what readers shall there be, think
you, in the year of our Lord 1900, for the rude stage-plays of Will
Shakespeare, or even for his poems, that be writ with more care?"
"'Twould be strange, indeed," said Burbage, "that a player should be
remembered after his death, merely for his having acted in some certain
play or set of plays." He did not add, but did he think, that Will
Shakespeare's plays were more like to be remembered, if at all, for Mr.
Burbage's having acted in them?[13]
"Why art thou silent, lad," said Shakespeare to Hal Marryott, by way of
changing the subject, "and thy gaze lost in thy clouds of smoke, as if
thou sawest visions there?"
"I' faith, I do see a vision there," said Harry, now in the enraptured
stage of wine, and eager to unbosom himself. "Would I were a poet, like
thee, that I might describe it. Ye gods, what a face! The eyes have
burned into my heart. Cupid hath made swift work of me!"
"Why, this must be since yesterday," said Sly.
"Since four o' the clock to-day," cried Hal.
"Then thou canst no more than have seen her," remarked Fletcher.
"To see her was to worship her. Drink with me to her eyes, an ye love
me, masters!"
"To her nose also, and mouth and cheeks and ears, an thou wilt," said
Sly, suiting action to word.
"Don't think this is love in thee, lad," said Fletcher. "Love is of
slower growth."
"Then all our plays are wrong," said Sly.
"Why, certes, it may be love," said Shakespeare. "Love is a flame of
this fashion: the first sight of a face will kindle it in shape of a
spark. An there be no further matter to fan and feed the spark withal,
'twill soon die, having never been aught but a spark, keen though its
scorch for a time; a mere seedling of love, a babe smothered at birth.
But an there be closer commerce, to give fuel and breeze to the spark,
it shall grow into flame, a flame, look you, that with proper feeding
shall endure forever, like sacred fires judiciously replenished and
maintained; but too much fuel, or too little, or a change in the wind,
will smother it, or starve it, or violently put it out. Harry hath the
spark well lighted, as his raving showeth, and whether it shall soon
burn out, or wax into a blaze, lies with future circumstance."
Harry declared that, if not otherwise fed, it would devour himself.
Thereupon Master Sly suggested drowning it in sack; and one would have
thought Hal was trying to do so. But the more he drank, the more was he
engulfed in ideas of her who had charmed him. Still having a kind of
delusion that she was in a manner present, he discoursed as if for her
to overhear.
Ere he knew it, the other players were speaking of bed. Mr. Burbage had
already slipped out to fulfil some mysterious engagement for the night
within the city, which matter, whatever it was, had been the cause of
his coming after supper from his home beyond the bars of Bishopsgate
Street without the walls. Master Heminge's apprentices (for Master
Heminge was a grocer as well as an actor) had come to escort him and
Master Condell to their houses in Aldermanbury; and sturdy varlets were
below to serve others of the company in like duty. At this late hour
such guards against robbers were necessary in London streets. But Harry,
who then lodged in the same house with Mr. Shakespeare, in St. Helen's,
Bishopsgate,[14] was not yet for going home. He would make the cannikin
clink for some hours more. Knowing the lad's ways, and his ability to
take care of himself, Mr. Shakespeare left him to his desires; and at
last Harry had no other companion than Will Sly, who still had head and
stomach for another good-night flagon or two. When Sly in turn was shaky
on his legs and half asleep, Harry accompanied him and his man to their
door, reluctantly saw it close upon them, and then, solitary in
night-wrapped London, looked up and down the narrow street, considering
which way to roam in search of congenial souls, minded, like himself, to
revel out the merry hours of darkness.
He loathed the thought of going to bed yet, and would travel far to find
a fellow wassailer. His three shillings--though that sum then would buy
more than a pound buys to-day--had gone at the Mermaid. He bethought
himself of the taverns at which he might have credit. The list not
offering much encouragement, he at last started off at random, leaving
events to chance.
Plunging and swaying, rather than walking, he traversed a few streets,
aimlessly turning what corners presented themselves. The creaking of
the signs overhead in the wind mingled with the more mysterious sounds
of the night. Once he heard a sudden rush of feet from a narrow lane,
and instantly backed against a doorway, whipping out rapier and dagger.
Two gaunt, ill-looking rascals, disclosed by a lantern hanging from an
upper window, stood back and inspected him a moment; then, probably
considering him not worth the risk, vanished into the darkness whence
they had emerged.
More roaming brought Hal into Paternoster Row, and thence into Ave Maria
Lane, giving him an occasional glimpse at the left, between houses, of
the huge bulk of St. Paul's blotting darkly a darkness of another tone.
At Ludgate, boldly passing himself off upon the blinking watchman as a
belated page of Sir Robert Cecil's, he got himself let through, when he
ought to have been taken before the constable as a night-walker; and so
down the hill he went into Fleet Street. The taverns were now closed for
the night to all outward appearance, the bells of Bow and other churches
having rung the curfew some hours since,--at nine o'clock. But Hal knew
that merriment was awake behind more than one cross-barred door-post or
red lattice; and he tried several doors, but in vain. At last he found
himself under the sign of the Devil, on the south side of the street,
close to Temple Bar. There was likelihood that Ben Jonson might be
there, for Ben also was a fellow of late hours. Hal's heart suddenly
warmed toward Master Jonson; he forgot the satire on the Globe plays,
the apparent ingratitude to Shakespeare, and thought only of the
convivial companion.
Much knocking on the door brought a servant of the tavern, by whom Hal,
learning that Master Jonson was indeed above, sent up his name. He was
at length admitted, and found his way to a large room in which he beheld
the huge form and corrugated countenance of him he sought. Master Jonson
filled a great chair at one side of a square table, and was discoursing
to a group of variously attired gentlemen. Temple students, and others,
this audience being in all different stages of wine. He greeted Master
Hal in a somewhat severe yet paternal manner, beckoned him to his
chair-side, and inquired in an undertone how Mr. Shakespeare fared.
Manifestly the "war of the theatres," as it was called, had not
destroyed the private esteem between the two dramatists. Hal's presence
caused the talk to fall, in time, upon the new "Hamlet," which some of
the then present members of the tribe of Ben had seen.
One young gentleman of the Temple, in the insolent stage of inebriety,
spoke sneeringly of the play; whereupon Hal answered hotly. Both flashed
out rapiers at the same instant, and as the table was between them Hal
leaped upon it, to reach more quickly his opponent. Only the prompt
action of Master Jonson, who mounted the table, making it groan beneath
his weight, and thrust himself between the two, cut short the brawl. But
now, each antagonist deeming himself the aggrieved person, and the
Templar being upheld by several of the company, and a great noise of
tongues arising, and the host running in to suppress the tumult, it was
considered advisable to escort Master Marryott from the place. He was
therefore hustled out by Master Jonson, the host, and a tapster; and so
found himself eventually in the street, the door barred against him.
He then perceived that he was without his rapier. It had been wrested
from him at the first interference with the quarrel. Wishing to recover
it, and in a wrathful spirit, he pounded on the door with his dagger
hilt, and called out loudly for the return of his weapon; but his
efforts being misinterpreted, he was left to pound and shout in vain.
Baffled and enraged, he started back toward Ludgate, with some wild
thought of enlisting a band of ruffians to storm the tavern. But the
wine had now got so complete possession of him that, when a figure
emerging from Water Lane bumped heavily against him, all memory of the
recent incident was knocked out of his mind.
"What in the fiend's name--"grumbled the newcomer; then suddenly changed
his tone. "Why, od's-body, 'tis Master Marryott! Well met, boy! Here be
thy two shillings, and never say Kit Bottle payeth not his debts. I've
just been helping my friend to his lodging here at the sign of the
Hanging Sword. 'Twas the least I could do for him. Art for a merry night
of it, my bawcock? Come with me to Turnbull Street. There be a house
there, where I warrant a welcome to any friend of Kit Bottle's. I've
been out of favor there of late, but now my pockets sing this tune" (he
rattled the coin in them), "and arms will be open for us."
Rejoiced at this encounter, Hal took the captain's arm, and strode with
him through Shoe Lane, across Holborn Bridge, through Cow Lane, past the
Pens of Smithfield, and so--undeterred by sleeping watchmen or by the
post-and-chain bar--into Turnbull Street.[15] Kit knocked several times
at the door of one of the forward-leaning houses, before he got a
response. Then a second-story casement was opened, and a hoarse female
voice asked who was below.
"What, canst not see 'tis old Kit, by the flame of his nose?" replied
the captain.
The woman told him to wait a minute, and withdrew from the window.
"See, lad," whispered Bottle, "'tis late hours when Kit Bottle can't
find open doors. To say true, I was afeard my welcome here might be a
little halting; but it seems old scores are forgot. We shall be merry
here, Hal!"
A sudden splash at their very feet made them start back and look up at
the window. A pair of hands, holding an upturned pail, was swiftly drawn
back, and the casement was then immediately closed.
Bottle smothered an oath. "Wert caught in any of that shower, lad?" he
asked Hal.
"'Scaped by an inch," said Hal, with a hiccough. "Marry, is this thy
welcome?"
Kit's wrath against the inmates of the house now exploded. Calling them
"scullions," "scavengers," and names still less flattering, he began
kicking and hammering on the door as if to break it down. Moved by the
spirit of violence, Hal joined him in this demonstration. The upper
windows opened, and voices began screaming "Murder!" and "Thieves!" In a
short time several denizens of the neighborhood--which was a
neighborhood of nocturnal habits--appeared in the street. Seeing how
matters stood, they fell upon Kit and Hal, mauling the pair with fists,
and tearing off their outer garments.
Soon a cry went up, "The watch!" whereupon Hal, with memories of
restraint and inconvenience to which he had once before been put, called
upon Kit to follow, and made a dash toward the end of the street. He
speedily was out of pursuit, and the sound of Bottle's voice growling
out objurgations, close behind him, satisfied him that the old soldier
was at his heels. Hal, therefore, ran on, making no impediment of the
bars, and passed the Pens without slack of speed. Stopping in Cow Lane
he looked back, and to his surprise saw that he was now quite alone.
He went immediately back over his tracks in search of Bottle, but found
no one. Turnbull Street had subsided into its former outward appearance
of desertion. Thinking that Bottle might have passed him in the
darkness, Hal returned southward. When he arrived in Fleet Street he
retained but a confused, whirling recollection of what had occurred. Yet
his mood was still for company and carouse. With great joy, therefore,
he observed that a humble little ale-house to which he sometimes
resorted, near Fleet Bridge, was opening for the day, as dawn was
appearing. He went in and ordered wine.
The tapster, who knew him, remarked with astonishment that he was
without hat or cloak; and the morning being very cold, and Hal unlikely
to meet any person of quality at that hour, the fellow offered him a
surcoat and cap, such as were worn by apprentices, to protect him from
chill on the way homeward. Hal, who was now half comatose, passively let
himself be thus fortified against the weather. With the sum repaid him
by Bottle he was able to buy good cheer; his only lack was of company
to share it with. He could not hope at this hour to fall in with another
late-hour man; it was now time for the early rising folk to be abroad.
In from the street came half a dozen hardy looking fellows, calling for
beer to be quickly drawn, as they had far to go to their work. Their
dress was of leather and coarse cloth, and the tools they carried were
those of carpenters. But to Hal, who now saw things vaguely, they were
but fellow mortals, and thirsty. He welcomed them with a flourish and an
imperative invitation to drink. This they readily accepted, grinning the
while with boorish amusement. When they perforce departed, Hal,
unwilling to lose new-found company so soon, attached himself to them;
and was several times hindered from dragging them into taverns as they
passed, by their promise, given with winks invisible to him, that they
would drink on arriving at their destination.
So he went, upheld between a pair of them, and heeding not the way they
took. Though it was now daylight, he was past recognizing landmarks. He
had the dimmest sense of passing a succession of walled and turreted
mansions at his left hand; then of catching glimpses of more open and
park-like spaces at his right hand; of going, in a grave kind of
semi-stupor, through two gateways and as many courtyards; of being
passed on, with the companions to whom he clung, by dull warders, and
by a busy, inattentive, pompous man of authority to whom his comrades
reported in a body; of traversing with them, at last, a passage and a
kind of postern, and emerging in a great garden. Here the carpenters
seemed to become sensible of having committed a serious breach in
sportively letting him be admitted as one of their own band. They held a
brief consultation, looking around in a half frightened way to see if
they were observed. They finally led him into an alley, formed by
hedgerows, deposited him gently on the ground, and hastened off to
another part of the garden. Once recumbent, he turned upon his side and
went instantly to sleep.
When he awoke, several hours later, without the least knowledge what
garden was this to which his eyes opened, or the least recollection how
he had come into it, he saw, looking down at him in mild surprise, a
slight, yellow-haired, pale-faced, high-browed, dark-eyed, elderly lady,
with a finely curved nose, a resolute mouth, and a sharp chin, and
wearing a tight-bodied, wide-skirted costume of silvered white velvet
and red silk, with a gold-laced, ermine-trimmed mantle, and a narrow,
peaked velvet hat. Hal, in his first bewilderment, wondered where it was
that he had previously seen this lady.
"Madam," he said, in a voice husky with cold, "I seem to be an
intruder. By your favor, what place is this?"
The lady looked at him sharply for a moment, then answered, simply:
"'Tis the garden of Whitehall palace. Who are you?"
Hal suppressed a startled exclamation. He remembered now where he had
seen the lady: 'twas at the Christmas court performances. He flung into
a kneeling posture, at her small, beribboned, cloth-shod feet.
"I am your Majesty's most loyal, most worshipful subject," he said.
"And what the devil are you doing here?" asked Queen Elizabeth.