"Methinks thou'rt a Bedlamite already," Joan snapped, hooking up her dress. "As for my ignorance, I had rather be fool than scoundrel, and yet rather scoundrel than madman, and in sooth I believe thou'rt all three in one skin. Mayhap I'm dolt enough not to grasp this grand passion ye make such claim to, but I've mother wit enough to see when I'm hoaxed and cheated. My John shall hear of't."
"Ah Joan, Joan!" Ebenezer pleaded. "Are you then indeed unworthy? For I declare to thee solemnly: no man will e'er offer thee another such love."
"Do but offer me my rightful fee, and I'll say not a word to John: the rest o' your offer ye may put back in your hat."
"So," sighed Ebenezer, still transported, "you are unworthy! So be't, if't must: I love thee no less for't, or for the sufferings I shall welcome in thy name!"
"May ye suffer French pox, ye great ass!" Joan replied, and left the room in a heat.
Ebenezer scarcely noted her departure, so full was he of his love; he strode feverishly about the bedchamber, hands clasped behind his back, pondering the depth and force of his new feeling. "Am I waked to the world from a thirty-year sleep?" he asked himself. "Or is't only now I've begun to dream? Surely none awake e'er felt such dizzy power, nor any man in dreams such bursting life! Hi! A song!"
He ran to his writing-desk, snatched up his quill, and with little ado penned the following song:
Not Priam for the ravag'd Town of Troy,
Andromache for her bouncing Baby Boy,
Ulysses for his chaste Penelope,
Bare the Love, dear Joan, I bear for Thee!
But as cold Semele priz'd Endymion,
And Phaedra sweet Hippolytus her Step-Son,
He being Virgin — so, I pray may Ye
Whom I love, love my stainless Chastity.
For 'tis no niggard Gift, my Innocence,
But one that, giv'n, defieth Recompense;
No common Jewel pluck'd from glist'ring Hoard,
But one that, taken, ne'er can be restor'd.
Preserv'd, my Innocence preserveth Me
From Life, from Time, from Death, from History;
Without it I must breathe Man's mortal Breath:
Commence a Life- and thus commence my Death!
When he was done composing he wrote at the bottom of the page Ebenezer Cooke, Gent., Poet and Laureate of England, just to try the look of it, and, regarding it, was pleased.
" 'Tis now but a question of time," he rejoiced. "Faith, 'tis a rare wise man knows who he is: had I not stood firm with Joan Toast, I might well ne'er have discovered that knowledge! Did I, then, make a choice? Nay, for there was no I to make it! 'Twas the choice made me: a noble choice, to prize my love o'er my lust, and a noble choice bespeaks a noble chooser. What am I? What am I? Virgin, sir! Poet, sir! I am a virgin and a poet; less than mortal and more; not a man, but Mankind! I shall regard my innocence as badge of my strength and proof of my calling: let her who's worthy of't take it from me!"
Just then the servant Bertrand tapped softly on the door and entered, candle in hand, before Ebenezer had a chance to speak.
"Should I retire now, sir?" he asked, and added with an enormous wink, "Or will there be more visitors?"
Ebenezer blushed. "Nay, nay, go to bed."
"Very good, sir. Pleasant dreams."
"How's that?"
But Bertrand, with another great wink, closed the door.
"Really," Ebenezer thought, "the fellow is presumptuous!" He returned to the poem and reread it several times with a frown.
" 'Tis a gem," he admitted, "but there wants some final touch. ."
He scrutinized it line for line; at Bare the Love, dear Joan, I bear for Thee he paused, furrowed his great brow, pursed his lips, squinted his eyes, tapped his foot and scratched his chin with the feather of his quill.
"Hm," he said.
After some thought, he inked his quill and struck out Joan, setting in its place the word Heart. Then he reread the whole poem.
" 'Twas the master touch!" he declared with satisfaction. "The piece is perfect."
8: A Colloquy Between Men of Principle, and What Came of It
When he had done revising his poem Ebenezer laid it on his night table, undressed, went to bed, and presently resumed the sleep that Joan Toast's visit had interrupted, for the day's events had quite fatigued him. But again his sleep was fitful — this time it was excitement and not despair that bothered him — and, as before, it was short-lived: he had been beneath his quilts no more than an hour before he was waked once again by a loud knocking at the door, which he'd forgot to latch after Joan's departure.
"Who is't?" he called. "Bertrand! Someone's knocking!"
Before he could make a light, or even get up from the bed, the door was opened roughly, and John McEvoy, lantern in hand, strode into the room. He stood beside the bed and held the light close to Ebenezer's face. Bertrand, apparently, was asleep, for to Ebenezer's slight distress he failed to appear.
"My five guineas, if ye please," McEvoy demanded calmly, holding out his other hand.
Ebenezer broke at once into a mighty sweat, but he contrived to ask hoarsely, from the bed, "How is't I owe you money? I cannot recall buying aught of you."
"Ye do but prove your ignorance of the world," declared McEvoy, "for the first principle of harlotry is, that what a man buys of a whore is not so much her bum but her will and her time; when ye hire my Joan 'tis neither her affair nor mine what use ye make o' her, so long as ye pay yer fee. As't happens, ye chose to talk in lieu of swiving; 'twas a fool's choice, but 'tis your privilege to play the fool if't please ye. Now, sir, my five guineas!"
"Ah, my friend," said Ebenezer, reminding himself grimly of his identity, " 'tis only fair to tell you, if haply Joan did not: I love her wondrously!"
" 'Tis all one, so ye pay your fee," replied McEvoy.
"That I cannot," Ebenezer said. "Your own reasoning in the matter rules it out. For if 'tis true, as you declare, that 'tis the rental of her will and time that makes a woman whore, then to pay you for what of her time she spent here would make her my whore though I did not touch her carnally. And make her my whore I will not — nay, not were I racked for't! I bear you no ill will, John McEvoy, nor must you think me miserly: I've gold enough, and no fear of parting with it."