Mary Tudor/First Day. The Man of the People
FIRST DAY.THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE.
Chandos.You are right, my lord. It must be that the accurst Italian has bewitched the Queen. She can not do without him; she lives but through him, she has no joy save in him, she listens to none but him. If she but pass a day without seeing him, her eyes take on a languishing look, as in the days when she loved Cardinal Pole, as you recall.
Renard.Most amorous, in truth, and therewithal most jealous.
Chandos.The Italian has bewitched her!
Montagu.Faith, 'tis said that those of his nation have philters for that purpose.
Clinton.The Spaniards are skilful in the poisons that cause death, the Italians in the poisons that cause love.
Chandos.The Fabiani then is Spaniard and Italian at once. The Queen 's in love and sick. He gives her both poisons to drink.
Montagu.But tell me, is he a Spaniard or Italian, in truth?
Chandos.It seems certain that he was born in Italy, and that he was reared in Spain. He pretends that he is akin to a great Spanish family. Lord Clinton knows all that 's to be known thereon.
Clinton.An adventurer. Neither Spanish nor Italian, and English even less, God be praised! These men who are of no country are without pity for any country when they are powerful.
Montagu.Said you not, Chandos, that the Queen is ill? That does not prevent her leading a merry life with her favourite.
Clinton.A merry life! a merry life! While the Queen laughs, the people weep and the favourite is gorged. He eats silver and drinks gold, does that man! The Queen hath given him Lord Talbot's estates, the great Lord Talbot! The Queen hath made him Earl of Clanbrassil and Baron Dinasmonddy,—this Fabiano Fabiani, who says that he is of the Spanish family of Peñalver, and who lies! He is a peer of England, like you, Montagu, like you, Chandos, like Stanley, like Norfolk, like myself, like the King! He has the Garter, like the Infant of Portugal, like the King of Denmark, like Thomas Percy, seventh Earl of Northumberland! And what a tyrant is this tyrant who governs us from his bed! Never has England been so grievously oppressed. And I have seen some evil times, for I am an old man! There are seventy new gibbets on Tyburn Hill; the pyres are always red-hot embers, never ashes; the headsman's axe is sharpened every morning and notched every night. Every day some great nobleman is struck down. Day before yesterday 'twas Blantyre, yesterday Northcurry, to-day South-Reppo, to-morrow Tyrconnel. Next week 'twill be you, Chandos, and next month 'twill be I. My lords, my lords, 'tis a crying, impious shame, that all these honourable English heads should fall thus for the pleasure of a wretched nameless adventurer, who is not even of this country! 'Tis a shocking and intolerable thought that a Neapolitan favourite can draw as many blocks as he will from beneath the bed of this Queen! They lead a merry life together, say you? By Heaven! 'tis infamous! Ah! they lead a merry life, these lovers, while the head-cutter at their door makes widows and orphans! Too often is their Italian guitar accompanied by the clank of fetters! My lady Queen! you import singers from the chapel of Avignon, you have every day, in your palace, theatres and galleries full of musicians. By God! my lady, less merry-making in your abode, may it please you, and less mourning in ours; fewer merry-andrews here and fewer headsmen yonder; fewer showmen's booths at Westminster, and fewer scaffolds at Tyburn!
Montagu.Beware. We are loyal subjects, my Lord Clinton. Put nought upon the Queen, all upon Fabiani.
Renard [laying his hand on Clinton's shoulder.]Patience.
Clinton.Patience! 'Tis easy for you to say, Master Simon Renard. You are bailli of Amont in Franche-Comté, a subject of the Emperor, and his legate in London. You represent here the Prince of Spain, the Queen's future consort. Your person is sacred to the favourite. But with us, 'tis another matter.—D'ye see: for you Fabiani is the shepherd, for us he's the butcher.
[It has become quite dark.
Renard.That fellow is in my way no less than in yours. You fear only for your life. I fear for my credit, which is of far greater importance. I do not talk, I act. I have less wrath than you, my lord, but more hate. I will annihilate the favourite.
Montagu.Oh! how may it be done? I think thereon the whole day long.
Renard.Not by day are queens' favourites made and unmade, but by night.
Chandos.This is a very dark and awesome night.
Renard.I find it fair for what I purpose to do.
Chandos.What do you purpose to do?
Renard.You will see.—My Lord Chandos, when a woman reigns, 'tis the reign of caprice. Then, politics is not a matter of deliberation, but of chance. One can depend upon nothing. To-day does not lead logically to to-morrow. Public affairs no longer play at chess but at cards.
Clinton.That is all very well, but let us come to the fact. When will you have delivered us from the favourite, my friend? Time presses. Tyrconnel 's to be beheaded to-morrow.
Renard.If to-night I fall in with the sort of man I seek, Tyrconnel will sup with you to-morrow night.
Clinton.What mean you? What will have become of Fabiani?
Renard.Have you good eyes, my lord?
Clinton.Yes, although I'm old and the night is dark.
Renard.Do you see London across the river?
Clinton.Yes. Why?
Renard.Look closely. From here you see the zenith and the nadir of every favourite's fortunes—Westminster and the Tower of London.
Clinton.Well?
Renard.If God is on my side, there is a man who at this moment is still there,Clinton.May God be on your side!
Montagu.The people detest him no less than we do. What rejoicing there will be in London on the day of his fall!
Chandos.We have put ourselves in your hands, my good sir. Command us. What must we do?
Renard [pointing to the house near the water.]You all see yonder house. 'Tis Gilbert's the journeyman carver. Do not lose sight of it. Disperse, with your people, but go not too far away. Above all, do nothing without me.
Chandos.Agreed.
[Exeunt in various directions.
Renard [alone.]Such a man as I need is not easily found.
Joshua.I leave you here, my dear friends. It is late, and I must resume my services as warden in the Tower. Ah! I am not free like you! A turnkey, you see, is only a sort of prisoner. Fare you well, Jane. Fare you well, Gilbert. Good lack! my friends, how happy I am to see you happy! By the way, Gilbert, when is the wedding to be?
Gilbert.A week hence; eh, Jane?
Joshua.By my faith! the day after to-morrow will be Christmas. This is the season of gifts and good wishes. But I have nothing to wish for you. It is impossible to imagine more love in a lover or more beauty in a sweetheart. You are happy!
Gilbert.Dear Joshua! And you—are you not happy?
Joshua.Neither happy nor unhappy. I have renounced everything. Look, Gilbert [opening his cloak and disclosing a bunch of keys hanging at his belt], these prison-keys, jingling always at your belt, they talk, they inspire all sorts of philosophic thoughts. When I was young, I was like other men, in love a whole day, ambitious a whole month, mad a whole year. It was under King Henry the Eighth that I was young. A strange man was that same Henry the Eighth! a man who changed wives as a woman changes dresses. He cast off the first, he had the second's head cut off, he had the third disembowelled; as for the fourth, he pardoned her and simply turned her out-of-doors, but, in revenge, the fifth lost her head. This is not the tale of Blue Beard that I am telling you, lovely Jane, but the history of Henry the Eighth. In those days, I was busied with the religious wars: I fought on both sides. That was the best course then. In any case the question was a very knotty one. It was a matter of being for or against the Pope. The King's men hung those who were for the Pope, but they burned those who were against him. The indifferent—those who were neither for nor against—they burned or hung, indifferently. Let him save himself who could. Yes, the rope. No, the stake. Neither yes nor no, the rope or the stake. I who speak to you have smelt the smoke more than once, and I am not sure that I was not strung up two or three times. Those were fine times, almost like these. Yes, I fought for it all. Deuce take me if I know now for whom or for what I fought. If anyone mentions Master Luther or Pope Paul the Third to me, I shrug my shoulders. You see, Gilbert, when your hair is grey, you mustn't go back to the ideas you fought for and the women you made love to when you were twenty. Women and ideas alike appear very ugly and old and toothless and wrinkled and paltry and foolish. That is my story. Now I have retired from public affairs. I am neither King's soldier nor Pope's soldier; I am a gaoler in the Tower. I fight for nobody, and I put everybody behind the bars. I am a gaoler and I am an old man. I have one foot in the prison and the other in the grave. It is I who pick up the pieces of all the ministers and favourites who get broken in the Queen's palace. It is most diverting. And then I have a little child whom I love, and you two whom I love also, and if you are happy I am happy!
Gilbert.In that case, be happy, Joshua; eh, Jane?
Joshua.I can do nothing for your happiness, but Jane can do everything. You love her! I shall never do you any service while I live. Luckily you are not high enough in rank ever to need the turnkey of the Tower of London. Jane will pay my debt at the same time with her own. For she and I owe everything to you. Jane was only a poor abandoned orphan; you took her in and reared her. I was drowning in the Thames one fine day; you took me out of the water.
Gilbert.Why need you be always talking of that, Joshua?
Joshua.To tell you that 'tis our duty, Jane's and mine, to love you, I, as a brother, she—not as a sister.
Jane.No, as a wife. I understand you, Joshua.
[She falls a-musing again.
Gilbert [to Joshua, in an undertone.]Look at her, Joshua! Isn't she beautiful and charming and worthy of a king? If you but knew! You cannot conceive how dearly I love her!
Joshua.Beware. 'Tis imprudent. A woman isn't to be loved like that. As for a child—well enough!
Gilbert.What do you mean?
Joshua.Nothing.—I will be at your wedding a week hence. I trust that affairs of state will allow me a little liberty then, and that 'twill all be over.
Gilbert.That what will be over?
Joshua.Oh! you don't concern yourself with such matters, Gilbert. You are in love. You are of the people. And what have you to do with intrigues in high life, you who are happy in a humble station? But since you ask the question, I will tell you that it is hoped that within a week, within twenty-four hours, it may be, Fabiano Fabiani will be replaced in the Queen's service by another.
Gilbert.Who is Fabiano Fabiani?
Joshua.He is the Queen's lover; he is a very famous and very seductive favourite; a favourite who gets you a man's head cut off more quickly than a procuress says Ave,—the best favourite the headsman of the Tower has had for ten years. For, you know, the headsman receives for every great noble's head ten silver crowns, and sometimes twice that, when the head is unusually eminent.—The downfall of this Fabiani is fervently desired.—To be sure, in my service at the Tower, I hear nobody talk about him except those who are in a decidedly evil mood—men whose heads are to be cut off within the month—malcontents.
Gilbert.Let the wolves devour one another! What do we care for the Queen and the Queen's favourite—eh, Jane?
Joshua.Oh! there 's a fine plot on foot against Fabiani. If he escapes it, he 'll be fortunate, indeed. I should not be surprised if something were done to-night. I saw Master Simon Renard prowling about here just now, in deep thought.
Gilbert.Who is Master Simon Renard?
Joshua.How does it happen that you do not know him? He's the Emperor's right arm in London. The Queen is to marry the Prince of Spain, whose ambassador to her this Simon Renard is. The Queen hates him, but she fears him, and can do nothing against him. He has already crushed two or three favourites. He sweeps the palace clean from time to time. A subtle and most malignant man, who knows all that is going forward, and who is forever digging two or three floors of subterranean intrigues under every occurrence. As for Lord Paget,—did you not ask also who Lord Paget is?—he is a crafty gentleman who was prominent in affairs under Henry the Eighth. He is a member of the select council. His influence is so predominant that the other ministers dare not breathe in his presence, save the Chancellor, Lord Gardiner, who detests him. A man of violent temper, this Gardiner, and very well-born. As for Paget, he 's a mere nobody—a cobbler's son. He 's to be created Baron Paget of Beaudesert in Staffordshire.
Gilbert.How trippingly he doth tell all these things, doth this Joshua!
Joshua.Good lack! by dint of hearing the prisoners of state converse.
Look you, Gilbert, the man who best knows the history of these days is the gaoler of the Tower of London.
Renard [who has overheard the last words.]You are wrong, my good man, 'tis the headsman.
Joshua [to Jane and Gilbert, in an undertone.]Let us stand apart.
'Tis Master Simon Renard himself.
Gilbert.All these people prowling about my house anger me.
Joshua.What the deuce is he doing here? I must return at once. I think that he 's preparing work for me. Fare you well, Gilbert. Fare you well, Jane.—I saw you both when you were no taller than that.
Gilbert.Fare you well, Joshua.—But, tell me, what is that you are hiding under your cloak?
Joshua.Oh! I have my own little plot.
Gilbert.What is it?
Joshua.Oh! you lovers who forget everything! I have just told you that day after to-morrow is the day of gifts. The nobles are plotting a surprise for Fabiani; and I am plotting in my turn. The Queen, perchance, is going to give herself a new favourite. I am going to give my child a doll.
[He takes a doll from under his cloak.
'Tis all new, also.—We shall see which of the two will break her doll first. God keep you, my friends!
Gilbert.Good-night, Joshua.
[Joshua walks away. Gilbert seizes Jane's hand and kisses it passionately.
Joshua [at the back of the stage.]Ah! how great is Providence! It gives to each his plaything: the doll to the child, the child to the man, the man to the woman, the woman to the devil!
Gilbert.I, too, must leave you. Good-night, my Jane. Sleep well.
Jane.You will not come in with me to-night, Gilbert?
Gilbert.I cannot. As I told you, Jane, I have some work to finish in my shop to-night. A dagger-hilt to carve for one Lord Clanbrassil, whom I have never seen, and who ordered it for to-morrow morning.
Jane.Good-night, then, Gilbert. Until to-morrow.
Gilbert.No, Jane—stay a moment. Great God! how hard it is for me to part from you, even for a few hours! How truly you are my joy and my life! But I must go and work; We are so poor! I must not go in with you, for I should stay; and yet I cannot leave you, weak creature that I am! Let us sit a few moments at the door, on this bench. It seems to me that it will not be so hard to go away as if I went into the house and, above all, to your room. Give me your hand.
[He sits down and takes both her hands in his, while she stands beside him.
Dost love me, Jane?
Jane.Oh! I owe everything to you, Gilbert. I know it, although you concealed it from me a long time. When I was a little child, almost in the cradle, I was abandoned by my parents, and you took me. For sixteen years your arm has worked for me like a father's, your eyes have watched over me like a mother's. What should I be but for you? All that I have, you have given me; all that I am, you have made me.
Gilbert.Jane, dost love me?
Jane.Such devotion as yours, Gilbert! You work for me night and day. You wear out your eyes, you are killing yourself. And now again you are going to work all night. And never a reproach, never a harsh word, never a sign of anger. Poor as you are, you have pity even on my petty woman's whims, and gratify them. Gilbert, I never think of you without tears in my eyes. You have sometimes lacked bread, but I have never lacked ribbons.
Gilbert.Jane, dost love me?
Jane.Gilbert, I would like to kiss your feet.
Gilbert.Dost love me? dost love me? Oh! all this does not tell me that you love me. That is the word I crave, Jane! Gratitude, always gratitude! Oh! I trample your gratitude under my feet! I will have love or nothing!—To die!—Jane, for sixteen years you have been my daughter, now you will be my wife. I adopted you, now I would marry you! A week hence, you know you promised me. You consented. You are my betrothed. Oh! you loved me when you gave me that promise. O Jane! there was a time—do you remember?—when you said, "I love thee!" raising your lovely eyes to Heaven. I would have you like that still. For several months past it has seemed to me that there has been some change in you—especially during these last three weeks when my work has compelled me to be absent sometimes at night. O Jane! I want you to love me. I am used to it. You, who were always so joyous, seem sad and preoccupied now—not cold, poor child; you do your utmost not to be that; but I feel that words of love do not come naturally to your lips as they used. What is it? Is it that you no longer love me? No doubt I am an honest man, no doubt I am a good workman—no doubt, no doubt! But I would rather be a thief and a murderer, and be loved by you!—Jane! if you knew how I love you!
Jane.I do know, Gilbert, and I weep because of it.
Gilbert.For joy, is it not? Tell me that 'tis for joy. Oh! I must believe it. There is nothing else in the world but that—to be loved. I am only a poor artisan, but my Jane must love me. Why do you talk to me forever of what I have done for you? A single word of love, from you, Jane, puts all the gratitude on my side. I will damn myself, I will commit a crime, when you choose. You will be my wife, won't you, and you do love me? Why, Jane, for a glance from you I would give all my toil, for a smile my life, for a kiss my very soul!
Jane.What a noble heart you have, Gilbert!
Gilbert.Listen, Jane! laugh at me if you will—I am mad, I am jealous! That 's the truth. Don't be offended. For some time past it has seemed to me that I have seen young gentlemen prowling about here. Do you know, Jane, that I am thirty-four years old? What a misfortune for a wretched, awkward, ill-clad workingman like myself, who is no longer young, who is not comely, to love a beautiful, fascinating child of seventeen, who attracts fine young noblemen, begilt and bedizened, as a light attracts moths! Oh! I am suffering sorely! I never insult you in my thoughts, you so sincere, so pure, whose brow no lips save mine have ever touched! It simply seems to me that sometimes you take too much pleasure in watching the Queen's retinue and riding parties pass, and in seeing all those fine coats of satin and velvet beneath which there are so few hearts and so few souls! Forgive me!—Great Heaven! why is it that so many young gentlemen come to this place? Why am I not young, handsome, nobly born and rich? Gilbert the carver—that is all. And they are Lord Chandos, and Lord Gerard Fitz-Gerard, and the Earl of Arundel, and the Duke of Norfolk! Oh! how I hate them! I pass my life carving for them hilts for swords whose blades I would like to run through their bodies.
Jane.Gilbert!
Gilbert.Forgive me, Jane. Love makes a man very wicked, does it not?
Jane.No, very good. You are good, Gilbert.
Gilbert.Oh! how I love you! More and more every day. I would like to die for you. Love me, or love me not—you are free. I am mad. Forgive all that I have said. It is late. I must leave you. Good-night. My God! how hard it is to leave you!—Go inside. Haven't you the key?
Jane.No. I don't know what has become of it these last few days.
Gilbert.Here is mine.—Until to-morrow morning.—Do not forget this, Jane: to-day, still your father; a week hence, your husband.
[He hisses her forehead, and exit.
Jane [alone.]My husband! Ah! no, I'll not commit that crime. Poor Gilbert! he loves me—and the other!—If only I have not preferred vanity to love! Unfortunate girl that I am! in whose dependence am I now? Oh! I am sadly ungrateful and most guilty! I hear footsteps. I must go in quickly.
[She enters the house.
Gilbert.Yes, I recognize you; you are the begging Jew who has been hovering about this house several days. But what do you want with me? Why did you take my hand and lead me hence?
The Man.Because that which I have to say to you, I can say nowhere else.
Gilbert.Well, what is it, pray? Speak—and quickly.
The Man.Hark ye, young man.—Sixteen years ago, on the same night when Talbot Earl of Waterford was beheaded by torchlight for the crimes of popery and rebellion, his partisans were hewn in pieces here in London by the troopers of King Henry the Eighth. There was shooting all night in the streets. That night a very young mechanic, much more intent upon his task than upon the war, was at work in his stall—the first as you go upon London Bridge. A low door at the right; traces of old red paint on the walls. It may have been two o'clock in the morning. There was fighting in the neighbourhood. The bullets flew whistling across the Thames. Suddenly there was a knock at the door of the stall, through which the mechanic's lamp cast a ray of light. He opened the door. A man whom he did not know stepped in. That man bore in his arms an infant in swaddling-clothes, terribly frightened and crying. The man placed the child on the table and said: "Here is a creature who has neither father nor mother." Then he went slowly forth and closed the door behind him. Gilbert, the mechanic, himself had neither father nor mother. He accepted the child, the orphan adopted the orphan. He took her in, watched over her, clothed her, fed her, brought her up, and loved her. He gave the whole of himself to that poor little creature whom the civil war cast into his stall. He forgot everything for her: his youth, his love-affairs, his recreations; he made of that child the sole object of his toil, of his affection, of his life; and so it has been for sixteen years. Gilbert, you are that mechanic; the child—
Gilbert.Was Jane. All that you say is true; but what is your object?
The Man.I forgot to say that there was a paper pinned to the child's clothes, on which these words were written: "Have pity on Jane."
Gilbert.They were written in blood. I have preserved that paper. I always have it upon me. But you are torturing me. Tell me, what is your object?
The Man.This. You see that I am acquainted with your affairs. Gilbert, watch your house tonight.
Gilbert.What do you mean?
The Man.Another word. Do not go to your work. Remain in the neighbourhood of this house. Watch. I am neither your friend nor your enemy,but I give you this counsel. Now, in order not to injure yourself, leave me. Go in this direction, and come if you hear me call for help.
Gilbert.What does this mean?
[Exit slowly.
The Man.The affair is well arrranged so. I needed some one young and strong who can bear me aid, if it is needful. This Gilbert is what I required.—Methinks I hear the plash of oars and the notes of a guitar, on the river.—Yes.
[He goes to the parapet.
[A voice is heard singing in the distance, accompanied by the guitar.
The Voice [singing.
When thou dost sing, beloved,
At eve, in my embrace,
Dost hear my thought replying,
Appealing to thy grace?
Thy low sweet voice recalleth
Life's brightest, happiest day—
Sing, my beloved
For ever and for aye!
The Man.It is my man.
The Voice [drawing nearer with each couplet.
When thou dost laugh, beloved,
Love shines in thy dear eyes
And harassing suspicion
Unfolds its wings and flies.
Ah! loyal laughter proveth
Heart open as the day—
Laugh, my beloved,
For ever and for aye!
When thou dost sleep, beloved,
So calm and pure thou art,
Thy breath soft words doth murmur,
Like music to my heart.
Unveiled and unapparelled,
Thou'rt fairer than the day—
Sleep, my beloved
For ever and for aye!
When thou dost say: "I love thee!"
Oh! then, my love, meseems
That Heaven itself, above us,
Lies open to my dreams!
Thy glance doth gleam resplendent
With love's divinest ray—
Love, my beloved,
For ever and for aye!
Thus all my life, beloved,
Do those four words contain;
All blessings that men envy,
All blessings without pain.
All that the heart seduces
And chases care away—
To sing and laugh, beloved,
To sleep, to love alway!
The Man.He steps ashore. He dismisses the boatman. It could not happen better.
[Returning to the front of the stage.
He 's coming.
[Enter Fabiano Fabiani wrapped in his cloak. He walks toward the door of the house.
The Man [detaining Fabiani.] One word, by your leave.
Fabiani.Methinks some one doth speak to me. Who is this knave? Who are you?
The Man.Whatever you please to have me.
Fabiani.This lantern gives but a feeble light. But you wear a yellow cap, meseems, a Jew's cap. Are you a Jew?
The Man.Yes, a Jew. I have somewhat to say to you.
Fabiani.What is your name?
The Man.I know your name, and you do not know mine. I have the advantage over you. Suffer me to keep it.
Fabiani.You know my name. That is not true.
The Man.I know your name. At Naples you were called Signor Fabiani; at Madrid, Don Fabiano; at London, you are called Fabiano Fabiani, Earl of Clanbrassil.
Fabiani.The devil fly away with you!
The Man.God have you in his keeping!
Fabiani.I will have you bastinadoed. I do not choose that people shall know my name when I go about at night.
The Man.Especially when you go where you go.
Fabiani.What mean you?
The Man.If the Queen knew!
Fabiani.I am going nowhere.
The Man.Yes, my lord, you are going to the abode of the fair Jane, the betrothed of Gilbert the carver.
Fabiani.The devil! this is a dangerous fellow!
The Man.Would you have me tell you more? You have seduced that girl, and within the month she has admitted you to her room twice at night. This is the third time. The fair one awaits you.
Fabiani.Peace! peace! Do you want money to hold your peace? How much?
The Man.We will talk of that in a moment. Now, my lord, do you wish me to tell you why you seduced this girl?
Fabiani.Egad! because I was in love with her.
The Man.No. You were not in love with her.
Fabiani.I was not in love with Jane?
The Man.No more than with the Queen—Love, no; self-interest, yes.
Fabiani.By Heaven, villain, you are not a man, you are my conscience dressed as a Jew!
The Man.I propose to speak to you as your conscience, my lord. This is your case. You are the Queen's favourite. The Queen has given you the Garter and an earldom. Empty honours these! the Garter's a rag; the earldom's a mere word—the privilege of having your head cut off. You must have something more, my lord; you must have fine estates, noble castles, and handsome revenues in good pounds sterling. Now King Henry the Eighth confiscated the estates of Lord Talbot, who was beheaded sixteen years ago. You have prevailed upon Queen Mary to give Lord Talbot's estates to you. But in order that the gift may be valid, Lord Talbot must have died without heirs of his body. If there exists an heir or an heiress of Lord Talbot—as Lord Talbot died for Queen Mary and her mother, Katharine of Arragon, as Lord Talbot was a Papist and the Queen is a Papist, there is no doubt that Queen Mary would take the estates from you, my lord, favourite though you be, and would restore them, as a matter of duty, of gratitude, and of religion, to such heir or heiress. You were without apprehension in that direction. Lord Talbot had had no other child than a little girl who disappeared from her cradle at the time of her fathers execution, and whom all England believed to be dead. But your spies have lately discovered that, during the night when Lord Talbot and his party were exterminated by King Henry, a child was left mysteriously with a carver on London Bridge, and that it is probable that that child, brought up under the name of Jane, was Jane Talbot, the little girl who vanished. The written evidence of her birth was lacking, it is true; but it might be found any day. It was an annoying incident. To find one's self, perchance, compelled to restore to a Shrewsbury child the beautiful city of Wexford and the magnificent county of Waterford! a cruel fate! What was to be done? You sought a means of ruining and annihilating the girl. A decent man would have had her assassinated or poisoned. You, my lord, found a better way—you dishonoured her.
Fabiani.Insolent knave!
The Man.It is your conscience that speaks, my lord. Another would have taken the girl's life; you took her honour, and therewithal her future. Queen Mary is a prude, although she has lovers.
Fabiani.This fellow goes to the root of everything!
The Man.The Queen 's in feeble health, the Queen may die, and in that case you, the favourite, would fall in ruins on her tomb. The material evidence of the young woman's rank may come to light, and then, if the Queen be dead, Jane, dishonoured by you, will be recognized as Talbot's heiress. And you have provided for that contingency; you are a young gentleman of goodly aspect, you have won her love, she has given herself to you; if worse comes to worst, you would marry her. Do not defend your plan, my lord; I consider it sublime. Were I not myself, I would be you.
Fabiani.Thanks.
The Man.You have managed the affair skillfully. You have concealed your name. You are protected so far as the Queen is concerned. The poor girl thinks that she was seduced by a young knight of Somersetshire, Sir Amyas Paulet.
Fabiani.All! he knows all!—Now, let us come to the point. What do you want with me?
The Man.My lord, if some one had in his possession the documents that establish the birth, the existence, and the claim of Lord Talbot's heir, that would make you as poor as my ancestor Job, and would leave you no other castles, Don Fabiano, than your castles in Spain, which would vex you sadly.
Fabiani.True; but no one has those papers.
The Man.Yes.
Fabiani.Who?
The Man.I.
Fabiani.Bah! a miserable creature like you!That is not true. When a Jew speaks, a mouth lies.
The Man.I have those documents.
Fabiani.'Tis a lie! Where are they?
The Man.In my pocket.
Fabiani.I do not believe you. Are they in due form? Is nothing lacking?
The Man.Nothing.
Fabiani.Then I must have them.
The Man.Softly.
Fabiani.Give me those papers, Jew.
The Man.Excellent.—Thou dog Jew, vile beggar of the streets, give me the city of Shrewsbury, give me the city of Wexford, give me the county of Waterford. Give me alms, so please you.
Fabiani.Those papers are everything to me and nothing to you.
The Man.Simon Renard and Lord Chandos would pay me handsomely for them.
Fabiani.Simon Renard and Lord Chandos are the two dogs betwixt whom I'll have you hanged.
The Man.Have you no other proposition to make to me? Fare you well.
Fabiani.Stay, Jew.—What would you that I give you for those papers?
The Man.Something that you have upon you.
Fabiani.My purse?
The Man.Shame! do you want mine?
Fabiani.What, then?
The Man.There is a parchment that never leaves you. 'Tis a blank signature given you by the Queen wherein she swears upon her Catholic crown to grant to whoever shall present it to her whatever favour he may ask at her hands. Give me that, and you shall have Jane Talbot's muniments of title. Paper for paper.
Fabiani.What use would you make of that promise?
The Man.This. Cards on the table, my lord. I have told you your affairs, now I propose to tell you mine. I am one of the principal Jewish silversmiths on Rue Kantersten, Brussels. I lend my money. That is my trade. I lend ten pounds and receive fifteen. I lend to all the world; I would lend to the devil, or to the Pope. Two months since, one of my debtors died without paying me. He was a former retainer of the Talbots, living in exile. The poor man left only a few rags. I had them seized. Among them I found a box, and in that box papers—the papers of Jane Talbot, my lord, with her whole history told in detail and supported by evidence—for use in better days. The Queen of England had just bestowed Jane Talbot's estates on you. Now it happened that I needed the sanction of the Queen of England for a loan of ten thousand marks. I saw that there was a possible bargain to be struck with you. I came to England in this disguise. I myself kept watch upon your goings and comings, I myself watched Jane Talbot—I do everything myself. In this way I learned all, and here I am. You shall have Jane Talbot's papers if you give me the Queen's signature. I will write therein that the Queen is to give me ten thousand marks. They owe me something here at the Excise office, but I 'll not haggle. Ten thousand marks—nothing more. I do not ask you for the sum, because none but a crowned head can pay it. That is plain-speaking, it seems to me. You see, my lord, two men so clever as you and I have nothing to gain by deceiving each other. If outspokenness were banished from the earth, it would be found again, if at all, in the private converse of two sharpers.
Fabiani.Impossible. I cannot part with that signature. Ten thousand marks! What would the Queen say? And then, to-morrow I may be disgraced; and that signature in blank is my safeguard—it is my life.
The Man.What care I for that?
Fabiani.Ask me for something else.
The Man.I must have it.
Fabiani.Jew, give me Jane Talbot's papers.
The Man.My lord, give me the Queen's signature.
Fabiani.Go to, accursed Jew! I must needs submit.
[He takes a paper from his pocket.
The Man.Show me the Queen's signature.
Fabiani.Show me the Talbot papers.
The Man.Afterward.
[They go to the lantern. Fabiani, standing behind the Man, holds the paper before his eyes with the left hand. The Man examines it.
The Man [reading.]"We, Mary, Queen—" 'Tis well. I am like you, my lord, as you see. I have anticipated everything and provided for everything.
Fabiani [drawing his dagger with the right hand and plunging it into his throat.]Save this.
The Man.Ah! traitor!—Help!
[He falls. As he falls, he throws into the darkness behind him, unseen by Fabiani, a sealed package.
Fabiani [stooping over the body.]'Faith, I do believe he's dead!—The papers—quick!
[He searches the Jew.
How now! nothing! nothing upon him! not a paper! The old miscreant! He lied! He deceived me! He would have robbed me! Damned Jew! No, he has nothing—nothing! I have killed him for nothing. They are all alike, these Jews. Falsehood and theft—that is the Jew! I must dispose of the body—I cannot leave it lying before this door.—
[Going to the back of the stage.
Let me see if the boatman is still here, so that he may assist me to throw it into the river.
[He goes down and disappears behind the parapet.
[Enter Gilbert on the opposite side.
Gilbert.I thought I heard an outcry.
[He spies the body lying on the ground under the lantern.
Some one murdered! The beggar!
The Man [half-rising.]Ah! you come too late, Gilbert.
[He points to the place where he threw the package.
Take that. There are papers that prove that your betrothed is the daughter and heiress of the last Lord Talbot. My murderer is Lord Clanbrassil, the Queen's favourite.—Oh! I am choking.—Gilbert, avenge me and avenge yourself.
[He dies.
Gilbert.He is dead!—Avenge myself? What does he mean? Jane, Lord Talbot's daughter!—Lord Clanbrassil, the Queen's favourite!—Ah! my brain is reeling!
[Shaking the body.
Speak—another word!—He is quite dead,
[Enter Fabiani.
Fabiani.Who 's there?
Gilbert.Some one has murdered a man.
Fabiani.No, a Jew.
Gilbert.Who killed this man?
Fabiani.Egad! 'twas you or I.
Gilbert.Sir—
Fabiani.A dead body on the ground. Two men beside it. No witnesses. Which is the assassin? There is nothing to prove that it is one rather than the other, I rather than you.
Gilbert.Wretch! you are the assassin!
Fabiani.Well, yes, I am the man.—And then?
Gilbert.I am going to call the watch.
Fabiani.You are going to help me throw the body into the river.
Gilbert.I will have you taken and punished.
Fabiani.You will help me throw the body into the water.
Gilbert.You are insolent!
Fabiani.Take my advice, let us do away with all traces of this business. You are more interested in so doing than I.
Gilbert.That is too much!
Fabiani.One of us two dealt the blow. I am a great nobleman. You are a mere passer-by, a nobody, a man of the people. A nobleman who kills a Jew pays a fine of four farthings; a man of the people who kills another is hanged.
Gilbert.You would dare—
Fabiani.If you denounce me, I denounce you. I shall be believed rather than you. In any case the chances are unequal. A fine of four farthings for me, the gallows for you.
Gilbert.No witnesses! no proof! Oh! my wits are going astray! The villain is right, he has me in his clutches.
Fabiani.Shall I help you to throw the body into the river?
Gilbert.You are the demon in person!
[Gilbert takes the body by the head, Fabiani by the feet, and they carry it to the parapet.
Fabiani.Even so.—On my word, my dear fellow, I am no longer quite sure which of us did kill this man.
[They disappear behind the parapet.—Fabiani reappears.
'Tis done. Good-night, my friend. Go about your business.
[He walks toward the house; then turns, seeing that Gilbert is following him.
Well, what do you want? Some money for your trouble? In good conscience I owe you nothing; but take this.
[He offers his purse to Gilbert, whose first impulse is to wave it away; but he finally accepts it, as if he had changed his mind.
Now, be off.—Well, what more do you expect?
Gilbert.Nothing.
Fabiani.Faith, you may remain if you choose. For you the fair sky, for me the fair maid. God be with you!
[He walks toward the door of the house, and is evidently on the point of opening it.
Gilbert.Where are you going?
Fabiani.Egad! into my house.
Gilbert.What! into your house?
Fabiani.Yes.
Gilbert.Which of us two is dreaming? You told me a moment since that I killed the Jew, and now you tell me that this house is yours?
Fabiani.Or my mistress's, which comes to the same thing.
Gilbert.Repeat what you just said.
Fabiani.I say, my friend, since you insist upon knowing, that this is the house of a fair damsel named Jane, who is my mistress.
Gilbert.And I say, my lord, that you lie! I say that you are a liar and a murderer! I say that you are an impudent villain! I say that you have just uttered certain fatal words, whereof we shall both die—you for having uttered them, I for having heard them!
Fabiani.La! la! Who is this devil of a fellow?
Gilbert.I am Gilbert the carver. Jane is my betrothed.
Fabiani.And I am Sir Amyas Paulet. Jane is my mistress.
Gilbert.You lie, I tell you! You are Lord Clanbrassil, the Queen's favourite. Idiot, to think that I know not that!
Fabiani [aside.]Meseems that everybody knows who I am to-night!—Another dangerous man, of whom I must be rid.
Gilbert.Tell me instantly that you have lied like a dastard, and that Jane is not your mistress!
Fabiani.Know you her hand?
[He takes a note from his pocket.
Read this.
[Aside, while Gilbert convulsively unfolds the paper.
'Tis most important that he go in and seek a quarrel with Jane; that will give my people time to arrive.
Gilbert [reading.]"I shall be alone to-night; you may come."—Malediction! My lord, you have dishonoured my betrothed; you are an infamous scoundrel! Give me satisfaction!
Fabiani [drawing his sword.]With all my heart. Where is your sword?
Gilbert.O rage! to be a man of the people, and wear neither sword nor dagger! Look you, I will lie in wait for you at night, at a street-corner, and I will bury my nails in your throat and kill you, vile knave!
Fabiani.La! la! you are over-violent, my good friend!
Gilbert.Oh! I will be revenged on you, my lord!
Fabiani.You, be revenged on me! You so low, and I so high! You are mad. I defy you.
Gilbert.You defy me?
Fabiani.Yes.
Gilbert.You will see!
Fabiani [aside.]To-morrow's sun must not rise for this man.
[Aloud.]My friend, take my advice and go home. I am grieved that you have discovered this; but I leave you your fair. Indeed, 'twas my purpose to carry the affair no further. Go in.
[He tosses a key at Gilbert's feet.
If you have no key, here is one. Or, if you prefer, you have only to tap four times on yonder shutter; Jane will think that it is I, and she will let you in. Good night.
[Exit.
Gilbert.He has gone! he is no longer here! I did not crush and trample him under my feet! I had perforce to let him go; I had no weapon upon me!
[He spies the dagger with which Fabiani killed the Jew, and picks it up with fierce haste.
Ah! you come too late! probably you will be able to kill none but myself! But no matter: whether you fell from heaven or hell, I bless you!—Jane has betrayed me! Jane has given herself to that villain! Jane is Lord Talbot's heiress! Jane is lost to me!—O God! within an hour more terrible things have befallen me than my brain can bear!
[Simon Renard appears in the shadow, at the back of the stage.
Oh! to be revenged on that man—that Lord Clanbrassil! If I go to the Queen's palace, the lackeys will drive me away with kicks, like a dog!—Ah me! I am mad! My heart is breaking! I care not for death, but I would that I might have my revenge! I would give my blood for revenge! Is there no one on earth who will make that bargain with me? Who will revenge me on this Lord Clanbrassil and take my life in payment?
Renard [stepping forward.]I will.
Gilbert.You! who are you?
Renard.I am the man you desire.
Gilbert.Do you know who I am?
Renard.You are the man I need.
Gilbert.I have but one idea in my mind, do you know that? to be revenged on Lord Clanbrassil and to die.
Renard.You shall be revenged on Lord Clanbrassil, and you shall die.
Gilbert.Whoever you may be, thanks!
Renard.Yes, you shall have the vengeance that you wish. But do not forget upon what condition; I must have your life.
Gilbert.Take it.
Renard.Is 't agreed?
Gilbert.Yes.
Renard.Follow me.
Gilbert.Whither?
Renard.You shall know.
Gilbert.Remember that you promise to avenge me!
Renard.Remember that you promise to die.