ACT II.
Scene.—A Room in an ordinary Lodging-house at Weimar.—Puddingfield and Beefington discovered, sitting at a small deal table, and playing at All-fours.—Young Pottingen, at another table in the corner of the room, with a pipe in his mouth, and a Saxon mug of a singular shape beside him, which he repeatedly applies to his lips, turning back his head, and casting his eyes towards the firmament. At the last trial he holds the mug for some moments in a directly inverted position; then replaces it on the table, with an air of dejection, and gradually sinks into a profound slumber. The pipe falls from his hand, and is broken.
Beef. I beg.
Pudd. [deals three cards to Beefington.] Are you satisfied?
Beef. Enough. What have you?
Pudd. High—low—and the game.
Beef. Ah! 'tis my deal [deals—turns up a knave.] One
for his heels! [Triumphantly.
Pudd. Is king highest?
Beef. No [sternly.] The game is mine. The knave gives it me.
Pudd. Are knaves so prosperous? Ay, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but noddies[208] to them.
Pudd. Ha! ha! ha!—still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which procured thee thine exile from England.
Beef. England! my native land!—when shall I revisit thee?
[During this time Puddingfield deals, and begins to arrange his hand.
Beef. [continues.] Phoo—hang all-fours; what are they to a mind ill at ease? Can they cure the heart-ache? Can they sooth banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can all-fours do this? Oh! my Puddingfield, thy limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction—with the elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine—
[Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young Pottingen awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave demeanour towards Beefington and Puddingfield. The former begins to recover.
Y. Pot. What is the matter, comrades?[209]—you seem agitated. Have you lost or won?
Beef. Lost. I have lost my country.
Y. Pot. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.
Beef. O England!
Y. Pot. O Matilda!
Beef. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge, and of restoration to my country.
Y. Pot. Oppressed by the tyranny of an abbot, persecuted by the jealousy of a count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in a loathsome captivity. Her lover is fled no one knows whither—and I, her brother, am torn from my paternal roof, and from my studies in chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where—to rescue Rogero, I know not how. Comrades, your counsel—my search fruitless—my money gone—my baggage stolen! What am I to do? In yonder abbey—in these dark, dank vaults, there, my friends—there lies Rogero—there Matilda's heart——
Scene II.
Enter Waiter.
Waiter. Sir, here is a person who desires to speak with you.
Beef. [goes to the door, and returns with a letter, which he opens—on perusing it his countenance becomes illuminated, and expands prodigiously.] Hah, my friend, what joy!
[Turning to Puddingfield.
Pudd. What? tell me—let your Puddingfield partake it.
Beef. See here— [Produces a printed paper.
Pudd. What? [With impatience.
Beef. [in a significant tone.] A newspaper!
Pudd. Hah, what sayst thou! A newspaper!
Beef. Yes, Puddingfield, and see here [shows it partially], from England.
Pudd. [with extreme earnestness.] Its name!
Beef. The "Daily Advertiser"—
Pudd. Oh, ecstasy!
Beef. [with a dignified severity.] Puddingfield, calm yourself—repress those transports—remember that you are a man.
Pudd. [after a pause with suppressed emotion.] Well, I will be—I am calm—yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news?
Beef. Glorious news, my dear Puddingfield—the Barons are victorious—King John has been defeated—Magna Charta, that venerable, immemorial inheritance of Britons, was signed last Friday was three weeks, the third of July Old Style.
Pudd. I can scarce believe my ears—but let me satisfy my eyes—show me the paragraph.
Beef. Here it is, just above the advertisements.
Pudd. [reads.] "The great demand for Packwood's razor straps."——
Beef. 'Pshaw! what, ever blundering—you drive me from my patience—see here, at the head of the column.
Pudd. [reads.] "A hireling print, devoted to the Court,
Has dared to question our veracity
Respecting the events of yesterday;
But by to-day's accounts, our information
Appears to have been perfectly correct.
The charter of our liberties received
The royal signature at five o'clock,
When messengers were instantly dispatch'd
To Cardinal Pandulfo; and their majesties,
After partaking of a cold collation,
Return'd to Windsor."—I am satisfied.
Beef. Yet here again—there are some further particulars [turns to another part of the paper], "Extract of a letter from Egham—My dear friend, we are all here in high spirits—the interesting event which took place this morning at Runnymede, in the neighbourhood of this town"——
Pudd. Hah! Runnymede, enough—no more—my doubts are vanished—then are we free indeed!
Beef. I have, besides, a letter in my pocket from our friend, the immortal Bacon, who has been appointed Chancellor. Our outlawry is reversed! What says my friend—shall we return by the next packet?
Pudd. Instantly, instantly!
Both. Liberty! Adelaide!—Revenge!
[Exeunt. Young Pottingen following, and waving his hat, but obviously without much consciousness of the meaning of what has passed.
Scene changes to the outside of the Abbey. A summer's evening—moonlight. Companies of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers march across the stage, confusedly, as if returning from the Seven Years' War. Shouts, and martial music. The Abbey gates are opened. The monks are seen passing in procession, with the Prior at their head. The choir is heard chanting vespers. After which a pause. Then a bell is heard, as if ringing for supper. Soon after, a noise of singing and jollity.
Enter from the Abbey, pushed out of the gates by the Porter, a Troubadour, with a bundle under his cloak, and a Lady under his arm. Troubadour seems much in liquor, but caresses the female minstrel.
Fem. Min. Trust me, Gieronymo, thou seemest melancholy. What hast thou got under thy cloak?
Trou. 'Pshaw, women will be inquiring. Melancholy! not I. I will sing thee a song, and the subject of it shall be thy question—"What have I got under my cloak?" It is a riddle, Margaret—I learnt it of an almanac-maker at Gotha—if thou guessest it after the first stanza, thou shalt have never a drop for thy pains. Hear me—and, d'ye mark! twirl thy thingumbob while I sing.
Fem. Min. 'Tis a pretty tune, and hums dolefully.
[Plays on the balalaika.[210] Troubadour sings.
I bear a secret comfort here,
[putting his hand on the bundle, but without showing it.
A joy I'll ne'er impart;
It is not wine, it is not beer,
But it consoles my heart.
Fem. Min. [interrupting him.] I'll be hang'd if you don't mean the bottle of cherry-brandy that you stole out of the vaults in the Abbey cellar.
Trou. I mean!—Peace, wench, thou disturbest the current of my feelings.
[Fem. Min. attempts to lay hold of the bottle. Troubadour pushes her aside, and continues singing without interruption.
This cherry-bounce, this lov'd noyau,
My drink for ever be;
But, sweet my love, thy wish forego,
I'll give no drop to thee!
(Both together.)
Trou. {This} cherry-bounce {This} lov'd noyau,
F. M. {That} {that}
Trou. {My } drink for ever be;
F. M. {Thy }
Trou. } But, sweet my love, {thy wish forego!
F. M. } {one drop bestow,
Trou. {I } keep it all for {me!
F. M. {Nor} {thee!
[Exeunt struggling for the bottle, but without anger or animosity, the Fem. Min. appearing, by degrees, to obtain a superiority in the contest.
Act the Third contains the eclaircissements and final arrangement between Casimere, Matilda, and Cecilia: which so nearly resemble the concluding act of "Stella," that we forbear to lay it before our readers.