Chapter 10

An ill-shaped and repulsive piece of work it certainly is; crude and cheerless, but marked with signs of unmistakable power. At the time when I made the extracts for the Appendix, I thought that Cyril Tourneur might possibly be the author. On further reflection, it seemed to me that the stronger passages are much in Marston's manner. The horrid scene where Charlimayne is represented hugging the dead queen recalls the anonymous "Second Maiden's Tragedy." Marston, who shrank from nothing, would not have hesitated to show us the Archbishop, in his search for the magic ring, parting the dead queen's lips, with the ironical observation, "You cannot byte me, Madam." The trenchant satire that abounds throughout the play reminds us frequently of Marston, though there is an absence of that monstrous phraseology which distinguished his "Scourge of Villanie" and early plays. But, looking at the play as a whole, I should have very great hesitation in allowing it to be Marston's. My impression is that Chapman had the chief hand in it. The author's trick of moralising at every possible opportunity, his abundant use of similes more proper to epic than dramatic language, the absence of all womanly grace in the female characters,--these are points in which the present play may be compared with Chapman's published tragedies. Orlando's speech at the beginning of Act ii., "O that my curse had power to wound the starres," &c., in which he compares himself, with epic elaboration, to "an argosie sent rychlye fourthe" and now "meanelye retourninge without mast or helm," to my thinking closely suggests Chapman. It is not quite impossible that the present play may be Chapman's lost "French tragedy" (entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660), a copy of which was among the plays destroyed by Warburton's cook.

It is due to Mr. Fleay that I should mention his solution of the difficulty. Taking the mysterious letters on the last page, "Nella [Greek: ph d ph n r] la B," he says: "La B. is the contraction for La Buffa,[80] one of the characters in the play; and the enigmatic letters, simply substituting the names for the letters themselves, read thus,' Nella fi-deltà fi-ni-ro la buffa,' which is good enough Italian for an anagram, meaning 'I will end trifling in fidelity.' But 'Nella fedelità (or fidelità) finiro la B.' transposed, gives us 'Il Fabro Natanielli (or Natanielle) Field,' i.e., 'Nathaniel Field the author'" (_Athenaeum_, March 3, 1883). Far be it from me to deny the ingenuity of this explanation, but when Mr. Fleay, not having seen the complete play, proceeds to say that the extracts I gave "are quite consistent with the supposition that it is one of Field's lost works," I must take leave to dissent. Field is the author of two comedies, "A Woman is a Weathercock" and "Amends for Ladies," and he assisted Massinger in the "Fatal Dowry." His comedies are well-constructed, bright, and airy. There is no slovenliness in the workmanship, and success is attained by honest, straightforward endeavour. It seems to me quite incredible that the author of those two admirable comedies should be responsible for the gloomy, ponderous tragi-comedy here presented to the reader. What share Field had in the "Fatal Dowry" I do not intend to discuss minutely. The chief figure in that play, Charolois, I take to be a study in Massinger's gravest manner; but if we allow that Field should be credited with more than the comic scenes in the "Fatal Dowry," his claim to the present play is not at all strengthened. Perhaps, after all, no author's name is concealed under the enigmatic letters.[81] In any case, Field's is the last name that could be put forward with any show of likelihood.

THE DISTRACTED EMPEROR.

_A TRAGI-COMEDY_.

_Printed for the first time from Egerton MS_. 1994.

The Distracted Emperor.

_Actus Primus_.

_Enter La Busse and Didier_.

_Bus_. Thou looke for dygnitie! yes, thou mayst looke, But pray thee, fellowe, see thyne eies be good Or thou mayst looke and never fynde the way.

_Did_. Howe can myne eies fayle when so fayre a marke As honor lyes before me?

_Bus_. Thou sayst well; The thought of honor is a perfect greene, And greene is good for th'eie syghte. Syllie man, Arte growne fantastycke in thy latter days? Trust me, I thought thou rather couldst have wisht To feele thyne eies bournt out into their socketts Then thus to live and see the blacke disgrace That will approatche, and soone, if thou darest live. And yet you looke for dygnitie! oh madnes! What, haveinge fyrst beene cheated of thy wealthe, Darest thou againe be cheated of thy witt,-- And thynke so poor a lord as is my father, The most dyspysd forsaken _Ganelon_, Can propp thy mynde,[82] fortune's shame upon thee! Wayte with a trencher, goe learne policye; A servingman at dynner tyme will teach thee To give attendance on the full-fedd gueste, Not on the hungry sharke; and yet you thynke To feede on larke by serving my poore father!

_Did_. Nothing but larke, _La Busse_? Yes, mightie surloyns.

_Bus_. Your lorde and master would be gladd of halfe. Pyttied companion, spare thy feeble eies, Looke not for honor least thou loose thy syghte. Such followers as thou, that would repayre A broken state by service, may be lyckned To shypwrackt marchants that will rather seeke To catche a rotten board or to be cast Uppon some frozen Ile then perish quycklie. But thou perhapps seekst voluntary pennance, Meaninge to perishe in a frozen clyme Because thou hast abused thy former blessings; Thy gameinge humor hath beene like a fyer.

_Did_. Why? because my money burnte in my pursse tyll I left it?

_Bus_. No, but because it taught the furyous way To blasphemye and curses which have kyndled A desperatt fyer in thee to play and loose, So that although thou purchase letteres patente To begge in all the provynces of _Fraunce_, Pretendinge that thy state was lost by fyer, Yet thou wouldst dye a beggar.

_Did_. If I dye Before my letters pattente be expyred, Howe can I chuse (though I repayre my state)? But leaveing thys and you to the pore hope Of other mens and perhaps my cast cloathes, I tell thee, syllie creature, I am nowe Spreadinge my wings and mountinge to a heyghte From whence I will with scorne beholde such thyngs As all th'ambityon thou art master of Can never make thee hope or wish to be. And for my fortunes past, which you so much Esteeme and present [sic] wouldst doe reverence toe, I vallewe theym at thys! and for the like Would not bestowe the labor of amen To any good man's wishes. The laboringe clouds Insteade of vapours have exhald from earthe A blessing for me, and about this tyme (By the full revolution of my starres) Should rayne it down uppon me.

_Bus_. Tushe.

_Did_. Observe, First heare me, know the meanes and when y'ave doone Fall downe and worshypp. Thys same verye day, Nay thys most fortunate mynute, the emperoure, The great, th'unconquered mightie _Charlimayne_, Is marryed to the syster of my lorde To your most fayre-eied aunte, rare _Theodora_.

[_Florish. A crye within "God save Theodora the Empresse_!"

You heare thys?

_Buss_. I wishe myne eares had to the pillorye Payd tribute rather then let in this sounde. Unfortunate _Orlando_! thy fayrest hopes, Like to a blaze of artifyciall fire, No sooner have a beinge but expyre.

_Did_. What! passyonate in rhyme? I must be taught To give attendance on the full-fedd guest![83] ... ... ... ... ...

_Bus_. You may be dambd For useing sorcerye upon the kynge. That naturell heate, which is the cause and nurse Of younge desyers, his pallsye hath shooke of, And all the able facultyes of man Are fled his frost of age to that extreame Theres not enough to cherrish a desyer Left in his saplesse nerves.

_Did_. In this your worshypp Gives my hopes illustratyon. Age must doate To a Judgments dearth that may be cheated on Yet that cheate rest unquestyond. Doe you heare? The kynge is beinge maryed to your aunte Hathe bounde hys fortunes to my lord, and he Will, like a ryver that so long retaynes The oceans bounty that at last it seemes To be it selfe a sea, receyve and keepe The comon treasure; and in such a floode, Whose thycknes would keepe up what naturullye Covetts the center, can you hope Ile synke?

_Bus_. Hell take thy hopes and thee!

_Did_. But I would have You understand that I may rise agayne Without the catchinge of a rotten boarde To keepe bare life and mysserye together To fyght eche other.

_Bus_. Furyes fryght thy soule! Is a good mans ill fate thy nourishment? Noble _Orlando_, what omynous fatell starre Ruld thy nativitie that fire must be Strooke out of Ice to ruyne all thy hopes: This marriage is their grave.

_Did_. Sir, I may rayse A broken state by service.

_Bus_. Yes, of the devyll To whom thou art a factor. Slave, 'tis thou That hast undoone my father and increast His evyll inclinatyons. I have seene Your conference with witches, night-spell knaves, Connivynge mountebanks and the damned frye Of cheating mathematicks. And is this The issue of your closse contryvances[84]? If in thys p[ro]myst throng of future ill There may be found a way to anye good Of brave _Orlando_ the great palladyne, My constant industry shall tyer the day And outwatche night but I will fynde it for hym; And yf to doe hym good--

_Enter La Fue_.

_Fue_. Where's _Didier_?

_Did_. Here, thou contemptyble thynge that never werte So free as to put on thyne owne ill hatt; Thou that hast worne thy selfe and a blewe coate To equall thryddbareness and never hadst Vertue inough to make thee [be] preferrd Before aught but a cloak bagge,--what to me?

_Fue_. The wishe of poxe enough to make thee all One entire scabb. Dost thou abuse thy elders?

_Did_. I cry your reverence mercye, I confes You are more antique.

_Fue_. Antycke in thy face! My lord shall knowe.

_Did_. But pray thee let me fyrst Knowe what my lorde would have me knowe by thee.

_Fue_. I scorne to tell thee or to talke with thee; And yet a woulde speake with thee,--and yet I will not tell thee; Thou shalt shortlye knowe thou hadst bene better-- I say no more; though my deserts be hydd My adge is not, for I neare weare a hatt; And that shalbe ballast to my complaynte To make it goe more steadye to thy ruyne. It shall, dost heare, it shall. [_Exit Fue_.

_Did_. Hence, chollerycke foole, Thy threats to me are like the kyngs desyer, As uneffectuall[85] as the gloawormes fyer.

_Loude musique. Enter Charlimayne, Bishop Turpin, Ganelon, Richard, Theodora, Gabriella, and attendants_.

_Charl_. This musyque is to[o] dull to mix it selfe With the full Joy I tast. O _Ganelon_, Teache me a meanes t'expresse the gratytude I owe thy vertues for thys royall matche, Whereby me thynks my ice is tournd to fyer, My earthe to ayre; those twoe base elements Can challendge nothinge in my composition, As thou and _Theodora_ now have made me: For whiche be thou our lorde greate Cunstable.

_Did_.--Observe.

_Bus_.--Matters to make me mourne eternallye.

_Gan_. Your bountye speaks you, sir, a god on earthe, For you rewarde a service that's so meane It scarce speaks dutye (for you are my emperoure)--

_Charl_. Tys thou hast made me greater then my name ... ... ... ... ... How mysserablye so ere our nature maks Us thynke a happynes, was a greate burthen, But nowe tys all the heaven I wishe to knowe; For Tyme (whose ende like hys originall Is most inscrutable) hathe nowe payde backe The sapp of fortie winters to theise veanes, Which he had borrowed to mayntayne hys course From these late dead now manlye facultyes. Kysse me, _Theodora_. Gods, carouse your fyll, I envye not your nectar; from thys lypp Puerer Nepenthe flowes. Some tryumphes, lords! I challendge all of you at Barryers.

_Bus_. Alas, good man! A gawntletts wayght will presse him into cynders.

_Char_. I am so rapt with pleasure and delighte I scarce thynke I am mortall; all the Joys, Wherewith heavens goodnes can inryche a man, Not onlye greete but dwell upon my sence, And whyles I see thee cannot stray from thence, Most excellent _Theodora_.

_The_. Tys onlye your acceptance maks me so; For Butye's like a stone of unknowne worthe, The estymatyon maks it pretyous; For which the Jemes beholden to the owner.

_Char_. Did you ere heare a voyce more musycall? The Thracian _Orpheus_, whose admyred skyll Is sayd to have had power ore ravenous beasts To make theym lay their naturall feircenes by When he but toucht his harpe; that on the floods Had power above theire regent (the pale Moone) To make them tourne or stay their violent course When he was pleasd to ravishe theym with sounds, Neare had abyllitie with all his arte To matche the naturall musyque of thy voyce. And were I on the axeltree of heaven To note the Zodiaks anuall chaunge and course, The Sunns bryghte progresse and the planetts motyons, To play with Luna or newe lampe the starres, To note Orion or the Pleiades, Or with the sunne guyld the Antipodes,-- Yet all the glorye, in exchaunge for thee, Would be my torment and heavens crueltye.

_Bus_. Was ere man thus orejoyd with mans own curse!

_Enter Reinaldo_.

_Char_. Thou only arte happynes.

_Rei_. Not, greate Lord, for I Bringe newes that doth include--

_Char_. Cossan, your blame, And tys a dylligence of too muche pryde That interrupts myne admyratyon.

_Rei_. My newse when knowne will raze out that beleife And be as wellcome as a gentyll callme To a longe daungerd seaman in a storme, Suche as up on _Aeneas_ straglinge fleete At _Juno's_ will by _Aeolus_ was raysd When in his flyght from horror he sawe more Then _Troy_ affoarded; for the newese I brynge Is vyctorie, which crownes the crownes of kynges.

_Char_. Cossen _Reinaldo_, if youle sytt and prayse The fayre eies of my fayre love, I will heare Tyll you be tyerd with talkinge.

_Rei_. What is this? Is this the voyce of mightie _Charlimayne_? Sir, from your worthye nephewe I am come, The ever feard _Orlando_, who in _Spayne_ Hath with hys owne fame mixt your happynes By a blest vyctorye.

_Char_. We have no leasure To heare, nor are we able to contayne Another happynes, nor is theire other. Successe in warre is but a pleasynge dreame From whence a drume may fryght us. Here doth rest My happynes which cannot be exprest.

[_Ex. Cha., The., Gab., and attendants_.

_Tur_. Pryncely _Reinaldo_, doe not let amaze Strugle within you; you but yet survay The out syde of our wonder.

_Rich_. Brother, 'tis more Then can be wrytten in a cronyckle.

_Rei_. But must not be without my reprehensyon. Come, I will followe hym: when _Charles_ dothe flye From honor, where shall goodnes hope to lye?

[_Exe. all but Gan. and Rich_.

_Gan_. Stay, worthye frende, and let me playnlye knowe How you affect t[hys] humor in the kynge.

_Rich_. Faythe, generally as a good subject should,-- Delighted with the joy hys kynge receyves (And which I hope and wish may styll contynewe), But in partycular--because the cause Of hys joy cannot chuse but worke to you Effecte worthye your vertues. For my old love, Tys nowe lodg'd in a desperatt memorye.

_Gan_. But dost not seeme a most grosse dott[age]?

[Rich] ... ... ... ... ... Though certaynlie desyer's the onlye thynge Of strengthe about hym, and that strength is hys With a conceyt that putts desyers in act.

_Gan_. And is not that a dottage at the least?

_Rich_. I dare not taxe the actyon of a kynge By giveinge it an ill name in my thoughts.

_Gan_. Y'are modest, sir, nor I; but yet if I Felte not a straunger love within my selfe In this my strength of memorye and yeares, Abyllities of bodye and of brayne, More doatinge on a man than he on her, A would not scape my censure.

_Rich_. I beleive (To which beleife a long experyence Of youre knowne worthe most steddylie directs) That if suche an affectyon manadge you, Tys not the man or sexe that causes it But the styll groweinge vertues that inhabytt The object of your love.

_Gan_. Tys orrackle, most happye pryncelye _Richard_, Thou youngest and thou fayrest braunch of _Aimon_; And thy still growing vertues have made thee The object of that love. When first I sawe thee (Though but with a meare cursorye aspecte) My soule did prompt me that so fayre a forme Could not but be the myne of manye vertues. Then mysser-like I sought to ope the myne And fynde the treasure, whereuppon I wanne Your inmost frendshipp, which with joy attaynd In seekinge for a sparke I found a flame, Whose rychnes made me admyratyons slave And staggerd me with wonder.

_Rich_. Good sweete lorde, Forbeare thy courtshypp, our acquayntance is Too oulde, & as I hope frendshypp too fyrme To be nowe semented.

_Gan_. True, my best freinde; And thoughe I wante arythmatycke to counte My treasure in thee, pray thee give me leave To joy in my posession of suche blysse To which all honours in our _Fraunce_ compaird Were as a rushe mongst manye myllions shared.

_Rich_. Sir, thoughe I knowe there is nothynge in me Able to give a flattery hope to thryve In the most abject slave to it that courts, And therefore cannot doute it in your selfe, Yet I beseeche you talke of somethynge elles Or I shall growe unmannerlye & leave you: Myne owne prayse is my torture.

_Gan_. Heaven forbydd Yf I shoulde torture hym I love so muche, Beyond expression! And synce this offends thee Ile speake of that shall please my noblest _Rycharde_.

_Rich_. Your pleasure & your honorable ends Are bounds beyond which I have no delighte.

_Gan_. If from thys marydge there myght sprynge a sonne, Which is myne ende, my honors would knowe none, But like a ryver that receyves his name Or fyrst oryginall from some mountayns foote, Begyns a syngle streame, but at last growes To have no bounds but what it could oreflow-- But tys impossyble.

_Rich_. Improbable; For snowe and fyer can hardlye generate.

_Gan_. But whyle the snowe lyes on a mountayns topp, Consumeinge with the heat which comfortts all Excepte it selfe, the fyer may be blowne Into a second flame.

_Rich_. I graunte you that--

_Gan_. Posytion and request; or elles I perishe.

_Rich_. What meanes my _Ganelon_?

_Gan_. Faythe to be playne And not to wrong the love, which I have founde Ever in thee, with any further doute, My love would have thee call a kynge thy sonne And gett him of my sister. Startst thou backe? Come, I doe knowe thou lovest her with thy soule And has syght for her often. Now enjoy, And doe not stande amazd: if thou refuse, Then my hopes like the flower of flaxe receyve Their byrthe and grave together; for by heaven To be made monarke of the unyverse And lorde of all claspt in the seagods armes, I would not have her toucht unlesse by thee: And if the thoughts of men were scrutable To man and mongst men might be knowne to me, The foole that should attempt her but in thoughte [Could]e better hand-bounde wrastell with the sea. ... ... ... ... ... But yet my love doth offer her to thee, And tys rejected.

_Rich_. You mistake me, sweete: I am all yours and what you shall thynke fytt Ile cease to questyon, yet my contyence calls It a disloyall and a monstrous fact.

_Gan_. Tutt, a prosperous synne is nowe a vertuous acte; Let not that starte you.

_Rich_. I am confyrm'd, but yet the Emp[e]resse--

_Gan_. Why, knowe not I howe deare she valewes you, And but for thys hope would not live an hower. Come, her consent shall flye to meet your wishes And locke you in saftie. In the nexte roome Stay me a littill.--Now my projects goe [_Exit Richard_. Uprighte and steddye. Let me style my selfe (And proudlye too) the mynion of the fates. The emperoure knytts newe honors to my house, Whylst to my bloode I seeke to bynde hys crowne And cheate hys lawfull heyre; and synce the lawe Makes all legitimate in wedlocke borne, By whom so ere begott, the way is even Unto my future blysse and earthlye heaven.-- And see howe luckily this fellow comes! Happynes courtts me.

_Enter Didier_.

_Did_. My most honoured lord.

_Gan_. O _Didier_, the famous nephewe unto _Charles_, The onlye heyre and hope of fruytfull _Fraunce_, Famous _Orlando_, is returninge home.

_Did_. So tys given out.

_Gan_. But might there not be somethynge given the prynce To stay hys journey? Ile be playne with thee, For thy knowne love is worthye all my trust: He is an envyous torrent interposd Twixte me and many honors, _Didier_, And since unpassable must be choakt with earthe. Thou understandst me?

_Did_. Yes, sir, a must dye.

_Gan_. And in his journey homewarde. A smale drame Will purdge hys soule away, & twilbe thoughte Some of the rebells in these frontyre townes, By him reducst to false obedyence, Have, in revendge o'the servytude wherein Hys sworde hathe fyxte them, doone't; so not so much As bare suspytion ever will attache thee.

_Did_. I'm glad y'ave named me in't; I was afrayde I should have beene lefte out in that brave acte, Whereto my proper hate unto _Orlando_ And love to you entyce me equallye.

_Gan_. O by no meanes, whom should I trust but thee; Tys thou & I must make eche other happye. Repayre the with thys golde, & for thy paynes Be equall sharer in my present meanes And future blessyngs.

_Did_. No more, Sir; Ile dooe't. I speake it with a confydence whereby Ide have you say unto your selfe 'tys doone.'

_Gan_. Thanks, my most honest _Didier_. Other affayres of seryous consequence Call me; the Empresse must be solicyted Unto an acte for which I'de loathe her but My ends have gloryous aymes.

_Did_. Aboute them, Syr, and doute not thys. [_Exit Ganelon_. Yet methynks it were not fytt in polycie To venture all in one pore shallowe boate, The sea of state goeinge so rough and hye. Factyons in courte are like to suyts in lawe Where goulde and grace keepe equytie in awe; And but thys maryadge rules the emperoure, Who shall protect me in so many ways Leading to severall and confused ends? I will keepe no dyrecte one but even wander As myne owne proper saftie shall direct me. And though I wishe my lorde may rayse his bloode, Yet that wishe should give way to myne owne good.

_Enter La Busse, Gabriella and Bertha_.

_Bus_. Save Mounseire _Didier_!

_Did_. Mounseir _La Busse_, my lords most loved sonne, Your companye is fayre. [_Exit Didier_.

_Gab_. The fellowe mocks us.

_Bus_. Had a sayd good too, then you might have douted, But fayr's an epethyte you bothe may challenge.

_Ber_. And why not good?

_Bus_. A courtier might have spared it And as he is a courtier beene excusd Thoughe it were false; for he whose tonge and harte Runne one selfe course shall seldome find the way To a preferment. Nowe the courte is growne As strange a beast as the thronged multytude, Dyffers not from the rabble, onlye tys The upper house.

_Ber_. Why will you be a lymbe Of such a beast?

_Bus_. Faythe, onlye for sporte sake.

_Gab_. I rather thynke to make it more deformd.

_Buss_. Be not so bytter, ladye. Howe can I, Though I shoulde onlye studye vanytie, Be seene amongst so manye that out-glosse me In everye severall follye.

_Ber_. Yet littill _Richard, Aimons_ youngest sonne, Is suche a man your envye cannot taxe hym.

_Gab_. Mallyce with all her poysons cannot wounde Hys faire deserved reputatyon.

_Bus_. Sytts the wynde there?

_Gab_. Yes, syr, and blowes me hence In quest of hym I doe so much affecte. [_Ex. Gabriella_.

_Ber_. Stay, Ile goe with you.

_Bus_. Oh, by no meanes, madam; Methynkes your longe attendance at the courte Should make you not so apt to spoyle good sporte.

_Ber_. Sdeath! sporte! pray let me goe.

_Bus_. Not yet, by _Venus_. You fyrst shall knowe my soule hath deeplye vowed My love and servyce to your excellent selfe.

_Ber_. Verye good sir, I knowe y'are sonne unto the Mynion. But yet I knowe your father loves you not, And thats good too.

_Bus_. If truthe at courte be good For any thynge, then, madam, you say true. For tys most true that I--

_Ber_. Pray let me goe.