The Fifth of November

by L. A. G. Strong

  ‘Chimney swee-eep! Chimney swee-eep! Have ye work, have ye work for a swee-eep!’

  The cry ended on a bass note so deep that the few passers-by turned and laughed. The sweep himself grinned from his sooty face. There was no possible need for sweeps in these quarters. He must have been calling for the sheer joy of using his voice.

  The young man dawdled for a while, watching the river, gay with its wherries and barges, and shaking his head cheerfully at the wherry men who kept hailing him and offering to row him over the river. Then, recollecting himself, he went down the bank to his appointment. He was to meet a young man of his own age, Will Hooton, and a friend of his new down from Oxford, one Belcher, and go on with them and one or two others to the theatre. The place of meeting was the new steps at Blackfriars.

  Half an hour’s leisurely walking brought him to the place. His friends kept him waiting ten minutes or so past the appointed time, but this was nothing out of the way, especially on so fine an afternoon. All the same, he was glad to see them coming across the road.

  The sun splashed vividly upon their figures, picking them out against the dark background of an old warehouse wall. To the young man’s surprise there were only three: Will himself, leading the way, nervous and excited, talking fast: a slim, dandified-looking fellow, splendidly dressed, picking his steps fastidiously over the puddles: and an older man, tall, red-bearded, resplendent in a new doublet and cloak, who, notwithstanding his fine feathers, walked a little behind, and looked out of place with the others.

  Will Hooton looked up and greeted his friend.

  ‘Ha, Diccon! There you are. I’m sorry we are late, but—’

  ‘But it is my fault, he means, only does not like to say so.’

  The young gallant smiled, in a friendly fashion that belied his voice. He drawled in the affected fashion of the universities, sounding his consonants with an exaggerated care.

  Will Hooton hastened to make the introductions.

  ‘Diccon, this is my good friend Master Belcher, of Oxford.’

  The young gallant bowed.

  ‘D’Abridgecourt Belcher,’ he corrected. ‘Give a man his name, Will. Give a man his name. There are too many plain Belchers, and I would not be one of them.’

  ‘Sorry, faith! You shall have it all. And this is Master Johnson, who has seen much service in the Low Countries.’

  The man with the red beard exhanged bows with Diccon.

  ‘And this,’ said Will, to the other two, ‘is my good friend Master Richard Spens, new come to London from Devonshire.’

  The four fell into step, and went on their way together, Will and Johnson in front.

  ‘And how do you find the great metropolis, Master Spens?’ Belcher asked. ‘A sink of iniquity? A haunt of vice?’

  ‘N-no. I mean to say—’

  ‘Because, if you did, I would entreat you not to pay too much heed to Will here. He does not represent it worthily. Living with him, one might take wrong ideas.’

  ‘Nay,’ said Will over his shoulder, ‘to hear you, one would think that at the university was nothing but drinking and cockfighting.’

  ‘Sound ministers of learning, Will. Sound ministers of learning. I have heard more wisdom in a tavern at two in the morning than in all the lecture halls at Oxford.’

  Diccon felt uncomfortable. The talk was going out of his range.

  ‘Well,’ Belcher countered, ‘we mend, we mend. We go now to the playhouse, where we shall indeed be edified. Have you been much to the playhouse, Master Spens?’

  Diccon coloured.

  ‘Twice only,’ he replied.

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘The Spanish Maze, and Henry V.’

  ‘And how did the players please you?’

  ‘Very much. They—I thought—’

  ‘Master Shakespeare has it much his own way these days,’ said Will, turning round again. ‘The King’s Players have given seven plays of his in the past year.’

  ‘Yet they say he has had to call in Master Dekker to give him his chorus for Henry V.’

  ‘I do not believe it. They say all manner of things against him. ’Tis but jealousy.’ He looked at Diccon. ‘They are all jealous of him, at Oxford and Cambridge.’

  ‘Why,’ Diccon ventured, ‘is he not well thought of everywhere?’

  ‘He has the town, and handsomely. I grant him that,’ said Belcher, with an eloquent gesture. ‘At Oxford, too, he is allowed to have great merits. None can deny him them, and only a fool would try. But, to a more refined taste—’ He spread out his hands. ‘He has no learning. His classics are botched up from heaven knows what old shabby text-book and schoolboy’s grammar. A popular touch, a strong fancy, he has in abundance. But no scholar, Master Spens. No scholar.’

  ‘Scholarship must be a wonderful thing.’

  Johnson’s voice, deep and pleasant, startled them.

  ‘I would give five years of my life, ten even, to have something of it.’

  ‘Nay,’ Belcher laughed, ‘it might be a poor bargain. Be sure first you have ten to give.’

  A quick, strange light flashed in Johnson’s eyes. Then he smiled.

  ‘Marry,’ he said, ‘you are right there. I might find my pocket empty, and nothing gained.’

  ‘It is a piece of Shakespeare we are to see today,’ said Hooton. ‘They have put it on a second time.’

  ‘What is the name?’

  ‘Othello, The Moor of Venice.’

  ‘Venice? Not the piece about a Jew?’

  ‘No. That was The Merchant of Venice. That was done twice, too. In the spring.’

  ‘It would be,’ said Belcher.

  ‘Did you not like it?’ Diccon asked.

  ‘I did not see it. But friends of mine gave it a monstrous poor report. A trial scene, knives, caskets, and cuttings of breasts. Well enough for cutpurses and lackeys, but …’

  ‘Why,’ protested Hooton, ‘some of your classical plays are all blood.’

  ‘Blood with a difference, my good Will. Blood with a difference.’

  The conversation had to stop, for they found themselves at the entrance to the theatre.

  Ten minutes later, they were safely in their seats. The piece was overdue, but, except for the crowd in the standing room, who kept calling out and clapping and stamping, no one seemed in a hurry for it to begin. The stools on the stage itself, reserved for smart men about town, were none of them occupied: but it was the fashion for such to be late, and to interrupt the performance, so that meant nothing. The audience seemed perfectly happy talking and laughing, and looking on with amusement at the behaviour of a group of young bloods, who were calling gallantries and throwing nutshells at three or four gaily dressed young women in the gallery near the stage.

  With the sunlight pouring in the open roof, it soon became very hot in the small and crowded theatre. Diccon blew, and opened his doublet, exchanging as he did so a smile with the enigmatic Johnson.

  Then, suddenly, the trumpets blew, and the play began.

  It was difficult to settle down to it at first, for the scene, in a street, was not easy to follow, and there was still great confusion in the audience. One by one, the gallants of the town sauntered on to the stage and took their stools, where, with much ceremony, they kindled their long clay pipes, blew out clouds of smoke into the players’ very faces, and called for nuts and wine. At each interruption the crowd in the standing room cried out abuse and sarcasm, of which the gallants took no notice at all, but which did not make the players’ task any easier. Indeed, all that Diccon carried away of the first scene was a vague picture of men shouting outside a house.

  By degrees, however, the clamour quieted down, and it was possible to follow the play. The Moor had appeared, and was speaking before the Senate, justifying himself. Suddenly, a hush fell. Something in the scene had gripped the audience. They sat still. The actor’s voice soared out into the stillness, felt it, seized on it, adjusted itself.

  The business of the afternoon had b
egun.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘A powerful story,’ Belcher said, looking thoughtfully past the rim of his tankard. ‘I grant the play has that. And a rich fancy.’ He looked up. ‘There are fine things in that last scene.

  It is the very error of the moon.

  She comes more near the earth than she was wont. …

  Did you catch that? A noble conceit. But—’ He shook his head.

  Diccon, despite his shyness and fear of being laughed at, was emboldened to speak.

  ‘What do you find against it?’ he asked. ‘To me it all seemed wonderful.’

  ‘I find a certain prodigality, Master Spens, a confusion of purpose. Who is the chief character? The Moor so the title says. But this villainous contriving fellow, this Iago: is he not the chief character? He it is that brings everything to pass. Your Othello is undone, not by his own character, but by the wile of another. That is not fate. That is not destiny, which lies in character. That is sheer mischance. And I care not for tragedy which hangs on sheer mischance.’

  ‘Nay, Master Belcher.’ They turned in surprise, as Johnson leaned across the table. ‘I do not deny what you say about tragedy: but you misread the play. It is not sheer mischance that brought the poor noble Moor to his doom. He would have come to it, Iago or no Iago.’

  ‘How do you make that out, Master Johnson?’

  ‘Do you not see? It is his marriage. The black married to the white. A thing against nature, and so bringing its own doom. Every day, he will be afraid. Why? Because, great warrior though he be, he is below her in this, the colour of his skin. Shall not a man of her own complexion one day supplant him? This is always his fear. Why else should he so readily believe the tale of Cassio? I blame him there.’ Guy’s brow clouded. ‘He was over-hasty to think ill of her. But therein lay the tragedy. He thought ill of her, because he rated her of a higher nature than himself, and one, therefore, who must needs spurn him soon or late, and return to her own. At least, I see it so.’

  Belcher put his head on one side.

  ‘There is something to be said for your view, Master Johnson. Something to be said for it. It seems one learns much in the Low Countries.’

  Guy smiled his crooked smile.

  ‘Now you are making sport of me, Master Belcher.’

  ‘Not I, I swear. Do you think that I would profit likewise, by a sojourn in those parts?’

  ‘Ah, that I cannot say.’

  ‘Master Belcher means to turn playwright,’ put in Will Hooton proudly, looking at his friend. Tie has an interest with one of the King’s Players.’

  Guy nodded.

  ‘What will you write of, Master Belcher? Some classical theme?’

  ‘Nay. None of your Romans for me. Nor amorous Moors either. I will write of some matter of our own time. Something to breed contention.’

  ‘Have a care,’ put in Hooton. ‘Remember Eastward Ho!’

  ‘The authors, three weighty and learned men,’ Belcher explained, seeing Johnson’s look of mystification, ‘were like to lose their ears. But I have a mind to something of our own day. This monstrous ill usage of Catholics now. There is a theme for twenty plays.’

  Guy’s eyes gleamed right and left. His voice dropped.

  ‘Warily, Master Belcher. Those who speak well of Catholics are apt to be taken for them.’

  ‘I do not speak well of them,’ Belcher retorted. ‘But, if they were very heathens, there is no cause to use them as they are used. Why, I can tell you a hundred things. Once—’

  ‘Speak not so loud, I pray you.’ Guy’s expression had not changed. The onlooker could have seen only a bearded man sitting, one leg across the other, his tankard in his hand, smiling at the speaker. ‘You cannot tell who listens in so public a place.’

  ‘You are very cautious, Master Johnson. This is a good inn. Do you misdoubt the company?’

  ‘I choose to be careful of my words when I am not sure who hears me.’

  ‘Well,’ said Belcher indulgently, Til speak lower, if it pleases you.’

  ‘It would be better to change the subject, for so long as we are here.’

  ‘I am not afraid.’

  ‘I am.’

  Their eyes met; then Belcher shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘As you will. Finish your wine, and come to my lodging. No one will hear us there.’

  They obeyed in silence. Will went forward to pay the reckoning, but Belcher pushed him aside. Will protested.

  ‘Nay. We are going to your lodging. I am host here.’

  He carried his point, and they went out into the street. Even here, Johnson seemed ill at ease. He turned sharply once or twice, at street corners, as if to make sure that they were not followed.

  ‘Where learned you this tolerance of the Catholics, Master Belcher? Not at Oxford, surely?’

  They were sitting in Belcher’s lodging, and Guy, having accepted a glass from his host, sat comfortably back and asked the question.

  ‘Why not? Do you think that at Oxford we all follow the same course?’

  ‘No. But I am given to understand that there State and Church go hand in hand. And that any scholar who seems to hold dangerous opinions is soon cast out.’

  ‘Do you suppose that makes him less prone to dangerous opinions, as you call them? Why, man, ’tis the very spice of life! But,’ he added hastily, as the other smiled, ‘do not think that that is the only reason. No, Master Johnson. We of the university strive always to hold liberal opinions and to judge reasonably of all things. Above all do we set liberty of conscience.’

  ‘When you say “we”, you mean the scholars?’

  ‘Not all of ’em, by any means. Some hunt with the pack, as everywhere. But—well, a man may not praise himself—such as have wit and sense.’

  Johnson nodded.

  ‘As I said, we prize above all things liberty of conscience. Let a man hold what faith or opinions he will, say we, so he hold them honestly, and enforce them on no other man. Well—these Catholics may be a sorry crew. But what, in the sum of all, do they, but seek to worship in their own way?’

  ‘Some say they practise against the king and the Government.’

  ‘Small wonder if they do, the way they are used. Nay, man, do not look so timorous.’ For Guy’s face had contracted, and he had looked uneasily at the door. ‘There is none to overhear.’

  ‘Walls have ears, Master Belcher, especially in these troubled times.’

  ‘Why, one would think you had been whipped or branded for speaking well of Catholics! Fie, Master Johnson! And you a soldier!’

  ‘That is just the trouble, Master Belcher.’ Johnson suddenly grinned at them. ‘I am over-used to keeping a watch on my tongue.’

  ‘Spies, eh? Have you experience of them?’

  Will Hooton leaned forward eagerly, and Guy seized on the diversion.

  ‘Aye’; and he began to tell them a long story of spies and warfare in the Low Countries.

  ‘Well,’ Belcher was saying, an hour later, as he showed his guests out, ‘I will go to your Low Countries, Master Johnson, and write my play there. There I shall be safe when it is played: and then, when the hue and cry has died down, I will return to London with another play made up of your adventures. You shall have a share in the proceeds—enough for a mug of beer, maybe: for these theatre-men are plaguy tight in the pocket. Farewell, Master Johnson! Come to see me again.’

  ‘Farewell, Master Belcher. And thank you for my good entertainment.’

  I will not see you again, thought Guy, as, with his accustomed sharp glance left and right, he headed for home. You are too plaguy dangerous, with your talk of tolerance. What would you say, I wonder, if you knew?

  Guy was not now at the conspirators’ house. He had been recalled from abroad by Catesby, and, on his instructions, had taken lodgings with one Mrs. Herbert, at the back of St. Clement’s Church.

  The landlady was of an inquisitive disposition, but Guy had answered all her questions. He was, he told her, a soldier of fortu
ne, returned from the Low Countries for want of profitable employment. As good luck would have it, there lived only two doors away a veteran who had seen service there, and he, after a few questions, was satisfied that Guy spoke the truth, and reported as much to the widow.

  ‘One thing only,’ said the veteran, wrinkling his brow, ‘I do not altogether understand. He is over well apparelled, for one who comes home for lack of employment.’

  ‘Aye. And he is full of money. Only yesterday, when he bade me buy him a capon, he pulled gold from his pocket.’ She looked at the old man. ‘Maybe he has committed sacrilege, and robbed a church.’

  ‘Nay. Why should he? More likely he has done some service, and been well paid, and comes here to spend his money.’

  ‘A murderer, I’ll dare swear.’

  ‘You are hard against him, Mistress Herbert. What harm has he done?’

  ‘I do not like the looks of him, I promise you.’

  ‘Take your good fortune where you find it,’ counselled the old man. ‘Get his gold, or as much of it as you can.’

  But the widow was not satisfied. She had taken a dislike to Guy at sight, with which reason had nothing to do. Still, he paid for his entertainment, and paid well: so she kept a civil face, and charged him as much as she dared.

  Then, the evening of Guy’s visit to the theatre, she heard something which more than confirmed her instinctive suspicions. A couple of neighbours, happily horrified, came rushing in to her, and, doors closed, and curtains drawn, whispered eagerly in her ear.

  Next morning, Guy was met with such sour looks that he at once divined the truth. Mrs. Herbert would not speak her mind outright, but the hints she dropped were full confirmation of his fears.

  With a curse for the reckless Belcher, Guy waited till she was gone to do her morning’s shopping, put together his goods, and, leaving payment on the table, left hurriedly and was swallowed up in London.

  Catesby, supplying Guy with money, had made a pardonable mistake. He forgot that Guy had been so long out of England as to be ignorant of social conditions and the gradings of society. The soldier’s first instinct, with money in his pocket, had been to discard his old worn clothes and get himself new ones. He had then gone to the type of lodging he always favoured, blind to the fact that his clothes and manner did not accord with it.