Chapter 3

_Gravel Lane; Bankside._

_Enter_ HEYWOOD _and_ MIDDLETON.

MIDDLETON.

And yet it may end well, after his fit is over.

HEYWOOD.

But he is earnest in it.

MIDDLETON.

'Tis his habit; a little thunder clears the atmosphere. At present he is spell-bound, and smouldereth in a hot cloud of passion; but when he once makes his way, he will soon disperse his free spirit abroad over the inspired heavens.

HEYWOOD.

I fear me she will sow quick seed of feverish fancies in his mind that may go near to drive him mad.

MIDDLETON.

How so? He knoweth her for what she is, as well as for what she was;--the high-spirited and once virtuous wife of the drunkard Bengough. You remember him?

HEYWOOD.

I have seen him i' the mire. 'Twas his accustomed bed o' nights--and morning, too--many a time. He preferred _that_ to the angel he left at home. Some men do. 'Tis a sorrow to think upon.

MIDDLETON.

And one that tears cannot wash! Master Marlowe hath too deep a reading i' the books of nature to nail his heart upon a gilded weathercock. He is only desperate after the fashion of a pearl diver. When he hath enough he will desist--breathe freely, polish the shells, and build grottoes.

HEYWOOD.

Nay, he persisteth in _not_ knowing her for a courtesan--talks of her purity in burning words, that seem to glow and enhance his love from his convictions of her virtue; then suddenly falls into silent abstraction, looking like a man whose eyes are filled with visions of Paradise. No pains takes she to deceive him; for he supersedes the chance by deceiving himself beyond measure. He either listens not at all to intimation, or insists the contrary.

MIDDLETON.

This is his passionate aggravation or self will: he _must_ know it.

HEYWOOD.

'Tis my belief; but her beauty blinds him with its beams, and drives his exiled reason into darkness.

MIDDLETON.

Here comes one that could enlighten his perception, methinks.

HEYWOOD.

Who's he? Jack-o'-night, the tavern pander and swashbuckler.

_Enter_ JACCONOT.

JACCONOT.

Save ye, my masters; lusty thoughts go with ye, and a jovial full cup wait on your steps: so shall your blood rise, and honest women pledge ye in their dreams!

MIDDLETON.

Your weighty-pursed knowledge of women, balanced against your squinting knowledge of honesty, Master Jack-o'-night, would come down to earth, methinks, as rapid as a fall from a gallows-tree.

JACCONOT.

Well said, Master Middleton--a merry devil and a long-lived one run monkey-wise up your back-bone! May your days be as happy as they're sober, and your nights full of applause! May no brawling mob pelt you, or your friends, when throned, nor hoot down your plays when your soul's pinned like a cockchafer on public opinion! May no learned or unlearned calf write against your knowledge and wit, and no brother paper-stainer pilfer your pages, and then call you a general thief! Am I the only rogue and vagabond in the world?

MIDDLETON.

I' faith, not: nay, an' thou wert, there would be no lack of them i' the next generation. Thou might'st be the father of the race, being now the bodily type of it. The phases of thy villany are so numerous that, were they embodied they would break down the fatal tree which is thine inheritance, and cause a lack of cords for the Thames shipping!

JACCONOT.

Don't choke me with compliments!

HEYWOOD (_to_ MIDDLETON).

He seems right proud of this multiplied idea of his latter end.

JACCONOT.

Ay; hanging's of high antiquity, and, thereto, of broad modern repute. The flag, the sign, the fruit, the felon, and other high and mighty game, all hang; though the sons of ink and sawdust try to stand apart, smelling civet, as one should say,--faugh! Jewelled caps, ermined cloaks, powdered wigs, church bells, _bona-roba_ bed-gowns, gilded bridles, spurs, shields, swords, harness, holy relics, and salted hogs, all hang in glory! Pictures, too, of rare value! Also music's ministrants,--the lute, the horn, the fiddle, the pipe, the gong, the viol, the salt-box, the tambourine and the triangle, make a dead-wall dream of festive harmonies!

MIDDLETON.

Infernal discords, thou would'st say!

JACCONOT (_rapidly_).

These are but few things among many! for 'scutcheons, scarecrows, proclamations, the bird in a cage, the target for fools' wit, _hic jacet_ tablets (that is, lying ones), the King's Head and the Queen's Arms, ropes of onions, dried herbs, smoked fish, holly boughs, hall lanthorns, framed piety texts, and adored frights of family portraits, all hang! Likewise corkscrews, cat-skins, glittering trophies, sausage links, shining icicles, the crucifix, and the skeleton in chains. There, we all swing, my masters! Tut! hanging's a high Act of Parliament privilege!--a Star-Chamber Garter-right!

MIDDLETON (_to_ Heywood _laughingly_).

The devil's seed germinates with reptile rapidity, and blossoms and fructifies in the vinous fallows of this bully's brain!

JACCONOT.

I tell thee what----(_looking off_) another time!

_Exit_ JACCONOT _hastily._

HEYWOOD.

I breathe fresh air!

MIDDLETON.

Look!--said I not so? See whom 'tis he meets; And with a lounging, loose, familiar air, Cocking his cap and setting his hand on's hip, Salutes with such free language as his action And attitude explain!

HEYWOOD.

I grieve for Marlowe: The more, since 'tis as certain he must have Full course of passion, as that its object's full Of most unworthy elements.

MIDDLETON.

Unworthy, Indeed, of such a form, if all be base. But Nature, methinks, doth seldom so belie The inward by the outward; seldom frame A cheat so finish'd to ensnare the senses, And break our faith in all substantial truth. _Exeunt._

_Enter_ CECILIA, _followed by_ JACCONOT.

JACCONOT.

Well, well, Mistress St. Cecil; the money is all well enough--I object nothing to the money.

CECILIA.

Then, go your ways.

JACCONOT.

My ways are your ways--a murrain on your beauties!--has your brain shot forth skylarks as your eyes do sparks?

CECILIA.

Go!--here is my purse.

JACCONOT.

I'll no more of't!--I have a mind to fling back what thou'st already given me for my services.

CECILIA.

Master Jacconot, I would have no further services from thee. If thou art not yet satisfied, fetch the weight and scales, and I will cast my gold into it, and my dross besides--so shall I be doubly relieved.

JACCONOT.

I say again--and the devil bear me fierce witness!--it is not gold I want, but rightful favour; not silver, but sweet civility; not dross, but the due respect to my non-pareil value! Bethink thee, Cecil--bethink thee of many things! Ay! am not I the true gallant of my time? the great Glow-worm and Will-o'-the-wisp--the life, the fortune, and the favourite of the brightest among ye!

CECILIA.

Away!

JACCONOT.

Whither?

CECILIA.

Anywhere, so it be distant.

JACCONOT.

What mean'st by discarding me, and why is it? 'Slud! is this the right sort of return for all my skilful activities, my adroit fascinations of young lords in drink, my tricks at dice, cards, and dagger-play, not to speak too loudly of bets on bear-baits, soap-bubbles, and Shrovetide cocks; or my lies about your beauty and temper? Have I not brought dukes and earls and reverend seniors, on tip-toe, and softly whispering for fear of "the world," right under the balcony of your window?--O, don't beat the dust with your fine foot! These be good services, I think!

CECILIA (_half aside_).

Alas! alas!--the world sees us only as bright, though baleful stars, little knowing our painful punishments in the dark--our anguish in secret.

JACCONOT.

Are you thinking of me?

CECILIA.

Go!

JACCONOT.

Go!--a death's-head crown your pillow! May you dream of love, and wake and see that!

CECILIA.

I had rather see't than you.

JACCONOT.

What's i' the wind,--nobleman, or gentleman, or a brain fancy--am not I at hand? Are you mad?

CECILIA (_overcome_).

I'd gladly believe I have been so.

JACCONOT.

Good. I'm content you see me aright once more, and acknowledge yourself wrong.

CECILIA (_half aside, and tearfully_).

O, wrong indeed--very wrong--to my better nature--my better nature.

JACCONOT.

And to me, too! Bethink thee, I say, when last year, after the dance at Hampton, thou wert enraged against the noble that slighted thee; and, flushed with wine, thou took'st me by the ear, and mad'st me hand thee into thy coach, and get in beside thee, with a drawn sword in my hand and a dripping trencher on my head, singing such songs, until----

CECILIA.

Earthworms and stone walls!

JACCONOT.

Hey! what of them?

CECILIA.

I would that as the corporal Past they cover, They would, at earnest bidding of the will, Entomb in walls of darkness and devour The hated retrospections of the mind.

JACCONOT (_aside_).

Oho!--the lamps and saw-dust!--Here's foul play And mischief in the market. Preaching varlet! I'll find him out--I'll dog him! _Exit_.

CECILIA.

Self disgust Gnaws at the root of being, and doth hang A heavy sickness on the beams of day, Making the atmosphere, which should exalt Our contemplations, press us down to earth, As though our breath had made it thick with plague. Cursed! accursed be the freaks of Nature, That mar us from ourselves, and make our acts The scorn and loathing of our afterthoughts-- The finger mark of Conscience, who, most treacherous, Wakes to accuse, but slumber'd o'er the sin.

_Exit._