CHAPTER III
_The Episode Called Love-Letters of Falstaff_
I. "_That Gray Iniquity_"
There was a sound of scuffling within as Sir John Falstaff--muchbroken since his loss of the King's favor, and now equally decayed inwit and health and reputation--stood fumbling at the door of the Angelroom. He was particularly shaky this morning after a night ofparticularly hard drinking.
But he came into the apartment singing, and, whatever the scuffling hadmeant, found Bardolph in one corner employed in sorting garments from aclothes-chest, while at the extreme end of the room Mistress Quicklydemurely stirred the fire; which winked at the old knight ratherknowingly.
"_Then came the bold Sir Caradoc_," carolled Sir John. "Ah, mistress,what news?--_And eke Sir Pellinore_.--Did I rage last night, Bardolph?Was I a Bedlamite?"
"As mine own bruises can testify," Bardolph assented. "Had each one ofthem a tongue, they would raise a clamor beside which Babel were as anheir weeping for his rich uncle's death; their testimony would qualifyyou for any mad-house in England. And if their evidence go against thedoctor's stomach, the watchman at the corner hath three teeth--or,rather, hath them no longer, since you knocked them out last night--thatwill, right willingly, aid him to digest it."
"Three, say you?" asked the knight, rather stiffly lowering his greatbody into his great chair set ready for him beside the fire. "I wouldhave my valor in all men's mouths, but not in this fashion, for it is toobiting a jest. Three, say you? Well, I am glad it was no worse; I have atender conscience, and that mad fellow of the north, Hotspur, sitsheavily upon it, so that thus this Percy, being slain by my valor, is_per se_ avenged, a plague on him! Three, say you? I would to God my namewere not so terrible to the enemy as it is; I would I had 'bated mynatural inclination somewhat, and had slain less tall fellows by somethreescore. I doubt Agamemnon slept not well o' nights. Three, say you?Give the fellow a crown apiece for his mouldy teeth, if thou hast them;if thou hast them not, bid him eschew this vice of drunkenness, wherebyhis misfortune hath befallen him, and thus win him heavenly crowns."
"Indeed, sir," began Bardolph, "I doubt--"
"Doubt not, sirrah!" cried Sir John, testily; and continued, in avirtuous manner: "Was not the apostle reproved for that same sin? Thouart a Didymus, Bardolph;--an incredulous paynim, a most unspeculativerogue! Have I carracks trading in the Indies? Have I robbed the exchequerof late? Have I the Golden Fleece for a cloak? Nay, it is paltry gimlet,and that augurs badly. Why, does this knavish watchman take me for araven to feed him in the wilderness? Tell him there are no such ravenshereabout; else had I ravenously limed the house-tops and set springes inthe gutters. Inform him that my purse is no better lined than his ownbroken skull: it is void as a beggar's protestations, or a butcher'sstall in Lent; light as a famished gnat, or the sighing of a new-madewidower; more empty than a last year's bird-nest, than a madman's eye,or, in fine, than the friendship of a king."
"But you have wealthy friends, Sir John," suggested the hostess of theBoar's Head Tavern, whose impatience had but very hardly waited for thisopportunity to join in the talk. "Yes, I warrant you, Sir John. Sir John,you have a many wealthy friends; you cannot deny that, Sir John."
"Friends, dame?" asked the knight, and cowered closer to the fire, asthough he were a little cold. "I have no friends since Hal is King. Ihad, I grant you, a few score of acquaintances whom I taught to play atdice; paltry young blades of the City, very unfledged juvenals! Settingmy knighthood and my valor aside, if I did swear friendship with these,I did swear to a lie. But this is a censorious and muddy-minded world, sothat, look you, even these sprouting aldermen, these foul bacon-fedrogues, have fled my friendship of late, and my reputation hath grownsomewhat more murky than Erebus. No matter! I walk alone, as one thathath the pestilence. No matter! But I grow old; I am not in the vaward ofmy youth, mistress."
He nodded his head with extreme gravity; then reached for a cup of sackthat Bardolph held at the knight's elbow.
"Indeed, I know not what your worship will do," said Mistress Quickly,rather sadly.
"Faith!" answered Sir John, finishing the sack and grinning in a somewhatghastly fashion; "unless the Providence that watches over the fall of asparrow hath an eye to the career of Sir John Falstaff, Knight, and socomes to my aid shortly, I must needs convert my last doublet into amask, and turn highwayman in my shirt. I can take purses yet, ye Uzzitecomforters, as gaily as I did at Gadshill, where that scurvy Poins, andhe that is now King, and some twoscore other knaves did afterward assaultme in the dark; yet I peppered some of them, I warrant you!"
"You must be rid of me, then, master," Bardolph interpolated. "I for onehave no need of a hempen collar."
"Ah, well!" said the knight, stretching himself in his chair as thewarmth of the liquor coursed through his inert blood; "I, too, would beloth to break the gallows' back! For fear of halters, we must alter ourway of living; we must live close, Bardolph, till the wars make usCroesuses or food for crows. And if Hal but hold to his bias, there willbe wars: I will eat a piece of my sword, if he have not need of itshortly. Ah, go thy ways, tall Jack; there live not three good menunhanged in England, and one of them is fat and grows old. We must liveclose, Bardolph; we must forswear drinking and wenching! But there islime in this sack, you rogue; give me another cup."
The old knight drained this second cup, and unctuously sucked at andlicked his lips. Thereafter,
"I pray you, hostess," he continued, "remember that Doll Tearsheet supswith me to-night; have a capon of the best, and be not sparing of thewine. I will repay you, upon honor, when we young fellows return fromFrance, all laden with rings and brooches and such trumperies like yourNorfolkshire pedlars at Christmas-tide. We will sack a town for you, andbring you back the Lord Mayor's beard to stuff you a cushion; the Dauphinshall be your tapster yet; we will walk on lilies, I warrant you, to thetune of _Hey, then up go we!"_
"Indeed, sir," said Mistress Quickly, in perfect earnest, "your worshipis as welcome to my pantry as the mice--a pox on 'em!--think themselves;you are heartily welcome. Ah, well, old Puss is dead; I had her ofGoodman Quickly these ten years since;--but I had thought you looked forthe lady who was here but now;--she was a roaring lion among the mice."
"What lady?" cried Sir John, with great animation. "Was it Flint themercer's wife, think you? Ah, she hath a liberal disposition, and will,without the aid of Prince Houssain's carpet or the horse of Cambuscan,transfer the golden shining pieces from her husband's coffers to mine."
"No mercer's wife, I think," Mistress Quickly answered, afterconsideration. "She came with two patched footmen, and smacked ofgentility;--Master Dumbleton's father was a mercer; but he had redhair;--she is old;--and I could never abide red hair."
"No matter!" cried the knight. "I can love this lady, be she a very Witchof Endor. Observe, what a thing it is to be a proper man, Bardolph! Shehath marked me;--in public, perhaps; on the street, it may be;--and then,I warrant you, made such eyes! and sighed such sighs! and lain awake o'nights, thinking of a pleasing portly gentleman, whom, were I notmodesty's self, I might name;--and I, all this while, not knowing! Fetchme my Book of Riddles and my Sonnets, that I may speak smoothly. Why wasmy beard not combed this morning? No matter, it will serve. Have I nobetter cloak than this?" Sir John was in a tremendous bustle, all a-beamwith pleasurable anticipation.
But Mistress Quickly, who had been looking out of the window, said,"Come, but your worship must begin with unwashed hands, for old MadamWish-for't and her two country louts are even now at the door."
"Avaunt, minions!" cried the knight. "Avaunt! Conduct the lady hither,hostess; Bardolph, another cup of sack. We will ruffle it, lad, and go toFrance all gold, like Midas! Are mine eyes too red? I must look sad, youknow, and sigh very pitifully. Ah, we will ruffle it! Another cup ofsack, Bardolph;--I am a rogue if I have drunk to-day. And avaunt! vanish!for the lady comes."
He threw himself into a gallant attitude, suggestive of one suddenlypalsied, and with the mien of a
turkey-cock strutted toward the door togreet his unknown visitor.
2. _"Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a Boy"_
The woman who entered was not the jolly City dame one looked for: and, atfirst sight, you estimated her age as a trifle upon the staider side ofsixty. But to this woman the years had shown unwonted kindliness, asthough time touched her less with intent to mar than to caress; her formwas still unbent, and her countenance, bloodless and deep-furrowed, borethe traces of great beauty; and, whatever the nature of her errand, thewoman who stood in the doorway was unquestionably a person of breeding.
Sir John advanced toward her with as much elegance as he might muster;for gout when coupled with such excessive bulk does not beget anoverpowering amount of grace.
"_See, from the glowing East, Aurora comes_," he chirped. "Madam, permitme to welcome you to my poor apartments; they are not worthy--"
"I would see Sir John Falstaff, sir," declared the lady, courteously,but with some reserve of manner, and looking him full in the face as shesaid this.
"Indeed, madam," suggested Sir John, "if those bright eyes--whose glanceshave already cut my poor heart into as many pieces as the man in thefront of the almanac--will but desist for a moment from such butcher'swork and do their proper duty, you will have little trouble in findingthe bluff soldier you seek."
"Are you Sir John?" asked the lady, as though suspecting a jest. "The sonof old Sir Edward Falstaff, of Norfolk?"
"His wife hath frequently assured me so," Sir John protested, verygravely; "and to confirm her evidence I have about me a certainvillainous thirst that did plague Sir Edward sorely in his lifetime, andcame to me with his other chattels. The property I have expended longsince; but no Jew will advance me a maravedi on the Falstaff thirst. Itis a priceless commodity, not to be bought or sold; you might as soonquench it."
"I would not have known you," said the lady, wonderingly; "but," sheadded, "I have not seen you these forty years."
"Faith, madam," grinned the knight, "the great pilferer Time hath sincethen taken away a little from my hair, and added somewhat (saving yourpresence) to my belly; and my face hath not been improved by being thegrindstone for some hundred swords. But I do not know you."
"I am Sylvia Vernon," said the lady. "And once, a long while ago, I wasSylvia Darke."
"I remember," said the knight. His voice was altered. Bardolph wouldhardly have known it; nor, perhaps, would he have recognized his master'smanner as he handed Dame Sylvia to the best chair.
"A long while ago," she repeated, sadly, after a pause during whichthe crackling of the fire was very audible. "Time hath dealt harshlywith us both, John;--the name hath a sweet savor. I am an old womannow. And you--"
"I would not have known you," said Sir John; then asked, almostresentfully, "What do you here?"
"My son goes to the wars," she answered, "and I am come to bid himfarewell; yet I should not tarry in London, for my lord is feeble andhath constant need of me. But I, an old woman, am yet vain enough tosteal these few moments from him who needs me, to see for the last time,mayhap, him who was once my very dear friend."
"I was never your friend, Sylvia," said Sir John.
"Ah, the old wrangle!" said the lady, and smiled a little wistfully. "Mydear and very honored lover, then; and I am come to see him here."
"Ay!" interrupted Sir John, rather hastily; and he proceeded, glowingwith benevolence: "A quiet, orderly place, where I bestow my patronage;the woman of the house had once a husband in my company. God rest hissoul! he bore a good pike. He retired in his old age and 'stablished thistavern, where he passed his declining years, till death called him gentlyaway from this naughty world. God rest his soul, say I!"
This was a somewhat euphemistic version of the taking-off of GoodmanQuickly, who had been knocked over the head with a joint-stool whilerifling the pockets of a drunken guest; but perhaps Sir John wished tospeak well of the dead, even at the price of conferring upon the presenthome of Sir John an idyllic atmosphere denied it by the Londonconstabulary.
"And you for old memories' sake yet aid his widow?" the lady murmured."That is like you, John."
There was another silence, and the fire crackled more loudly than ever.
"And are you sorry that I come again, in a worse body, John, strange andtime-ruined?"
"Sorry?" echoed Sir John; and, ungallant as it was, he hesitated amoment before replying: "No, faith! But there are some ghosts that willnot easily bear raising, and you have raised one."
"We have summoned up no very fearful spectre, I think," replied the lady;"at most, no worse than a pallid, gentle spirit that speaks--to me, atleast--of a boy and a girl who loved each other and were very happy agreat while ago."
"Are you come hither to seek that boy?" asked the knight, and chuckled,though not merrily. "The boy that went mad and rhymed of you in thosefar-off dusty years? He is quite dead, my lady; he was drowned, mayhap,in a cup of wine. Or he was slain, perchance, by a few light women. Iknow not how he died. But he is quite dead, my lady, and I had not beenhaunted by his ghost until to-day."
He stared at the floor as he ended; then choked, and broke into a fit ofcoughing which unromantic chance brought on just now, of all times.
"He was a dear boy," she said, presently; "a boy who loved a young maidvery truly; a boy that found the maid's father too strong and shrewd fordesperate young lovers--Eh, how long ago it seems, and what a flood oftears the poor maid shed at being parted from that dear boy!"
"Faith!" admitted Sir John, "the rogue had his good points."
"Ah, John, you have not forgotten, I know," the lady said, looking upinto his face, "and, you will believe me that I am very heartily sorryfor the pain I brought into your life?"
"My wounds heal easily," said Sir John.
"For though my dear dead father was too wise for us, and knew it was forthe best that I should not accept your love, believe me, John, I alwaysknew the value of that love, and have held it an honor that any womanmust prize."
"Dear lady," the knight suggested, with a slight grimace, "the world isnot altogether of your opinion."
"I know not of the world," she said; "for we live away from it. But wehave heard of you ever and anon; I have your life quite letter-perfectfor these forty years or more."
"You have heard of me?" asked Sir John; and, for a seasoned knave, helooked rather uncomfortable.
"As a gallant and brave soldier," she answered; "of how you fought at seawith Mowbray that was afterward Duke of Norfolk; of your knighthood byKing Richard; of how you slew the Percy at Shrewsbury; and capturedColeville o' late in Yorkshire; and how the Prince, that now is King, didlove you above all men; and, in fine, of many splendid doings in thegreat world."
Sir John raised a protesting hand. He said, with commendable modesty: "Ihave fought somewhat. But we are not Bevis of Southampton; we have slainno giants. Heard you naught else?"
"Little else of note," replied the lady; and went on, very quietly: "Butwe are proud of you at home in Norfolk. And such tales as I have heard Ihave woven together in one story; and I have told it many times to mychildren as we sat on the old Chapel steps at evening, and the shadowslengthened across the lawn, and I bid them emulate this, the most perfectknight and gallant gentleman that I have known. And they love you, Ithink, though but by repute."
Once more silence fell between them; and the fire grinned wickedly at themimic fire reflected by the old chest, as though it knew of a mostentertaining secret.
"Do you yet live at Winstead?" asked Sir John, half idly.
"Yes," she answered; "in the old house. It is little changed, but thereare many changes about."
"Is Moll yet with you that did once carry our letters?"
"Married to Hodge, the tanner," the lady said; "and dead long since."
"And all our merry company?" Sir John demanded. "Marian? And Tom andlittle Osric? And Phyllis? And Adelais? Zounds, it is like a breath ofcountry air to speak their names once more."
"All dead," she answ
ered, in a hushed voice, "save Adelais, and even tome poor Adelais seems old and strange. Walter was slain in the Frenchwars, and she hath never married."
"All dead," Sir John informed the fire, as if confidentially; then helaughed, though his bloodshot eyes were not merry. "This same Death hatha wide maw! It is not long before you and I, my lady, will be at supperwith the worms. But you, at least, have had a happy life."
"I have been content enough," she said, "but all that seems run by; for,John, I think that at our age we are not any longer very happy nor verymiserable."
"Faith!" agreed Sir John, "we are both old; and I had not known it, mylady, until to-day."
Again there was silence; and again the fire leapt with delight at thejest.
Sylvia Vernon arose suddenly and cried, "I would I had not come!"
Then said Sir John: "Nay, this is but a feeble grieving you have wakened.For, madam--you whom I loved once!--you are in the right. Our blood runsthinner than of yore; and we may no longer, I think, either sorrow orrejoice very deeply."
"It is true," she said; "but I must go; and, indeed, I would to God I hadnot come!"
Sir John was silent; he bowed his head, in acquiescence perhaps, inmeditation it may have been; but he stayed silent.
"Yet," said she, "there is something here which I must keep no longer:for here are all the letters you ever writ me."
Whereupon she handed Sir John a little packet of very old and very fadedpapers. He turned them awkwardly in his hand once or twice; then staredat them; then at the lady.
"You have kept them--always?" he cried.
"Yes," she responded, wistfully; "but I must not be guilty of continuingsuch follies. It is a villainous example to my grandchildren," DameSylvia told him, and smiled. "Farewell."
Sir John drew close to her and took her hands in his. He looked into hereyes for an instant, holding himself very erect,--and it was a rare eventwhen Sir John looked any one squarely in the eyes,--and he said,wonderingly, "How I loved you!"
"I know," she murmured. Sylvia Vernon gazed up into his bloated old facewith a proud tenderness that was half-regretful. A quavering came intoher gentle voice. "And I thank you for your gift, my lover,--O brave truelover, whose love I was not ever ashamed to own! Farewell, my dear; yet alittle while, and I go to seek the boy and girl we know of."
"I shall not be long, madam," said Sir John. "Speak a kind word for me inHeaven; for I shall have sore need of it."
She had reached the door by this. "You are not sorry that I came?"
Sir John answered, very sadly: "There are many wrinkles now in your dearface, my lady; the great eyes are a little dimmed, and the sweetlaughter is a little cracked; but I am not sorry to have seen you thus.For I have loved no woman truly save you alone; and I am not sorry.Farewell." And for a moment he bowed his unreverend gray head over hershrivelled fingers.
3. "_This Pitch, as Ancient Writers do Report, doth Defile_"
"Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to the vice of lying!"chuckled Sir John, and leaned back rheumatically in his chair andmumbled over the jest.
"Yet it was not all a lie," he confided, as if in perplexity, to thefire; "but what a coil over a youthful green-sickness 'twixt a lad and awench more than forty years syne!
"I might have had money of her for the asking," he presently went on;"yet I am glad I did not; which is a parlous sign and smacks of dotage."
He nodded very gravely over this new and alarming phase of his character.
"Were it not a quaint conceit, a merry tickle-brain of Fate," he asked ofthe leaping flames, after a still longer pause, "that this mountain ofmalmsey were once a delicate stripling with apple cheeks and a cleanbreath, smelling of civet, and as mad for love, I warrant you, as anyAmadis of them all? For, if a man were to speak truly, I did love her.
"I had the special marks of the pestilence," he assured a particularlyincredulous--and obstinate-looking coal,--a grim, black fellow that,lurking in a corner, scowled forbiddingly and seemed to defy both theflames and Sir John. "Not all the flagons and apples in the universemight have comforted me; I was wont to sigh like a leaky bellows; to weeplike a wench that hath lost her grandam; to lard my speech with thefag-ends of ballads like a man milliner; and did, indeed, indite sonnets,canzonets, and what not of mine own elaboration.
"And Moll did carry them," he continued; "plump brown-eyed Moll, thathath married Hodge the tanner, and reared her tannerkins, and diedlong since."
But the coal remained incredulous, and the flames crackled merrily.
"Lord, Lord, what did I not write?" said Sir John, drawing out a paperfrom the packet, and deciphering by the firelight the faded writing.
Read Sir John:
"_Have pity, Sylvia? Cringing at thy door Entreats with dolorous cry and clamoring, That mendicant who quits thee nevermore; Now winter chills the world, and no birds sing In any woods, yet as in wanton Spring He follows thee; and never will have done, Though nakedly he die, from following Whither thou leadest.
"Canst thou look upon His woes, and laugh to see a goddess' son Of wide dominion, and in strategy
"More strong than Jove, more wise than Solomon, Inept to combat thy severity? Have pity, Sylvia! And let Love be one Among the folk that bear thee company_."
"Is it not the very puling speech of your true lover?" he chuckled; andthe flames spluttered assent. "_Among the folk that bear thee company_,"he repeated, and afterward looked about him with a smack of gravity."Faith, Adam Cupid hath forsworn my fellowship long since; he hath noscore chalked up against him at the Boar's Head Tavern; or, if he have, Idoubt not the next street-beggar might discharge it."
"And she hath commended me to her children as a very gallant gentlemanand a true knight," Sir John went on, reflectively. He cast his eyestoward the ceiling, and grinned at invisible deities. "Jove that sees allhath a goodly commodity of mirth; I doubt not his sides ache at times, asif they had conceived another wine-god."
"Yet, by my honor," he insisted to the fire; then added,apologetically,--"if I had any, which, to speak plain, I have not,--I amglad; it is a brave jest; and I did love her once."
Then the time-battered, bloat rogue picked out another paper, and read:
"'_My dear lady,--That I am not with thee to-night is, indeed, no faultof mine; for Sir Thomas Mowbray hath need of me, he saith. Yet theservice that I have rendered him thus far is but to cool my heels in hisantechamber and dream of two great eyes and of that net of golden hairwherewith Lord Love hath lately snared my poor heart. For it comfortsme_--' And so on, and so on, the pen trailing most juvenal sugar, like afly newly crept out of the honey-pot. And ending with a posy, filched, Iwarrant you, from some ring.
"I remember when I did write her this," he explained to the fire. "Lord,Lord, if the fire of grace were not quite out of me, now should I bemoved. For I did write it; and it was sent with a sonnet, all of Hell,and Heaven, and your pagan gods, and other tricks of speech. It should besomewhere."
He fumbled with uncertain fingers among the papers. "Ah, here it is," hesaid at last, and he again began to read aloud.
Read Sir John:
"_Cupid invaded Hell, and boldly drove Before him all the hosts of Erebus, Till he had conquered: and grim Cerberus Sang madrigals, the Furies rhymed of love, Old Charon sighed, and sonnets rang above The gloomy Styx; and even as Tantalus Was Proserpine discrowned in Tartarus, And Cupid regnant in the place thereof_.
"_Thus Love is monarch throughout Hell to-day; In Heaven we know his power was always great; And Earth acclaimed Love's mastery straightway When Sylvia came to gladden Earth's estate:-- Thus Hell and Heaven and Earth his rule obey, And Sylvia's heart alone is obdurate_.
"Well, well," sighed Sir John, "it was a goodly rogue that writ it,though the verse runs but lamely! A goodly rogue!
"He might," Sir John suggested, tentatively, "have lived cleanly, andforsworn sack; he might have been a gallant gentleman, and begottengrandchildren, and had a quiet nook at the ingl
eside to rest his oldbones: but he is dead long since. He might have writ himself _armigero_in many a bill, or obligation, or quittance, or what not; he might haveleft something behind him save unpaid tavern bills; he might have heardcases, harried poachers, and quoted old saws; and slept in his own familychapel through sermons yet unwrit, beneath his presentment, done instone, and a comforting bit of Latin: but he is dead long since."
Sir John sat meditating for a while; it had grown quite dark in the roomas he muttered to himself. He rose now, rather cumbrously anduncertainly, but with a fine rousing snort of indignation.
"Zooks!" he said, "I prate like a death's-head. A thing done hath an end,God have mercy on us all! And I will read no more of the rubbish."
He cast the packet into the heart of the fire; the yellow papers curledat the edges, rustled a little, and blazed; he watched them burn to thelast spark.
"A cup of sack to purge the brain!" cried Sir John, and filled one to thebrim. "And I will go sup with Doll Tearsheet."
* * * * *
SEPTEMBER 29, 1422
"_Anoon her herte hath pitee of his wo,And with that pitee, love com in also;Thus is this quene in pleasaunce and in loye_."
_Meanwhile had old Dome Sylvia returned contentedly to the helpmate whomshe had accepted under compulsion, and who had made her a fair husband,as husbands go. It is duly recorded, indeed, on their shared tomb, thattheir forty years of married life were of continuous felicity, and set apattern to all Norfolk. The more prosaic verbal tradition is that LadyVernon retained Sir Robert well in hand by pointing out, at judiciousintervals, that she had only herself to blame for having married such aselfish person in preference to a hero of the age and an ornament of theloftiest circles.
I find, on consultation of the Allonby records, that Sylvia Vernon diedof a quinsy, in 1419, surviving Sir Robert by some three months. She hadborne him four sons and four daughters: of these there remained atWinstead in 1422 only Sir Hugh Vernon, the oldest son, knighted by HenryV at Agincourt, where Vernon had fought with distinction; and AdelaisVernon, the youngest daughter, with whom the following has to do._
The Line of Love; Dizain des Mariages Page 6
