THE IDES OF MARCH
SOMEHOW, the days managed to follow each other much at their usual rate
of speed. Life held a great variety of interests for the little
Maynards, and though at times they greatly missed their parents, yet at
other times they were gaily absorbed in their work or play, and were
happy and bright as usual. Miss Larkin proved to be rather an uncertain
quantity. Sometimes she ruled the household with a rod of iron, laying
down laws and issuing commands with great austerity. And then, again,
she would seem to forget all about the Maynards and become absorbed in
her own affairs, even neglecting to give orders for dinner!
But the children didn’t care. So long as she left them free to pursue
their own important occupations, she was welcome to amuse herself in any
way she chose. And with good-natured, large-hearted Ellen in charge of
the kitchen, there was no danger of any one going hungry for long.
Instead of going to school, as King and Kitty did, Marjorie went every
day across the street to Delight Spencer’s, where Miss Hart, Delight’s
governess, taught both girls. Miss Hart’s methods of teaching were
unusual, but exceedingly pleasant.
Often the girls had no idea as to what lessons would be taught until
they came to the schoolroom.
And so, as Marjorie and Delight, with their arms about each other, came
into Miss Hart’s presence one morning, they saw on the schoolroom wall a
placard bearing this legend:
“The Ides of March are come.”
“What does that mean, Miss Hart?” asked Marjorie, always interested by
something she did not understand.
“That’s our subject for to-day,” said Miss Hart, smiling. “Have you no
idea what it means?”
“Not the leastest bit,” replied Marjorie. “Have you, Delight?”
“No,” said Delight, shaking her golden head very positively. “Unless you
meant _ideas_, Miss Hart, and spelled it wrong on purpose.”
“No,” said Miss Hart, smiling; “that’s not the idea at all. Well,
girlies, to begin with, here’s a little present for each of you.”
Then Miss Hart handed them each a thin, flat volume, which proved to be
a pretty edition of Shakespeare’s “Julius Cæsar.”
Opening it, Marjorie was glad to see it contained many pictures, besides
a lot of rather grown-up looking reading.
“To begin with,” said Miss Hart, “the Ides of March are really come.
To-day is the fifteenth, which, as I will explain to you, is what was
called in the Roman Calendar, the Ides.”
Then Miss Hart went on to explain how the Roman Calendar was originally
made up, and how it has been modified for our present use, all of which,
described in her interesting way, proved a pleasant lesson, and one
which the girls always remembered.
“Now,” Miss Hart went on, “we come to the consideration of our little
book, which is one of Shakespeare’s greatest and most famous plays. In
the very beginning of it, as you may see, on this page, a soothsayer
bids Cæsar ‘Beware the Ides of March.’ Cæsar paid little attention to
him at the time, but, as we will learn from our study of the play, the
Ides of March was indeed a dread day for Cæsar, for on that day he was
cruelly stabbed and killed.”
“Oh!” cried Marjorie, who loved tragic tales, “may we read about it
now?”
“Yes; but first I will tell you a little of Julius Cæsar, himself.”
Miss Hart then gave a short description of Cæsar and his time, and then
they again turned to their books.
“Before we begin to read,” she said, “note these lines in the first
scene of Act II. You see, Brutus says, ‘Is not to-morrow the Ides of
March?’ And he sends a boy to look in the Calendar and find out. What
does the boy say when he returns?”
Quick-sighted Marjorie had already looked up this, and read the boy’s
answer, “Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.”
“So you see,” went on Miss Hart, “it was the eve of the fatal day. And
now turn to the first line of Act III.”
Delight read this aloud: “The Ides of March are come.”
“Yes, Cæsar said that himself, remembering the soothsayer’s warning.”
“Did he really say it, Miss Hart?”
“Well, you see, Delight, Shakespeare’s plays, though founded on
historical facts, are not really history. And, then, we must remember
that this play was written sixteen hundred years after the death of
Cæsar, and though true, in part, to history and tradition, much of it is
Shakespeare’s own fancy and imagination. As we study it we must try to
appreciate his wonderful command of thought and language.”
“What is a soothsayer, Miss Hart?” asked Marjorie, who was already
devouring the first pages with her eager eyes.
Then Miss Hart explained all about the soothsayers and fortune-tellers
of ancient times; and how, at that time, people put faith in the
prognostications of witches and astrologers, which facts were utilized
by Shakespeare to lend picturesqueness and mystery to his plays. So
enthralled were the two girls with the descriptions of wizardry and
soothsaying, and so many questions did they ask of Miss Hart, that the
morning was gone before they had time to begin the actual reading of the
play.
“But I didn’t expect to read it to-day,” said Miss Hart, smiling at
Marjorie’s dismay when she found it was half-past twelve. “This is our
literature class, and if we devote about one day a week to it, we’ll get
through the play by vacation time, and next term we’ll take up another.”
“But I can read it at home, can’t I?” asked Midget.
“Yes, if you like. But there will be much that you can’t understand. Our
study of it will branch out into Roman history in general, and the
manners and customs of ancient Rome, as well as the art and
architecture.”
“Oh, Miss Hart,” exclaimed Marjorie, “it is such fun to come to school
to you. It’s so different from regular school-work.”
“I’m glad you like it, dear, and I’m quite sure you’re learning as much
and as useful knowledge as is taught in the average school.”
“I know we are,” said Midget, with conviction. “I’ve been to regular
school, and I know all about it.”
With her precious Shakespeare book clasped tightly in her arm, Marjorie
ran home to luncheon.
“Oh, Miss Larkin,” she exclaimed, as they all sat at table, “did you
ever read Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar’?”
“Not all of it,” said Miss Larkin. “I don’t care much for his historical
plays. I think they’re heavy and uninteresting.”
“Oh, do you? Why, I don’t see how anything could be more interesting
than ‘Julius Cæsar.’ I’m going to read it right straight through this
afternoon.”
“Me, too,” said King. “Let me read with you, Midgie, won’t you?”
“Me, too,” said Rosy Posy; “me wead wiv Middy, too.”
“Count me out,” said Kitty. “I’m going over to Dorothy’s this
afternoon.”
And so, as baby Rosamond’s request was not taken seriously, King and
Marjorie settled themselves comfortably on the big divan in the
living-room, to enjoy their new-found treasure.
“Whew! it’s great stuff, isn’t it, Midget?” cried King, as they read
rapidly on, skipping what they couldn’t understand, but getting the gist
of the plot.
“Fine!” agreed Marjorie, as, with shining eyes and tumbled hair, she
galloped through the printed pages. “But what a shame to stab poor old
Cæsar just because it was the fifteenth of March!”
“Pooh! that wasn’t the only reason. And, anyway, if they hadn’t stabbed
him there wouldn’t have been any play at all!”
“That’s so. Unless they had stabbed somebody else. I say, King, let’s
play it ourselves.”
“’Course we will. It’s good to have a new play—I’m tired of Indians
every time. Shall we play it now?”
“Yep; Kitty’ll be home at five o’clock, and it’s ’most five now. See the
pictures; they all wear sheets.”
“They’re not really sheets, they’re tunics or togars, or whatever you
call ’em.”
“Toggas, I guess you say.”
“Yes; just like toggery. Well, you get some sheets, and I’ll make paper
soldier caps for helmets.”
“That will do for to-day; but we’ll play it better some other day, and
make good helmets with gilt paper or something.”
“All right; skip for the sheets.”
Marjorie flew for the sheets, and came back from the linen closet with
several. She brought also her Roman sash, which, she felt sure, would
add a fine touch of local color.
Kitty had arrived in the meantime, and though she had not read the play,
she was quite ready to take her part, and skimming over the book
hastily, announced:
“I’ll be Brutus; I think he’s the gayest one.”
“All right,” said King; “who’ll be Cæsar?”
“Let Rosy Posy be Cæsar,” said Marjorie. “He doesn’t do anything but get
killed. So that will be easy for her.”
The baby was called down from the nursery, and expressed great
willingness to be killed in the great cause.
As most of the Maynards’ games included a killing of some sort, they
were all used to it, and it held no horrors for them.
King was to be Antony, and Marjorie, Cassius, but they were also to
assume other parts when necessity arose.
It was, of course, only an initial performance, for the Maynards, when
they liked a new game, kept it up day after day, until they tired of it.
Much time was spent in adjusting their togas, and though all looked well
in the flowing white drapery, they agreed that Rosy Posy, bundled up in
a crib sheet, and with a gilt paper crown on her curly head, was easily
the noblest Roman of them all.
The first part of the play went well, the actors snatching a glance now
and then at the book, to get a high-sounding phrase to declaim.
Marjorie’s favorite was, “Help! ho! They murder Cæsar!” which she called
out at intervals, long before it was time for the fatal thrust.
Kitty liked the line, “The clock hath stricken three!” and used it
frequently, changing the time to suit the moment.
King thundered out, “Yond Cassius hath a lean and hungry look!” which,
when spoken at plump Marjorie, savored of the humorous.
However, the play went blithely on, each speaking in turn their own
words or Shakespeare’s, as the impulse moved them.
“Hey, Casca,” said Kitty, “what hath chanced to-day, that Cæsar looks so
sad?”
As Rosy Posy was at that moment rolling about in shouts of laughter, the
remark missed its point, but nobody cared.
“Beware the Ides of March!” roared Marjorie to the giggling Cæsar, and
Kitty chimed in:
“Ay; the clock hath stricken twenty minutes to six! Speak! strike!
redress!”
“Does that mean to dress over again?” asked King. “’Cause we haven’t
time now. We’ve just about time to kill Cæsar before dinner.”
“Come on, then,” said Marjorie; “we’ll have the killing scene now. King,
bring in the umbrella-stand for Pompey’s pillar.”
“Yes,” said King, “and we’ll put a sofa-pillar down here by it for Cæsar
to tumble onto, when he’s stabbed enough. Catch on, Rosy Posy? We’ll all
jab at you, you know, and then you must groan like sixty, and tumble all
in a heap right here.”
“Ess,” said the baby, eagerly; “me knows how. Me die booful.”
“Yes, Rosy Posy is an awful good dier,” said Kitty. “She tumbles
ker-flop and just lies still.”
This was high praise, for with the Maynards’ games of shooting Indians,
wild beasts, or captured victims, it was often difficult for the
martyred one to lie still without laughing.
“What’ll we use for daggers?” said Kitty.
“Here are two ivory paper-knives,” said King. “They can’t hurt the baby.
I don’t see any other, except this steel one, and that’s most too
sharp.”
“I’ll take that one,” said Kitty. “You and Mopsy are so crazy, you might
really jab her with it, but I won’t.”
This was true enough. King and Marjorie were too impetuous in their fun
to be trusted with the sharp-pointed paper-knife, but gentle little
Kitty never lost her head, and would carefully guard Rosy Posy from any
real harm, while seemingly as cruel and belligerent as the others.
“All right, then, here goes!” cried King. “Now, you march to the
umbrella-stand and stand there, Baby.”
Rosamond obediently toddled on her way, dragging her white draperies,
and taking her place as indicated, by the umbrella-stand.
King made the first charge, and, ignoring the text, he lunged at the
luckless Cæsar with his ivory dagger, while he gave voice to dire
maledictions.
Rosy Posy fell, though the weapon hadn’t touched her, and then Marjorie
came on to add her make-believe stabs to the wounds already given to the
valiant Cæsar. That martyred Roman lay with her eyes closed, ably
representing a stabbed Emperor, and Midget poked at her with the
paper-knife, without causing even a giggle on the part of the very
youthful actress.
“Now, Kit—Brutus, I mean—it’s your turn. Keep still, Baby, till Kitty
stabs you.”
“Ess,” said Rosy Posy, snuggling into the sofa pillows, and awaiting her
final dispatchment.
“Wait a minute,” said Kitty, who was poring over the book; “it says,
‘Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?’ I must take off my shoes.”
Kitty was nothing if not literal, so hastily unbuttoning her boots, she
flung them off, and a truly bootless Brutus knelt to add more stabs to
the defunct Cæsar. The sight of Kitty’s black-stockinged feet sticking
out from beneath the white draperies, as she knelt, was too much for
King, and silently moving toward her, he tickled the soles so temptingly
exposed. Kitty, though soulfully declaiming,
“Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid!”
was carefully guarding the point of her steel dagger from Rosy Posy’s
fat body, but when King tickled her feet, she gave an involuntary kick
and fell forward. The sharp steel plunged into the baby’s forearm, and
was followed by a spurt of blood and a piercing shriek from the child.
Kitty, at sight of the blood, gave a short groan and fainted dead away.
King sprang to pick up Rosy Posy, fairly rolling Kitty away to do so,
while Marjorie, with a scared, white face, screamed for Nannie, the
nurse.
In a moment every one in the house had rushed to them.
Nannie took the shrieking child from King’s arms, while Miss Larkin and
Marjorie bent over the unconscious Kitty.
Everything was bustle and confusion, but as Sarah brought warm water and
a sponge, and Nannie washed the little wounded arm, they found it was
only a deep, jagged scratch—bad enough, to be sure—but not a dangerous
hurt.
King had already telephoned for the doctor, and in the meantime they all
tried to restore Kitty to consciousness.
“She’s dead, I’m sure,” wailed Miss Larkin, wringing her hands, as she
looked at the still little figure lying on the floor. They had put a
pillow beneath her head, but Nannie advised them not to move her.
“Oh, no, Miss Larkin; don’t say that,” pleaded Marjorie; “I’m sure her
eye-winkers are fluttering. Wake up, wake up, Kitty dear; Baby’s all
right. Please wake up.”
But Kitty made no response, and Marjorie turned to throw her arms round
King’s neck, who stood by, looking the picture of hopeless woe.