The Life of Sir John Falstaff

by Robert B. Brough

Master Silence again burst into song, unsolicited—

“‘Tis merry, ‘tis merry, my wife’s as all;
For women are shrews both short and tall,
‘Tis merry in hall when beards wag all
And welcome merry Shrovetide.
Be merry, be merry, &c.”

“I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle,” murmured Sir John, who, I think, by this time was beginning to get drowsy.

“Who, I?” said the meek songster. “I have been merry twice and once ere now.”

The festivities continued, but with a somewhat languishing spirit. Master Shallow’s angular chin began to beat double knocks against his bony chest. He had the greatest difficulty in keeping one eye—the weather one, doubtless—open. Bardolph confined himself to the main business of his consistent life—good, steady drinking. Davy officiated as Ganymede. Robin was silently contemplative. There were spoons and tankards in the orchard, and nobody sober to watch them! Sir John spoke not, except to give a word of encouragement to Master Silence, whose vocal exertions he rather approved of, as calculated to save him the labour of conversation. It is not absolutely recorded, but circumstantial evidence makes it probable, that Sir John Falstaff, having drowsily pledged that inveterate songster in a bumper, fell instantly fast asleep, and was snoring in blissful ignorance of actual circumstances—only to dream of coronets that were never to be worn and coffers that were never to be filled—when he was roused from his nap by a terrific knocking at the outer gate.

Everybody was on the alert. Justice Shallow, in the midst of a dreamy platitude of welcome, breathed into the confidential recesses of his folded arms, started into wide-awakefulness with an echoing knock of chin against chest, which must have been highly detrimental to his remaining dental economy. Davy flew to the gate. Master Silence considered the startling occurrence an excuse for further melody. Bardolph drank. Robin, it may be presumed, took some advantage of the confusion; but as the Shallow spoons were not counted that evening, it is uncertain to what extent.

There was cause for disturbance. In those days an Englishman was obliged to make his house his castle. The meanest homestead—and Master Shallow’s was not one answering to that definition—had to be carefully guarded by moat and drawbridge. They kept early hours then. All the family were expected to be in-doors by sunset, for it was not safe to be out after dark. Any vassal, pig, or other retainer, stopping out after the gates were closed, might do so at his own peril. A late visitor—especially one making such formidable announcement of his arrival as that which disturbed Sir John Falstaff from his comfortable after-supper nap, and sent Master Shallow’s little dried walnut of a heart leaping into his mouth, like a parched pea from a shovel up the chimney—was not only a source of astonishment but of alarm. It might be a robber at the head of a forest-band come to levy what we should term an execution on the goods and chattels; or a travelling abbot on his way to some ecclesiastical conference, having brought the élite of his monks and their appetites with them; or a proscribed nobleman and his suite, to harbour whom would be certain death in the course of a month, and to behave uncivilly to whom would be the same in the course of a minute and a half; or it might be the king who had been kicked off the throne, or the other king who had kicked him off in pursuit of him. In any case, the chances were ninety-nine and nine-tenths to a decimal fraction that the visitor would prove one who, at his departure, would leave the proprietor a sadder and a poorer man than he had been in the morning. The probability of a needy and harmless wight being found sufficiently mad or intoxicated to make a disturbance at a rich man’s door (more especially if the rich man happened to be in the commission of the peace), just as the family might be supposed to be retiring to rest, being of the remotest.

The speedy return of Davy to the orchard with the information that the demonstrative visitor was merely “one Pistol, come from the Court with news” for Sir John Falstaff must have had an immediately soothing and reassuring effect upon the assembly.

At the word “Court” Sir John Falstaff pricked up his ears instinctively. A momentary thrill ran through his system. Had they, at last, “sent for” him? Was he really wanted to guide, counsel, or amuse—at any rate, to be recognised and rewarded?

Pshaw! The very name of the messenger was a proof to the contrary. Pistol was, doubtless, in the neighbourhood; had heard of his patron’s whereabouts; and tracked him, as usual, in the hope of a flagon, a supper, and a piece of silver! Sir John was a philosopher, and was engaged in the digestion of his own supper. He would not allow that vital process to be prejudiced by the excitement of possibly fallacious hope. He fell back upon the garden seat, and ordered Pistol to be admitted.