_St. Nicholas._

Tristram! Where’s your master?

T. Twenty-five. My master’s no more. Twenty-six.

N. Frederick is dead?

T. (singing). What dead, my dearie? Oh no, my dearie.

N. What is this nonsense, Tristram?

T. When I meet with a poet, St. Nicholas, I can speak poetry.

N. I came to see your master, Tristram; and you said he was dead.

T. I said he was no more, not that he was dead: and, as I say, he is no more my master. I am, as ’twere, a gentleman at large; and I sit here by invitation, engaged on my own affairs, which do not need assistance.

N. I came to see your master on important business, Tristram. Be civil enough to tell me where he is.

T. My master is nowhere. This was twenty-six.

N. I shall wait for him here.

T. Well, if you choose to wait, I know what you come after. ’Tis not the sonnet.

N. When will Frederick be back, Tristram?

T. But I’ll give you back your sonnet, if you will write me a poem about my hat, this hat. ’Tis but to versify my own imaginations. See! I am the hat: the hole in it is my discharge: the flame which burnt the hole is Flora,—that’s the Countess’maid. All is good. There’s the blackness of the hat, the fire of the lamp, the abysm of the hole: it lacks but the moon, which you might shift to see through the crown; and if you could weave in with that your sphinx and something about death, I think that I might tickle the Countess’ ear to reconsider of my discharge; for she loves poetry.

N. Curse thy impertinence, Tristram. Where’s thy master?

T. I will shew you where your master is, if you curse me or aught of mine, master Nick.

N. Darst thou speak to me thus?

T. Did you not call me a thief, and base-born clown?

N. Art thou not both?

T. Whate’er I be, Mr. Poet, I have now no master, nor any obligation to any gentleman to make believe for his convenience that thou art aught. Thou! Why thy brainpan hath nought in it but shoddy, I warrant. Thou combed ass! thou left-handed goose!—to curse me!

N. By heaven, I cannot away with thee.

T. No, that you can’t. (Aside.) I have it. I’ll shut him in the screeky cupboard.—Well, sir: I know what you come after. ’Tis the marriage papers, is it not? I was bid see to them. Look in that cupboard.

N. Ah! are they there? (Goes to cupboard and looks in. T. pushes him behind, and shuts door on him, locking it.)

T. There curse me, and seek your papers.—(Aside.) I think I have him now. If this does not satisfy my master, I’ll never try to please him again.

N. (within). Let me out at once. There are no papers here. What did you shut me in here for?

T. To follow your occupation—to lounge, lounge in the cupboard. Am I a thief?

N. Let me out, I beg of you, Tristram.

T. Not till you have made my poem, or told me a cure for the rheumatics. Ay, bawl and kick: I will finish my accounts. Kick away, one for each pile. Twenty-six it was: twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Why you overdo it: you kick by the ducat. With three and a half, (pocketing.) thirty-three ducats and a half. Silence! silence! ’Tis more kicks than half-pence, as they say. If you will be quiet, I will give you back your sonnet. (Takes it out and reads)—

Master of mine, remember for pitie.

Ha! who’s your master now?—I will recite the end part, which I have never read.

Once in a vesture of pale crimson came That willowed Archdelight, whose eyes are dim With gazing on a book of writhing flame:

My stars! and no wonder neither.

And with him Hope, the stringless harp-player, Himself an embelem, harped in mine ear His long-lost Sapphic song and nuptial hymn.

Hem! Very good, sir, as far as it goes. You should finish this and have it ready by the wedding. See! I will thrust it to you under the door. Won’t you take it back? If I have not charmed him to sleep with his own verses! Ha! he bites—he lives. (N. pulls it to him from within.) (To himself.) This is very well. But I wonder why my master wished him out of the way; and why he is sent to Milan; and taking all these things with him; and why he is travelling in that doublet. He hath no care for his clothes. Yet I’ll do him a last service, and brush it for him. ’Tis sadly dusty (having taken it down). He shall not say that his old valet neglected him in aught. So lie there. (puts doublet on table.) Pockets full, of course. If I were a gentleman, I’d have no pockets. How can velvet lie? How can one smoothe it down, stuffed out in a lump like this ... an old handkerchief, I’ll warrant ... no ... a glove: a lady’s glove: a very secret affair: one he hath stolen to write verses on. I shall tell the Countess of this. (Knocking at the door heard.) This will be Mister Ricardo, I suppose. Come in!

Enter Sir Gregory.