Chapter XII: 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. D——n! ’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?

BEEF. Aye, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but _noddies_[276] 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 heartache? Can they soothe banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can All-fours do this? O, 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,[277] 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 parental 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._] Ah, 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. Ah, 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 dispatched
To Cardinal Pandulfo; and their majesties,
After partaking of a cold collation,
Returned 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. Ah, 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, Gieronimo, 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 the 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 her balalaika._

TROU.

I bear a secret comfort _here_,[278]

[_Putting his hand on the bundle._

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 on the bottle_; TROUBADOUR _pushes
her aside, and continues singing without interruption_.

This cherry-bounce, this loved 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 } loved noyau,
F. M. { That } „ { that } „

TROU. { My } drink for ever be;
F. M. { Thy } „

TROU. } But, sweet my love, { thy wish forgo!
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._

END OF ACT II.