 | Babington |  |
SCENE I.
—A Chamber.Gifford, folded in a large Cloak, enters, followed by Walsingham, with his Sword drawn.
WALSINGHAM.
There—further yet—so;—Root thee on that spot,
And if thou shift'st a foot, or hidest a hand,
That moment is thy last. We are alone,
Now speak.
GIFFORD.
I shall. We are alone?—is't so?
WALSINGHAM.
As freely as unto the savage air
Unpierced yet by touch of human voice,
Utter what thou would'st speak. Answer, what art thou?
2
A man.—No less.
WALSINGHAM.
Nor more, I wot. What man?
What art thou?—speak. Methinks thy looks and bearing
Are all encrusted o'er with villainy.
Perchance thy tongue is better. Let mine ears
Set right mine eyes.—Say on. No quibbling, knave—
What art thou?
GIFFORD.
(Aside.)
So peremptory, Right Honourable? A loud
crack may, peradventure, kill a snipe—marry, not me—
(Aloud.)
What am I?—a puzzle!—a jest in earnest out
of the Statesman's Manual. A man and no man, a somebody
else. The incarnation of a piece of deep policy.
The fleshly link, my lord, between what you want to
know, and what you have to give. If you ask my name
—I give you that for to-day which I shall haply change
to-morrow—for a better! Even as you would do your
title, my lord. My lord, you seem troubled.
WALSINGHAM.
Within, there!—No. I will try one peg more.
Slave, dost thou think me some court light-o'-love,
3
That thou can'st play the fortune-teller with me?
Think'st thou to mist mine eyes with saucy riddles,
Or muddle me with fulsome prophecies?
Mark me. A single word, aye, look of mine,
Can conjure up the thumb-screw and the rack;
Thy tongue shall be thy bail, and,—note me, sir,—
Wag to the truth—or else shall not wag long,
Except to howl.—
GIFFORD.
And mark you me, my lord;
I shall deal plainly, if but plainly dealt by;
You shall have ingots, if you pay in ducats;
'Tis honest barter, and 'tis mine.
Now, further,
As for your prisons and tormenting engines,
I say, take thought upon Perillus' Bull,
And look ye howl not in your own device.
I tell ye,—aught that ye inflict on me
But brings the mine, destruction, to your feet
More surely—so beware.
WALSINGHAM.
Thou art a villain!
4
I am a Jesuit.
WALSINGHAM.
Wast thou the devil—
The Belial that o'er-kings thy dark fraternity,
I'd wrench thy secret out.
GIFFORD.
(After a pause, contemptuously.)
Why look ye, my lord?—This may be “diamond cut
diamond;” but 'tis not, “well met, hail fellow.” Here
have I told thee a truth; and how am I reguerdon'd?
Why, with bluster. Like the crow in the fable, ye may
cast pebbles into the pitcher till ye raise the water, but ye
shall scarcely pump a Jesuit by dint of hard words. If
ye want the truth, ye must e'en prime with the same
commodity. This let me tell you—As for the rest, take
heed that your shoulder rue not the rebound of your own
harquebuss.
WALSINGHAM.
Thou talkest glibly—talk so on the rack.
GIFFORD.
Be sure I shall not talk more to the purpose.
—My lord, you are a statesman, and the world
5
Or any spaniel that doth page your heels,
Did know your secret heart, or was the prompter,
The wire-puller, the director of your acts,
Think ye I'd thrust my neck into your fangs
For the honour o't?—No; no.
Now, if ye deal
Thus in your own concernment, as I wot,
Why think a Jesuit shallower than yourself?
Deem ye the master-mind is register'd
On such a rag as I am? Would ye dig
In such a mean and common piece of earth,
To seek the treasure, Truth?
I am a Jesuit;
And being so, what am I? Less a man
Than a poor mould for an incarnate spark
Of the spirit of mine order. I am nothing
But what I am made; and what think ye is that?
Why, but a link of that invisible chain,
Whose end is in the clouds, but whose immensity
Can clasp the earth's circumference, and zone round
The waist o' the world—yea, can embrace her limbs,
And have enough to spare, and o'er her neck
6
While I am part; but, sever'd from my fellows,
Am nothing. Why, I were not worth a fire.
What can ye gain by practising on me?
'Tis in my power to save you from destruction;
'Tis in your power but to destroy yourselves.
Would ye do that? If so, then let me hang,
And stop the breath of your intelligence.
—What would you say, my lord?
WALSINGHAM.
Thou art a fiend,
And gloriest with a fiendish impudence,
As mischief were thine element more than life.
—What can'st thou do to prove these boasts of thine?
If thou know'st aught against the Queen and State,
Speak it, and say at once what's thy reward.
Here's gold enough to buy a thousand pardons,
Should'st e'en betray the Church that sells thee them.
GIFFORD.
Put up your purse, my lord! A ton of gold
Were but a hair to weigh me from my purpose.
—What can I do?—Oh! wise and profound statesman,
What would ye have me do? What is the key-stone
7
If ye but drop a seed into the bosom
Of the ne'er-barren earth, do ye not watch
And tend it as the mother doth her babe,
Nor deem 'twill spring at once? What can I do?
Mark if I know at least what should be done.
Know ye the visage of your enemy
When ye behold it?
(He shews a Miniature, richly adorned.)
WALSINGHAM.
(Aside.)
It is she herself,
As splendid as resistless, and more fateful
Than is the stayless lightning—Cockatrice!
The rascal's right enough, but every knave
Hath like intelligence.
GIFFORD.
(Aside.)
Ha! have I moved ye?
WALSINGHAM.
(Aside.)
'Tis set with gems, and this fantastic legend
Here, i'the casket, is her character.
GIFFORD.
You are struck, my lord. Know ye that glitt'ring mischief?
8
(Hastily.)
Where got'st thou this?
GIFFORD
(with assumed coolness.)
Too fast, my lord! Before you expect me to tell you
that, ask if I know it myself. Thus came I by it—with
my instructions!—and whence came they? canonically;
even as an angel's message; out of a cloud!—Plainly, in
three words I know not.
WALSINGHAM.
I'll make thee know—
GIFFORD.
Why, would it not be better
If I made thee?
I tell thee what, Sir Francis,
As 'tis in vain to seek what is not lost,
So that can not be found which is not hid.
Thou might'st as well attempt to gyve the Echo,
And make her tell what 'tis she babbles of,
As question me. I am a tool that must
Be used one way, or else am useless; use me,
And I am yours. Crush me, and you are lost.
Ye cannot burst the doors of destiny,
But ye may pick the lock. I know the windings
9
Patience, and try again—
Nay, stop me not;
Or if you do, my lord, tell me but this—
The question's candid—Have I warn'd you not
Against your enemy? Thus far have I kept
The crown o' the causeway. Good. What see you in me—
I say what see you, that you need to start
As if I were the Archfiend, come to lure
Your steps to his burning mine? What I would ask
Is granted e'en as easy as 'tis heard,
And that should sure be easy.
WALSINGHAM.
What dost ask?
GIFFORD.
No mighty matter. I have shewn I know
Those you would know, and those that well know you.
I come to warn you of their dark devices.
If ye will take the warning, as 'tis given,
Nor, like the sturdy beggar, scorn an alms,
Because 'tis not a largess, let me have
Access to you, and upon what I tell you
10
As ye see fit. What would ye further? Let me
Have a short conference with some one in trust,
And what I promise, prove.
WALSINGHAM.
It shall be so;
Within there.
Enter Sir Amias Paulet, and an Officer.
Hark, Sir Amias—Sir, you may retire.
[Exit Officer.
(Aside.)
Mark ye this man. I say, note down his face,
Not his habiliments; for happily
He hath as many forms as Proteus,
As changeable as is an April sky,
And, ten to one, more treacherous. Mark him.
(Aloud.)
Now, sir,
What is't that you would say?
GIFFORD.
The Queen, four days hence,
Takes boat at Whitehall.—Doth she not, my lord?
WALSINGHAM.
How know'st thou that?
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I ask thee; doth she not?
No answer!—Nay, you need not gaze at me
So fixedly, Sir Amias. I am true
As you yourself, and that you are, I know.
But to the coil in hand. Let not her Majesty
Forego her expedition—only this
Perhaps were well.—Contrive that her attendance,
Without apparent foresight, be well arm'd.
Not with a show of guard—but let the gallants
Who page her progress, or who pay their court,
Be of that sort ye wot of. So, there's fear
Without the threat'ning. So much for the present;
Next day, if she doth change her wonted airing,
And go to Richmond with the French Embassador,
That is her private purpose, peradventure
There may be need of more. But in that time
I will speak with ye, so ye scorn me not,—
Now let me have free passage.
WALSINGHAM.
One word more.
GIFFORD.
No, not a sound. My errand is told out,
12
My very breath is meted, and I deal not
In over measure.
SIR AMIAS.
This is insolence.
My lord, let me essay him, and I'll warrant—
GIFFORD.
Wait for your warrant!
Mark me, Sir Amias,
You were sent here to listen, not to prate.
(Turning to Walsingham.)
My tongue is but an echo, and my voice
Pitch'd to the tenor of another pipe,
With which it falls or rises. I am dumb,
Because My Master wills it. Who is he?
He were a scholar who should answer that—
Your password, my lord.
WALSINGHAM.
Within there! Sir Amias, let him have
Safe conduct.
Enter Officer.
SIR AMIAS.
He shall have't, my lord.
13
Go, sir.
GIFFORD.
I thank your lordship. Ye shall hear of me.
[He goes out with the officer.
WALSINGHAM.
Now, Sir Amias—What think ye of this?
SIR AMIAS.
Even that we have a snake by th' tail; that's all.
If we be rough, he stings us—If we slip
Our vantage, he enshrouds him in his hole.
Would I had once his head beneath my heel!
WALSINGHAM.
Have with you, Sir Amias. We must take
Some counsel upon this. There may be truth,
Though, certes, small may be our gain thereby,
If Jesuits' truth be slipprier than a lie.
Come, sir, time calls on us.
[They go out.
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