by John Barth
To which the valet rejoined with a wave and a smile, “Haply so, i’faith, haply so!” And might have said more had not Ebenezer, his interest in the matter fanned by his growing irritation, at once resumed his discourse.
“And just as the speech of the gentleman is to the speech of the crowd as is the lark’s song to the rooster’s but that of the poet like an angel’s to the lark’s, so the gentleman himself is a prince among men, and the poet should be a prince among gentlemen!”
“Haply so, sir, haply ’tis so,” Bertrand said again, and turning now to his master added, “But would ye believe it? So wretched is this memory of mine, that though I wrote out your commission word for word in ink, and saw clear as gospel where it caused a gentleman to be a laureate poet, I cannot summon up the part that makes your laureate be a gentleman! And so miserable are these eyes and ears, they’ve tricked me into thinking all the poets they e’er laid hold of—such as Masters Oliver, Trent, and Merriweather back in London, to name no farther—that all these rhyming wights have not a Golden Mean between ’em, nor yet a Brass or Kitchencopper! ’Sblood, to speak plainly, they are sober as jackanapes, modest as peacocks, chaste as billy goats, soft-tongued as magpies, brave as churchmice, and mannerly as cats in heat! Your common, everyday valet, if I may say so, is like to be twice the gentleman your poet e’er could dream of! Nay, he’s of’t a nicer spirit than the gentleman his master, as all the world knows, and hath not his peer for how wigs should be powdered or guests placed at table. ’Tis he and not your poet, I should say, that is the gentleman’s gentleman!”
Ebenezer was too taken aback by this outburst to do more than squint his eyes and cry “Stay!” But Bertrand would not be put off.
“Yet as for that,” he went on, “ ’tis little stead my gentleman’s lore stands me, now I’m a laureate poet! Marry, the ladies and gentlemen I’ve met, so far from seeing their poet as a gentleman, look on him as a sort of saint, trick ape, court fool, and gypsy soothsayer rolled in one. Your ladies tell me things no Popish priest e’er heard of, fuss over me as o’er a lapdog, and make me signs a gigolo would blush at; they worship and contemn me by turns, as half a god and half a traveling clown. And the gentlemen, i’God! They think me mad or dullwitted out of hand; for who but your madman would turn his hand to verse, save one too numskulled to turn it to money? In short and in sum, sir, they’d call me no poet at all, or a poor one at best, if e’er I should utter e’en a sensible remark, to say nothing of a civil—But think not I’m so fond as that!”
Ebenezer’s features roiled, settling finally into a species of frown. Both men were given wholly to the argument now, which had perforce to be conducted in low tones; they faced seawards, their elbows on the rail and their backs to Miss Robotham, who had descended from the high poop to the quarter-deck on the opposite side of the vessel.
“I grant you this,” he said, “that a prating coxcomb of a poet may be guilty of boorishness, as a bad valet may be guilty of presumption, and both may be guilty of affectation, I grant you farther that the best poet is never in essence a gentleman—”
“Unlike your best valet,” Bertrand put in.
“As for that,” Ebenezer said sharply, “your valet that outshines his master in’s knowledge of etiquette and fashion is like the rustic that can recite more Scripture than the theologian; his single gift betrays his limitations. The gentleman valet and the gentleman poet have this in common, that their gentlemanliness is for each a mask. But the mask of the valet masks a varlet, while the poet’s masks a god!”
“Oh la, sir!”
“Let me finish!” Ebenezer’s eyes were bright, his blond brows crooked and beetled. “Who more so than the poet needs every godlike gift? He hath the painter’s eye, the musician’s ear, the philosopher’s mind, the barrister’s persuasion; like a god he sees the secret souls of things, the essence ’neath their forms, their priviest connections. Godlike he knows the springs of good and evil: the seed of sainthood in the mind of a murtherer, the worm of lechery in the heart of a nun! Nay, farther: as the poet among gentlemen is as a pearl among polished stones, so must the Laureate be a diamond in the pearls, a prince among poets, their flower and exemplar—even a prince among princes! To him do kings commit their secular immortality, as they commit their souls’ to God! Small mystery that the first verse was religious and the earliest poets pagan priests, as some declare, or that Plato calls the source of poetry a divine madness like that of seers and sibyls. If your true poet strays from the path of good demeanor, ’tis but the mark of his calling, an access of the muse; yet the laureate, though in truth he hath by necessity the greatest infusion of this madness, must exercise a godlike self-restraint, for he is to men the ambassador and emblem of his art: he is obliged not only to his muse, but to his fellow poets as well.”
“ ’Tis your wish, then,” Bertrand asked finally, “that in all things I play the gentleman?”
“In every way.”
“And take their actions as my model?”
“Nothing less.”
“Why, then, I must beg some money of ye, sir,” he declared with a laugh, and explained that the last ten shillings of his own small savings had that very noon been sacrificed in the distance-run pool, in which as a gentleman he was absolutely obliged to participate.
“Ah, ’twas for that you asked my thoughts on gambling some while past.”
“I must confess it,” Bertrand said, and reminded his master that as much could be said in favor of gambling as against it. “Besides which, sir, I must keep on with’t now I’ve begun, as well to guard our masks as to make good my losses.”
Now, Ebenezer himself had in reserve only what little he’d saved from his years with the merchant Peter Paggen, the whole of which did not exceed forty pounds; but at Bertrand’s insistence that no smaller sum would do, he fetched out twenty from his trunk and, returning to the rail where his proxy waited, passed him the money surreptitiously with suitable admonitions and enjoinders.
At this point their conversation was interrupted by that same Miss Robotham earlier aspersed by Bertrand; at a thump on the shoulder they turned to find her standing close behind them, and Ebenezer paled at the thought of what perhaps she’d heard.
“Madam!” he said, whipping off his hat. “Your servant!”
“ ’Tis your master I want,” the girl said, and turned her back to him. She was a brown-haired, excellently breasted maid of twenty years or so, and though a certain grossness both of manner and complexion showed a rustic, or at least colonial, essence beneath the elegance of her dress, yet it seemed likely to Ebenezer that she was more innocent than concupiscent. In fact, for the first time since describing his plight to Henry in the Plymouth coach, he was reminded of Joan Toast, his delicate concern for whom had precipitated his departure from London: there was some similarity in eyes and skin and forthright manner.
Bertrand, who had made no move to duplicate his master’s courtesy, leaned upon the railing and regarded the visitor with a look of crude appraisal. Not daunted in the least, she clasped her hands pertly, bounced a few times on her heels, and said, “I’ve a literary question for you, Mr. Cooke.”
“Aha,” said Bertrand, and chucked her under the chin. “What hath a tight young piece like you to do with literature, pray?”
Ebenezer, as alarmed by the request as by his man’s vulgarity, made haste to offer his services instead, suggesting that the Laureate should not be bothered with trifling questions.
“Then what’s the use of him?” the maid demanded, feigning a pout. Then she pursed her lips, arched her brows, and added merrily, still in Bertrand’s direction, “Am I to suffer his lecherous stares for naught? He’ll say what poet wrote Out, out, strumpet Fortune, and say’t this instant, else my father shall know what poet tweaked me noontime where I blush to mention and left me a bruise to show for’t!”
“The moral to that,” Bertrand said, “is, Who hath skirts of straw must needs stay clear of fire.”
“Moral! T
hou’rt a proper priest to speak of morals! Enough now: who said Out, out, strumpet Fortune, Shakespeare or Marlowe? I’ve two bob on’t with Captain Meech, that thinks him such a scholar.”
Alarmed lest his servant give the game away, either by his reply or by his conduct, Ebenezer was about to interrupt with the answer, but Bertrand gave him no opportunity.
“Captain Meech, is’t!” he exclaimed, with a teasing frown and a sidelong look. “I’ll bet two bob myself that for any bruise o’ mine ye’ve three of his to sit on!”
Miss Robotham and Ebenezer both protested, the latter genuinely.
“No? Take a pound on’t, then,” Bertrand laughed. “My pound against your shilling. But mind, I must see the proof myself!” He then asked what poet she’d bet on, offering to swear that man had penned the line.
“The Laureate hath not his peer for gallantry,” Ebenezer observed with relief to Miss Robotham’s youthful back. “And in sooth, if chivalry be served, what matters it that William—”
“Oh no,” the girl protested, cutting him off, “I’ll have no favors from you, Mister Laureate, for I well know what ’twill cost me in the end! Besides which, I know the answers for a fact, and want no more than to hav’t confirmed:
Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods
In general synod take away her power.
Knock all her spokes and fellies out,
And bowl the round nave down the hill of Heaven,
As low as to the fiends!”
“Well done, well done!” Ebenezer applauded. “The Player himself pleased Hamlet no more with’t than you——”
“Marry, all those knaves and strumpets!” Bertrand exclaimed. “Whoever wrote it is a randy wight, now, ain’t he? To speak the truth, young lady, I might have scratched it out myself, for aught I know.”
“If you please, ma’am!” Ebenezer cried, aghast at Bertrand’s ignorance and the peril of the situation. This time he forced himself between them and took her arm as though to lead her off. “You must forgive my rudeness, but I cannot let you annoy the Laureate farther!”
“Annoy him!” Miss Robotham snatched her arm away. “Me annoy him!”
“I quite commend your interest in verse, which is rare enough e’en in a London girl,” the poet went on, speaking rapidly and glancing about to see if others were watching them, “and ’tis no reflection on your rearing that you presume so on this great man’s gallantry, seeing thou’rt from the plantations; yet I must explain—”
“Hear the wretch!” Miss Robotham applied for sympathy first to an imaginary audience and then specifically to Captain Meech, whom she saw approaching from aft. “I ask Mr. Cooke a civil question, and this fellow calls me a mannerless bumpkin!”
“Never mind him,” the Captain said good-humoredly, not without a brief scowl at the offender. “Who wins the bet?”
“Oh, everybody knows ’twas Shakespeare wrote it,” she said, “but Mr. Cooke’s as great a tease as you: he swears ’twas he himself.”
“Grand souls are ever wont to speak in epigrams,” Ebenezer explained desperately. “Haply it seemed a mere tease on the face of’t, but underneath ’tis deep enough a thought: the Laureate means that one great poet feels such kinship with another, in’s service of the Muse, ’tis as if Will Shakespeare and Eben Cooke were one and the same man!”
“My loss, then,” sighed the Captain, more in reply to Miss Robotham’s remark than to Ebenezer’s. “Henceforth,” he promised Bertrand, “I’ll stick to my last and leave learning to the learned.”
“Heav’n forbid!” Bertrand laughed. He had paid no heed whatever to Ebenezer’s previous alarm. “I lose enough on your seamanship without betting against ye in the pool!”
Captain Meech then declaring with a wink that all his money was in his quarters, Miss Robotham strode off on his arm to collect her winnings.
Bertrand looked after them enviously. “By God, that is a saucy piece!”
“ ’Tis all up with us!” Ebenezer groaned, as soon as the couple was out of earshot. “You’ve spiked our guns for fair!” He turned again to the ocean and buried his face in his hands.
“What? Not a bit of’t! Did ye see how she purred when I chucked her chin?”
“You treated her like a two-shilling tart!”
“No more than what she is,” Bertrand said. “D’ye think she’s playing at cards with Meech right now?”
“But her father is Colonel Robotham of Talbot County, that used to sit on the Maryland Council!”
Bertrand was unimpressed. “I know him well enough. Yet ’tis a queer father will hear his daughter prate of knaves and strumpets, I must say, and recite her smutty verses at the table.”
“God save us!” cried the Laureate. “If you don’t discover us with your blunders, you’ll have us horsewhipped for your behavior! Speak no more of the valet’s refinement, i’God; I’ve seen enough of’t, and of his ignorance!”
“Ah now, compose thyself,” said Bertrand. “ ’Twas the Laureate I was playing, not the valet, or ye’d have seen refinement and to spare. I knew what I was about.”
“You knew—”
“As for this same raillery and bookish converse your fine folk set such store by,” he went on testily, “any gentleman’s gentleman like myself that hath stood off a space and seen it whole can tell ye plainly the object of’t, which is: to sound out the other fellow’s sentiments on a matter and then declare a cleverer sentiment yourself. The difference here ’twixt simple and witty folk, if the truth be known, is that your plain man cares much for what stand ye take and not a fart for why ye take it, while your smart wight leaves ye whate’er stand ye will, sobeit ye defend it cleverly. Add to which, what any valet can tell ye, most things men speak of have but two sides to their name, and at every rung on the ladder of wit ye hear one held forth as gospel, with the other above and below.”
“Ladder of wit! What madness is this?” Ebenezer demanded.
“No madness save the world’s, sir. Take your wig question, now, that’s such a thing in London: whether to wear a bob or a full-bottom peruke. Your simple tradesman hath no love for fashion and wears a bob on’s natural hair the better to labor in; but give him ten pound and a fortnight to idle, he’ll off to the shop for a great French shag and a ha’peck of powder, and think him the devil’s own fellow! Then get ye a dozen such idlers; the sharpest among ’em will buy him a bob wig with lofty preachments on the tyranny of fashion—haven’t I heard ’em!—and think him as far o’er his full-bottomed fellows as they o’er the merchants’ sons and bob-haired ’prentices. Yet only climb a rung the higher, and it’s back to the full-bottom, on a sage that’s seen so many crop-wigs feigning sense, he knows ’tis but a pose of practicality and gets him a name for the cleverest of all by showing their sham to the light of day. But a grade o’er him is the bob again, on the pate of some philosopher, and over that the full-bottom, and so on. Or take your French question: the rustical wight is all for England and thinks each Frenchman the Devil himself, but a year in London and he’ll sneer at the simple way his farm folk reason. Then comes a man who’s traveled that road who says, ‘Plague take this foppish shill-I, shall-I! When all’s said and done ’tis England to the end!’; and after him your man that’s been abroad and vows ’tis not a matter of shill-I, shall-I to one who’s traveled, for no folk are cleverer than the clever French, ’gainst which your English townsman’s but a bumpkin. Next yet’s the man who’s seen not France alone but every blessed province on the globe; he says ’tis the novice traveler sings such praise for Paris—the man who’s seen ’em all comes home to England and carries all’s refinement in his heart. But then comes your grand skeptical philosopher, that will not grant right to either side; and after him a grander, that knows no side is right but takes sides anyway for the clever nonsense of’t; and after him your worldly saint, that says he’s past all talk of wars and kings fore’er, and gets him a great name for virtue. And after him—”
“Enough, I beg you!” Ebe
nezer cried, “My head spins! For God’s sake what’s your point?”
“No more than what I said before, sir: that de’il the bit ye’ve tramped about the world, and bleared your eyes with books, and honed your wits in clever company, whate’er ye yea is nay’d by the man just a wee bit simpler and again by the fellow just a wee bit brighter, so that clever folk care less for what ye think than why ye think it. ’Tis this that saves me.”
But Ebenezer could not see why. “ ’Tis that shall scotch you, I should fancy! A fool can parrot a wise man’s judgment but never hope to defend it.”
“And only a fool would try,” said Bertrand, with upraised finger. “Your poet hath no need to.”
Ebenezer’s features did a dance.
“What I mean, sir,” Bertrand explained, “when they come upon me with one of their mighty questions—only yestere’en, for instance, they’d have me say my piece on witchery, whether I believed in it or no—why, all I do is smile me a certain smile and say, ‘Why not?’ and there’s an end on’t! The ones that agree are pleased enough, and as for the skeptical fellows, they’ve no way to tell if I’m a spook-ridden dullard or a breed of mystic twice as wise as they. Your poet need never trouble his head to explain at all: men think he hath a passkey to Dame Truth’s bedchamber and smiles at the scholars building ladders in the court. This Civility and Sense ye preach of are his worst enemies; he must pinch the ladies’ bosoms and pull the schoolmen’s beards. His manner is his whole argument, as’t were, and that certain whimsical smile his sole rebuttal.”
“No more,” Ebenezer said sharply. “I’ll hear no more!”
Bertrand smiled his whimsical smile. “Yet surely ’tis the simple truth?”
