CHAPTER II.
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 anantiquarian "picture" of a past age--need not at every step be learnedlyarrested by some description of a costume, street, house, aspect ofsociety, feature of the time, or other such matter, let the reader bereminded at the outset that the year 1601 was of Elizabeth's reign theforty-second; that England was still in the first thrill of the greatestrejuvenescence the world ever knew; that new comforts, and new luxuries,and new thoughts, and new possibilities, and new means of pleasure, hadgiven Englishmen a mad and boisterous zest for life; that gentlemenstrutted in curiously shaped beards, and brilliant doublets, and silkentrunk-hose, and ruffs, and laced velvet cloaks, and feathered hats; thatladies wore stiff bodices and vast sleeves, and robes open in front toshow their petticoats, and farthingales to make those petticoats standout; 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 narrowstreets below; that the many-colored moving spectacle in those streetswas diversified by curious and admiring foreigners from everywhere; thatalthough coaches were yet of recent introduction, the stone pavingsounded with them as well as with the carts and drays of traffic; thatgray churches, and desolated convents, and episcopal palaces, andgentlemen's inns, and turreted mansions of nobility, abounded in cityand suburbs; that the Catholics were still occasional sufferers fromsuch 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 orother suburbs, and no longer fostered civil or private war in theirgreat stone castles in the country; that bully 'prentices, in woollencaps and leather or canvas doublets, were as quick to resent real orfancied offence, with their knives, as gentlemen were withsilver-gilt-hilted rapiers; that the taverns resounded with the fancifuloaths of heavily bearded soldiers who had fought in Flanders and Spain;that there were eager ears for every amazing lie of seafaringadventurers who had served under Drake or Raleigh against the Spanish;that tobacco was still a novelty, much relished and much affected; thatghosts and witches were believed in by all classes but perhaps a few"atheists" like Kit Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh; that untamed Englandwas still "merry" with its jousts, its public spectacles, its rusticfestivals, its holiday feasts, and its brawls, although Puritanism hadalready begun to show its spoil-sport face; and, to come to thisparticular first Monday in March, that the common London talk, when itwas 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 satellitesin the Drury House conspiracy.
Before entering the Falcon, Hal Marryott sent a last sweeping look inall directions, half daring to hope that the lady in gray and murrey hadnot yet left the vicinity of the theatre. But the audience had gone itscountless ways; at the Falcon river-stairs the watermen's cries and thenoise of much embarking had subsided; and the only women in sight wereof the Bankside itself, and of a far different class from that of herwhom he sought. He sighed and followed his companions into the tavern.
They were passing through the common hall, on their way to a room wherethey could be served privately, when they were greeted by a tall, burly,black-bearded, bold-featured, weather-browned, middle-aged fellow in agreasy leather jerkin, an old worn-out red velvet doublet, and patchedbrown silk trunk-hose, and with a sorry-feathered remnant of abig-brimmed felt hat, a long sword and a dagger, these weapons hangingat his girdle. His shoes barely deserved the name, and his brown clothcloak was a rag. His face had been glum and uneasy, but at sight of theplayers he instantly threw on the air of a dashing, bold rascal withwhom 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, MasterShakespeare. Excellent! More than excellent!"
"Despite thyself, for doing thy best to spoil it,--bawling out in thefencing 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 Sidneyoff the field at Zutphen, and led my company after my lord Essex intoCadiz."
"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 tothis music!" And he shook a pouch at his belt, causing a clinking soundto come forth.
As the players passed on to their room, Kit plucked the sleeve of HalMarryott, who was the last. When the two were alone in a corner, thesoldier, having dropped his buoyant manner, whispered:
"Hast a loose shilling or two about thy clothes, lad? Just tillto-morrow, I swear on the cross of my sword. I have moneys coming; thatis, with a few testers to start dicing withal, I shall have the coinflowing me-ward. Tut, boy, I can't lie to thee; I haven't tasted meat ormalt 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 ofplayers--nay, no offence to thee, lad!" The soldier took from the pouchtwo 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 buyyour way into the playhouse?"
"Why, body of me," replied Bottle, struggling for a moment with a slightembarrassment, "the mind, look you, the mind calls for food, no lessthan the belly. Could I satisfy both with a sixpence? No. What shouldit be, then? Beef and beer for the belly? Or a sight of the new play, tofeed the mind withal? Thou know'st Kit Bottle, lad. Though he hathfollowed the wars, and cut his scores of Spanish throats, and hath nodisdain 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 gonefor the play, to the slighting of his stomach, Hal instantly pulled outwhat remained of his salary for the previous week, about five shillingsin 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 thetransaction was observed by the host or the drawers, "I'll never robthee, persuade me as thou wilt. Two shillings I'll take, not a farthingmore. Thou'rt a heart of gold, lad. To-morrow I'll pay thee, an I haveto 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 thecoin, strode rapidly from the place. Hal Marryott proceeded to the roomwhere his fellow actors were. His cup of canary was already waiting forhim on the table around which the players sat.
"What, Hal," cried Sly, "is it some state affair that Bottle hath letthee into?"
"I like the old swaggerer," said Hal, evading the question. "He hathtaught me the best of what swordsmanship I know. He is no counterfeitsoldier, '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 ofthe theatre, now and again casting a wishful glance within, and thenscanning the people as they came up, as if to find some friend who wouldpay for him. So at last I bade him come in free for the nonce. Youshould 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 anyman!"
A winter indeed seemed to have settled upon his own heart, for this wasthe time, not only when his f
riends of the Essex faction were suffering,but also when the affair of the "dark lady," in which both Southamptonand the Earl of Pembroke were involved with himself, had reached itscrisis.
Hal smiled inwardly to think how Bottle had seized the occasion to toucha player's feelings by appearing to have spent his last sixpence forthe play; and forgave the lie, in admiration of the pride with whichthe ragged warrior had concealed his poverty from the others.
As Hal replaced his remaining three shillings in his pocket, his fingersmet something hairy therein, which he had felt also in taking the coinout. He drew it forth to see what it was, and recognized the beard hehad worn as the elderly lord. He then remembered to have picked it upfrom the stage, where it had accidentally fallen, and to have thrust itinto his pocket in his haste to leave the theatre and see if the girl inmurrey was still about. He now put it back into his pocket. After thewine had gone round three times, the players left the Falcon, to walkfrom the region of playhouses and bear-gardens to the city, preferringto use their legs rather than go by water from the Falcon stairs.
They went eastward past taverns, dwelling-houses, the town palace of theBishop of Winchester, and the fine Church of St. Mary Overie, to thestreet then called Long Southwark; turned leftward to London Bridge, andcrossed between the tall houses of rich merchants, mercers, andhaberdashers, that of old were built thereon. The river's roar, throughthe arches beneath, required the players to shout when they talked, incrossing. Continuing northward and up-hill, past the taverns andfish-market of New Fish Street, their intention being to go at once tothe Mermaid, they heeded Master Condell's suggestion that they tarry onthe way for another drink or two; and so turned into Eastcheap, thestreet of butchers' shops, and thence into the Boar's Head Tavern, onthe south side of the way.
On entering a public parlor, the first person they saw was CaptainBottle, sitting at a table. On the stool opposite him was a young man ina gay satin doublet and red velvet cloak, and with an affected air ofself-importance and worldly experience. This person and the captain wereengaged in throwing dice, in the intervals of eating.
"What, old rook--captain, I mean," called out Mr. Sly; "must ever beshaking thine elbow, e'en 'twixt the dishes at thy supper?"
"An innocent game, sir," said Kit, promptly, concealing his annoyancefrom 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," saidMaster 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 babein swaddling clothes! 'Tis by the most marvellous chance I've beenwinning from you, these few minutes. 'Twill come your way soon, andyou'll turn my pockets inside out. Pray wait for me a moment, while Ispeak 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 birdlingaway? Will ye keep money from the needy? This gull is clad in coin, heis 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, thecock of some village. He comes up to London once a year, sees a littleof the outside of our life here, thinks he plays the mad rascal in atavern or two, and goes home to swagger it more than ever in hisvillage, with stories of the wickedness he hath done in London. An I getnot his money, others will, and worse men,--and, perchance, leave him ina 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 egregiousvanity and ignorance. This fellow will have the less means of struttingit in the eyes of the louts, when Kit hath had his way." The poet wasdoubtless thinking of the original of his Justice Shallow.[7]
So the players went on to another room, Hal remaining to say in Kit'sear:
"I knew fellows like this ere I came from the country, and how theyprated of London, and of their wildness here. Gull such, if thou must bea 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 leavethings to chance in war? Do we not use our skill there, and everyadvantage God hath given us? Is not a game a kind of mimic war, andshall not a man use skill and stratagem in games? Go to, lad. Am I acommon coney-catcher? Do I cheat with a gang? Do I consort withgull-gropers? An this rustic hath any trick worth two of mine, is he notwelcome 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 countryfopling, returned to the latter and the dice, while Hal joined his ownparty.
The sight of savory pastry and the smell of fish a-cooking had made someof the players willing to stay and sup at the Boar's Head; butShakespeare reminded them that Mr. Burbage was to meet them at theMermaid later. So they rose presently to set forth, all of them, andespecially Hal Marryott, the warmer in head and heart for the wine theyhad taken. Hal had become animated and talkative. A fuller and keenersense of things possessed him,--of the day's success, of his own sharetherein, of the merits of his companions and himself, and of the charmsof the lady in murrey and gray. So rich and vivid became his impressionof the unknown beauty, that there began to be a seeming as if she werepresent in spirit. It was as if her immaterial presence pervaded theatmosphere, as if she overheard the talk that now rattled from him, asif her fine eyes were looking from Gothic church windows and theoverhanging gables of merchants' houses, while he walked on with theplayers in the gathering dusk of evening. The party went westward, outof Eastcheap, past London stone in Candlewick Street, through Budge Rowand Watling Street, and northward into Bread Street. The last was linedwith inns and taverns, and into one of the latter, on the west side ofthe street, near "golden Cheapside," the actors finally strode. Itsbroad, plastered, pictured front was framed and intersected by heavytimbers curiously carved, and the great sign that hung before it was thefigure of a mermaid in the waves. The tavern stood a little space backfrom the street, toward which its ground-floor casements projected farout; and, in addition to its porched front entrance, it had passagewaysat side and rear, respectively from Cheapside and Friday Street.[9]
The long room to which the players ascended had a blaze already in thefireplace (chimneys having become common during the later Tudor reigns),a great square oak table, a few armchairs, some benches, and severalstools. The tapestry on the walls was new, for the defeat of the SpanishArmada, which it portrayed, had occurred but a dozen years before. Erethe actors were seated, lighted candles had been brought, and MasterHeminge had stepped into the kitchen to order a supper little in accordwith the season (it was now Lent) or with the statutes, but obtainableby the privileged,--ribs of beef, capon, sauces, gravies, custard, andother trifles, with a bit of fish for the scrupulous. For players arehungriest after a performance, and there have ever been stomachs leastfishily inclined on fish-days, as there are always throats most thirstyfor drink where none is allowed; and the hostess of the Mermaid wasevidently of a mind with Dame Quickly, who argued, "What's a joint ofmutton or two in a whole Lent?"[10] After their walk in the raw air, andregardless of the customary order at meals, the players made a unanimouscall for mulled sack. The drawer, who had come at their bidding withoutonce 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 itscomfort after a day of exertion and tension. "'Tis not so long sincethere were ever a dozen merry fellows to sup with us when we came fromthe play."
"'Tis strange we see nothing of Raleigh," said Sly, standing by thecarved chimneypiece, and stretching his hands out over the fire.
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p; "Nay, 'twould be stranger an he came to meet us now," said LaurenceFletcher, "after his show of joy at the earl's beheading."
The allusion was to Raleigh's having witnessed from a window in theTower the death of his great rival, Essex.
"Nay," said Shakespeare, "though he was a foe to Essex, who was of ourpatrons, Sir Walter is no enemy to us. I dare swear he hath stood ouradvocate at court in our present disfavor. But while our friends of oneside are now in prison or seclusion, those of the other side stand alooffrom us. And for our player-fellowship, as rivalry among the great hathmade bitter haters, so hath competition among actors and scribblersspoilt 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 hisheavy wisdom hath no fear of being put out of countenance by thy sharperwit. Will."
"A pox on Ben Jonson for a surly, envious dog!" exclaimed LaurenceFletcher. "I marvel to hear thee speak kindly of him, Will. After thysoliciting us to play his comedy, for him to make a mock of thee and ourother writers, in the silly pedantic stuff those brats squeak out at theBlackfriars!" Master Fletcher was, evidently, easily heated on thesubject of the satirical pieces written by Jonson for the Chapel Royalboys to play at the Blackfriars Theatre, in which the Globe plays wereridiculed.[11] "A pox on him, I say, and his tedious 'humors!'"Whereupon Master Fletcher turned his attention to the beef, which hadjust arrived.
"Nay," said Shakespeare, "his merit hath had too slow a greeting, andtoo scant applause. So the wit in him hath soured a little,--as wine toolong kept exposed, for want of being in request."
"Well," cried Hal Marryott, warmed by copious draughts of the hotsugared sack, "may I never drink again but of hell flame, nor eat but atthe devil's own table, if aught ever sour _me_ to such ingratitude forthy 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-pointa slice of beef, to convey it from his platter to his mouth (forks werenot known in England till ten years later). "To open thy door to agentleman just thrown out of an ale-house, to feed him when he hath notmoney to pay for a radish, to lodge him when he hath not right of tenureto a dung-hill,--these are no benefits, forsooth."
"Was that thy condition, then, when he took thee as coadjutor?" Fletcherasked, 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 hearit, an thou wilt."
"Ay, let us!" cried Heminge and Condell; and Sly added: "For a player toturn gentleman is nothing wonderful now, but that a gentleman shouldturn player hath puzzled me."[12]
"Why," quoth Harry, now vivacious with wine, and quite ready to do mostof the talking, "you shall see how a gentleman might easily have turnedfar 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 estatein Oxfordshire, through the deviltry of the law and of my kinsman. Whenmy cousin took possession, he would have got me provided for at one ofthe universities, to be rid of me; but I had no mind to be made a poorscholar of; for, look you, my bringing up in my father's house had beenfit for a nobleman's son. I knew my Latin and my lute, could hunt andhawk with any, and if I had no practice at tilt and tourney, I made upfor that lack by my skill with the rapier. Well, just when I should havegone 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 curseon all bribe-taking judges and unnatural kin! I told my cousin what hemight do with the dirty scholarship he offered me, and a pox on it! andswore 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 Iwould not go back to his house for others, having once left it,--myrapier and dagger, and a little purse of crowns and angels. There wasbut one friend whom I thought it would avail me to seek, and to hishouse I rode, in Hertfordshire. He was a Catholic knight, whose fatherhad 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, hisestate being sadly diminished, and he about to sail again for thecountry where Catholics are safer. But he gave me a letter to my lordof Essex, by whom, as by my father, he was no less loved for being aCatholic. When I read the letter, I thought my fortune made. To London Irode, seeing myself already high in the great earl's service. At theBell, in Carter Lane, I lodged, and so gleesome a thing it was to me tobe in London, so many were the joys to be bought here, so gay thetaverns, so irresistible the wenches, that ere ever I found time topresent my letter to the earl I had spent my angels and crowns, besidesthe 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 myfriend's letter. The next morning, as I started for Essex House, agentleman I had met in the taverns asked me if I had heard the news. Ihad not; so he told me. My lord of Essex had yesterday turned his backon the queen, and clapped his hand upon his sword,--you remember thetime, masters--"
"Ay," said Sly. "The queen boxed his ears for it. The dispute was overthe governorship of Ireland."
"My lord was in disgrace," Hal went on, "and like to be charged withhigh treason. So little I knew of court matters, I thought this meanthis downfall, and that the letter, if seen, might work only to myprejudice and my friend's. So I burned it at the tavern fire, andwondered what a murrain to do. I went to lodge in Honey Lane, pawned myweapons, then my cloak, and finally the rest of my clothes, havingbought rags in Houndsditch in the meantime. Rather than go back toOxfordshire I would have died in the street, and was like to do so, atlast; for my host, having asked for his money one night when I was drunkand touchy, got such an answer that he and his drawer cudgelled me andthrew 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 movedhim to stop and examine me, I know not. But, having done so, he led meto his lodgings in St. Helen's; whence, for one in my condition, it wastruly no downward step to the playhouse stage,--and thankful was I whenhe offered me that step!"
"I perceived from the manner of thy groan, when I trod on thee, 'twas nocommon vagabond under foot," said Shakespeare.
Later in the evening, Mr. Burbage came in, not to eat, for he hadalready supped at his house in Holywell Street, Shoreditch, but to joina little in the drinking. The room was now full of tobacco smoke, formost of the players had set their pipes a-going. Mr. Shakespeare did notsmoke; but Hal Marryott, as a youth who could let no material joy go byuntasted, was as keen a judge of Trinidado or Nicotian as any sea-dogfrom "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 waitingfor answer, "Yet to-day we players bring him back to life, and make himto be remembered."
"Ay," replied Shakespeare, "many a dead and rotten king oweth aresurrection and posthumous fame to some ragged scholar or some poorplayer."
"And we players," said Burbage, with a kind of sigh, "who make dead menremembered, are by the very nature of our craft doomed to be forgot. Whoshall know our very names, three poor hundred years hence?"
"Why," said Condell, "our names might live by the printing of them inthe books of the plays we act in; a printed book will last you a longtime."
"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, distortedversions of any play I had a hand in making," said
Shakespeare.
"But consider," said Condell; "were a decent printing made of all thyplays, Will, all in one book, from the true manuscripts we have at thetheatre, and our names put in the book, Dick's name at the head, thenmight 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 wrapfardels withal," said Shakespeare. "Three hundred years, Dick said. 'Tistrue, books of the ancients have endured to this day; but if the worldgrows in learning as it hath in our own time, each age making its ownbooks, and better and wiser ones, what readers shall there be, thinkyou, in the year of our Lord 1900, for the rude stage-plays of WillShakespeare, or even for his poems, that be writ with more care?"
"'Twould be strange, indeed," said Burbage, "that a player should beremembered after his death, merely for his having acted in some certainplay or set of plays." He did not add, but did he think, that WillShakespeare'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 ofchanging the subject, "and thy gaze lost in thy clouds of smoke, as ifthou sawest visions there?"
"I' faith, I do see a vision there," said Harry, now in the enrapturedstage of wine, and eager to unbosom himself. "Would I were a poet, likethee, that I might describe it. Ye gods, what a face! The eyes haveburned 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 loveme, masters!"
"To her nose also, and mouth and cheeks and ears, an thou wilt," saidSly, suiting action to word.
"Don't think this is love in thee, lad," said Fletcher. "Love is ofslower growth."
"Then all our plays are wrong," said Sly.
"Why, certes, it may be love," said Shakespeare. "Love is a flame ofthis fashion: the first sight of a face will kindle it in shape of aspark. 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 itsscorch 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 feedingshall endure forever, like sacred fires judiciously replenished andmaintained; 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 thespark well lighted, as his raving showeth, and whether it shall soonburn 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 havethought Hal was trying to do so. But the more he drank, the more was heengulfed in ideas of her who had charmed him. Still having a kind ofdelusion that she was in a manner present, he discoursed as if for herto overhear.
Ere he knew it, the other players were speaking of bed. Mr. Burbage hadalready slipped out to fulfil some mysterious engagement for the nightwithin the city, which matter, whatever it was, had been the cause ofhis coming after supper from his home beyond the bars of BishopsgateStreet without the walls. Master Heminge's apprentices (for MasterHeminge was a grocer as well as an actor) had come to escort him andMaster Condell to their houses in Aldermanbury; and sturdy varlets werebelow to serve others of the company in like duty. At this late hoursuch 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 cannikinclink for some hours more. Knowing the lad's ways, and his ability totake care of himself, Mr. Shakespeare left him to his desires; and atlast Harry had no other companion than Will Sly, who still had head andstomach for another good-night flagon or two. When Sly in turn was shakyon his legs and half asleep, Harry accompanied him and his man to theirdoor, reluctantly saw it close upon them, and then, solitary innight-wrapped London, looked up and down the narrow street, consideringwhich way to roam in search of congenial souls, minded, like himself, torevel out the merry hours of darkness.
He loathed the thought of going to bed yet, and would travel far to finda fellow wassailer. His three shillings--though that sum then would buymore than a pound buys to-day--had gone at the Mermaid. He bethoughthimself of the taverns at which he might have credit. The list notoffering much encouragement, he at last started off at random, leavingevents to chance.
Plunging and swaying, rather than walking, he traversed a few streets,aimlessly turning what corners presented themselves. The creaking ofthe signs overhead in the wind mingled with the more mysterious soundsof 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 anupper window, stood back and inspected him a moment; then, probablyconsidering him not worth the risk, vanished into the darkness whencethey had emerged.
More roaming brought Hal into Paternoster Row, and thence into Ave MariaLane, giving him an occasional glimpse at the left, between houses, ofthe huge bulk of St. Paul's blotting darkly a darkness of another tone.At Ludgate, boldly passing himself off upon the blinking watchman as abelated page of Sir Robert Cecil's, he got himself let through, when heought to have been taken before the constable as a night-walker; and sodown the hill he went into Fleet Street. The taverns were now closed forthe night to all outward appearance, the bells of Bow and other churcheshaving rung the curfew some hours since,--at nine o'clock. But Hal knewthat merriment was awake behind more than one cross-barred door-post orred lattice; and he tried several doors, but in vain. At last he foundhimself under the sign of the Devil, on the south side of the street,close to Temple Bar. There was likelihood that Ben Jonson might bethere, for Ben also was a fellow of late hours. Hal's heart suddenlywarmed toward Master Jonson; he forgot the satire on the Globe plays,the apparent ingratitude to Shakespeare, and thought only of theconvivial 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 wasat length admitted, and found his way to a large room in which he beheldthe huge form and corrugated countenance of him he sought. Master Jonsonfilled a great chair at one side of a square table, and was discoursingto a group of variously attired gentlemen. Temple students, and others,this audience being in all different stages of wine. He greeted MasterHal in a somewhat severe yet paternal manner, beckoned him to hischair-side, and inquired in an undertone how Mr. Shakespeare fared.Manifestly the "war of the theatres," as it was called, had notdestroyed the private esteem between the two dramatists. Hal's presencecaused the talk to fall, in time, upon the new "Hamlet," which some ofthe 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 flashedout rapiers at the same instant, and as the table was between them Halleaped upon it, to reach more quickly his opponent. Only the promptaction of Master Jonson, who mounted the table, making it groan beneathhis weight, and thrust himself between the two, cut short the brawl. Butnow, each antagonist deeming himself the aggrieved person, and theTemplar being upheld by several of the company, and a great noise oftongues arising, and the host running in to suppress the tumult, it wasconsidered advisable to escort Master Marryott from the place. He wastherefore hustled out by Master Jonson, the host, and a tapste
r; and sofound himself eventually in the street, the door barred against him.
He then perceived that he was without his rapier. It had been wrestedfrom him at the first interference with the quarrel. Wishing to recoverit, and in a wrathful spirit, he pounded on the door with his daggerhilt, and called out loudly for the return of his weapon; but hisefforts being misinterpreted, he was left to pound and shout in vain.Baffled and enraged, he started back toward Ludgate, with some wildthought of enlisting a band of ruffians to storm the tavern. But thewine had now got so complete possession of him that, when a figureemerging from Water Lane bumped heavily against him, all memory of therecent incident was knocked out of his mind.
"What in the fiend's name--"grumbled the newcomer; then suddenly changedhis tone. "Why, od's-body, 'tis Master Marryott! Well met, boy! Here bethy two shillings, and never say Kit Bottle payeth not his debts. I'vejust been helping my friend to his lodging here at the sign of theHanging Sword. 'Twas the least I could do for him. Art for a merry nightof it, my bawcock? Come with me to Turnbull Street. There be a housethere, where I warrant a welcome to any friend of Kit Bottle's. I'vebeen out of favor there of late, but now my pockets sing this tune" (herattled the coin in them), "and arms will be open for us."
Rejoiced at this encounter, Hal took the captain's arm, and strode withhim through Shoe Lane, across Holborn Bridge, through Cow Lane, past thePens of Smithfield, and so--undeterred by sleeping watchmen or by thepost-and-chain bar--into Turnbull Street.[15] Kit knocked several timesat the door of one of the forward-leaning houses, before he got aresponse. Then a second-story casement was opened, and a hoarse femalevoice asked who was below.
"What, canst not see 'tis old Kit, by the flame of his nose?" repliedthe 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'tfind open doors. To say true, I was afeard my welcome here might be alittle halting; but it seems old scores are forgot. We shall be merryhere, Hal!"
A sudden splash at their very feet made them start back and look up atthe window. A pair of hands, holding an upturned pail, was swiftly drawnback, and the casement was then immediately closed.
Bottle smothered an oath. "Wert caught in any of that shower, lad?" heasked Hal.
"'Scaped by an inch," said Hal, with a hiccough. "Marry, is this thywelcome?"
Kit's wrath against the inmates of the house now exploded. Calling them"scullions," "scavengers," and names still less flattering, he begankicking and hammering on the door as if to break it down. Moved by thespirit of violence, Hal joined him in this demonstration. The upperwindows opened, and voices began screaming "Murder!" and "Thieves!" In ashort time several denizens of the neighborhood--which was aneighborhood of nocturnal habits--appeared in the street. Seeing howmatters 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 ofrestraint and inconvenience to which he had once before been put, calledupon Kit to follow, and made a dash toward the end of the street. Hespeedily was out of pursuit, and the sound of Bottle's voice growlingout objurgations, close behind him, satisfied him that the old soldierwas at his heels. Hal, therefore, ran on, making no impediment of thebars, and passed the Pens without slack of speed. Stopping in Cow Lanehe 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 foundno one. Turnbull Street had subsided into its former outward appearanceof desertion. Thinking that Bottle might have passed him in thedarkness, Hal returned southward. When he arrived in Fleet Street heretained but a confused, whirling recollection of what had occurred. Yethis mood was still for company and carouse. With great joy, therefore,he observed that a humble little ale-house to which he sometimesresorted, near Fleet Bridge, was opening for the day, as dawn wasappearing. He went in and ordered wine.
The tapster, who knew him, remarked with astonishment that he waswithout hat or cloak; and the morning being very cold, and Hal unlikelyto meet any person of quality at that hour, the fellow offered him asurcoat and cap, such as were worn by apprentices, to protect him fromchill on the way homeward. Hal, who was now half comatose, passively lethimself be thus fortified against the weather. With the sum repaid himby Bottle he was able to buy good cheer; his only lack was of companyto share it with. He could not hope at this hour to fall in with anotherlate-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 forbeer to be quickly drawn, as they had far to go to their work. Theirdress was of leather and coarse cloth, and the tools they carried werethose of carpenters. But to Hal, who now saw things vaguely, they werebut fellow mortals, and thirsty. He welcomed them with a flourish and animperative invitation to drink. This they readily accepted, grinning thewhile 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 theypassed, by their promise, given with winks invisible to him, that theywould drink on arriving at their destination.
So he went, upheld between a pair of them, and heeding not the way theytook. Though it was now daylight, he was past recognizing landmarks. Hehad the dimmest sense of passing a succession of walled and turretedmansions at his left hand; then of catching glimpses of more open andpark-like spaces at his right hand; of going, in a grave kind ofsemi-stupor, through two gateways and as many courtyards; of beingpassed on, with the companions to whom he clung, by dull warders, andby a busy, inattentive, pompous man of authority to whom his comradesreported in a body; of traversing with them, at last, a passage and akind of postern, and emerging in a great garden. Here the carpentersseemed to become sensible of having committed a serious breach insportively letting him be admitted as one of their own band. They held abrief consultation, looking around in a half frightened way to see ifthey were observed. They finally led him into an alley, formed byhedgerows, deposited him gently on the ground, and hastened off toanother part of the garden. Once recumbent, he turned upon his side andwent instantly to sleep.
When he awoke, several hours later, without the least knowledge whatgarden was this to which his eyes opened, or the least recollection howhe had come into it, he saw, looking down at him in mild surprise, aslight, yellow-haired, pale-faced, high-browed, dark-eyed, elderly lady,with a finely curved nose, a resolute mouth, and a sharp chin, andwearing a tight-bodied, wide-skirted costume of silvered white velvetand red silk, with a gold-laced, ermine-trimmed mantle, and a narrow,peaked velvet hat. Hal, in his first bewilderment, wondered where it wasthat he had previously seen this lady.
"Madam," he said, in a voice husky with cold, "I seem to be anintruder. 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 hadseen the lady: 'twas at the Christmas court performances. He flung intoa 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.