A FIRST PERFORMANCE.
"Nay, zur," said the sour-visaged Matthew, as he leaned his chin and
both hands on the end of a rake, and spoke in his slow-drawling,
grumbling fashion--"nay, zur, this country be no longer the country it
wur; no, nor never will be again."
"Why, what ails the land?" said Judith's father, turning from the small
table in the summer-house, and lying back in his chair, and crossing one
knee over the other, as if he would give a space to idleness.
"Not the land, zur," rejoined goodman Matthew, oracularly--"not the
land; it be the men that live in it, and that are all in such haste to
make wealth, with plundering of the poor and each other, that there's
naught but lying and cheating and roguery--God-a-mercy, there never wur
the loike in any country under the sun! Why, zur, in my vather's time a
pair o' shoes would wear you through all weathers for a year; but now,
with their half-tanned leather, and their horse-hide, and their cat-skin
for the inner sole, 'tis a marvel if the rotten leaves come not asunder
within a month. And they be all aloike; the devil would have no choice
among 'em. The cloth-maker he hideth his bad wool wi' liquid stuff; and
the tailor, no matter whether it be doublet, cloak, or hose, he will
filch you his quarter of the cloth ere you see it again; and the
chandler--he be no better than the rest--he will make you his wares of
stinking offal that will splutter and run over, and do aught but give
good light; and the vintner, marry, who knoweth not his tricks and
knaveries of mixing and blending, and the selling of poison instead of
honest liquor? The rogue butcher, too, he will let the blood soak in,
ay, and puff wind into the meat--meat, quotha!--'tis as like as not to
have been found dead in a ditch!"
"A bad case indeed, good Matthew, if they be all preying on each other
so."
"'Tis the poor man pays for all, zur. Though how he liveth to pay no man
can tell; what with the landlords racking the rents, and inclosing the
commons and pasturages--nay, 'tis a noble pastime the making of parks
and warrens, and shutting the poor man out that used to have his cow
there and a pig or two; but no, now shall he not let a goose stray
within the fence. And what help hath the poor man? May he go to the
lawyers, with their leases and clauses that none can understand--ay, and
their fists that must be well greased ere they set to the business? 'Tis
the poor man pays for all, zur, I warrant ye; nor must he grumble when
the gentleman goes a-hunting and breaks down his hedges and tramples his
corn. Corn? 'Tis the last thing they think of, beshrew me else! They are
busiest of all in sending our good English grain--ay, and our good
English beef and bacon and tallow--beyond the seas; and to bring back
what?--baubles of glass beads and amber, fans for my ladies, and new
toys from Turkey! The proud dames--I would have their painted faces
scratched!"
"What, what, good Matthew?" Judith's father said, laughing. "What know
you of the city ladies and their painting?"
"Nay, nay, zur, the London tricks be spread abroad, I warrant ye;
there's not a farmer's wife nowadays but must have her french-hood, and
her daughter a taffeta cap--marry, and a grogram gown lined through with
velvet. And there be other towns in the land than London to learn the
London tricks; I have heard of the dames and their daughters; set them
up with their pinching and girding with whalebone, to get a small waist
withal!--ay, and the swallowing of ashes and candles, and whatever will
spoil their stomach, to give them a pale bleak color. Lord, what a thing
'tis to be rich and in the fashion!--let the poor man suffer as he may.
Corn, i' faith!--there be plenty of corn grown in the land, God wot; but
'tis main too dear for the poor man; the rack-rents for him, and a
murrain on him; the corn for the forestallers and the merchants and
gentlemen, that send it out of the country; and back come the silks and
civets for proud madam and her painted crew!"
"God have mercy on us, man!" Judith's father exclaimed, and he drove him
aside, and got out into the sunlight. At the same moment he caught sight
of Judith herself.
"Come hither, wench, come hither!" he called to her.
She was nothing loath. She had merely been taking some scraps to the
Don; and seeing Matthew in possession there, she had not even stayed to
look into the summer-house. But when her father came out and called to
her, she went quickly toward him; and her eyes were bright enough, on
this bright morning.
"What would you, father?"
For answer he plucked off her cap and threw it aside, and took hold of
her by a bunch of her now loosened and short sun-brown curls.
"Father!" she protested (but with no great anger). "There be twenty
minutes' work undone!"
"Where bought you those roses?" said he, sternly. "Answer me, wench!"
"I bought no roses, father!"
"The paint? Is't not painted? Where got you such a face, madam?"
"Father, you have undone my hair; and the parson is coming to dinner."
"Nay, I'll be sworn 'tis as honest a face as good Mother Nature ever
made. This goodman Matthew hath belied you!"
"What said he of me?" she asked, with a flash of anger in her eyes.
Her father put his hand on her neck, and led her away.
"Nay, nay, come thy ways, lass; thou shalt pick me a handful of
raspberries. And as for thine hair, let that be as God made it; 'tis
even better so; and yet, methinks"--here he stopped, and passed his hand
lightly once or twice over her head, so that any half-imprisoned curls
were set free--"methinks," said he, regarding the pretty hair with
considerable favor, "if you would as lief have some ornament for it, I
saw that in London that would answer right well. 'Twas a net-work kind
of cap; but the netting so fine you could scarce see it; and at each
point a bead of gold. Now, Madame Vanity, what say you to that? Would
you let your hair grow free as it is now, and let the sunlight play with
it, were I to bring thee a fairy cap all besprinkled with gold?"
"I will wear it any way you wish, father, and right gladly," said she,
"and I will have no cap at all if it please you."
"Nay, but you shall have the gossamer cap, wench; I will not forget it
when next I go to London."
"I would you had never to go to London again," said she, rather timidly.
He regarded her for a second with a scrutinizing look, and there was an
odd sort of smile on his face.
"Why," said he, "I was but this minute writing about a man that had to
use divers arts and devices for the attainment of a certain end--yea,
and devices that all the world would not approve of, perchance; and that
was ever promising to himself that when the end was gained he would put
aside these spells and tricks, and be content to live as other men live,
in a quiet and ordinary fashion. Wouldst have me live ever in Stratford,
good lass?"
"The life of the house goes out when you go away from us," said she,
simply.
"Well, Stratford is no wilderness," said he, cheerfully; "and I have no
bitter feud with mankind that I would live apart from them. Didst ever
think, wench," he added, more absently, "how sad a man must have been
ere he could speak so:
'Happy were he could finish forth his fate
In some unhaunted desert, most obscure
From all societies, from love and hate
Of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure;
Then wake again, and ever give God praise,
Content with hips and haws and brambleberry;
In contemplation spending all his days,
And change of holy thoughts to make him merry;
Where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush,
Where harmless robin dwells with gentle thrush.'"
"Is it that you are writing now, father?"
"Nay, indeed," said he, slowly, and a cloud came over his face. "That
was written by one that was my good friend in by-gone days; by one that
was betrayed and done to death by lying tongues, and had but sorry favor
shown him in the end by those he had served."
He turned away. She thought she heard him say, "My noble Essex," but she
was mutely following him. And then he said:
"Come, lass; come pick me the berries."
He kept walking up and down, by himself, while her nimble fingers were
busy with the bushes; and when she had collected a sufficiency of the
fruit, and brought it to him, she found that he appeared to be in no
hurry this morning, but was now grown cheerful again, and rather
inclined to talk to her. And she was far from telling him that her
proper place at this moment was within-doors, to see that the maids were
getting things forward; and if she bestowed a thought of any kind on the
good parson, it was to the effect that both he and the dinner would have
to wait. Her father had hold of her by the arm. He was talking to her of
all kinds of things, as they slowly walked up and down the path, but of
his friends in Stratford mostly, and their various ways of living; and
this she conceived to have some reference to his project of withdrawing
altogether from London, and settling down for good among them. Indeed,
so friendly and communicative was he on this clear morning--in truth,
they were talking like brother and sister--that when at last he went
into the summer-house, she made bold to follow; and when he chanced to
look at some sheets lying on the table, she said:
"Father, what is the story of the man with the devices?"
For an instant he did not understand what she meant; then he laughed.
"Nay, pay you no heed to such things, child."
"And why should not I, father, seeing that they bring you so great
honor?"
"Honor, said you?" but then he seemed to check himself. This was not
Julius Shawe, to whom he could speak freely enough about the conditions
of an actor's life in London. "Well, then, the story is of a banished
duke, a man of great wisdom and skill, and he is living on a desert
island with his daughter--a right fair maiden she is, too, and she has
no other companion in the world but himself."
"But he is kind to her and good?" she said, quickly.
"Truly."
"What other companion would she have, then? Is she not content--ay, and
right well pleased withal?"
"Methinks the story would lag with but these," her father said, with a
smile. "Would you not have her furnished with a lover--a young prince
and a handsome--one that would play chess with her, and walk with her
while her father was busy?"
"But how on a desert island? How should she find such a one?" Judith
said, with her eyes all intent.
"There, you see, is where the magic comes in. What if her father have at
his command a sprite, a goblin, that can work all wonders--that can
dazzle people in the dark, and control the storm, and whistle the young
prince to the very feet of his mistress?"
Judith sighed, and glanced at the sheets lying on the table.
"Alas, good father, why did you aid me in my folly, and suffer me to
grow up so ignorant?"
"Folly, fond wench!" said he, and he caught her by the shoulders and
pushed her out of the summer-house. "Thank God you have naught to do
with any such stuff. There, go you and seek out Prudence, and get you
into the fields, and give those pink roses in your cheeks an airing.
Is't not a rare morning? And you would blear your eyes with books, silly
wench? Get you gone--into the meadows with you--and you may gather me a
nosegay if your fingers would have work."
"I must go in-doors, father; good Master Blaise is coming to dinner,"
said she; "but I will bring you the nosegay in the afternoon, so please
you. So fare you well," she added; and she glanced at him, "and pray
you, sir, be kind to the young prince."
He laughed and turned away; and she hurried quickly into the house. In
truth, all through that day she had plenty to occupy her attention; but
whether it was the maids that were asking her questions, or her mother
seeking her help, or good Master Walter paying authoritative court to
her, her eyes were entirely distraught. For they saw before them a
strange island, with magic surrounding it, and two young lovers, and a
grave and elderly man regarding them; and she grew to wonder how much
more of that story was shut up in the summer-house, and to lament her
misfortune in that she could not go boldly to her father and ask him to
be allowed to read it. She felt quite certain that could she but sit
down within there and peruse these sheets for herself, he would not say
her nay; and from that conclusion to the next--that on the first chances
she would endeavor to borrow the sheets and have them read to her--was
but an obvious step, and one that she had frequently taken before.
Moreover, on this occasion the chance came to her sooner than she could
have expected. Toward dusk in the evening her father went out, saying
that he was going along to see how the Harts were doing. Matthew
gardener was gone home; the parson had left hours before; and her mother
was in the brew-house, and out of hearing. Finally, to crown her good
fortune, she discovered that the key had been left in the door of the
summer-house; and so the next minute found her inside on her knees.
It was a difficult task. There was scarcely any light, for she dare not
leave the door open; and the mark that she put on the sheets, to know
which she had carried to Prudence, was minute. And yet the sheets seemed
to have been tossed into this receptacle in fairly regular order; and
when at length, and after much straining of her eyes, she had got down
to the marked ones, she was rejoiced to find that there remained above
these a large bulk of unperused matter, and the question was as to how
much it would be prudent to carry off. Further, she had to discover
where there was some kind of division, so that the story should not
abruptly break off; and she had acquired some experience in this
direction. In the end, the portion of the play that she resolved upon
taking with her was modest and small; there would be the less likelihood
of detection; and it was just possible that she would have no
opportunity of returning the sheets that night.
And then she quickly got in-doors, and put on her hood and muffler, and
slipped out into the dusk. She found Prudence alone in the lower room,
sitting sewing, the candles on the table being already lit; and some
distance off, curled up and fast asleep on the floor, lay the little
spaniel-gentle.
"Dear heart," said Judith, brightly, as she glanced at the little dog,
"you have shown good sense after all; I feared me you would fall away
from my wise counsel."
"My brother was well inclined to the little creature," Prudence said,
with some embarrassment.
"And you had a right merry evening, I'll be bound," Judith continued,
blithely. "And was there singing?--nay, he can sing well when he is in
the mood--none better. Did he give you
'There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow,'
for Julius is more light-hearted in such matters than you are, dear
mouse. And was there any trencher business--and wine? I warrant me
Julius would not have his guest sit dry-throated. 'Twas a merry evening,
in good sooth, sweetheart?"
"_They_ talked much together," Prudence said, with her eyes cast down.
"They talked? Mercy on us, were you not civil to him? Did you not thank
him prettily for the little spaniel?"
"In a measure I think 'twas Julius took the little creature from him,"
Prudence said, bashfully.
"Beshrew me now, but you know better!--'twas given to you, you know
right well. A spaniel-gentle for your brother! As soon would he think of
a farthingale and a petticoat! And what did he say? Had he aught special
to say to you, dear mouse?"
"He would have me look at an ancient book he had, with strange devices
on the leaves," Prudence said. "Truly 'twas strange and wonderful, the
ornamentation of it in gold and colors, though I doubt me 'twas the work
of monks and priests. He would have me take it from him," she added,
with a faint blush.
"And you would not, silly one?" Judith exclaimed, angrily.
"Would you have me place such Popish emblems alongside such a book as
that that Dr. Hall gave me? Dear Judith, 'twould be a pollution and a
sin!"
"But you gave him thanks for the offer, then?"
"Of a surety; 'twas meant in friendship."
"Well, well; right glad am I to see the little beast lying there; and
methinks your gentleness hath cast a spell o'er it already, sweetheart,
or 'twould not rest so soundly. And now, dear mouse, I have come to tax
your patience once more: see, here is part of the new play; and we must
go to your chamber, dear Prue, lest some one come in and discover us."
Prudence laughed in her quiet fashion. "I think 'tis you that casteth
spells, Judith, else I should not be aiding thee in this perilous
matter."
But she took one of the candles in her hand nevertheless, and led the
way up-stairs; and then, when they had carefully bolted the door, Judith
placed the roll of sheets on the table, and Prudence sat down to arrange
and decipher them.
"But this time," Judith said, "have I less weight on my conscience; for
my father hath already told me part of the story, and why should not I
know the rest? Nay, but it promises well, I do assure thee, sweetheart.
'Tis a rare beginning: the desert island, and the sprite that can work
wonders, and the poor banished duke and his daughter. Ay, and there
comes a handsome young prince, too; marry, you shall hear of marvels!
For the sprite is one that can work magic at the bidding of the duke,
and be seen like a fire in the dark, and can lead a storm whither he
lists----"
"'Tis with a storm that it begins," Prudence said, for now she had
arranged the sheets.
And instantly Judith was all attention. It is true, she seemed to care
little for the first scene and the squabbles between the sailors and the
gentlemen; she was anxious to get to the enchanted island; and when at
length Prudence introduced Prospero and Miranda, Judith listened as if a
new world were being slowly opened before her. And yet not altogether
with silence, for sometimes she would utter a few words of quick assent,
or even explanation; but always so as not to interfere with the
gentle-voiced reader. Thus it would go:
"Then Prospero says to her--
'Be collected:
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.
_Miranda._ Oh, woe the day!
_Prospero._ No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, naught knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.
_Miranda._ More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.'"
"A right dutiful daughter!" Judith would exclaim--but as apart. "A rare
good wench, I warrant; and what a gentle father he is withal!"
And then, when the banished duke had come to the end of his story, and
when he had caused slumber to fall upon his daughter's eyes, and was
about to summon Ariel, Judith interposed to give the patient reader a
rest.
"And what say you, Prudence?" said she, eagerly. "Is't not a beautiful
story? Is she not a sweet and obedient maiden, and he a right noble and
gentle father? Ah, there, now, they may talk about their masques and
pageants of the court, and gods and goddesses dressed up to saw the air
with long speeches: see you what my father can tell you in a few words,
so that you can scarcely wait, but you must on to hear the rest. And do
I hurry you, good Prue? Will you to it again? For now the spirit is
summoned that is to work the magic."
"Indeed, 'tis no heavy labor, Judith," her friend said, with a smile.
"And now here is your Ariel:
'All hail! great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curled clouds; to thy strong bidding task
Ariel and all his quality!'
Then says Prospero:
'Hast thou, spirit,
Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee?
_Ariel._ To every article.
I boarded the King's ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement; sometimes I'd divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the precursors
O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not....
_Prospero._ My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
_Ariel._ Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and played
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the King's son Ferdinand----'"
"The prince, sweetheart!--the prince that is to be brought ashore."
"Doubtless, Judith,
'The King's son Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring--then like reeds, not hair--
Was the first man that leaped: cried, "Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here."
_Prospero._ Why, that's my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore?
_Ariel._ Close by, my master.
_Prospero._ But are they, Ariel, safe?
_Ariel._ Not a hair perished,
On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
But fresher than before; and, as thou badst me,
The King's son have I landed by himself;
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.'"
"And hath he not done well, that clever imp!" Judith cried. "Nay, but my
father shall reward him--that he shall--'twas bravely done and well. And
now to bring him to the maiden that hath never seen a sweetheart--that
comes next, good Prue? I marvel now what she will say?"
"'Tis not yet, Judith," her friend said, and she continued the reading,
while Judith sat and regarded the dusky shadows beyond the flame of the
candle as if wonder-land were shining there. Then they arrived at
Ariel's song, "Come unto these yellow sands," and all the hushed air
around seemed filled with music; but it was distant, somehow, so that it
did not interfere with Prudence's gentle voice.
"Then says Prospero to her:
'The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
And say what thou seest yond.
_Miranda._ What is't? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form. But 'tis a spirit.
_Prospero._ No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses
As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest
Was in the wreck; and but he's something stained
With grief, that's beauty's canker, thou might'st call him
A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows,
And strays about to find them.
_Miranda._ I might call him
A thing divine, for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.'"
"And what says he? What thinks he of her?" Judith said, eagerly.
"Nay, first the father says--to himself, as it were
'It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free thee
Within two days, for this.'
And then the Prince says:
'Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer
May know, if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give,
How I may bear me here; my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid or no?
_Miranda._ No wonder, sir,
But certainly a maid.
_Ferdinand._ My language! heavens!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where 'tis spoken.'"
"But would he take her away?" said Judith, quickly (but to herself, as
it were). "Nay, never so! They must remain on the island--the two happy
lovers--with Ariel to wait on them: surely my father will so make it?"
Then, as it appeared, came trouble to check the too swift anticipations
of the Prince, though Judith guessed that the father of Miranda was but
feigning in his wrath; and when Prudence finally came to the end of such
sheets as had been brought her, and looked up, Judith's eyes were full
of confidence and pride--not only because she was sure that the story
would end happily, but also because she would have her chosen gossip say
something about what she had read.
"Well?" said she.
"'Tis a marvel," Prudence said, with a kind of sigh, "that shapes of the
air can so take hold of us."
Judith smiled; there was something in her manner that Prudence did not
understand.
"And Master Jonson, good Prue--that they call Ben Jonson--what of him?"
"I know not what you mean, Judith."
"Sure you know they make so much of him at the court, and of his long
speeches about Greece and Rome and the like; and when one comes into the
country with news of what is going forward, by my life you'd think that
Master Jonson were the only writer in the land! What say you, good
Prue: could worthy Master Jonson invent you a scene like that?"
"In truth I know not, Judith; I never read aught of his writing."
Judith took over the sheets and carefully rolled them up.
"Why," said she, "'twas my father brought him forward, and had his first
play taken in at the theatre!"
"But your father and he are great friends, Judith, as I am told; why
should you speak against him?"
"I speak against him?" said Judith, as she rose, and there was an air of
calm indifference on her face. "In truth, I have naught to say against
the good man. 'Tis well that the court ladies are pleased with
Demogorgons and such idle stuff, and 'tis passing well that he knows the
trade. Now give ye good-night and sweet dreams, sweet mouse; and good
thanks, too, for the reading."
But at the door below--Prudence having followed her with the candle--she
turned, and said, in a whisper:
"Now tell me true, good cousin: think you my father hath ever done
better than this magic island, and the sweet Miranda, and the rest?"
"You know I am no judge of such matters, Judith," her friend answered.
"But, dear heart, were you not bewitched by it? Were you not taken away
thither? Saw you not those strange things before your very eyes?"
"In good sooth, then, Judith," said the other, with a smile, "for the
time being I knew not that I was in Stratford town, nor in our own
country of England either."
Judith laughed lightly and quickly, and with a kind of pride too. And
when she got home to her own room, and once more regarded the roll of
sheets, before bestowing them away in a secret place, there was a fine
bravery of triumph in her eyes. "Ben Jonson!" she said, but no longer
with any anger, rather with a sovereign contempt. And then she locked up
the treasure in her small cupboard of boxes, and went down-stairs again
to seek out her mother, her heart now quite recovered from its envy, and
beating warm and equally in its disposition toward all mankind, and her
mind full of a perfect and complacent confidence. "Ben Jonson!" she
said.