Chapter IV: Act III

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SCENE I.

_In the Mitre Tavern._

HOST:

[_Wiping the table._] I can trust no more. I’m a poor man, Master Chettle.

CHETTLE:

[_Aside._] Poor in flesh and poorer in spirit. [_Aloud._] Go to, man, I don’t ask you for trust. From now on the drink of the day shall be paid in the day. What can you want more?

HOST:

Ay, that were good enough if——

CHETTLE:

Oh! Your “if” ’s a scurvy coward, a water-drinker dripping with doubts; no host for a generous tavern. Hark ye, ye don’t send in the reckoning before the meal; but an hour after. Make the hour three and ye shall have your money. Send me the drawer, man, and before night ye shall be paid. Was ever such an unbelieving sinner!

HOST:

Sinner, I may be, Master Chettle; but unbelieving, no. I have trusted you these ten years, Master Chettle, and the reckoning grows; every year it grows. That’s not want of faith, Master Chettle.

CHETTLE:

Ha, ha! Ye have me there: quick wits, Master Fry, and the riposto tickles. There, I’m glad it’s settled. Send me the drawer and you shall have your money to-night. I never could haggle with a man of mind. And I bring you custom, man, more custom than any dozen, and such custom, the wits of London, the heads o’ the world!

HOST:

Ay, ay; but——

CHETTLE:

There, there; it’s settled: honest men have but one word. I know you good, Master Fry; but hard like this new religion; hard. There, there! we are old friends. Send the drawer; he knows my ways and quickly; this tongue-fence hath made me dry. Here come my friends, a goodly company and all thirsty; despatch, man, despatch! [_Exit Host: Jonson and Burbage enter together; Fletcher, Dekker, Marston follow; the drawer brings back Chettle his sack._]

SCENE II.

JONSON:

I thought we’d find you here, Chettle; but what are you doing?

CHETTLE:

[_Writing._] Writing, lad, for a meal, as a poet must in these niggard-tradesman times.

BURBAGE:

Have you seen Shakespeare?

CHETTLE:

Shakespeare? No. Why do you ask? Is there any news?

BURBAGE:

Great news! The Lord Chamberlain writes me to be in readiness to play before the Queen. I must to the theatre at once.

FLETCHER:

I’m with you.

DEKKER }

MARSTON }

And I!

CHETTLE:

A drink, lads, before you go, to keep out the river-mist; water’s the cause of all my pains!

JONSON:

Sack, you mean; sack and canary that make your blood boil with gout.

[_The drawer brings wine in large flagons._]

CHETTLE:

Not so, bully Ben. Not so. Rheumatics, not gout. Ah, had my mother but given me sack when I was young and tender, I had never known these whoreson tweakings. A pious upbringing, Ben, and a watery diet have been my undoing.

BURBAGE:

Do you go with us, Jonson?

JONSON:

No. I’m not known to your Lord Chamberlains.

FLETCHER:

Nor I. Yet I go to see the stir.

JONSON:

You are of the company.

FLETCHER:

No. I take Foster’s place; you can have Browne’s.

JONSON:

No, no! I’ll keep my own name and my own place. [_Enter Shakespeare._] Ho, Will! you’re to be a courtier; have you heard?

SHAKESPEARE:

No: what is it?

BURBAGE:

We must be ready: we may be summoned any day to play at Court: I have the order.

JONSON:

What’s Chettle chuckling over there?

CHETTLE:

[_Looking up from his writing._] Angling for supper, lads; just a snack.

DEKKER:

Let’s see Chettle’s snack.

FLETCHER:

[_Pounces on the paper and reads._] It’s a letter to Mistress Tagge of the “Tabard.”

MARSTON:

Let’s hear it!

JONSON:

Read it, Fletcher, read it!

CHETTLE:

No. No! Mad lads! That forked radish there shall not clapperclaw my work. If you must hear it I’ll read it myself. No whipper-snapper shall squeak my words! Now, lads, listen! [_Reads._] “To fair Mistress Tagge, the best hostess in London; _argal_ in the world! I kiss your hands most beauteous and bountiful; I have but now seen your drawer and heard that you want twenty angels to-night. The time’s short, but I’ll bring them as I’m a true man unless the rascal bookseller lies in his promise to me and that he’ll not dare——

JONSON:

What a poor cheat! Who’s the bookseller, Chettle?

CHETTLE:

[_Reads on._] “This very night I’ll bring the angels to my angel!”

JONSON:

Oh, foul jest!

CHETTLE:

“But as I shall come late will sweet Mistress Tagge prepare me a mouthful of supper—any little thing’ll do—a snack just to provoke appetite, for indeed I’m far from strong.

JONSON:

Oh, mountainous weakling! Tun of lard!

FLETCHER:

Now for the snack, boys! Listen.

CHETTLE:

Ay, a snack, you pizzle; a snack for a man. [_Reads._] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey and——

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Interrupting._] “Or indeed both,” Chettle, put in “or indeed both,”—the salmon and the lamprey.

CHETTLE:

Right you are, bully boy. Right! [_Corrects the letter and reads again._] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey or indeed both, [_looks up at Shakespeare and laughs_] and then a loin of young pork dressed with your own select and poignant sauce and then a few oiled mushrooms——

SHAKESPEARE:

Too many “thens,” Chettle. “A few oiled mushrooms and one is ready to loose a button and begin.” [_All laugh._]

CHETTLE:

True, true, lad; ’tis but a beginning. [_Writes and reads on._] “For something to eat, a shoulder of mutton and a cantle of one of your noble pasties [_Shakespeare interjects_ “just to quiet the stomach’s craving,” _and Chettle writes and repeats the phrase_] just to quiet the stomach’s craving, and then a bird, say a pheasant for choice, and afterwards a goose [_Shakespeare interjects_ “to trifle with,” _and again Chettle writes and repeats the words_] to trifle with, and instead of salad some barbel’s beards—you know how I like ’em—and nothing more an’ you love me—nothing, unless it be a morsel of cheese [_Shakespeare interjects_ “to take away the cannibal taste of the meat” _and Chettle writes and repeals the words with a loud laugh_] to take away the cannibal taste of the meat.”

JONSON:

You gulf of gluttony! No wonder you’re lame with gout!

CHETTLE:

It’ll tweak you worse at my age, old gamecock! Ah, lads! My suppers are all numbered; I can’t increase ’em by one and so I want ’em all good. This world owes Hal Chettle a living.

FLETCHER:

Are you finished?

CHETTLE:

[_Reads on._] “And you’ll not forget the wine, dear Mistress Tagge: nothing but your old sack—sack without taint of sugar or cow’s juice—pure milk o’ the grape; and afterwards, if you will, a tankard of canary with my pipe, just to keep me warm thro’ the long night. And as for the angels, count on ’em; if I can, I’ll bring you twice twenty; for I love an open hand.” [_Shakespeare, going to the door, interjects_, “‘In others,’ Chettle, ‘in others.’” _All laugh; but Chettle cries_, “No, no, mad wag,” _as Shakespeare goes out_.]

JONSON:

You unspeakable liar, you; you haven’t two coins in the world to clink together!

CHETTLE:

That’s the virtue of the promise, thickhead! Ha; Ha! lads! He knows how to write and how to fight, the great boar, but not how to live. That’s Chettle’s art. Ben has no kindling fancy, no procreate imagination. I’ll tell you a secret, lads, a rich secret, a secret of gold; in this world large promises excite more goodwill than small performances, and praise to a woman is more than sacks of money. He! he! Oh, the sweet creatures; how should we live without ’em! And how angry I shall be to-night with that cozening, lying bookdealer! Ha! ha!

JONSON:

Haven’t you any conscience?

CHETTLE:

No, bully boy, no: I’ve never been rich enough to keep a conscience: never! With us poor devils conscience is like a court-suit put by for state occasions and then used as little as may be: we pawn it sometimes for a dinner. Conscience, look ye, is a jade that still cries “No, no!” and never helps with brave encouragement: a good defender of the rich; but a born foe of the poor, laming enterprise. No, no, lad, no conscience for me; a bad one’s worse than a belly-ache, and with a good one I’d starve. Conscience is like a shrewish wife (have I touched ye there, Ben?), as long as you listen to her she makes you miserable, and when you no longer care for her, why should you keep her? To conclude: Conscience, boys, is a bogey to frighten the feeble from frolic. Ha ha!

JONSON:

But as a man, aren’t you ashamed to cheat a poor woman?

CHETTLE:

Have at ye again, lad! In this world we all cheat and are cheated. You cheat the groundlings and orange-girls out of their crosses with a bad play when they’ve paid to hear a good ’un, and I cheat by giving soft words instead of coins. And the conclusion! The girls are angry with you, while my hostess is in love with me. True virtue is good-humour, Ben: and a pleasant smile’s more than all the commandments.

FLETCHER:

Chettle’s putting up for a saint.

CHETTLE:

And why not, lad, why not? The greatest sinners always make the greatest saints. Reason: they’ve more stuff in ’em for good or evil and better wits to shape the mass to a purpose. Reason again. How can you help others to resist temptation unless you feel the strength of it in your own flesh?

JONSON:

You are the sum of all sins—a glutton, drunkard, letcher and shameless to boot: how can you talk of being a saint!

CHETTLE:

Sins of the flesh, my lad, find pardon easier than malice of the spirit; I’d be a saint to-morrow, but the living’s thin and ye’re all such unbelieving rascals that ye’d make me misdoubt my own virtue!

JONSON:

Virtue in you would be like a lump of butter in a raging fire, ’Twould feed the flames!

CHETTLE:

That’s the unbelief in ye, that still keeps me a sinner, a villainous sinner!

BURBAGE:

At this rate, Chettle, you’ll make us all late. Come, boys, come, there’s much to do.

CHETTLE:

’Tis a churl would leave a good dinner, but no one would leave good talk but a chough, and that was good, wasn’t it, Ben?

JONSON:

Like your dinners, Chettle; more to be praised for quantity than quality, but still——

CHETTLE:

Have with you, lads: I’ve a Court cloak in white sarsenet; the colour of fear and of conscience, it takes a stain in every weather and from every touch! Ha! ha! ha!

[_Exit all save Jonson, who calls the drawer by stamping on the floor._]

SCENE III.

JONSON:

[_To drawer._] Bring me inkhorn and paper: I would write.

DRAWER:

[_Wiping the table._] Coming, sir, coming!

[_Exit drawer._]

_Enter Shakespeare._

SCENE IV.

JONSON:

[_Watching him._] What is it? Will: what is it? You wander in and out like one becrazed—The poisoned dart of old Virgil—Eh? Yet surely you won your beauty?

SHAKESPEARE:

I have not seen her for weeks.

JONSON:

What have you done?

SHAKESPEARE:

Herbert said he would speak to her.

JONSON:

Well?

SHAKESPEARE:

I have not seen him since.

JONSON:

Humph! Like consequence, like cause.

SHAKESPEARE:

No, no! he’s my friend unwearied in kind offices. If you but knew——

JONSON:

Then why not find him and solve the riddle?

SHAKESPEARE:

I will: I must. To-day; now. [_Goes to door and returns._] But if she has changed to me—ah, Ben, hope is something; we mortals live by hope.

JONSON:

Hope balanced by despair. Have done with the ague-fit, man!

SHAKESPEARE:

You’re right: I’ll go at once. [_Exit._]

JONSON:

[_Siting dozen again to write._] So honest Trust has always Cheat for friend.

SCENE V.

_A Room in Lord William Herbert’s lodgings in London._

HERBERT:

[_Unbuckles his belt and gives it with his sword to a gray-haired servant in livery: takes off his cap with its great jewelled brooch and throws it on the table._] Has no one come?

BODY-SERVANT:

No one, my lord; but there’s a messenger from Wilton inquiring after your health.

HERBERT:

My health! Another of your tricks, Longman, I’ll be sworn. You must be mad: I’m perfectly well.

BODY-SERVANT:

Your lordship had a chill last week and Lady Pembroke made me promise——

HERBERT:

[_Waives him to silence._] Bah, bah! [_The Servant bows and steps back._] I expect a lady this afternoon; the same who came the other day: you know, tall and dark; bring her to me here, and then you are free to write to my lady mother and tell her I have a tingling ear—the right one—don’t forget. [_The Servant bows and retires backward. Herbert recalls him._] And, Longman, tell the other servants I’m not to be disturbed. [_Exit Servant. Lord Herbert goes over to a mirror and arranges his slight moustache, runs his fingers through his hair, then picks up a sword and makes imaginary passes with it; at length takes up a book, throws himself into a chair and begins to read. A few moments pass; a discreet knock is heard at the door. Miss Fitton enters, Herbert reads on, till she stands before him and puts her hand on his book. He jumps to his feet._] I am sorry, Mary. [_Kissing her._] I did not hear you. I was reading an old love-story, the story of Achilles and the Siege of Troy. Won’t you sit?

MISS FITTON:

And our love-story is not a month old. A month ago and you would have been waiting at the door for me; but now—— [_Sighs._]

HERBERT:

I was waiting there to-day; but you are very late, and one cannot play sentinel for ever. Have you heard the news? No! Lady Joan instead of curing Lacy, has caught his trick of speech, and her quaint words and demure air set everyone roaring.

MISS FITTON:

We women are all ape-like in our loves; I catch myself repeating your words like an echo: I wish I had been born a man—Heigh-ho! But there’s another piece of news—

HERBERT:

What’s that?

MISS FITTON:

The Queen has heard that Lady Jane Wroth gives her lips too easily: she has locked her up for a month on bread and water.

HERBERT:

Joan’s rather pretty, don’t you think? with great child-eyes; but shy—who’s the happy man? Essex or Egerton, I’ll be sworn.

MISS FITTON:

A newer lover, I hear, and one nearer to the Queen’s heart—young William Herbert.

HERBERT:

I? Never, never. Oh! a kiss in passing—a mere courtesy——

MISS FITTON:

You are incorrigible!

HERBERT:

I am. How can I help it? I can’t love the rose and scorn the lily. Every woman tempts me; but after all Mary is best [_tries to take her in his arms, but she draws away_], for Mary is hardest to win, and I love her—— [_Kisses her._]

MISS FITTON:

[_Yielding._] What fools we women are! I know you don’t love me; but I cheat myself you do, and the slighter the proof the more I fondle it. What double fools, for when I would be true and brave and free, you lean your head upon my breast, and the mother in me makes me your slave; my blood turns to milk; I am all tenderness and take your desire for love. We are so foolish-fond—wretched creatures!

HERBERT:

Not much to choose between us: Come, Mary, here are your tables; since you gave them to me I haven’t kept you waiting once: now have I? [_Puts them on the table._]

MISS FITTON:

No, and twice you have waited for me. If I could be sure you loved me—sure—[_A knock is heard at the door_] Who’s that?

HERBERT:

I don’t know; I gave orders——[_The knocking is repeated._]

MISS FITTON:

I must not be found here; where? where——

HERBERT:

[_Pointing to the door_, R., _and whispering._] That door will take you out. Come to-morrow at the same time. You will? [_Smiles as Miss Fitton says “Yes” and goes; he returns towards door_, C.; _the knocking is repeated_.] Come in there; come in. [_Shakespeare enters._] Oh, it’s you, is it?

SCENE VI.

SHAKESPEARE:

Unbidden; but not, I hope, unwelcome.

HERBERT:

No, no. Come in and be seated. I was half asleep, I think.

SHAKESPEARE:

We have not tasted life together for days and days.

HERBERT:

’Tis true; not since my quarrel with Raleigh. How the old limpet clings to place. He has just come to new honours, I hear: she has made him Governor of Jersey. Curse him!

SHAKESPEARE:

With honour one can always buy honours.

HERBERT:

[_Laughs._] Yes! the singular is more than the plural.

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Hesitatingly._] When I last saw you I begged your voice. Did you see her?

HERBERT:

I did. I wanted to speak to you about it; but it’s not—pleasant.

SHAKESPEARE:

Not pleasant!

HERBERT:

I did my best, talked of your talents—all to no effect. Girls are queer monkeys!

SHAKESPEARE:

No effect!

HERBERT:

[_Looking in the mirror._] I mean, though she admires you infinitely, she cannot love you.

SHAKESPEARE:

Cannot love me? Mistress Fitton!

HERBERT:

Who else?

SHAKESPEARE:

She told you she did not love me?

HERBERT:

[_Looking at his profile._] She did.

SHAKESPEARE:

Strange!

HERBERT:

Why strange?

SHAKESPEARE:

She does love me.

HERBERT:

[_Waving the mirror._] Admire, yes; but love, no!

SHAKESPEARE:

Love, yes!

HERBERT:

Friendship, affection, love if you will, but—but—not passion.

SHAKESPEARE:

Passion.

Herbert:

[_Throwing down the mirror._] Do you mean to say——

SHAKESPEARE:

Yes.

HERBERT:

[_Indignantly._] What! What! Ha! Ha! Ha! The damned young minx!

SHAKESPEARE:

Why do you call her minx?

HERBERT:

Because—because she lied to me.

SHAKESPEARE:

No other reason?

HERBERT:

None!

SHAKESPEARE:

What object could she have in deceiving you, as to her love for me, you, my friend?

HERBERT:

[_Carelessly._] In faith I don’t know—a girl’s whim, I suppose.

SHAKESPEARE:

Strange—a girl seldom denies her love—and Mistress Fitton has courage. Most strange!

HERBERT:

Well, you must ravel out the tangle at some idle moment; it’s too knotty for me. Have you seen Chapman’s “Iliad”? I’ve just been reading it: ’tis as fine as Homer; don’t you think?

SHAKESPEARE:

I am not learned enough to judge.

HERBERT:

I hear you met Bacon the other day. What did you think of him?

SHAKESPEARE:

I know him too little—he’s Jonson’s friend—she denied me, you say, to you?

HERBERT:

She did. But now I must dress: you’ll forgive me.

[_Takes up his sword-belt and buckles it on: looks for his gloves and cap. Shakespeare in the meantime moves to the table and catches sight of the tablets which Herbert has thrown down._]

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Picking up the tablets._] Oh, my divining soul! [_Turns to Herbert._] I pray you, of your courtesy; when did you see Miss Fitton last?

HERBERT:

[_Arranging his doublet before the mirror._] Yesterday, to-day. Why?

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Showing tablets._] When did she give you these?

HERBERT:

Those? where did you find them?

SHAKESPEARE:

She gave them to you?

HERBERT:

Mary Fitton? Yes.

SHAKESPEARE:

And _you_ took them, knowing they were my gift to her?

HERBERT:

How could I know that?

SHAKESPEARE:

She told you. You must have asked where the verses came from: she hates verses, and loves truth—truth!

HERBERT:

Don’t take it so tragic, man. A girl’s kiss, no weightier than a breath.

SHAKESPEARE:

A girl’s kiss, and a friend’s faith. No weightier than a breath.

HERBERT:

In love and war, none of us is to be trusted.

SHAKESPEARE:

So!

HERBERT:

It wasn’t all my fault——

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Taking hold of him, and watching his face._] Not your fault! What? She tempted you—[_Herbert nods_]—and who could resist her? she tempted you! Oh, let her rot and perish and be damned; the foul thing! I am cold with loathing.

HERBERT:

I don’t want to put the blame on her; it all came naturally; but you must not think I went about with intent to deceive you.

SHAKESPEARE:

She tempted you; when? The first time you saw her; the very night I asked you to plead for me?

HERBERT:

I don’t wish to excuse myself; you know how such things happen. We danced; she dared me to wait by her when the Queen came; of course I waited—oh, curse it!

SHAKESPEARE:

She dared you. That rank pride of hers the pride that ruined angels and unpeopled heaven! The foul temptress! Damn her, oh, damn her!

HERBERT:

Pride’s no fault.

SHAKESPEARE:

No fault! She swears love to me and then to you; kisses me and kisses you—no fault—she loves the slime that sticks to filthy deeds.

HERBERT:

You believe her when you’re with her; she seems true.

SHAKESPEARE:

O, the world hath not a sweeter creature. She might have lain by an emperor’s side. Hang her! I do but say what she is. The public commoner!

HERBERT:

Don’t blame her, she’s so young.

SHAKESPEARE:

And so fair! Such courage, strength, wit, grace, gaiety. God! Had she been true one would have pawned the world for her. And now——

HERBERT:

You take it too tragic.

SHAKESPEARE:

Too tragic! I have lost all—joy, hope, trust—all gone; my pearl of life; my garden of delight!

HERBERT:

Think, man: it’s not the first time she has slipped, she doesn’t pretend it is.

SHAKESPEARE:

The pity of it; ah! the pity of it! The sky is all soiled: my lips, too—my hands—ah!

HERBERT:

Why can’t you be a man, and take what’s light lightly!

SHAKESPEARE:

Only the light do that! [_To himself._] Is it wrong to kill those light ones?

HERBERT:

You would not hurt her.

SHAKESPEARE:

No! That’s true. I could not hurt her sweet, white flesh. God, how I love her! I’ll tear out that love! Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it: all dirtied, all. But I’ll not be fond!

HERBERT:

Why not? she loves you; she said so: it’s true, most likely.

SHAKESPEARE:

Trust’s dead in me: she has killed it. I think of her, and shudder—the sluttish spoil of opportunity. Faugh!

HERBERT:

Put it out of mind, and it’s as if it had not been.

SHAKESPEARE:

You’ll marry her?

HERBERT:

I wouldn’t marry an angel.

SHAKESPEARE:

And yet—she loved you—kissed you—gave herself to you: Damnation!

HERBERT:

You make too much of it!

SHAKESPEARE:

Too much! I trusted you, your honour: bared my heart to you——Ah! the traitor wound!

HERBERT:

Forgive us both and forget: Come. [_Puts his hand out._]

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Shrinks back._] Words, words!

HERBERT:

I never meant to hurt you.

SHAKESPEARE:

That’s the Judas curse! They know not what they do; but it’s done. I had two idolatries—my friendship for you; I loved your youth and bravery! And my passion for her, the queen and pearl of women. And now the faith’s dead, the love’s befouled.

HERBERT:

In a little while hope will spring again and new love.

SHAKESPEARE:

Never, my summer is past! The leaves shake against the cold.

HERBERT:

What can I say? What can I do?

SHAKESPEARE:

Nothing: I must go. [_Turns to the door._] You have your deeds to live with. [_Exit Shakespeare._]

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