—Richard II. V. 3.
You know the place well enough, or failing yourself—if so be that you are less than three-score years and ten—then your father would remember it well.
It was situate in the Strand3 until that time, close to its junction4 with Fleet Street and within a pebble's throw from St. Clements. A tall narrow building, raftered and gabled, the timbers painted a dark chocolate colour, with alternate lines of a luscious6 creamy tint7 rendered mellow8 with the dirt and smoke of London. It stood on that selfsame spot two hundred and more years ago, when it was the favourite resort of that band of young rakes who adorned9 the Court of the Merry Monarch10.
It were somewhat difficult to say why my lord of Craye, or Sir Anthony Wykeham, or the Earl of Stowmaries had chosen this very unprepossessing tavern1 for their evening assemblies. The exterior11, as your father could tell you, was certainly not inviting12, for the gables were all askew13, the stories low and widening one over another, all awry14 as if ready to fall, the front door, too, was cracked from corner to corner, nor were the public rooms much more alluring15. In the coffee room the window with its small panes16 of bottle glass hardly allowed any daylight to filter in; the floor had once been neatly17 covered in bricks, but now most of these were broken in half, with pieces of them[63] missing, showing little three-cornered holes which suggested dirt-grubbing insects and storehouses of dust.
There were other disadvantages, too, about the place, which should have scared off any fastidious young man however bent18 on pleasure he might be, but we have it on M. Misson's own authority—and he was no great admirer of things English and speaks somewhat ill-naturedly of everything he saw during his voyage—that the cellars at the sign of the Three Bears were exceedingly well stocked with Spanish and Rhenish wines and even with French brandies which were heady and vastly pleasing to the palate first and to the temper afterwards.
We are also told by that same highly-critical French traveller that Mistress Janet Foorde, wife of the landlord of the Three Bears, could turn out a better supper than any other cook in London, and fashioned a lamprey pie, or a fricassée of rabbits and chickens, in such a delicious manner that once eaten it could never be forgotten.
Be that as it may, we know it for a fact that in this year of grace 1678 the Tavern in the Strand at the sign of the Three Bears was, every evening after the hour of eight, frequented by the very élite of London society. Supper was served in one of the smaller rooms at a table around which sat those same gentlemen who in the earlier part of the day had graced His Majesty's levee, or the Court of the unhappy Queen, or that narrow circle which stood as a phalanx round the person of the unpopular Duke of York.
The assembly purported19 to be political. There was more than a mere20 suggestion of Roman Catholic discontent freely expressed around that congenial board, and it was well known that on more than one occasion the King himself had been present at these gatherings—incognito, of[64] course—his identity known only to his own intimate friends.
But the discussion of the political and social position of Roman Catholics in England, was, we must admit, not the primary object of the nightly reunions in the private room at the Three Bears. Supper after the play in the King's House came first, then dice21, hazard or the more fashionable game of Spanish ombre, all well interlarded with the chief gossip and scandals of the day.
Reputations for beauty, wit or morals were made or marred22 around that table in the small room; the latest fashions were discussed, which to adopt and which to reject. The young fops fresh from the Grand Tour here recounted their impressions, displayed—for approval or disfavour—the latest modes from Paris, the new surcoats, the monstrous23 periwigs, the very latest notion in lace cravats24.
Here, too, the young rakes aired their—oft scandalous—literary efforts, bonsmots unfit for ladies' ears were invented and retailed25, and we all know that my lord of Rochester never thought of publishing verse or prose without first submitting it to the censorship of the select party at the Three Bears.
We may take it that Sir John Ayloffe—despite the vicissitudes26 of fortune which had brought him to the pass of empty pockets and of unavowable shifts—was still a persona grata at the nightly assemblies of the distinguished28 tavern, for some few hours after his interview with his beautiful kinswoman on this memorable29 evening of February 8th, 1678, we see him turning his footsteps unhesitatingly in the direction of the "Three Bears" in the Strand.
Closely wrapped in his cloak, for the wind blew bitter[65] gusts30, he bent his head against the driving rain as he walked. The rickety door of the tavern stood invitingly31 open and as one accustomed to the place Sir John with quickened steps entered the narrow passage.
Immediately his nostrils32 were greeted with the pungent33 odour of onions and of boiling fat, and his ears with loud shouts of merriment, which raised a boisterous34 echo in the tumble-down building and seemed to make the walls totter35 on their insecure foundation.
This hilarious36 noise, wherein songs, sung in hoarse37 voices very much out of tune27, mingled38 with violent outbursts of prolonged laughter and with volleys of full-toned oaths, proceeded from behind a door on the cracked panels of which the ten letters of the word Coffee Room tumbled one against the other, like a row of drunken men.
For a moment Sir John paused just outside that door, bending his ear to listen in an attitude of deep attention, like one trying to catch one special sound from out that confused babel which went on within.
The passage in which he stood had been wholly dark but for the dim, uncertain light which came from a brass39 lanthorn suspended from the blackened ceiling just above his head. Sir John waited a second or two, until a loud and merry shout of laughter rose above the bibulous40 din5. It was the laughter which comes from a young and lusty throat, the laughter of careless irresponsibility and of thoughtless debauchery.
It seemed to be also the sound for which Sir John had been waiting in the ill-lighted passage outside, for now he threw up his head and flung his cloak back with a gesture of satisfaction, whilst a strange laugh, which had but little of merriment in it and a great deal of contempt, broke from his lips as an echo to the light-hearted gaiety beyond.
[66]
Sir John now continued his way, past the Coffee Room to a door beyond the stairway at the extreme end of the passage. This he threw open without further ceremony and found himself in that small room of the tavern, wherein Master Foorde—the host—served his more distinguished guests. As a rule merriment and noise, equal at least to that which obtained in the public coffee room, reigned41 in this private sanctum: many would have said that the great and courtly gentlemen who foregathered here indulged usually in carouses42 and drunken orgies which would have put the more plebeian43 merrimakers to shame.
But to-night, at the moment that Ayloffe entered the room, a kind of sullen44 silence reigned therein. Through the thick haze45 of tobacco smoke which hung like a grey pall46 above the feebly flickering47 light of some half dozen tallow candles, the newcomer could perceive four faces—flushed with wine and heavy meats, dimly outlined against the full greyness of drab-coloured walls, and dark oak wainscotting.
The candles themselves guttering48 in their sockets49 threw forth50 fillets of thick grimy smoke which mingled with the fumes51 of tobacco, and helped to cast fantastic and trembling shadows on fine cloth surcoats and vests of broidered silk. From the coffee room immediately adjoining the parlour came—echoing faintly through the thick timbered walls—the shouts of laughter, the loudly-uttered oaths, the ribald songs of the merry company, and at intervals52, against the tiny panes of the small casement53 window the dull patter of the rain or the occasional distant call of the watchman challenging an evening prowler.
In the furthest angle of the room, my lord Rochester seated in the chair of honour had apparently54 been reading aloud to this moody55 company, the expressions of his latest[67] poetic56 fancy. He was in the act of rolling up his manuscript and tying it up with a length of rose-coloured ribbon, but his face usually so self-satisfied and so gay bore an expression of keen discontent.
As a rule his poems—highly prized by the king and the ladies—were listened to here among the circle of his intimates with the greatest delight and oft with noisy appreciation57. But on this occasion he had been quite unable to hold the attention of his audience, and even whilst he read his most impassioned verses he could not help but notice that all eyes were fixed58 on the young Earl of Stowmaries, who sat with his head resting in his hand, leaning forward half across the table in an attitude of the deepest dejection.
The young man had arrived late, only joining the convivial59 party when supper was already at an end, and Mistress Foorde had removed the remains60 of the finest venison pie which she had ever concocted61.
He had taken his place at the table after a curt62 and sullen nod to the company who had greeted him most sympathetically. He had declared himself unable to eat, but had ordered a bottle of strong sherry and also a bottle of brandy, which expensive liquid—so 'twas said afterwards by some of the company present—he freely mixed with sherry and drank very plentifully63.
The story of his unfortunate early marriage and of his hopeless passion for Mistress Julia Peyton had somehow or other leaked out, and before his arrival had been freely discussed in a facetious64 and irresponsible spirit.
"Old Rowley liked the tale, and was vastly amused thereby," Lord Rochester had said, thus unceremoniously referring to the merry King of England. "I told it him in all its bearings, and he laughed immoderately at thought[68] of a tailor's wench being actually married to my lord of Stowmaries, and expecting to be presented at Court. But after that first outburst of hilarity65 he looked very grave and said that the matter must presently be arranged to the satisfaction of all those concerned."
"But how can that be done?" queried66 Sir Anthony Wykeham, who was a strict Catholic and liked not this light talk of breaking marriage vows67.
"Bah! money will do a great deal nowadays," sighed Sir Knaith Bullock, a young Irishman but scantily69 blessed with the commodity.
"As for me," quoth my lord Rochester with easy bonhomme, "I am on the side of the angels. Mistress Julia Peyton is the most beautiful woman in London. She at any rate would be worthy70 to become chatelaine of Maries Castle and to be our hostess in the many feasts to be given there to my lord of Stowmaries' friends. As for a tailor's daughter!—Bah!—gentlemen, I ask you, can we see ourselves being entertained by a tailor's daughter? She would feed us on pottage and small beer—"
A roar of laughter greeted this exposé of the situation. Lord Rochester had of a truth voiced the opinion of the majority.
"But—" protested Sir Anthony Wykeham.
"Tush man," interrupted my lord with scant68 ceremony. "I know what you would say. The marriage sacrament and all that—Odd's fish! we are none of us heathens, and ye Papists are not the only ones, by my faith! who know how to keep vows. But there are other ways of unravelling71 an undesired tangle—and old Rowley had no thought of suggesting irreligious measures—"
"Hush72!" said one of the others suddenly, "I hear Stow[69]maries' voice outside. I fancy he'll not be in a mood for jesting over the matter."
It was at this point that Stowmaries had entered the room. There was no doubt that he looked excessively glum73, and the first attempts at treating his disappointed love in a hilarious manner were met with such obvious moodiness74, that gradually the subject was dropped, and the company, who at supper had been fairly numerous, soon began to dwindle75 away, each seeking in turn more cheerful society than that of this sober young man who seemed determined76 to look at his own future life in its very blackest aspect.
Only Lord Rochester remained awhile longer for he wanted an audience for his latest poem, also Sir Anthony Wykeham—an intimate friend of my lord Stowmaries—and Sir Knaith Bullock, an irresponsible youth who seemed to scent77 an adventure in the romantic child-marriage, and vaguely78 hoped to find sport therein.
These three gentlemen with Lord Stowmaries himself formed the little group around the table of the private parlour at the "Three Bears" at the moment that Sir John Ayloffe entered it.
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1
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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3
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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6
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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7
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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14
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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18
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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19
purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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24
cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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25
retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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27
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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28
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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30
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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32
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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33
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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36
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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38
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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40
bibulous
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| adj.高度吸收的，酗酒的 | |
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41
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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42
carouses
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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44
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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45
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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46
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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47
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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48
guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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49
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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52
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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53
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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54
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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55
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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56
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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57
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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58
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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59
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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60
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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61
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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62
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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63
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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64
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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65
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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66
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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67
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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68
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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69
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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70
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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71
unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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72
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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73
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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74
moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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75
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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76
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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77
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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78
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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