Kitabı oku: «Judith Shakespeare: Her love affairs and other adventures», sayfa 12
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.
CHAPTER XVI.
BY THE RIVER
The next morning she was unusually demure, and yet merry withal. In her own chamber, as she chose out a petticoat of pale blue taffeta, and laid on the bed her girdle of buff-colored leather, and proceeded to array herself in these and other braveries, it was to the usual accompaniment of thoughtless and quite inconsequent ballad-singing. At one moment it was "Green-sleeves was all my joy," and again "Fair, fair, and twice so fair," or perhaps —
"An ambling nag, and a-down, a-down,
We have borne her away to Dargison."
But when she came to take forth from the cupboard of boxes the portion of the play she had locked up there the night before, and when she carefully placed that in a satchel of dark blue velvet that she had attached to the girdle, she was silent; and when she went down-stairs and encountered her mother, there was a kind of anxious innocence on her face. The good parson (she explained) had remained so late on the previous afternoon, and there were so many things about the house she had to attend to, that she had been unable to get out into the fields, as her father had bade her, to bring him home some wild flowers. Besides, as every one knew, large dogs got weak in the hind-legs if they were kept chained up too continuously; and it was absolutely necessary she should take Don Roderigo out for a run with her through the meadows, if her father would permit.
"There be plenty of flowers in the garden, surely," her mother said, who was busy with some leather hangings, and wanted help.
"But he would liefer have some of the little wildlings, good mother," said Judith. "That I know right well; for he is pleased to see them lying on the table before him; and sometimes, too, he puts the names of them in his writing."
"How know you that?" was the immediate and sharp question.
"As I have heard, good mother," Judith said, with calm equanimity.
And then she went to the small mirror to see that her gray velvet cap and starched ruff were all right.
"What can your father want with wild flowers if he is to remain the whole day at Warwick!" her mother said.
"Is my father gone to Warwick?" she asked, quickly.
"If he be not already set forth."
She glanced at the window; there was neither horse nor serving-men waiting there. And then she hastily went out and through the back yard into the garden; and there, sure enough was her father, ready booted for the road, and giving a few parting directions to his bailiff.
"Well, wench," he said, when he had finished with the man, "what would you?"
She had taken from her purse all the money she could find there.
"Good father," said she, "will you do this errand for me at Warwick?"
"More vanities?" said he. "I wonder you have no commissioner to despatch to Spain and Flanders. What is't, then? – a muff of satin – a gimmal ring – "
"No, no, not so, father; I would have you buy for me a clasp-knife – as good a one as the money will get; and the cutler must engrave on the blade, or on the handle, I care not which, a message – an inscription, as it were; 'tis but three words —For Judith's Sweetheart. Could you remember that, good father? Is't too much of a trouble?"
"How now?" said he. "For whom do you wish me to bring you such a token?"
"Nay, sir," said she, demurely, "would you have me name names? The gift of a sweetheart is a secret thing."
"You are a mad wench," said he (though doubtless he guessed for whom the knife was intended), and he called to Matthew gardener to go round and see if Master Shawe were not yet ready. "But now I bethink me, child, I have a message for thee. Good Master Walter spoke to me yesternight about what much concerns him – and you."
Instantly all her gay self-confidence vanished; she became confused, anxious, timid; and she regarded him as if she feared what his look or manner might convey.
"Yes, sir," she said, in rather a low voice.
"Well, you know what the good man wishes," her father said, "and he spoke fairly, and reasoneth well. Your mother, too, would be right well pleased."
"And you, sir?" she said, rather faintly.
"I?" said he. "Nay, 'tis scarce a matter that I can say aught in. 'Tis for yourself to decide, wench; but were you inclined to favor the young parson, I should be well pleased enough – indeed 'tis so – a good man and honest, as I take him to be, of fair attainment, and I know of none that bear him ill-will, or have aught to say against him. Nay, if your heart be set that way, wench, I see no harm; you are getting on in years to be still in the unmarried state; and, as he himself says, there would be security in seeing you settled in a home of your own, and your future no longer open and undecided. Nay, nay, I see no harm. He reasons well."
"But, father, know you why he would have me become his wife?" Judith said, with a wild feeling overcoming her that she was drowning and must needs throw out her hands for help. "'Tis for no matter of affection that I can make out – or that he might not as well choose any other in the town; but 'tis that I should help him in his work, and – and labor in the vineyard, as he said. In truth I am all unfit for such a task – there be many another far better fitted than I; my mother must know that right well. There is little that I would not do to please her; but surely we might all of us have just as much of the good man's company without this further bond. But what say you, father? What is your wish?" she added, humbly. "Perchance I could bring my mind to it if all were anxious that it should be so."
"Why, I have told thee, wench, thou must choose for thyself. 'Twould please your mother right well, as I say; and as for the duties of a parson's wife – nay, nay, they are none so difficult. Have no fears on that score, good lass; I dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded as most, though perchance you make less profession of it." (The gratitude that sprang to her eyes, and shone there, in spite of her downcast face!) "Nor must you think the good parson has but that end in view; 'tis not in keeping with his calling that he should talk the language of romance. And there is more for you to think of. Even if Master Blaise be no vehement lover, as some of the young rattlepates might be, that is but a temporary thing; 'tis the long years of life that weigh for the most; and all through these you would be in an honorable station, well thought of, and respected. Nay, there be many, I can tell thee, lass, that might look askance now at the player's daughter, who would be right glad to welcome the parson's wife."
"What say you, father?" said she – and she was so startled that the blood forsook her lips for a moment. "That – that there be those – who scorn the player's daughter – and would favor the parson's wife?" And then she instantly added: "I pray you, sir, did not you say that I was to decide for myself?"
"Truly, child, truly," said he, somewhat wondering at her manner, for her face had grown quite pale.
"Then I have decided, father."
"And how? What answer will you have for Master Walter?"
She spoke slowly now, and with a distinctness that was almost harsh.
"This, so please you, sir – that the player's daughter shall not, and shall never, become the parson's wife, God helping her!"
"Why, how now? what a coil is this!" he exclaimed. "Good lass, 'twas not the parson that said aught of the kind. Lay not that to his charge, in fair honesty."
"I have decided," she said proudly and coldly. "Father, the horses are brought round – I can hear them. You will not forget the knife, and the message on the blade?"
He looked at her, and laughed, but in a kindly way; and he took her by the shoulder.
"Nay, now, wench, thou shalt not throw over the good man for a matter that was none of his bringing forward. And why should you wish to have less than the respect of all your neighbors, all and sundry, whatever be their views? In good sooth I meant to speak for the parson, and not to harm him; and when I have more time I must undo the ill that I have done him. So soften your heart, you proud one, and be thankful for the honor he would do you; and think over it; and be civil and grateful."
"Nay, I will be civil enough to the good minister," said she, with a return to her ordinary placid humor, "if he speak no more of making me his wife."
"He will win you yet, for as stubborn as you are," her father said, with a smile. "He hath a rare gift of reason: do not say nay too soon, wench, lest you have to recall your words. Fare you well, lass, fare you well."
"And forget not the knife, good father. 'With Judith's Love,' or 'For Judith's Sweetheart,' or what you will." And then she added, daringly: "'Tis for the young prince Mamillius, if you must know, good sir."
He was just going away; but this caused him to stop for a second; and he glanced at her with a curious kind of suspicion. But her eyes had become quite inscrutable. Whatever of dark mischief was within them was not to be made out but by further questioning, and for that he had now no time. So she was left alone, mistress of the field, and rather inclined to laugh at her own temerity; until it occurred to her that now she could go leisurely forth for her stroll along the banks of the Avon, taking the great dog with her.
Indeed, her anger was always short-lived. Or perhaps it was the feeling that this danger was got rid of – that the decision was taken, and the parson finally and altogether left behind her – that now raised her spirits. At all events, as she went along the thoroughfare, and cheerfully greeted those that met her, the neighbors said 'twas little wonder that Master William Shakespeare's second daughter put off the choosing of a mate for herself, for that she seemed to grow younger and more winsome every day. And she knew all the children by name, and had a word for them – scolding or merry, as the case might be – when that she passed them by; and what with the clear sunlight of the morning, and the fresher atmosphere as she got out of the town, it seemed to herself as if all the air were filled with music.
"Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,"
she said or sung to herself; and she had not a trace of ill-will in her mind against the parson (although she did not fail to recollect that she was a player's daughter); and she was admonishing the Don to take good care of her, for that phantom conspirators and such like evil creatures might be about. And so she got down to the river-side; but she did not cross; she kept along by the path that followed the windings of the stream, between the wide meadows and the luxurious vegetation that overhung the current.
This English-looking landscape was at its fairest on this fair morning, for some heavy rain in the night had washed the atmosphere clear; everything seemed sharp and luminous; and the rows of trees along the summits of the distant and low-lying hills were almost black against the white and blue sky. Nearer her all the foliage of the wide-branching elms was stirring and rustling before a soft westerly breeze; the flooded river was of a tawny brown; while its banks were a wilderness of wild flowers between the stems of the stunted willows – straggling rose-bushes of white and red, tall masses of goose-grass all powdered over with cream-white blossom, a patch of fragrant meadow-sweet here and there, or an occasional blood-red poppy burning among the dark, dull greens. And as for companions? Well, she caught a glimpse of a brood of ducks sidling along by the reeds, and tried to follow them, but the bushes shut them out from her sight. A mare and her foal, standing under the cool shadow of the trees, gazed blankly at her as she passed. Further off there were some shorn sheep in the meadows; but she could see no shepherd. The harsh note of the corn-crake sounded somewhere in the long grass; and the bees were busy; and now and again a blue-backed swallow would swoop by her and over the stream; while all around there was a smell of clover sweetening the westerly wind. At this moment, she convinced herself, she bore no ill-will at all against the good parson: only that she had it in her mind that she would be well content to remain a player's daughter. Her condition, she imagined, was one that she did not desire to have bettered. Why, the air that touched her cheek was like velvet; and there could be nothing in the world fairer than the pink and white roses bestarring the bushes there; and the very pulse of her blood seemed to beat to an unheard and rhythmical and subtle tune. What was it her father had said? "I dare be sworn you are as honest and well-minded as most, though perchance you make less profession of it." She laughed to herself, with a kind of pride. And she was so well content that she wished she had little Willie Hart here, that she might put her hand on his shoulder and pet him, and convey to him some little of that satisfaction that reigned within her own bosom. No matter; he should have the clasp-knife – "With Judith's Love;" and right proud he would be of that, she made sure. And so she went idly on her way, sometimes with coming uncalled for into her head; and always with an eye to the various wild flowers, to see what kind of a nosegay she would be able to gather on her homeward walk.
"Fair, fair, and twice so fair,
And fair as any may be,"
But by and by her glances began to go further afield. Master Leofric Hope, in his brief references to his own habits and condition at the farm, had incidentally remarked that of all his walks abroad he preferred the following of the path by the river-side; for there he was most secure from observation. Nay, he said that sometimes, after continued solitude, a longing possessed him to see a town – to see a populated place filled with a fair number of his fellow-creatures – and that he would come within sight of Stratford itself and have a look at the church, and the church spire, and the thin blue smoke rising over the houses. That, he said, was safer for him than coming over such an exposed thoroughfare as Bardon Hill; and then again, when he was of a mind to read – for this time he had brought one or two books with him – he could find many a sheltered nook by the side of the stream, where even a passer-by would not suspect his presence. Nor could Judith, on this fresh, warm, breezy morning, conceal from herself the true object of her coming forth. If she had tried to deceive herself, the contents of the blue velvet satchel would have borne crushing testimony against her. In truth she was now looking with some eagerness to find whether, on such a pleasant morning, it was possible that he could have remained within-doors, and with the very distinct belief that sooner or later she would encounter him.
Nor was she mistaken, though the manner of the meeting was unexpected. The mastiff happened to have gone on a yard or two in front of her, and she was paying but little attention to the beast, when all of a sudden it stopped, became rigid, and uttered a low growl. She sprang forward and seized it by the collar. At the same instant she caught sight of some one down by the water's edge, where, but for this occurrence, he would doubtless have escaped observation. It was Leofric Hope, without a doubt; for now he was clambering up through the bushes, and she saw that he had a small book in his hand.
"My good fortune pursues me, fair Mistress Judith," said he (but with a watchful eye on the dog), "that I should so soon again have an opportunity of meeting with you. But perchance your protector is jealous? He likes not strangers?"
"A lamb, sir – a very lamb!" Judith said, and she patted the dog and coaxed him, and got him into a more friendly – or at least neutral and watchful – frame of mind.
"I marvel not you have come forth on such a morning," said he, regarding the fresh color in her face. "'Tis a rare morning; and 'tis a rare chance for one that is a prisoner, as it were, that his dungeon is not four walls, but the wide spaces of Warwickshire. Will you go further? May I attend you?"
"Nay, sir," said she, "I but came forth to look at the country, and see what blossoms I could carry back to my father; I will go as far as the stile there, and rest a few minutes, and return."
"'Tis like your kindness, sweet lady, to vouchsafe me a moment's conversation; a book is but a dull companion," said he, as they walked along to the stile that formed part of a boundary hedge. And when they reached it she seated herself on the wooden bar with much content, and the mastiff lay down, stretching out his paws, while the young gentleman stood idly – but not carelessly – by. He seemed more than ever anxious to interest his fair neighbor, and so to beguile her into remaining.
