Part 14 (1/2)

”'Tis very possible,” said he, ”for I write less than I think: and indeed publish less than I write.”

”And how standeth it with your fasting, Master Poet?” quoth I.

”I feed my thoughts that way,” he replied simply, ”as 'twas in a fast I conceived my famous lines upon the Spring.”

I bade him drink another draught of the wine, having no interest to sc.r.a.pe acquaintance with his Muse; but he was not so easily to be put off.

”It begins thus,” said he, and tossing back his long and tawny hair from his eyes, lifted his right hand aloft and beat the air with his fingers as he proceeded--

”Fresh Spring, the lovely herald of great Love, On whose green tabard are the quarterings Of many flowers below and trees above In proper colours, as befits such things-- Go to my love----”

”Hold, hold!” I cried, ”methinks I have read something very similar to these lines of yours in another man's verses.”

He held his hand still suspended, though his eyes flashed in disdain of my commentary.

”An' you were not young and my benefactor,” he said, with an extreme bitterness, ”I would be tempted to clap you into a filthy ballad.”

”Do you use to write your ballads, full?” I inquired, ”seeing 'tis apparently your custom to steal your lyricks, empty.”

He brought down his raised hand clenched upon the other.

”I steal nothing from any man,” he cried in a great voice; but even as he spoke his face went white, and his eyes rolled in his head. I thought he had fallen into some fit of poetics, and offered him the wine again, but he cautioned me to be silent, at the same time cringing backward into the shadows.

”Why, what ails you?” I asked encouragingly.

He laid his forefinger to his lips, and then, laying his hand upon my arm, drew me to him.

”Spake I overloud?” he muttered, s.h.i.+vering, too, when I answered that he certainly had done.

”'Twould be my death were I heard,” said the miserable fellow, and then told me, by starts and elliptic phrases all that I have set down about this mysterious fellows.h.i.+p of Petty Wales, and the cruel rigour in which its secrecy was maintained.

”'Tis no place for an honest man,” he said, ”for all here, but I, be notable thieves and outlaw villains, bawds, and blasphemers every one.

And were't not for the common table we keep, each man bringing to it that he may, but all equally partaking, and that we lie sheltered from foul weather and terror of the watch, I had long since avoided hence.

For I am a lyrical poet, sir, and have no commerce with such as steal.”

I could have returned upon him there, with his unconscionable plagiarism and his a.s.sault upon Baynards Castle too, but judged it Christian to hold my peace. Furthermore, I had entered this unwholesome den for another purpose than to argue a point of authors.h.i.+p, and therefore said quietly enough, but in such a manner as he should perceive I meant it--

”Now listen to me, Master Poet,” quoth I, ”and answer me fair, else will I raise my voice to such pitch as your Captain shall take note of it for a contingent fault of thine to have loud-speaking friends.

”This great mansion, now,” I went on, when I thought he could bear a part in the argument; ”do all the parts of it join, and the dwellers herein have exchange of intercourse each with the other?”

”No,” he said, ”they do not.”

”But once they had,” said I.

”Long since they may have done,” replied the poet, ”but since the place hath been converted to its present use, it hath been divided by strong walls of part.i.tion, so as each man is now master of his own.”

”How!” I cried, raising my voice of set purpose to frighten him. ”In this nest of thieves what man is so absolute a master as another may not possess himself of his goods?”