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Shakespeare and the heart of a child
KEEP THIS BOOK CLEAN
Borrowers finding this book pencil-marked, written upon, mutilated
or unwarrantably defaced, are expected to report it to the librarian.
hakespeare and the
Heart of a Child
BY
GERTRUDE SLAUGHTER
Two CHILDREN IN OLD PARIS
SHAKESPEARE AND THE HEART
OF A CHILD
WITO PORJLY
Shakespeare and
The Heart of a Child
By
Gertrude Slaughter
AUTHOR OF
"TWO CHILDREN IN OLD PARIS"
Illustrated by
Eric Pape
The Macmillan Company
1928
All rights reserved
COPYRIGHT, 1922,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1922.
Reissued August, 1928.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY
THE BERWICK & SMITH CO.
PROPERTY OF THE
CITY OF NEW YOBK
Prologue
The little girl who is the subject of this book was a child of
freedom. Although she loved Shakespeare with an ever-growing
affection, she was never tied to books. Her first desire always
was to "explore," whether in the attic at home, or in the woods and
fields, or in strange cities, or in books.
Her earliest explorations were out-of-doors. She had that close
intimacy with nature which only children and poets may possess.
When she was a mere baby she would trudge about for hours hold-
ing some cherished blossom or some green leaf tipped with red clasped
tight in her little hand, content to watch and listen and finding
every moment some new thing to admire. She was sensitive to
nature's moods. The wind was her playfellow on boisterous days;
on a sultry, cloudy morning, she whispered, "It listens like rain."
And, at a later age, she declared, "Everybody who is well and can
be out-of-doors must be perfectly happy."
But to separate' 'nature iroai hi'ir^n life is as unnatural to chil-
dren as to poers. ' To tSis child* and Her little sister, the sea held
strange stories and 'the* woods were hung with mysteries. They
had their fairy houoe in the heaYest pine grove, where seashells gath-
ered the dew for; the tainea' baths 'and pigeon vines wreathed the
magic circle where they came every night to dance, and stones and
ferns formed grottoes for their conclaves. When the old seal who
had looked at them so often, with dripping whiskers, from the
rocks in the bay was rolled up dead on the shore, their thoughts flew
to the little ones left behind, under the waves, and they chanted
vi Prologue
"The White Seal's Lullaby," hoping in their hearts that the baby
seals were cuddled down comfortably,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.
Everything around them was alive; and their interest was in life,
Shakespeare was the natural transition. When you are on friendly
terms with Pan, you are ready for Puck and Ariel ; and the horse-
men riding upon the clouds above the streets of Rome, ghosts, and
the weird sisters on the heath have a fearful fascination for you.
And when, with the same convincing truth, living men and women
are revealed to you, clothed in reality yet floating in an atmos-
phere of romance, set in bright scenes "fresh to all ages," where
high decorum stands up beside burlesque and jollity and the ways
of courtly life are made manifest through the smiles and tears of
men and women who speak strangely beautiful words, and yet are
true to life, — what is left to be desired? For every child loves
a good story with a natural passion. Every child is moved by
tragedy and humor, and cares not how close they touch each other.
And every child feels the power of the mighty line and the inevitable
phrase.
This child who dwelt with Shakespeare loved people with an in-
tensity which only Shakespeare could describe. Her friends were
of all ages and conditions. 'Aitho"ug:H,so'i£nd 6'f- the out-of-doors,
trt*» * (,**** * ' *
that once, when she was confined' to the house by some slight illness,
she asked for some of "the ground; ^thosfe^How^rs grew in" so that
she could "smell the dear, good earth,*" Ve't her life revolved around
t . . • • ' * J t-> * ,* •
people and her friends were se]*dorti -.a^seTi^ from her thoughts.
* 4> 4 <> t *"
When she was but two years old, the neighbors' brought her birth-
day gifts; and when, at the end of the day, some one asked her
what presents she had received, she named, instead, the persons who
had brought them.
Little by little the people of Shakespeare, filling a larger world
Prologue vii
than she could know, became as real to her as her friends. That was
the great gift he brought her.
Titian once made a little girl the center of a brilliant scene. As
the demure child, with her long, straight braid, mounts the Temple
steps in "The Presentation of the Virgin," the people linger in the
streets, lords and ladies shine resplendent under the rich colon-
nades, the life of the city pauses for a moment in a solemn hush
and then goes on as before. But the child is indifferent to it all.
Intent upon her task, as with a sort of prescience of what awaits
her, she walks with slow, sure step, in all the dignity of innocence,
into the Holy of Holies. And as I look at her, seeing in her not
so much the Virgin with her special mission as any child climbing
up to his initiation into the mysteries of life, I cannot but think
that, when she has entered into the secret of the sanctuary and come
forth again, she will be aware of the old egg woman who sat by
the stairs unobserved as she entered ; she will be concerned with
the lives of the lords and ladies moving about; her interests will
reach out through the courts and streets that lead away from the
church into the busy city. She will come back from the heavenly
vision with a new understanding of the world.
In the same way many a child has entered into Shakespeare's
Temple of the human spirit and come forth charged with a knowl-
edge far beyond his present or his future experience. It cannot
all happen on. a summer day. Step by step, slowly and serenely,
under a clear sky, the child approaches by pleasant ways to an
understanding of life. And if he finds in the revelation the tragedy
of sin and self-seeking, he finds himself, in spite of that, in a de-
lightful world — a world of great achievement and great failures,
now and again forgotten in great laughter, — a world where it is good
to be alive. And a sane and healthy joy of life is entrenched in
the child's mind against the blows of fortune by the beauty of the
medium through which the world has been revealed.
I
Contents
Shakespeare by the Sea
CHAPTER PAGE
I. On the Headland 3
II. Songs and Stories ll
III. Twelfth Night or What You Will 21
IV. A Boy and a Festival 37
V. An Enchanted Island 49
VI. Under the Great Tree 65
Shakespeare in Italy
VII. The Home of the Caesars 79
VIII. The Fairies in Rome 86
IX. Florentine Legends 97
X. Juliet's Garden 106
XI. The Poet's Venice "4
x Contents
Shakespeare in France
CHAP TEH j>AGE
XII. A Voyage of Discovery 129
XIII. In Old Anjou 137
XIV. Bluff King Hal 149
XV. At Rheims 156
In Shakespeare's Country
XVI. Stratford-on-Avon 171
XVII. Warwick and Kenilworth 197
With Shakespeare at Home
XVIII. THE NEW WORLD 217
XIX. On Horseback 227
XX. A Day in London 233
XXI. Rehearsals 242
XXII. The Players 248
Comedy
daunces
e/raqedi/
List of Illustrations
"Argosies with Portly Sail"
. Frontispiece
The Kitchen in the House where Shakespeare Was Born,
April 23, 1564 ............
PAGE
The Site of "New Place," at the Corner of Chapel Street and
Scholar's Lane, Opposite the Guild Chapel and the
Tavern .............. 148
Chapel of the Guild of the Holy Cross and the Grammar
School at Stratford-on-Avon
175
178
Birthplace of William, Third Child and Eldest Son of John
and Mary Arden Shakespeare ........ 186
XI
Xll
List of Illustrations
PAGE
A Desk Traditionally Reported to Have Been that which
Shakespeare Used at the Grammar School 188
An Old Cornmill in Shakespeare's Country 192
The Ann Hathaway Cottage 195
William Shakespeare 206
Puppet Play Bill with Quaint Advertisement 238
rg
of- <Je.fer in T^e
/7cmeo
hakespeare
the Sea
by
CHAPTER I
N THE HEADLAND
nd thereby hangs a tale.
Jacques ("As You Like It")
M awfully sorry for kings," said Barbara. She
was a tall, slender girl of twelve, with clear,
dark eyes that were merry and serious by turns.
Just now they were serious for a moment, as
she pushed back the dark hair which the wind
blew in loose curls about her face. She had thrown
herself down on the grassy headland, just below the
house, between the woods and the sea. Uncle Waldo
was beside her, propped up on a wicker couch, with a book
in his hand. His beard was as white as his hair, but his
3
4 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
cheeks were rosy like Barbara's and he had a boyish smile
as he turned toward her, laying the book open on his knee.
"And why are you sorry for kings, Barbara? Is it be-
cause they are out of fashion nowadays? I am glad there
is some one who can still be sorry for them. The world is
not safe for kings to-day."
"Well, that king was not safe in Macbeth's castle, was
he, Uncle Waldo? I was thinking of the kings we read
about in Shakespeare. I was listening when you were read-
ing aloud this morning — about that King Henry, when
he couldn't sleep, and he got up and walked around in
his nightgown and wished he could be a sailor boy sleeping
out in the storm, way up on the mast, because he had so
many worries he couldn't sleep on his soft bed. And he
said — I heard you saying it over and over to yourself —
'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.'
Just then Peggy came climbing up from the beach, her
sturdy legs bare and sunburnt, her gown wet halfway to her
arms, her golden hair flying in the wind, her eyes as blue
as the sea behind her. She was three years younger than
Barbara — and she was always doing things.
'Why didn't you come wading, Sister?" she asked, sitting
down and spreading out her dress to dry in the sun.
"Barbara likes to stay still once in a while and talk to
an old man," said Uncle Waldo. "She was just beginning
to tell me why she is so sorry for kings."
'Why are you, Sister?" Peggy looked amazed.
'Wouldn't you like to be a princess?"
"Well, perhaps," she hesitated. "But I wouldn't be a
On the Headland 5
king for worlds." And she repeated, " 'Uneasy lies the
head that wears a crown.'
"I suppose crowns are heavy," observed Peggy, "but
why do they have to wear them when they are lying down?"
Barbara smiled and Uncle Waldo laughed outright. "At
any rate," he said, "Henry IV took his off and put it on
the bed beside him. Did you hear that part, Barbara? —
about how the Prince, the wild and naughty Prince Hal,
came in and took it up and set it on his own head and de-
clared that if all the world were one great giant it should
not take it off again."
"Sounds as if he wanted to be a king," said Peggy.
"Oh, yes! they always wanted to," Uncle Waldo agreed,
and Peggy went on :
"I'm not sorry for them. They can live in grand palaces
and have everything they want. I'm sorry for beggars and
poor little orphans. I'm not sorry for kings."
"Everything they want!" repeated Uncle Waldo. "And
do you think that would make them happy?"
"Well, then," she argued, "how about
The world is so full of a number of things
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings?"
"And a great deal happier I" Uncle Waldo exclaimed.
"I rather think it means that."
"Perhaps it means good kings," suggested Barbara, add-
ing quickly, "Oh no ! because Duncan was a good king and
Macbeth killed him just the same."
"Did the naughty Prince Hal ever get to be a king?"
asked Peggy.
6 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
"Oh, yes," answered Barbara. "He was Henry V.
That's the only one of Shakespeare's plays about real his-
tory kings that I've read. He was a good king — the best
in the world wasn't he, Uncle Waldo? But I don't see
why he wanted to go over and conquer France. If it hadn't
been for Joan of Arc "
Peggy interrupted. "Well, then," she remarked, with
an air of relief, "the bad boys don't always grow up to be
bad men. I wonder if Ned Locke will grow up to be a
good man. He is always playing the worst tricks."
'Just like Prince Hal," threw in Uncle Waldo.
"He never likes real games for two minutes, does he,
Sister?"
"He likes to swear pretty well," said Barbara. "Didn't
he swear that day that Susan Wright stopped him? She
said, 'You can swear as much as you like for all I care.
But you mustn't do it before Peggy and Barbara. They're
not used to it.' It sounded so funny because she is such
a little tot. I guess there are plenty of swear words in
Shakespeare — not the ones he used, though."
'I'd break a thousand oaths to reign one year,' ' quoted
Uncle Waldo. "That was a different kind of an oath,
however. One of Shakespeare's boys said that to his father
who claimed the throne. And his brother, the youth who
was afterward Richard III, agreed with him, saying,
And, father, do but think
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,
Within whose circle is Elysium
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.
On the Headland 7
But the king who was on the throne wailed,
O God ! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain
To sit upon a hill
And that same youth who was Richard III cried out in
despair, just before he was killed, when he was surrounded
by his enemies,
A horse! A horse! my kingdom for a horse!
And Henry V, you know "
A whistle sounded through the trees. 'That's Tom,"
said Peggy, and she was off in a twinkling.
The two lovers of Shakespeare were left.
Uncle Waldo had spent nearly all the leisure hours of
a busy life fishing for trout in the northern woods and
reading Shakespeare. He had won all the honors of his
profession in the Middle West, where he had gone as a
boy nearly eighty years ago. But he had acquired just two
possessions of which he was really proud, his collection of
trout flies and his Shakespeare library. He sometimes wore
a shabby coat, but there were no shabby volumes in that
library, though many were worn with age and use. And he
had stored up wit and wisdom while he was collecting the
rare editions on his shelves.
"Go on, Uncle Waldo," said Barbara, when they were
alone. But he remained silent and she began,
"Aunt Margaret was telling me the other day about the
8 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
king in Shakespeare who came to the throne when he was
a little boy. And as he grew up he hated being king, be-
cause he wanted to read and study. She said being a king
was his job, and he ought to have tried harder to do it
well, even if he didn't like it. You have to stick to your
job whatever you do.
"I love to talk to aunt Margaret. She always knows what
you mean. Some people look so queer if you begin to talk
about Miranda or Juliet or Brutus. And Isabel Estes said
the other day, 'They're not real people.' They are real
people, though. Now let's read. I'll go and get my tennis
racket first and have it ready when Isabel comes."
Uncle Waldo always liked to have Barbara read Shake-
speare to him. He liked to watch her face while she read,
slowly, in her clear voice, the lines he had loved so long.
They were fresh to her, and he had known them so many
years! It was when he first discovered that she liked it,
too, that they had begun to be friends. When the family
had urged him to spend this summer with them in their
cottage by the sea, Barbara had helped them by saying, "We
can read Shakespeare, Uncle Waldo." Barbara's friends
were of all kinds, from the big red setter, who had been lying
beside her and now followed her into the house, to Uncle
Waldo.
When she came back the old man was watching for her
and the red setter was still at her heels. "I suppose you
would rather be a banished duke in the Forest of Arden
than a king," he said. "Shall we read this?" and he handed
her a copy of "As You Like It."
On the Headland 9
That was a play she knew. It was one of her favorites;
and of course it was better every time you read it. The
merry-hearted Rosalind; Celia, the perfect friend; their
faithful Touchstone; Orlando, hanging his verses on
boughs; and the melancholy Jacques; — how she did enjoy
them all !
After a while her voice grew tired. She dropped the
book in her lap and fell to thinking. Uncle Waldo did
not interrupt her thoughts. She looked up at a sea gull,
floating on the wind, and out across the water, ruffled into
curly waves, and went on thinking, thinking
Suddenly she caught sight of a tall, white sail and two
jibs, full set. "It's the 'Sunshine!' ' she cried, jumping up.
I'd like to go down to the wharf and meet Mother and
Daddy and hear about it. I wonder if they got to the
Isle au Haut this time. They've gone on three cruises to
that island and never got there yet!"
"Run along," said Uncle Waldo.
"But you'll be alone."
"Never mind. Jacques and I will be here when you get
back."
"I'll stop for Ethel. Good-bye."
Uncle Waldo was sorry her thoughts had been inter-
rupted. But they were not, in reality. She kept on
thinking all the way to the wharf and later, on the tennis
court, and through the evening until bedtime. She was no
longer thinking about Shakespeare's kings. She had for-
gotten about them. When her mother bade her good
night — out on the porch, where the scent of fir balsam
io Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
mingled with the salty smell from the sea — Barbara sur-
prised her mother by saying,
"It was lovely for Rosalind and Celia in the Forest of
Arden, wasn't it?"
"What do you mean?" asked her mother. "Being in
the beautiful forest together?"
"No, I mean just being together and being such good
faithful friends."
"It was like you and Peggy, here in these woods and on
the beach," replied her mother. "I am sure Rosalind and
Celia could not go swimming in the Forest of Arden."
She smiled. "But, Mother, it would be wonderful to
be friends like that, — to have one first, own, dearest friend.
I think it would be nicer than being a princess."
"But you have ever so many friends, my dear; here, in
the summer, and at Hampton, in the winter, surely enough
for one little girl."
"Yes, I know. I love them all — that is, most of them.
Everything is all right. Good night, dearest Mumsie."
But still she was not quite satisfied, and she fell asleep
wondering if there were not something else about being
friends.
CHAPTER II
SONGS AND STORIES
Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Song ("The Winter's Tale")
ARBARA could not remember when she had
first begun to read Shakespeare. She knew
the songs long before she knew the plays, —
away back in the days of the "Child's Garden
of Verses" when she had loved any poetry that
sang itself like lullabies or moved along as if it marched or
danced to some pleasing tune. And when it came to be
ii
12 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Peggy's turn to learn the songs, Barbara could often tell
her the stories to which they belonged.
Even then she hardly knew that they were Shakespeare's
stories. They belonged with fairy tales and "Alice in
Wonderland," among things that were given to you as a
matter of course, along with food and flowers and the blue
sky. You took them, enjoyed them, and asked no questions.
She would rock her doll to sleep to scraps of the songs,
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bow.
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby —
set to tunes of her own and never twice the same. And
on rainy days there was often a strange medley of verses,
comic and serious, mixed with the games and stories that
whiled away the time; especially in the country, where the
house had no nursery and but one fireplace, and the "family
circle" was a lively scene. They could be quiet for a time,
cutting and pasting and doing various things with their
hands. But very soon they seemed to grow hungry for
noise. If other children came in, there would be a romp.
If not, they would sing out nursery rhymes and jingles from
the "Nonsense Book," or anything they knew, raising their
voices louder and louder to see which one would come out
on top at the end. And no other nonsense went better at
that game than
Most friendship is feigning,
Most loving mere folly,
Then heigh! Ho! the holly!
Songs and Stories 13
And often at bedtime Barbara would ask her mother to sing
to the "real tunes"
O mistress mine, where art thou roaming?
or
Who is Sylvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
She had read some stories from Shakespeare, but she
did not go back to them again and again as she did to the
plays themselves when once she had found her way to them.
For she liked the sound of Shakespeare's words. The
stories seemed dull without those words. It was not neces-
sary to understand always everything they meant. You
could understand enough to enjoy what you were reading;
and, as more of the meaning came to you every time you
read the lines, there were always new pleasures in store for
you.
Those were the days when Barbara was fascinated by
"The Lady of Shalott." There was a kind of magic in
Tennyson's words, too, though so different from Shake-
speare's. She would repeat them over and over, in a low,
chanting voice, for her own amusement. And because she
was already beginning to discover that "acting plays" was
about the best game that could be invented, she would ar-
range the scene of the room in the castle tower, with the
mirror and the web and the loom; and there, dressed in
long, flowing robes, she would recite the verses to what-
ever family or friends were at hand for audience, while
Peggy, in her short gown with her light curls hanging about
14 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
her face and her big blue eyes looking very serious, would
pace to and fro, representing
Up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
and "bold Sir Lancelot" in his "brazen greaves" and all the
rest of the gay world.
Barbara's mother would often read her some part of one
of Shakespeare's plays, and she would take the book after-
ward and read what came before and after. If she could
find any one to listen, she would read aloud. If not, she
would read aloud just the same, to herself. And before
she knew it she had read the whole play.
She had a good friend who lived next door to their house
in Hampton, which was Barbara's winter home, a friend
of her mother's whom Barbara called Aunt Caroline.
Often, when she was left to herself, Barbara would run
across to Aunt Caroline with her little book in her hand,
and after she had given her a big hug, she would say, "Aunt
Caroline, let's read Shakespeare." And Aunt Caroline
would answer amiably, "Very well, Barbara, let's!" Then
Barbara would pull out from the corner the little chair in
which she always sat and, while Aunt Caroline went on
with her sewing, Barbara would read to her heart's content.
Aunt Caroline never interrupted, as some people did, just
when the lines were marching in their grandest way. Some-
times Barbara would stop to ask how to pronounce a word,
while her eyes would shine with eagerness to be getting on.
She seldom asked about the meaning of things. Aunt
Caroline was often glad she didn't! But she would say to
Songs and Stories 15
herself, "I believe the child understands it in her own way.
She reads it as if she understood."
Sometimes she would skip the prose passages to hurry on
to the blank verse. But not always. One day when they
were reading "A Midsummer Night's Dream" they both
laughed so much over Bottom and his company, while
Barbara tried to mimic the clown's 'Thiswe, Thiswe!" in
a "monstrous little voice," so that Barbara stopped and
rolled over on the floor, and they read no more that day.
For Peggy and Barbara, as it has been for countless
children since the world began, the hour between supper
and bedtime was the hour for stones. If Mother was
there at that precious time — doubly precious because it
must end so soon — Peggy was sure to ask for "stories
about when you were a little girl" or for "the story your
mother used to tell you about the little girl bleaching linen."
Barbara preferred the gods and goddesses and the fairies
and far-away legends and myths and miracles. Peggy liked
these, too, but she wanted to come back often to stories she
could understand perfectly about people such as she knew.
Barbara reveled in mysteries that could not be explained
and strange and beautiful events.
Sometimes Barbara told the story herself while Mother
and Peggy listened. And one evening, while they sat in
the bow of the window that looked out through the fir
trees to the sea, she turned toward her mother, seized her
hand with one of her quick little gestures, and said,
1 6 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
"Mother, what do you think I found in Shakespeare
to-day?"
"What did you find in Shakespeare to-day?"
"I found the story about the beautiful Princess who was
lost in the forest — she was dressed in a boy's clothes, don't
you remember?"
"Oh, yes!" replied her mother. 'You mean the story of
Cymbeline."
"It's called that, but / think it's the story of Imogen,"
replied Barbara. She leaned back, and went on as if talk-
ing to herself, "She was dreadfully tired and hungry, and
she came to a cave and walked inside and found something
to eat there. Just then the old man and his two sons who
lived in the cave came back — he called them his sons, but
they were really princes and the brothers of this lovely
lady — and when they saw her, they said, 'But that it eats
our victuals I should think here were a fairy.' And she
offered them money for the food and they said money was
no better than dirt."
"Oh!" exclaimed Peggy, "did they take the food away
from her?"
"Of course not ! They gave her everything she wanted."
"Money would not be worth much in the forest, you
know," said Mother.
'They loved her right away," Barbara continued. "One
of them said he would always love her like a brother — of
course he said 'him,' because he thought she was a boy and
she told him her name was Fidele when it was really
Imogen."
Songs and Stories 17
"How did she get there, Sister?" asked Peggy. "Please
tell it all from the beginning."
"Well!" Barbara took a long breath. "I don't know
it all. I read some of it with Aunt Caroline and she told
me some of it — it's a little bit like Snow White — and —
anyway, Imogen had a wicked stepmother who was the
Queen and made all the trouble. She pretended to be so
sweet and kind and so nice to Imogen, and really she was a
cruel, bad woman. She did everything for her own son — and
he was even worse than she was — he was dreadful! First,
the Queen had Imogen's dear husband banished, and then
she gave some poison to Imogen's servant and told him it
was good medicine and if Imogen was ever sick it would
make her well. Anyway, she thought it was poison but it
wasn't really. It only put you to sleep and made you seem
like dead for a while — a few days or so.
"Now let me see what happened next. Oh, yes!
Imogen's husband went off to Italy and got into a quarrel
with some men about who was the best and truest woman.
And Imogen's husband (I have forgotten his name) swore
that Imogen was the most beautiful and the best and purest
of them all."
"And was she, Sister?" Peggy interrupted.
"Of course she was! Wait, and you'll see. One of
those men swore that he could prove that she was not.
And Imogen's husband said that if he did he would give
him the wonderful ring that his wife gave him when he
left England. ... So this man went to the palace and
met Imogen and tried to make her believe bad things about
1 8 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
her husband. But she would not. She wouldn't listen to
him! So then he hid himself inside of a trunk that was
carried into Imogen's bedroom, and in the night, when she
was asleep, he crept out and looked all around, so that he
could remember things, to show her husband that he had
been there, and he stole the bracelet on her arm, and then
slipped out and went back to Rome, and made her husband
think that she had given it to him."
"Well, what if she had?" asked Peggy.
"Because it was the bracelet he had given her, and to
give it away meant that she was false and loved the other
man. The poor man didn't know what to do. He thought
Imogen had forgotten about him and wasn't good and true
after all. He thought she was terribly wicked. He was
so angry that he sent word to the servant he had left to
look after her and commanded him to kill her."
"Oh !" cried Peggy. "He was wicked ! How could he ?"
"Well, he did; and the servant took her away to kill
her, but he couldn't do it. She was so good and so beauti-
ful, he just couldn't do it. He told her about her husband's
letter, and then her heart was broken. She couldn't be-
lieve it; and she begged the servant to kill her right away.
But he said that her husband was coming to England with
the Roman army, and told her that he could give her some
boy's clothes to put on and she could go to the city where
he would land and maybe she could find him and tell him
that it was all a falsehood."
Barbara paused. "Go on, Sister," urged Peggy.
"He said she would have to be very brave, and she was.
Songs and Stories 19
She walked and walked, and slept on the ground, all alone
in the woods. And at last she came to that cave. She
stayed there — they were so kind to her — and cooked for
those boys and the old man, and they thought she cooked
awfully well ! He had stolen those princes, because he was
angry with the King. But he was sorry afterward, and so
he treated them like his own sons and taught them every-
thing. They were as polite and nice as princes, — they were
princes, but they never knew it. Why, when one of them
came in from hunting and found Imogen asleep, he took off
his boots so as not to disturb her — wasn't that pretty good
for a boy brought up in the wild woods? . . . But she was
so fast asleep that nothing could wake her up; and bye and
bye he was frightened. So he tried to wake her up. And
he couldn't, and then he was sure she was dead.
"He carried her out of the cave in his arms and met the
others coming home, and he said, 'The bird is dead that
we have made so much of,' or something like that. You
see the servant had given her the Queen's medicine, and
she took it because she did not feel very well that day. The
three men were sad, because they loved her very much.
They covered her up with leaves of the forest and sang
lovely songs over her and promised to bring her all the
flowers they knew, all the ones they liked best in the woods.
'Well, then the Roman army came, and she was not there
to meet her husband. She was found in the woods, after
she woke up. One of the generals found her, and when
he was made a prisoner, she went with him to the King's
court. And the two boys were there, too, because they and
2O Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
the old man had fought so well, they had saved the King's
army. It all came out beautifully at the end. Imogen's
husband was there, and he found out the truth about his
dear wife, and she threw her arms around his neck and
forgave him. And the King had his sons back, and they
were so glad to find out that the 'sweet rosy lad' was not
dead after all, and that he was their own sister, Imogen.
Of course the wicked man who got into the trunk was
there, too, and he told them what he had done, and every-
body knew what a perfect lady she was. The Queen and
her son were dead, and now Imogen could be happy."
Peggy had nestled up against her mother's shoulder
while they listened. Now she rose and stretched herself
and said, in a comfortable, sleepy voice, "That is a nice
story, Sister."
Barbara looked out of the window and murmured:
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages,
that's what her brothers sang when they covered her with
flowers. But she was only asleep after all."
CHAPTER III
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
WONDERFUL, wonderful, and most won-
derful wonderful ! and yet again wonderful,
and after that, out of all hoping!"
Barbara shouted it on the terrace, and to
Peggy, who heard it through the upstairs
window, these were not the words of Celia
to Rosalind, but only Barbara's way, well-known to Peggy,
of announcing something pleasant. She rushed to the win-
dow and called out, "What is it, Sister? What is it?"
"A lovely plan! Come downstairs, quick!"
21
22 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Peggy fairly leaped down the steps, to find Barbara on
the landing, already explaining:
"We are going up to the lobster pound with Uncle Fred
in the 'Mumps' — the tide is just right — and we can take
turns paddling in the bow. And on the way back Uncle
Fred is going to leave us at Aunt Jane's, and we are going
to stay there all night, and sleep out-of-doors, and have
breakfast on the porch — and pick blueberries — and to-
morrow some of the grown-ups are coming up through the
trail and have lunch with us in the sheep-pasture — and the
'Sunshine' is coming to take us sailing — and a lot of things.
And — oh, well, you know what fun it always is at Aunt
Jane's."
"Hoop-la! Can we start right away?"
"As soon as we pack our bag. We've got on our middies
and woolen skirts, so that's all right. And we can take our
bathing suits; and Mother says to be sure and not forget
our toothbrushes."
The little bag was soon packed and they were gliding
up the Skillings River in the canoe, — the good, old, safety
sponson which Mother, wishing to class it with their
friends' sailboats, the "Sunshine" and the "Moonbeam,"
had named the "Starlight," but which, on account of the
ungainly chambers that swelled from its sides, had been
christened by Daddy, irreverently and irrevocably, the
"Mumps."
The Skillings River was really no river at all but an arm
of the sea that made into the land between rugged shores,
bending around the hills and headlands, and widening out
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 23
in some places into what seemed like mountain lakes em-
bedded in great stretches of unbroken forest. As they
paddled inland, a line of pale blue hills lay across the
headwaters in front of them, and, behind them, the hills
of Mount Desert and smaller islands called the Porcupines
shut off the open sea.
To-day the air was so quiet that every rock along the
shore was doubled in the water, making strange shapes, as
of great horned skeletons that might have been left there
since prehistoric ages. There were giant tortoises that had
drawn head and feet inside their bony shells; and long,
crooked dragons, stretching out their pointed tails and
rounding up their backs into fantastic coils, warted and
knotted, rough with green bristles, and speckled with red
and yellow spots. At first the huge-ribbed creatures seemed
to be stalking their prey — now it was strange that they
should be so motionless. They must be enchanted by the
magic of the summer day: for everywhere around them
was a blue and silent peace. Not a boat nor a human
creature anywhere. Only a group of cranes stood, as still
as the water, on a sandy beach; and now and then a flock
of gulls, looking like snowballs as you came near their
resting place, would spread their wings and swoop away
into the sky.
They stopped to watch a blood-red jellyfish, as large as a
half-bushel basket, spreading the petals of his flower-shaped
body and trailing his long streamers behind him. A seal
raised his head above the water and looked at them, ducked
under, came up again, and went down with a lazy swirl,
24 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
showing his glossy back and setting in motion circles of
tiny waves. His face was like a dog's; they hoped he
would bark. And they hoped that the loon, who swam
and dived and swam again not far away, would laugh at
them. But alll the creatures' voices were silent on that still
afternoon.
They drew up on the beach of a small island, made use
of the woods for bathing houses, and plunged into the cold
water for a swim. Uncle Fred fairly gasped with the cold,
while the children called out, "Oh, it's warm to-day! It's
just as warm as toast." "It's not my idea of toast," Uncle
Fred answered. "English toast, perhaps — well done,
Peggy! You are a real mermaid."
Peggy was swimming with her feet out of water and
pressed together like the lobes of a fish's tail.
"Up in Kilkenny Brook," said Barbara, when they had
dressed and come back to the canoe and Peggy had taken
her place at the bow paddle, "we go into that warm water
as we are; and we let our hair down, and then we really are
mermaids. And we bind our hair with ferns for seaweed
and play in the water for hours. We sit on the rocks and
repeat 'The Forsaken Merman.1 But that makes us sad,
and we have to jump up and chase each other to another
rock. Sometimes we see Queen Mab on the edge of the
stream, driving by in her hazelnut chariot, with a gnat for
coachman and little insects for horses, all harnessed up in
spider's webs and moonshine's watery beams."
"Queen Mab, the Maker of Dreams," mused Uncle
Fred. "Doesn't she play tricks on you?"
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 25
"One day she did," said Peggy. "Something bit my legs
terribly. I thought it was a bloodsucker. But there was
nothing there at all. It was just Queen Mab."
"But don't forget," interposed Barbara, "that you
thought she brought the strawberries there, too. We were
there one day — not a strawberry in sight! And the very
next day, there they were, — the whole bank covered with
them!" With a knowing smile at Uncle Fred, she added,
"Queen Mab can play very nice tricks sometimes."
They had turned back with the turning tide and they soon
reached the lobster pound, the site of which was marked by
a group of low, rough buildings above a wharf. Tying the
canoe by a long rope so that it would not be hung up by the
receding tide, they climbed a ladder nailed to the side of the
wharf, walked through a rather smelly storeroom full of
boxes and barrels, and came out into a small grass-plot from
which a narrow track of rails led to another shed. A low,
four-wheeled cart stood on the track. It had just been un-
loaded; and a large, fat man, "with a tummy like Falstaff's,"
Barbara whispered, had started to push it back with his
hands when he stopped and motioned to the children to climb
in. It was a tight fit, but they managed it, and, with Uncle
Fred helping to push the car, they made a swift entry into
the shed, the old man panting and laughing a loud, hearty
laugh and exclaiming, "I'll be darned if they're not the
prettiest — and the heaviest — lobsters I ever had in my car."
From a platform on the farther side of the shed they
looked straight down into the pool of lobsters. It was a
long distance down to them, but you could see them plainly,
26 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
the green, shiny creatures creeping slowly about, hundreds
and hundreds of them crowded together. A wooden screen
shut them in from the open water. "I suppose the fishes
outside enjoy looking in at them," Uncle Fred remarked.
"Like a cage at the Zoo!" exclaimed Barbara.
The fat old man, still panting and breathing heavily, let
down a box by a rope and pulled it up full. He thrust
wooden plugs between their claws, while the children
watched him. "This is to save your lives," he remarked
grimly. "I wouldn't try to pull them out, if I were you."
Then he carried the lobsters to the canoe, Uncle Fred paid
for them, and they were off; and a few good strokes, with
the help of the tide, brought them to Aunt Jane's shore.
Waving a good-bye to Uncle Fred, they climbed the hill,
through sweet fern and bayberry and ground juniper and
tall grasses, to the low, gray cottage that nestled comfort-
ably on the upland and looked far out over sea and hills
and river and woods. Breffny, as the little house was called,
stood halfway between the shore and the top of the ridge
from which the land dropped down on both sides to the
sea. "The great road from the mountain" lay along the
ridge. "The little ways of Breffny," which, as the Irish
poem has it, "are dearer to my heart," wound through a
pasture that opened to the sunlight between two stretches
of dark woods. Some one had once stopped at the farmer's
house on the main road and asked if there were not a path
to the sea down through that pasture, at which the farmer's
wife waved her massive arm with a broad gesture and
answered, "Why, the whole pasture is a path to the sea."
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 27
And so it was. Graceful young birches had grown up at
random in this pasture path. Their little leaves fluttered
in the gentlest breeze and the strong winds bent them to
the ground.
On this day it was so still, even the birch leaves scarcely
moved. The white-throats were tuning up for their evening
songs. There was no other sound. The world seemed
motionless; and, as they stopped in their climb to look
back, it was like a blue, shining picture. Only the air was
so fragrant and the warm sun so delicious that they did
not care to think what it was like. Dropping down now
and then to pick some irresistible blueberries, they came to
the house at last, to find the supper table spread on the
porch, as they had hoped, and Aunt Jane waiting .to wel-
come them.
"It is so lovely to wake up at Aunt Jane's," Barbara had
remarked as they climbed the hill. "It is even nicer than
the evenings, when the fire is burning and the candles are
lighted and we sit about toasting marshmallows and telling
stories. It is your first night up here, isn't it? Well, wait
till morning. You'll see."
They slept on the low porch, close to the ground. But
the morning brought a great disappointment. They woke
up to a pouring rain. Instead of opening their eyes upon
a sky of blue enamel over a sea of pearl and a silvery light
on the birch trees, they were awakened suddenly by a
howling wind that brought Peggy over to Barbara's cot,
in the dim light; and she had no sooner crawled under the
covers and nestled up to Barbara than Aunt Jane appeared
28 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
at the door with a candle, which the wind blew out, and
called them to come in and go to bed upstairs. There was
no more sleeping, however, for the wind came in gusts that
shook the house and the rain poured down upon the roof
in torrents.
It was a real "Sou-Easter"; it would rain all day, they
knew, and all their plans were spoiled. Yet breakfast was
a cheerful episode. When good, black Molly had pulled
out the slender-legged table and unfolded it in the center of
the living room and set it with white doilies and old-blue
china, while the fire blazed away on the hearth, Aunt Jane
called them to their places, and they were as jolly over their
scrambled eggs and blueberry muffins as if the rain had not
'been slashing the window-panes.
It was after breakfast that the clouds descended upon
their spirits. They went over to the window-seat on the
other side of the room and looked out hopelessly.
"What shall we do now?" Peggy whispered, her long
face turned up to Barbara's.
"Ye gods! ye gods! must we endure all this!" Barbara
began to wonder, after she had said them, where those
words came from. Suddenly she remembered — "Julius
Caesar!" She had to smile. There were greater troubles
in the world than this rain; and she put her arm around
Peggy as if it were only on her account that she was sorry
now.
Aunt Jane was moving around the room, wondering
what she might suggest for their amusement, when she
discovered that Barbara had settled the question. She had
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 29
reached up to the shelves from which rows of books looked
down temptingly upon the soft, cushioned window-seat and
pulled down a volume entitled 'Twelfth Night; or, What
You Will." It sounded like a cheerful title for a gloomy
day.
"Let's read this together, Peggy," she said. "Come
along. We'll divide up the parts. Let me see. Here's
the Duke Orsino and Sebastian, the brother of Viola. You
be the Duke and I'll be Sebastian. And I'll be Sir Toby
Belch and you can be Sir Andrew Aguecheek. They'll be
funny, I know. You be Olivia and I'll be Viola. And then
there's the clown, and Malvolio
Peggy, who had fallen in with the plan, chose the clown
on general principles, and they began. They invited Aunt
Jane to join them, but, saying that she had letters to write,
when she had found another copy of the play for their
convenience, she sat down by the desk; and, in spite of
herself, she was soon listening to every word.
For nobody could resist the contagious merriment of
"Twelfth Night." It bubbles over with mirth; it is the
cheerfulest of plays. It begins with music and ends with a
song; and the whole story seems to be set to the strains of
music. There is trouble enough, to be sure, for every one
in the play. There is shipwreck and unrequited love and
too much drinking (on the part of Sir Toby and Sir
Andrew) and desperate misunderstandings; and poor Viola
gets into such a tangle with it all that only Time, she says,
can untie the knot. But the knot is untangled in such a
light-hearted vein ! Nobody suffers very long or very deeply,
30 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
not even Malvolio, unless a conceited fool who gets no
more than he deserves can suffer deeply; and if he does, one
cannot be very sorry for him. And if the young Duke is
forced to transfer his affections from one lovely lady to
another, Viola has proved herself more than a match for
Olivia and every one profits by the exchange. Even the
clown is happy: for has he not won praise for the wisdom
of his folly from every one whose commendation is worth
having and revenged himself upon Malvolio for his scorn
of "such a barren rascal"?
In the opening scene, the Duke is listening to music.
Peggy read the lines in a low voice, speaking the words
distinctly :
If music be the food of love, play on.
• •••*•••
That strain again ! It had a dying fall :
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour!
Before he has spoken six lines they felt acquainted with
this romantic lover and anxious to know his story. He
soon makes a clean confession to the other lords :
O, when my eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purged the air of pestilence!
And a gentleman coming in brings from her the news that,
for the sake of a dear brother who is dead, Olivia has
vowed to go into retirement, like a nun, and see no one for
seven years.
The scene changes to a seacoast. It is Illyria. They
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 31
stopped reading while Aunt Jane told them that Illyria was
what is now the Dalmatian coast, across the Adriatic
Sea from Italy. 'There are many Italian villas there
to-day," she told them, "with gardens and orchards like
Olivia's. It is a wild and beautiful coast on which Viola
and her twin brother were shipwrecked."
Viola's predicament and her gentle nature are revealed
in a few words. As Barbara read them, she had a picture
in her mind of that rocky shore, with villas and orchards
in the background.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drowned: what think you, Sailors?
When the captain assures her that it is more than likely
that her brother, too, is saved, she makes inquiries about
the country and considers what to do with herself in this
strange emergency. She must do something at once; and
she decides to trust herself to the captain, whose fair de-
meanor she believes covers a kindly heart, while he promises
to help her to disguise herself and to win the office of page
in the service of the Duke.
For I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
When she next appears, she is the page, Cesario, who, in
three days, has so won the favor of the Duke that he has
"unclasped to her the book even of his secret soul" and
bidden her carry his suit to Olivia, to whom the youthful
32 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
charm and gentle breeding of the "dear lad" cannot fail
to gain access. And even as she consents, the reader learns
that her own heart has surrendered to the Duke and she
would fain be in Olivia's place.
Another scene introduced the children into Olivia's house,
where Sir Toby, her uncle, and his boon companion, Sir
Andrew Aguecheek, have been disturbing her with their
late hours and their carousals. She is mistress of a large
estate, where she is wont "to sway her house, command
her followers," and manage her affairs with "a smooth,
discreet, and stable bearing." Yet she is modest and
kindly, as her banterings with the clown soon prove, — and
she won Peggy, once for all, by the way she rebukes her
conceited steward, Malvolioj who has been abusing the
good clown :
"O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with
a distempered appetite."
Like all victims of self-love, Malvolio has no sense of
humor; and he is made to pay dearly for that lack by the
joke the two knights and Olivia's maid, Maria, enjoy at
his expense.
Viola, or Cesario, stands long outside Olivia's gate, but
when Olivia hears how young the messenger is, that he is
well-favored and has a shrewish tongue, she admits him,
forgetting her vow. He presents the Duke's cause very
skilfully, humorously, at first, to gain a hearing — pretend-
ing that he has learned his speech by rote and must not be
put out — and later with all the eloquence of one who knows
by experience the feelings in the Duke's heart and can plead
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 33
for him with the earnestness of one who knows his charms
only too well. But alas! the result of this pleading is that
Olivia falls in love with Cesario, as she believes him to be,
and would fain hear him plead his own suit to her. Viola
is amazed at this unexpected turn of events and blames her
disguise as wickedness. "Poor lady!" she exclaims to
herself —
If it be so, as 'tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Now all the tangle is exposed; and in the second act
appears the person who is to make things more confused
than ever for a time and then at last straighten them out.
This is Sebastian, who has been rescued by one Antonio;
and from the devotion of Antonio to this young gentleman
and Sebastian's unwillingness to be any further burden to
him, Sebastian is shown to be worthy of his sister, whom
he believes to have been drowned. (They stopped once
or twice while Barbara, with Aunt Jane's help, straight-
ened out the tangle for Peggy.)
While Viola still acts her part as page, there is one
delightful scene, over which all three laughed heartily
The Duke calls again for music, and says to Cesario,
Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me.
Viola speaks so "masterly" of love, that he suspects that
this youth, although so young, has had some experience of
it, and the page confesses to having once, a little, loved
some one of the Duke's complexion. Then the Duke begs
34 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Cesario to press his suit to Olivia, declaring that he
loves as no woman could ever love. Viola objects to that,
saying,
My father had a daughter loved a man
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
The Duke:
And what's her history?
Viola:
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ;
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
And, now, in several scenes, Sebastian is mistaken for
Cesario and Cesario for Sebastian. When Olivia bestows
her affection upon Sebastian, thinking him Cesario, Se-
bastian is completely mystified and thinks he must be dream-
ing. And he cries :
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
But no, he is not asleep.
This is the air ; that is the glorious sun ;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't;
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness.
Thus, little by little, the way is prepared for the happy
conclusion. When the brother and sister appear together,
the truth is out, and the Duke at once exclaims :
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 35
If this be so,
I shall have share in this most happy wreck.
Olivia will wed Sebastian, to whom she has already plighted
troth, mistaking him for Cesario; and when the Duke
knows that his Cesario is a woman, he remembers their
conversations and understands her meanings. Calling
Olivia his "sweet sister," he goes off the final scene, leading
Viola by the hand.
Malvolio appears in this last scene to learn the truth for
his part also. He has been imprisoned and is now released.
Already, in the second act, his tormentors had begun on
him, when, in the famous garden scene, they had left a
letter, written by Maria in her mistress's hand, where he
would find it; and while they watched him from behind a
boxwood hedge, he read it with swelling pride, for it con-
vinced him that Olivia was in love with him. The letter
begged him to go in yellow stockings and cross-gartered
(a fashion she abhorred, in reality), to speak haughtily to
his inferiors, to smile always, and to remember that some
men are born great, others achieve greatness, and others
have greatness thrust upon them. From that moment
Malvolio has been strutting about like a peacock, smil-
ing and bragging, convinced that greatness has been
thrust upon him. He irritates the two knights more and
more, till they accuse him of madness and imprison
him.
And so it happens that the real fool of the play is
Malvolio, while the clown, whose task in life is to play
the fool, appears as a man of wit and wisdom. And
36 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
thus, says the clown, the whirligig of time brings in his
revenges.
The play ends with the clown's song,
When that I was and a tiny little boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
• ••••••
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.
"And if it did rain every day," Barbara began, as they
closed the books.
"Why, it is pouring as hard as ever," Peggy interrupted,
turning to the window. "I had forgotten all about it."
CHAPTER IV
A BOY AND A FESTIVAL
We have had pastimes here and pleasant game.
The Princess ("Love's Labour's Lost")
ARBARA cherished among her treasures a
little copy of "The Winter's Tale" which one
of her older friends, an Englishman who
knows all about Shakespeare, had sent her
from New York as a birthday gift. On the
flyleaf he had written some verses
To Barbara
In Shakespeare's England many a maid
Was serious and learned Greek.
37
38 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
And yet I think they sometimes played
At ball and hide and seek.
I hope that they had tops to whip
And also tops to hum,
And skipping ropes wherewith to skip,
Though ping-pong had not come,
Diavolo was all unknown
Nor Teddy bears invented.
They never heard the gramophone,
And yet they were contented.
They played at marbles, prisoner's base,
And other simple games.
They made cat's cradles with a lace,
And called each other names, —
At least I am afraid they did,
For children even then
Did not do all that they were bid
And act like grown-up men.
'Tis true that girls wore farthingales
And stomachers and ruffs,
Which made them look like ships with sails,
And yet they were no muffs.
They climbed up trees and rolled down hills
And paddled in the sea; —
Were children underneath their frills,
In fact, like you and me.
These verses set Barbara to thinking about the children
of Shakespeare's time. What kind of boys and girls did
he see about him, she wondered. What kind of school did
they have? And what did they do to amuse themselves?
Above all, what kind of a boy was Will Shakespeare?
Barbara was much less interested, it must be confessed,
in knowing about Shakespeare than about the people in his
plays and the places where their stories were enacted. Yet
A Boy and a Festival 39
she sometimes wondered. He seemed to her to belong to
the whole world. His characters lived in all the countries
of Europe and traveled from one to another so often that
it was hard for her to believe that there were no steam
engines in their day or in Shakespeare's. It was strange,
therefore, to think that he had passed his boyhood in the
village of Stratford-on-Avon, that he came back from
London in later years to live there as a country gentleman,
and that, as far as anybody knows, he was never out of
England. That he knew the life of the country, was
evident; that Warwickshire was very beautiful one scarcely
needed to be told, for the country whose fields and flowers
and woods he describes must have been beautiful. But he
knew court life and city life, high life and low life; and he
seemed at home in ancient and medieval times as well as
modern, though he mingled ancient customs with those of
his own day and made Cleopatra play billiards. What
kind of a country was that England of Queen Elizabeth,
where Shakespeare learned so many things? And what
was he seeing and doing there when he was a boy among
other boys?
Barbara had hardly opened her new volume when she
found, in the first scene of "The Winter's Tale," such an
attractive boy that she wished she might know "for cer-
tain" that Shakespeare was like him. And before she had
finished the play she had been present, with Shakespeare,
at a country festival like those he often saw in the valley
of the Avon.
The boy was Mamillius, a prince — and Shakespeare was
4O Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
no prince ! No, he was the son of a villager — a dealer in
wool, meat, gloves and leather, who perhaps had his own
sheep in the neighboring fields and who was at one time
high bailiff, or mayor, of the town. His mother was a
farmer's daughter. She came of an educated family long
established in Warwickshire and she was heiress of the
estate. Whether she was one of those maids who were
"serious and learned Greek," we have no way of knowing;
but it is difficult not to believe that, like her granddaughter,
Susanne Shakespeare, she was "witty above her sex." She
it was, we may guess, who first drew the mind of her in-
spired child to observe the beautiful sights and sounds of
the country around Stratford, which was called "the heart
of England." But she had ten children, and in those days,
when everything from candles to fine linen was made at
home, she must have been a busy woman. Mamillius lived
a sheltered life, as we see him in the play. He had lords
and ladies always about him to play with him and amuse
him. The child Shakespeare had to shift for himself,
no doubt, and was free to wander through the fields and
along the country paths and to mix with all kinds of people.
He learned from life at first hand, as the saying is. Yet
not one of his plays would have been written if he had not
learned also from books, as Mamillius did, with as great
an interest and understanding as he ever learned from
observing what he saw about him. Indeed, his lifelong
passion for reading, which must have been formed in child-
hood, is a simple fact which answers many of Barbara's
questions.
A Boy and a Festival 41
After all, these two boys may not have been unlike.
Mamillius was a "gallant child," — one who "made old
hearts fresh." "It is a gentleman of the greatest promise
that ever came into my note," said a visitor at his father's
palace. He had "honourable thoughts,"
Thoughts high for one so tender.
Not many things escaped him. He saw everything and
understood more than his parents realized. He had his
opinion about the kind of eyebrows that were becoming to a
lady. He was active and full of his ideas. When his de-
voted mother, at one point in the story, turned him over
to a lady of the court, he was not willing to play with her
because she would "kiss him hard" and "speak to him as
if he were a baby still." After a few minutes Hermione,
his mother, came back to him; and the conversation that
followed might be a picture of Shakespeare's own child-
hood:
Hermione:
Come, sir, now
I am for you again : pray you, sit by us
And tell's a tale.
Mamillius:
Merry or sad, shall't be?
Hermione:
As merry as you will.
Mamillius:
A sad tale's best for winter: I have one
Of sprites and goblins.
42 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Hermione:
Let's have that, good sir.
Come on, sit down ; come on, and do your best
To fright me with your sprites; you're powerful
at it.
Mamillius:
There was a man
Hermione:
Nay, come, sit down, then on.
Mamillius:
Dwelt by a churchyard: I will tell it softly;
Yond cricket shall not hear it.
Hermione:
Come on, then,
And give't me in my ear.
Such a child, no doubt, was Shakespeare. For we may
well believe that he had a mind well stocked with stories
and that tales of sprites and goblins pleased him; perhaps,
too, he was more eager to tell his stories than to sit down
where he was bidden and tell them exactly as some one
else would have him. It may be that Shakespeare was
thinking of his own little boy, when he pictured Mamillius
— his only son who died at the age of twelve. Certainly,
if he remembered his own free childhood, he must have
pitied the boy who was cooped up and watched so carefully,
as he pitied poor Prince Arthur in the Tower of London,
when he imagined him as saying, in "King John" :
By my Christendom!
So I were out of prison and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long.
A Boy and a Festival 43
There are some pleasant things about boys in the first
part of "The Winter's Tale." Barbara liked them so much
that she read them to Uncle Waldo; and that led him to
tell her interesting things about Shakespeare's boyhood.
He told her about a book, called "The Palace of Pleasure,"
full of stories from all climates and all ages, which must
have been one of the few books in the Shakespeare family;
and one member of the family, at least, used it to good
purpose. He had the Bible, too, always at hand; and the
legends of Greece and Rome came to him, through Ovid
and Vergil, in his early school days. Uncle Waldo was
sure that Shakespeare read everything he could find to read,
and that he was always full of fun like the two boys in the
play, of whom the Queen asked her husband's friend, who
had been his playmate: "You were pretty lordings then?"
and he replied:
We were, fair queen,
Two lads that thought there was no more behind,
But such a day to-morrow as to-day,
And to be boy eternal.
'Was not my lord the verier wag o' the two?" she asked,
and he assured her that they were like twin lambs frisking
in the sun and bleating at each other, equally happy and
carefree and jolly.
While they were talking thus of bygone days, the King
was bantering with Mamillius. He chided him playfully
for the smutch on his nose, saying,
Come, captain,
We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain.
44 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Then he turned to his royal friend and asked him: "Are
you as fond of your young Prince as I seem to be of mine?"
To which the other father answered that his boy gave him
all his exercise and all his mirth and that he made a July
day seem as short as a day in December.
So the two fathers who had been boys together talked
of their own boys, and Hermione was proud and happy as
she listened. But sorrow followed, coming suddenly
upon Mamillius and his mother even while he was telling
her that story of the man who dwelt by a churchyard. His
father interrupted them; and enraged by a cruel and false
suspicion against his mother, took him away from her and
kept them apart. The boy fell ill of grief and loneliness;
and his knowledge that his father was wronging his mother
so "cleft his heart," that he died.
But, although Mamillius has a brief and a sad part in
"The Winter's Tale," he is never forgotten throughout the
play. The news of his death brings his father to reason
and causes him to regret bitterly what he has done. It is
through Mamillius that the happy ending is made possible
for all the others, including his baby sister, Perdita.
"The Winter's Tale" is in two parts, with sixteen years
between. In all that time this sister has been lost from
the court and nobody knows whether she is alive or dead.
But we who read the play know that she was left — a baby
in swaddling clothes — on the rough ground of a rugged
country where she was found by a shepherd and reared as
his own child. At the age of sixteen she appears to
us for the first time at that country festival which re-
A Boy and a Festival 45
sembles so exactly those that Shakespeare knew when he
was a boy.
It is the sheepshearing feast, and Perdita, the most beau-
tiful shepherdess of the countryside, "the most peerless
piece of earth that e'er the sun shone bright on," has been
chosen mistress of the revels. She is being wooed by a
prince, Florizel, who, when he was out hawking (a favorite
pastime in Shakespeare's day) had chased his falcon over
this shepherd's domain, and, meeting Perdita, had come
back often to see her, as he has come on this gala day. He
is clothed as a shepherd, and he has added fine ornaments
to Perdita's gown so that she may shine her best at the
festival. He is none other, as it happens, than the son of
that friend of Perdita's father. Sixteen years before, he
was that little boy of whom his father declared that he
made a July day seem as short as a day in December.
The sheep are all sheared and the shearers, with their
families and friends, are to be entertained at dinner, with
dances and merrymakings afterward. Perdita has com-
missioned her supposed brother, the rustic who is called
a clown, to buy spices and sugar and currants and rice,
saffron to color the pies, and prunes, and raisins. For she
must cook the dinner for all these people, as well as be
their hostess. And although the clown, while he was count-
ing the money from his share of the wool on the way to the
market, was robbed by the rogue, Autolycus, we must be-
lieve that Perdita obtained the things she needed. For the
festival takes place; and nowhere else could it properly
take place than at the house of this shepherd, her foster
46 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
father, who has so increased in prosperity since he found
Perdita that his neighbors are puzzled about how it can
have happened.
The reason for his great prosperity is that he found
much gold wrapped up in the bundle that contained the
baby. It was called "fairy gold," because in Shakespeare's
day people believed that the fairies left little changelings
to be cared for, just as they also sometimes carried children
away to live with them, and that good fortune would follow
the one who found the waif and befriended it.
Perdita has prepared ribbons and nosegays to deck the
twenty-four sheepshearers; she has engaged men singers
who can sing in three parts (and one of them is a Puritan
who sings psalms to hornpipes) ; she has no doubt procured
good ale, though nothing is said of that. She has thought
of everything. Indeed, the rustic "brother" thinks she
rather "lays it on" and has very grand ideas about her
feast. She has flowers of every kind the season will afford
and she distributes them among her guests as graciously
as Flora, goddess of the spring, when she ushers in the
month of April with the first wild flowers. Yet she holds
back modestly till the shepherd urges her on, telling her
that she ought to be like his good wife who was wont to
be pantler and cook, butler, dame, and servant. Then she
comes forward, receives the guests, sings and "dances
featly"; and while the other shepherdesses join her in a
dance on the green, there comes in a pedlar.
This pedlar is the rogue, Autolycus; and just such ped-
lars were always turning up at these festivities in Shake-
A Boy and a Festival 47
speare's England, where it was the custom for the swains
to buy presents of them for their partners. Autolycus was
one who haunted fairs and wakes and bear-baitings; he
had at one time gone about selling chances to play at a
game called troll-my-dames : he had carried apes on his
shoulder, and he had acted with traveling companies in
"The Prodigal Son." The servant who meets him at the
gate is entranced with him: he comes back to tell the
dancers that if they could hear him they would never again
dance after tabor and hornpipe; that no bagpipes would
move them again. For he can sing faster than one can
count money; he utters ballads as if he had eaten them, and
uall men's ears grow to his tunes."
How often the boy Shakespeare had delighted in such an
"admirable conceited fellow" as this Autolycus! Perhaps
his wife, Ann Hathaway, had been mistress of the feast
when he first met her, and perhaps he had bought trinkets
for her from such a pedlar as this one who had songs "for
man or woman, of all sizes"; who had ribbons, tapes,
worsteds, cambrics, lawns of all colors, and who sang them
over as if they had been gods and goddesses, till "you would
think a smock were a she-angel."
Perdita is a little afraid that he will use bad words, but
when the clown tells her that there is more in these pedlars
than you would think, she allows him to come in. He
enters singing:
Lawn as white as driven snow;
Cypress black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as sweet as damask roses ;
48 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Masks for faces and for noses;
Bugle, bracelet, necklace, amber,
Perfume for my lady's chamber;
Golden quoifs and stomachers
For my lads to give their dears.
• ••*•*•
Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy,
Buy, lads, or else your lassies cry ; come buy.
The shepherdess, Mopsa, wants her shepherd to buy
her a ballad. She loves a ballad in print because then uwe
know that it is true." Autolycus makes a good day's trade
and goes off singing:
Will you buy any tape
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?
After that some dancers enter — three carters, three
shepherds, three neatherds, and three swineherds. Dressed
in skins, like satyrs, they leap about in a wild sort of wood-
land dance, to the delight of the company.
Here the serious part of the play interrupts the revelers.
And Barbara, reading it, became so absorbed in the re-
mainder of the story — of how Florizel took Perdita back
to her father's court, of how she went with her father to
see a statue of Hermione, her mother, whom every one
thought dead, and how the statue came to life before their
eyes — she was so charmed by these events that she forgot
all about the children of Shakespeare's day. Only after-
ward, when she turned back to the flyleaf, did she continue
to think about them.
CHAPTER V
AN ENCHANTED ISLAND
To cry to the sea that roared to us ; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.
Prospero ("The Tempest")
OME one had told Barbara of having heard
an opera sung out-of-doors on a real ship on
real water, while the audience sat on the
shore. And one day, when she was on board
the "Sunshine," it occurred to her that it
would be a wonderful thing if "The Tempest," which she
and her friend Alice Van Norden had been reading that very
morning, could be acted on one of the wooded islands among
49
50 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
which they were sailing. First, there would be the ship-
wreck, she thought, right there on those gray rocks that
were slipping past their starboard bow. The boatswain
would be there, shouting out his commands to the King of
Naples, crying, 'What care these roarers for the name of
king?", sending his royal passengers back into the cabin
where they were better off at their prayers since they could
not handle a rope; and the good Gonzalo, who had saved
Prospero and Miranda so many years before, making his
jokes in the midst of the danger, — declaring that the
boatswain was born to be hanged, that they were safe as
long as he was on board, for his complexion was perfect
gallows; and Prospero's wicked brother, the Duke of
Milan, blaming the sailors for all their trouble, — when his
own guilt was at the bottom of this whole story of "sea
sorrow." Old Gonzalo would cry out, as the ship split:
"Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre
of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, anything.
The wills above be done ! but I would fain die a dry
death."
Just beyond the rocks, on the island they were passing,
was a level, mossy platform bordered by soft, pointed cedar
trees. That was just the place, thought Barbara, for
Prospero and Miranda, while Prospero should tell Miranda
the story of how they came to be living on this island and
explaining the meaning of this storm, which he had raised
up by his magic powers, and give his commission to the
delicate spirit, Ariel. It was just the place where Ariel's
music might draw Prince Ferdinand, after his brave
An Enchanted Island 51
swim for shore, and where, seeing Miranda, he would
exclaim :
Most sure the goddess
On whom these airs attend!
Alice Van Norden, who lived in Hampton, was sitting
beside Barbara while she was imagining all this. She had
been making Barbara a visit while her family had gone on
motoring down the coast; and Barbara's Uncle Roger had
kindly made up this sailing party for Alice's benefit. There
was a perfect wind. They had put a reef in the sail before
starting, whereupon the breeze lightened at once (as, of
course, it would) ; and they were gliding along slowly, talk-
ing of shaking out that reef, when, just as Barbara was on
the point of telling Alice what she thought might be done
with that island, the "Sunshine" touched bottom.
"We're on a rock!" they exclaimed, as the boat listed.
"Yes," said Roger from the wheel, "I've been looking
for that rock all summer. Now I've found it."
He rose and dropped the mainsail quickly, saying, while
he furled it, 'The tide is falling. I'm afraid we can't pull
her off, but we'll try."
In half a minute he had the anchor in the tender; he
rowed out, away from the rocks, and dropped it a short
distance to the windward side. He came back, hurried
to the bow, and, with the help of two other men, pulled
hard on the anchor rode; but the "Sunshine" refused to
budge.
"We'll have to wait till the tide rises," said Roger, "and
52 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
lifts us off. It will be about three hours, I think. I'm
sorry, friends." He sat down by the wheel and lit his
pipe.
"This is the way we learn patience from the sea," re-
marked Aunt Margaret.
"There are worse teachers," said Roger. "I was down
in Indian Harbor once, with my friend Joe Crowly, the
lobster fisherman, when we saw a boat go aground just
after the tide had begun to fall. There was only one
man on board. I looked to see what he would do; and
the old salt sat down calmly, with his pipe, to wait at
least seven hours. I said to Joe, 'I declare, that man has
learned patience.' 'Should think he ought to have,' an-
swered Joe, 'he has just come back from serving eight
years in state's prison.'
Barbara was saying in a low tone to Alice, "I was just
thinking about the shipwreck in 'The Tempest' when we
struck that rock."
Roger overheard her. "This is not exactly a ship-
wreck, Barbara," he remarked. "Still, if you could per-
suade Ariel to fetch us some of that 'dew from the still-
vexed Bermoothes,' it might help to get us off. All we
need is more water."
"By the way," he continued, "I always wonder when I
read that play how Shakespeare knew so much about sail-
ing. That great old sea dog, the Boatswain, who roars
louder than the gale, knows exactly what to do. He never
wastes a word, and you can see what is happening to the
ship every minute. He does everything in his power to
An Enchanted Island 53
keep the ship off shore, to run her close to the wind, with
as little leeway as possible. He knows he is safe if he
has room enough. If he could have put out an anchor,
as we have done, to hold her off shore, he would never
have struck that reef. He did everything there was to
do."
"He had Prospero's magic against him," remarked Aunt
Margaret.
"Well, I never heard that Shakespeare was a sailor, but
I believe he was. He could never have done that from
books, any more than he could have written his descriptions
of hounds and hunting without having been a hunter. Of
course he could have learned a good deal from his friend
Sir Walter Raleigh while they chatted together at the
Mermaid Tavern. Raleigh was called 'the Shepherd of
the Ocean,' wasn't he?"
They talked on about Raleigh and his explorations until
Roger said,
"Why don't some of you go ashore and take a walk on
the island while we wait? You might find Ariel, Barbara.
But avoid Caliban — 'Ban, ban, Ca-Caliban.'
'We'll explore!" exclaimed Barbara, jumping up, while
Roger rose to untie the tender. "The trouble is," she
whispered, "Ariel would be invisible." "And Caliban
wouldn't," Alice added.
They went ashore, as many of them as the small boat
would carry, and landed on slippery, seaweedy rocks.
While the tender was rowed back to the "Sunshine," they
climbed the hill, and soon were scattered over the island.
54 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
There was not a human habitation anywhere, not so
much as a fisherman's hut. If the island was not enchanted
and possessed by spirits, like Prospero's island, it was cer-
tainly a place of "airy charms," fit for "such stuff as
dreams are made of." The woods led down to wild rocks
on the ocean side. The trees were festooned with a gray-
green feathery moss that hung down, like nereids' hair,
from the branches to the ground. In the open spaces, great
clumps of fireweed stood up against the sky. The ferns
were as tall as palm trees. Carpets of bright red bunch-
berries were spread between the moss-covered rocks, and
farther down blue harebell hung by slender thread-like
stems to the cliffs. There was an "odd angle of the isle"
where the water would rush in seething and boiling, if the
winds were high. The waves were as gentle now as if
their fury had been allayed by Ariel's music.
Alice and Barbara did not rest until they had explored
the entire island. Then they sat down in a clump of fir
trees and looked out toward the blue horizon.
In the meantime, Roger and those with him on board
caught sight of a small motor boat in the distance.
"That is Allan Crabtree's boat," said Roger, watching it
through the long-distance glasses. "He's coming toward
us.'
Allan drew up alongside, heard what had happened, and
drawled out amiably, "I'll head 'round to the far side o'
the island and take your party home. I ain't got nothin'
special to do this afternoon. There's a better landin' on
the far side."
An Enchanted Island 55
As the afternoon sun was getting low, this seemed an
excellent suggestion.
"But can you take them all?" asked Roger. "There
are seven of them on shore."
"Oh, yes, I can take seven. They may have to wade for
it." With that Allan was off and disappearing around the
point.
Alice and Barbara heard the chug-chug, saw the boat
pull up on the narrow beach, and ran down to join the
others who were going to meet it. It was rather hard to
be taken home so soon, and with that chug-chug! Alice
looked disappointed and Barbara begged her mother to
let them wait for the sailboat. "It won't be long now,"
she pleaded.
Mother looked at her watch. It seemed a pity to spoil
their sail for the mere matter of an hour. She herself would
have preferred to wait and go back on the "Sunshine."
She disliked the gasoline engine; the sailboat, even on the
rocks, seemed far safer for the children. So she gave her
consent, telling them to go at once to the shore near the
"Sunshine" and let Uncle Roger know they were there.
"Call to them right away and they will row in for
you," she said. It was only a few steps up the slope
before they would be within hearing distance of the "Sun-
shine."
They promised and started at once. But instead of
climbing straight across the island they decided to go by
the shore. The rocks were slippery and walking was diffi-
cult They were having a fine talk, too, about the girls
56 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
and boys in Hampton, and perhaps they delayed more
than they realized.
"It's a pretty long way, after all," said Barbara at
length. "I wish we'd gone straight. That's what Mother
meant. We ought to be seeing the sailboat by this time!"
"Why, wasn't it right there?" Alice looked puzzled.
"No, it's a little farther round," said Barbara.
Presently they turned and looked in both directions.
"Surely, Barbara, we're past the place. It was right theret
don't you remember?"
"It's gone !" cried Barbara. "Oh, there it is, way out
in the bay ! Oh ! oh !"
Her eyes filled with tears. She sat down on the ground,
— a picture of despair.
"Surely they'll come back for us, won't they?" Alice
waved her arms to beckon them, although she knew it was
quite useless.
"How will they know? They will think we are on the
motor boat. What shall we do?" There was no answer
to that question.
"Well, Barbara, no supper for us to-night," said Alice
after a moment of silence. "But we're not afraid. And
sometime they will come back for us."
"We must put up a signal," said Barbara. "That's
what people always do when they are wrecked on a desert
island. Somebody may see it before dark. If we only had
some matches to light a fire!"
But Alice was older and wiser. "No, I think we'd bet-
ter not put up any signal," she said. "We don't know who
An Enchanted Island 57
would see it. And if we don't let any one know we are here,
the 'Sunshine' or the motor boat or some of your friends
will come back for us. Let's go up there where we can see
them coming."
They sat down on a mossy ledge, on the very spot which
Barbara had chosen for the central scene of 'The Tem-
pest." Her face cleared as she recalled how she had pic-
tured them there — Prospero and Miranda and Ferdinand
and all the wonders that surrounded them. She tried not
to think of Caliban and his drunken companions. She was
rather glad there was no cave or cell, just there.
"I'm glad Peggy isn't here," she said. "We're not
afraid, are we, Alice?" She peered around again as she
said it. The shadows were growing very dark under the
trees. "I'm glad there are no Calibans on this island," she
whispered. "But what if ?"
"Don't think of it." Alice forced herself to speak in
a loud, brave voice. "If I were not so hungry I'd think this
was great fun, because I know they will come for us, and
we have explored the whole island and there's nothing to
hurt us."
"Nothing that we saw" murmured Barbara. "We'll
have to learn patience, I suppose," she added, straighten-
ing up. "If you were only Prospero with a magic cloak
you could have Ariel bring out a table and spread a feast
for us. And you could send him to fetch the boat back."
"If I were Prospero!" repeated Alice, grandly, rising
to her full height and stretching out both arms.
"Oh, Alice, you really would look like that picture of
58 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
him, if you had his long cloak on. At my party, you know,
you made a fine Aladdin."
"Aladdin!" exclaimed Alice scornfully. "He was only
a magician. Prospero was great and wise. He had learned
everything studying all those books so many years. But,
Barbara, you really do look like Miranda, leaning against
that tree."
Alice had, in fact, a wise-looking face, for all her blue
eyes and flaxen hair. And Barbara, smiling up at her, was
not unworthy of Alice's praise.
"But, Alice," she resumed, "Uncle Waldo says Prospero
didn't learn it all out of books. He had so much time to
think; and he had nature all around him. He found out
all kinds of secrets. Ariel and Caliban were nature's se-
crets, Uncle Waldo said."
"I suppose they were." Alice meditated. "But you
know he said that Caliban was one of the savages the ex-
plorers talked about when they came back from America.
And the story of the shipwreck and the strange island came
from one of their adventures."
"Yes, but it's more than that," answered Barbara. "And
so I suppose Shakespeare made Caliban more than a sav-
age. He's not very much like an Indian!"
"Look! We can hardly see the sailboat, now," said
Alice. And Barbara, tossing her head as if to throw aside
all anxiety, began to quote :
'If by your arts, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.'
An Enchanted Island 59
"I wish I could remember what Prospero answered to
that," sighed Alice. "But then, you have read so much
more Shakespeare than I have. Just think, I am nearly
two years older than you, and you have made me read
him. . . . Did you ever know before, what Uncle Waldo
told us this morning, that some of Shakespeare's best
friends were the men who worked for the Virginia Colony,
away back before the landing of the Pilgrims?"
"No, I didn't know Shakespeare had ever heard of
America!"
"Southampton was one of them," Alice continued. "I
wonder if Hampton really was named for him! He was
the handsomest man at Queen Elizabeth's court. He helped
Shakespeare — and he helped America. He wanted the
people in the colony to have their own way and not have
to obey the King all the time — it was King James, then,
wasn't it?"
"Yes, but what did Uncle Waldo say about Gonzalo,
when he talked about the country he wanted to start, where
nobody would have to work?"
"Oh, yes, he said Shakespeare got that idea from some
Frenchman, but he was really making fun of some of the
people who wanted to go off — to America, I guess — and
live without government or laws. Because of course, you
can't have a decent country without a government and
laws. Gonzalo knew it, too, but he thought it was a nice
thing to talk about."
"I wonder," Alice mused, after a pause, "I wonder if
one of those explorers ever saw a queer fish that looked
60 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
like Caliban. You can find lots of things when you go ex-
ploring."
"Caliban isn't so terrible, though," Barbara declared,
"because, don't you remember how much he liked the music
on the island? He heard it in his dreams and when he woke
up he cried because he wanted to hear it again. I learned
that speech of his ever so long ago :
Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not, —
and I was so surprised when I found out that Caliban said
it! Maybe he was like a bad child that doesn't want to
be bad but just can't help it."
"I wonder what Ariel did after he was free," said Alice.
"He was a spirit of the air. I read a story once about
some sailors that saw a queer flame on the top of the mast
in a storm, — just like Ariel when he made himself a flame."
'Just the way the fairies do in 'Peter Pan,' in the tree-
tops," replied Barbara. "Oh dear!. I wonder if the 'Sun-
shine' has landed. I wonder what they think at home !"
The sun had dropped below the horizon while they
talked. It was almost dark. But the evening air was mild
and there was little wind.
A slight noise in the bushes startled them and they drew
closer together. "Let's keep on talking," whispered Bar-
bara; and as there seemed to be nothing to talk about she
began to repeat:
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
An Enchanted Island 61
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them, — ding, dong, bell.
"What's that? I heard a bell." Alice's breath was com-
ing jerkily as she listened.
"It must be the bell buoy we passed out there between
the islands. That's nothing."
But it had a dreary sound and, remembering that Alice
was her visitor and she must do something to make things
a little more cheerful, Barbara pulled herself together and
began :
Where the bee sucks there suck I :
In a cow-slip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
They felt better after that. The sunset colors had
faded away and the full moon had risen. They were be-
ginning to grow sleepy, while they continued to look out
across the water, resolved to keep up the watch every minute
till some one came.
"I think Miranda was like a sunrise," said Alice, forcing
herself to talk of something pleasant. "That's what Uncle
Waldo called her."
"She had never seen a man except her old father before.
62 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
I like it when she says, 'O brave new world, that has such
creatures in it.' Yes," Barbara concluded, "you can see
what Uncle Waldo meant."
"It seems to me that Prospero forgave his wicked
brother too soon," remarked Alice. 'Why, he stole his
dukedom, and sent him and his little girl out to be drowned !
Of course, he repented, and I suppose that was enough for
Prospero. He did give those men a good fright. And
when Ariel was sorry for them, he had to be. I wonder
why he gave up his magic and buried his staff."
"Perhaps," suggested Barbara, "he was afraid he would
do something foolish with it, — the way the people in the
fairy stories always wish something crazy when they can
have three wishes."
"Or maybe," said Alice, "he was just tired of it. He
must have worked like everything all those years. I sup-
pose he loved his books; but maybe he just wanted never to
see them again."
"I suppose Ferdinand and Miranda were happy ever
after. Prospero's magic was certainly a great success. It
was nice he taught Miranda how to play chess. She
was " Barbara was too sleepy to finish the sentence.
They had stretched themselves on the slope, their eyes
fixed in the direction of home, and now, without meaning
to in the least, they both fell fast asleep.
The "Sunshine," meanwhile, was becalmed in the middle
of the bay. It was midnight when she arrived. Nobody
on shore had begun to be anxious, for it was a warm,
quiet night; there was plenty of food on board; and they
An Enchanted Island 63
had imagined the children having the time of their lives
with supper on the boat and a moonlight sail, and thought
them undoubtedly asleep by this time in the cuddy or
on deck. Barbara's father was down on the wharf, how-
ever, where he had been for a long time, when the "Sun-
shine" crept in to her moorings at last; and when the dark
figures came on shore and there were no children with
them, then there was consternation far exceeding anything
Alice and Barbara had experienced. They rushed to the
nearest telephone, got Allan Crabtree out of his bed, and
started off in the motor boat as quickly as was humanly pos-
sible. But it took some time.
Barbara was awakened by the sound of the chug-chug.
She was bewildered. Where was she? What had hap-
pened? The sound came nearer and then stopped. Some
one was landing. She sat up and listened.
She was truly frightened now. She tried to speak to
Alice, but her tongue refused to move. She was numb with
fear. She clutched the grass with both hands and waited.
After a minute, which seemed an eternity, she heard her
father's voice. What a blessed relief! She was trembling
when she cried out, "Hello, Daddy!" Alice jumped to her
feet, calling out excitedly, "What is it? What is it?" "Are
you all right, children?" Daddy shouted. "Yes," they an-
swered in one breath. "We are all right."
"Stay where you are," called Roger, "till we get up
there." In five minutes more Daddy and Uncle Roger
had taken them by the hand and were leading them down
to the shore.
Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
"It came near being a shipwreck, after all," said Uncle
Roger, when the engine was started and they were speed-
ing away.
"Oh, we've had a fine time," Alice declared, politely,
"and we do not mind going home in the motor boat, now."
"I was dreaming about Ariel," said Barbara. "I guess
he must have put us to sleep. We had made up our minds
not to go to sleep. And, oh! I heard the loveliest music
in my dreams. I saw the fairies dancing on the sand, and
they were singing, and some of them were flying through
the air. I guess it was an enchanted island. Are you still
hungry, Alice? Daddy, is Mother awfully worried?"
CHAPTER VI
UNDER THE GREAT TREE
His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, "This was a man !"
Mark Antony ("Julius Csesar")
OTHER," said Peggy, "what do you think?
Isabel Estes has never read a play of Shake-
speare !"
'Well, my dear," her mother answered,
"what of that? How many have you
read?"
"Oh, hardly any. But Sister has. And Isabel is Sis-
ter's age; she's even six months older."
65
66 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Peggy would not have said this before Barbara. She
was very proud of her big sister; but some things you said
to your sister and some things you kept to yourself or
whispered in confidence to your mother. And Barbara
never suspected that any one was proud of her, because she
was so far from being in the least proud of herself. She
was sorry that Isabel did not enjoy Shakespeare, but it
was because "we could have had such a good time together
if she did." There were ever so many interesting things
you could not talk to Isabel about. That was the only
trouble. And it was a trouble. For she was living much
of the time in an absorbing world where none of the girls
that she knew well went with her. There was one regret
always at the back of her otherwise cheerful and con-
tented mind.
One of her best friends in Hampton was a boy who read
everything he could lay hands on. But she never talked
about books with Arthur. They talked about skating and
skiing and the dancing class. She knew that he liked to
read Shakespeare because his aunt had told her mother and
her mother had told her. But neither she nor Arthur
would have mentioned the subject. And besides, as Bar-
bara, who liked to talk, knew only too well, you can play
together and be very good friends without talking very
much about anything. She found nothing to regret in
that. She had a good time with Arthur and that was
enough.
During Alice's visit, the regret at the back of her mind
vanished away. She had gone on reading to Uncle Waldo
Under the Great Tree 67
as usual the first day, while Alice sat with them on the
headland. But she was troubled by the thought that Alice
might rather be off canoeing or picnicking; for she wanted
above all things to give her a good time. Alice was a
great out-of-doors girl, like Barbara; only she was more
like Peggy in wanting to keep things going all the time —
not merely to lie on the shore and think or read or talk.
Barbara, too, liked active things. Her idea of a good
time however was, not to keep tearing about all day long,
but to take a horseback ride in the morning and read a
book in the afternoon; or to go for a canoe or a bicycle
picnic, build a fire and cook lunch, and settle down after-
ward for a good read or a good talk beside the burning logs.
She enjoyed her horse and her books with equal intensity,
as long as she could share them both with some one she was
fond of. She did not care much for solitary pleasures.
She was a little afraid that Alice would prefer Peggy's
way of keeping on "having fun" till you dropped into your
bed at night, or at least until the story-telling hour that
preceded bedtime. To her great delight, however, she
discovered that Alice was as much interested in what they
read as she was herself. She was not long in finding out
that she and Alice liked the same people in the plays; they
laughed at the same places; and they liked to declaim to-
each other the grand speeches of Hamlet and Mark An-
tony and the tragic utterances of Lear and Lady Mac-
beth ; and they found endless things to talk about in what
they read.
68 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Alice, it became clear, was entering with Barbara into
that absorbing Shakespearian world.
And Peggy was not entirely shut out. She went as far
as she could, bless her little heart! She would never go an
inch beyond what she could fully understand, at least to
her own satisfaction. But she loved the stories as Barbara
told them to her, on rainy days, or whenever she could be
still long enough to listen.
Peggy said to her mother one day, in another confidential
mood, "My sister is such a good sister. When I want
something I can't reach, she always comes and gets it for
me. She is such a good sister."
In the same way, Barbara was reaching up and plucking
the fruits from the great tree, Shakespeare, and bringing
them down to her little sister, who could not reach them
for herself.
Alice was quite able to reach them without Barbara's
help. Only she had not known before how delicious they
were. And she never forgot the quiet hours when she and
Barbara and Uncle Waldo sat on the headland feasting
upon the fruits of the great tree, which has sheltered and
nourished young and old alike for three hundred years,
which bears blossoms and ripe fruit together in all seasons
of the year, like the orange trees of the south.
Sometimes they would talk together about the people of
the plays and sometimes they would talk about Shake-
speare himself, who began to seem like a man they knew
and had seen, as Uncle Waldo talked about him. And a
very gentle person he seemed to them, one they would
Under the Great Tree 69
surely have loved. Every one who knew him seemed to
like him, even the people who said that his plays would
never do because they broke so many rules for the compos-
ing of dramas. Even they liked the man for his upright-
ness of dealing and his cheerful, modest, open-hearted
nature.
One of the most interesting things Uncle Waldo told
them about Shakespeare's boyhood was that he grew up in
the near neighborhood of two of the noblest castles of
Old England. Barbara loved castles in stories and pic-
tures; and the splendor of Shakespeare's scenes in courts
and palaces made the country scenes, like the sheepshearing
in 'The Winter's Tale," more beautiful by contrast.
Little by little, in answer to their questions, Uncle
Waldo told them all he knew about Shakespeare's school
days.
"At the age of ten he was in the grammar school at
Stratford, which he probably entered at seven and left at
about thirteen. Before going to the grammar school he
had learned to read from a 'hornbook' which was the
ABC book of those days. It was a single page fastened
to a board and covered with thin, transparent horn, through
which the letters could be read. It could be hung by a
handle to the boy's belt.
'The students of the grammar school sat at long tables
on wooden benches without arms or backs. There they
were drilled, chiefly in Latin and mathematics, from six in
the morning until five in the afternoon, with a few short
recesses and an hour at noon. Discipline was strict and
70 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
punishment severe. When Shakespeare wrote of the school
boy
With his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school
he probably knew, as he usually did, just what he was talk-
ing about.
"His friend Ben Jonson said of him that he knew 'small
Latin and less Greek.' But when he said that, much Latin
and much Greek .were required in the schools. Shake-
speare's little Latin would seem much to the boys of to-day.
After ^Esop's fables, he probably read Vergil, Horace,
Ovid, and other Latin writers. He always loved the Greek
and Roman stones; perhaps they made up for the endless
drill in grammar.
"The schoolmaster, Holofernes, in 'Love's Labour's
Lost,' is supposed to be a portrait of Thomas Hunt,
Shakespeare's principal teacher. And although Holofernes
is rather tiresome, and always trying to show off his knowl-
edge, he nevertheless loves Vergil and Horace and rever-
ences poetry and learning. He is moreover on friendly
terms with his pupils' parents. He is invited to dine at
one of their houses, and he feels sufficiently intimate to
invite other guests to go with him!
"Shakespeare never went to the higher schools, nor did
he go to the Continent to finish his education, as was the
custom for young gentlemen of the time. England was
turning to France and Italy for everything that made for
Under the Great Tree 71
refinement in education. And while her many poets at home
were busily engaged in making over into English verse
poems that came chiefly from Italy by way of France, her
young men were sent to those countries to learn of the
artists and scholars and scientists and explorers who had
created the modern world out of what we call the Middle
Ages. These travelers came back with new ideas and cus-
toms. It was during Shakespeare's lifetime that the gentle
art of eating with a fork was discovered in Venice and in-
troduced into England. Yet it was the great Elizabethan
age — the age that produced Shakespeare!"
The two children looked at each other, and Alice ex-
claimed, "But they couldn't eat without forks!" "At those
grand celebrations, too," added Barbara.
This led Uncle Waldo to tell them about the celebrations
and festivals of those days — about Christmas and Easter
and May Day, St. George's Day, and Whitsuntide. "They
looked forward to the festivals," he told them, "as the
great events of the year. Much was made of them; lords
and ladies mingled with peasants on the village green. On
May Day morning the villagers went out into the woods
at an early hour and returned with a maypole drawn by
oxen. Plays were given as a part of the Whitsun pastorals,
and masques and pageants. The favorite amusement was
the Morris Dance, in which appeared Robin Hood and
Maid Marian, Friar Tuck and all the jolly huntsmen. The
fool was among them, with his cap and bells, and Tom
Piper, and a huge dragon with a man inside his scaly body,
and a hobbyhorse that went about performing antics.
72 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
There were many dancers with bells on their feet with
which they kept time to the tabor and hornpipe."
"Will Shakespeare must have had fun!" remarked Bar-
bara.
"I am sure he did," answered Uncle Waldo. "He liked
to go swimming, too, and fishing and hunting. He liked
football and archery and everything that took him out-of-
doors.
"But he went out-of-doors not only to play games and
join in festivals. He went to see the morning, when
'jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops.'
Those are his words, not mine !" Uncle Waldo smiled.
"He spoke the truth when he said:
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain top with sovereign eye.
He went out to see the night, when the moon was 'decking
with liquid pearl the bladed grass.' He went out to watch
the lapwing fly close to the ground; to see the daffodils
that 'take the winds of March with beauty,' and even to
'bide the pelting of the pitiless storm.' The flowers of his
native fields live in his verse. He knew the ways of far-
mers and gardeners with their crops and plants as well as
he knew the birds and wild flowers and the changes of
night and day."
Alice had heard the story of how Shakespeare poached
on his neighbor's land — that he killed deer on the beauti-
ful estate of Sir Thomas Lucy. When she asked Uncle
Waldo about that, he answered, thoughtfully: "Yes, it is
Under the Great Tree 73
doubtless true. However, poaching was not regarded as a
serious offense in those days by any one except the owner
of the game. Any one who 'pulled it off' was regarded
as rather a clever fellow; and no doubt the youthful
Shakespeare was of that opinion!"
"He wasn't perfect, of course," Alice commented.
"No," said Uncle Waldo with a smile, "I suspect he even
liked to watch the cruel sports of bear-baiting and cock-
fighting. But still, he always showed great sympathy for
animals, — for the deer that was trapped and slain, for dogs
and horses, and even "the poor beetle that we tread upon.'
He had a fellow feeling for all living creatures.
"When you read 'Love's Labour's Lost,' he went on,
"you will hear Shakespeare himself talking about the sports
and dances and pageants that he knew. You will find there
the crossbow and the dancing horse, the tumbler with his
hoop, bowlers and fighters with poles, and the Pageant of
the Nine Worthies, a comedy which young Shakespeare may
have seen on Christmas Eve before a blazing yuletide
log. You will find the schoolmaster and the parson and the
constable and many people that he knew when he was
young — for it is one of his earliest plays. Perhaps you
know already the lovely song with which it ends:
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
so goes the 'Song of Summer'; and the 'Song of Winter'
follows :
74 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl
Then nightly sings the staring owl;
To-whit ;
To-whoo a merry note
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
"Getting a meal in those days," continued Uncle Waldo,
"must have been something like your picnics, when Joan
turned the pot about over the fire and the crab apples
hissed in the bowl."
"She could do it without being greasy, I should think,"
was Alice's comment.
"Let's read that play next," said Barbara.
'You'll need some help, I think," Uncle Waldo replied.
"There are rather too many Latin jokes in it for you.
Still, you'd enjoy the story. It's about the King of Na-
varre and his three lords who make a solemn vow to live
apart from the world and devote themselves to study for
three years; to eat little, sleep little, and see nothing of the
ladies; to become scholars and make Navarre the wonder
of the world. But the Princess of France comes to Na-
varre on an embassy from the French King, her father.
Yes, these are French people and the scene is in France;
but still, the play is full of English people and customs;
and when it was acted before Queen Elizabeth, she and
every one else knew that England was aimed at all the way
through."
Under the Great Tree 75
"What happened next?" asked Barbara.
"The story goes on to tell, with many jokes aimed at
the verse makers and the pretenders to learning, how the
King and his lords are unable to resist the charms of the
Princess and her ladies, until, one by one, they fall in love,
each one thinking himself the only offender. Finally, Biron,
one of the lords who has thought all along that their vow
was rather foolish, discovers the secrets, and the men come
into the presence of the ladies to press their suits openly.
The Princess, who is taking her leave, thinks the time too
short to 'make a world-without-end bargain in'; besides,
she cannot yet trust one who has broken his vow; so she
tells the King that he must go into a hermitage for one
year, and if, at the end of that time, fasting and frost
have not 'nipped the gaudy blossoms of his love,' she
will grant his suit. Her ladies follow her example. Biron's
lady, Rosaline, tells him that he must spend a year caring
for the sick in hospitals, to win her, and to cure him of
his merciless wit.
'You will like Biron. Some people think he resembles
Shakespeare in the early days when he wrote verses, before
he began to write plays."
"Oh! then I am sure we shall like him," said Barbara.
^|1 hakespeare
in Italy
CHAPTER VII
HE HOME OF THE C^SARS
I 1
'111 11 places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
John of Gaunt ("Richard II")
HEN the birch trees had turned to gold in the
September sun and the sumac on the slopes of
Aunt Jane's pasture was as red as rubies, Bar-
bara and Peggy, instead of returning to Hamp-
ton, were taken across the ocean to spend many
months in France and Italy. Fortunately for them, those
countries were still at peace. Soon after their return to
America, the World War began.
79
8o Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
It was rather hard to go away so far and leave home
and all your friends for so long a time. But Barbara
could take her Shakespeare friends with her. And al-
though, when you are going to a French school and learn-
ing to recite French and Italian poetry, there is not much
time for anything else, yet those friends were not entirely
forgotten. And some things happened over there which
enlarged her interest in Shakespeare's plays.
If you had read "Julius Caesar," it was thrilling to be
taken about the streets of Rome; to see the places in the
Forum where Brutus and Mark Antony made their
speeches; and to see Pompey's statue beside which Great
Caesar fell. How real it all seemed! Of course you had
to imagine, as Daddy said, that the city was on one level
and the Forum not sunk down in the ground as it seemed
to be now. The dust of centuries had half-buried its tem-
ples and been dug out in modern times. You had to im-
agine the columns and porticoes standing all fresh and
new, instead of old and moss-grown and toppling over.
But that was easy when you remembered that these were
the very same pavements on which the people stood when
the Soothsayer cried out to Caesar
Beware the Ides of March
and when Antony
Thrice presented him a kingly crown
Which he did thrice refuse,
and those were the same arches through which the crowd
had rushed and the senators marched with trumpeters at
their head.
The Home of the Ctesars 8 1
Barbara walked through the rooms of a Roman house.
The walls were mostly gone, but there were bits of bright-
colored fresco clinging to the parts that still stood and they
gave you an idea of how lovely it must have been. It
might have been Portia's house. Barbara liked the great,
central courtyard with its marble-rimmed pool of clear
water. She imagined that this court was the place where
the conspirators came to Brutus with "their hats plucked
about their ears and half their faces buried in their
cloaks"; where Brutus talked to them as if it would break
his heart to join them in their plot against Caesar's life;
where Portia came out to plead so well to know her hus-
band's secret, and all in vain.
Barbara wished she could see the house where Caesar
and Calpurnia lived. It must have been very grand and
like a palace, she thought, if the great Caesar lived there.
Daddy thought not; he thought it must have been very
much like this house — small compared to Mr. Rockefel-
ler's cottage at Seal Harbor, but not without a charm of
its own. Everything in it must have been made by hand.
All the brasses and bronzes — kitchen utensils even — were
graceful in shape and often exquisitely carved. In the hall
there were marble benches standing on griffins' feet, with
arms formed by the griffins' wings. Lovely statues from
Greece, perhaps, were standing about, and tall, slender
jars for oil and wine like those they had seen at the
museum.
She and Peggy were glad there were no terrible storms
"with portents in them," while they were in Rome, nor
any lions walking about the streets like the one Casca met.
82 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
The wolves that live on the Capitoline Hill were safely
caged and the day of portents had gone by, they hoped,
along with that old Rome which you would not wish
back again, if you could, however much you might wish
to see just how it looked in the days of its greatest
grandeur.
Barbara never found the house where Julius Caesar lived.
But on a beautiful day in early spring she climbed the Pala-
tine Hill where that other Caesar, the first emperor, and
those that came after him had built their magnificent
palaces. Above their foundations there was a garden now,
where you could walk through soft, silent paths between
borders of pink and purple gillyflowers, among trees of
many shapes and colors. The bright red berries still glist-
ened on the holly trees. The blooming Judas tree looked
like a bouquet of cyclamen. The umbrella pines spread
their branches above their gigantic trunks — so dark and
still, they seemed, from a distance and, when you were
close to them, so soft and feathery that you longed to feel
them against your cheek. Standing by itself in a plot of
grass a very tall and stately palm tree held its huge tassel
high up against the sky. From the stone wall around the
garden you looked down upon the whole length and breadth
of the Eternal City, with its yellow Tiber winding its way
between low banks, just as in the days when Romulus and
Remus were little boys.
Beyond the garden the ruins stretched away as far as
you could see. You might explore for days among num-
berless foundations of heavy masonry, massive walls and
The Home of the Ctfsars 83
arches, vast chambers and passageways that had been un-
earthed from the accumulation of ages and seemed more
like subterranean caverns now than like human habita-
tions; among shrines and temples, fountains and marble
baths, spacious pavements of mosaic, stairways, pillars, and
porticoes. It was hard to imagine these ruins in their an-
cient state of wealth and splendor, but what you could see
as you wandered through them in the spring sunshine made
you feel sure that this was a fitting home for the emperors
who ruled the world.
The Signorina was with Barbara that day — the lively,
sparkling Signorina who had been with the children for a
part of every day that winter; who chatted Italian with
them; took them for long walks in the picturesque gar-
dens of age-old villas kept young forever by their singing
fountains; played with them as if she were a child herself,
and had them laughing most of the time. She and Bar-
bara had become fast friends. Peggy she called her "pic-
cola sorella" — her little sister — and she was a person after
Peggy's own heart because she was always full of fun.
As Barbara and the Signorina sat together in the gar-
den on a bench at the edge of the hill, you would certainly
have taken them for sisters, though one was American and
the other Italian. They had the same clear-cut features
and oval face, the same dark, shining eyes and brown, wav-
ing hair curling about their foreheads, and the same rich
color in their cheeks. They had the same quick respon-
siveness and fresh interest in everything they saw.
"This would be called a 'park' at home," Barbara was
84 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
saying. "Only I never saw anything like it at home or any-
where.— Well, of course," she laughed, uthere could be
only one Rome."
"And only one home of the Caesars," added the Signo-
rina. "These trees, to be sure, have been brought from all
over the world. They are not all native to Rome. But
that only makes the place more like the ancient city; for
the ancients, too, brought plants and statues and treas-
ures of all kinds from everywhere to make Rome beauti-
ful so that the Romans could stay at home and still have
glimpses of the whole world."
As they looked down at the Forum and out beyond the
Arch of Titus to the strange, circular building, incredibly
large and massive, called the Coliseum, the Signorina told
Barbara stories of old Rome; of how, when the divine
Castor and Pollux had come down from heaven to announce
the salvation of the city, their horses had drunk at the pool
down there by the graceful columns of their temple; of how
the Vestal Virgins had kept guard over the sacred flame
through hundreds of years, down there in the House of
the Vestals — the flame that was to burn forever, while
Rome stood, but was extinguished at last by the barbarians
from the north; of how the Roman generals had gone
forth to conquer the world and, returning, had led their
prisoners in triumph under those very arches and up to
their palaces on this hill. Here Barbara interrupted,
"Caesar never led Cleopatra captive in the streets of
Rome, anyway."
"No. But why, Barbara, how did you know that?"
The Home of the Casars 85
"Because, in Shakespeare — in 'Antony and Cleopatra'
— she put the asp to her breast when he was trying to cap-
ture her. Shakespeare calls him Octavius, but Daddy calls
him Augustus Cassar. She knew what he would do to her
and she couldn't bear it. She had been such a great queen,
and so beautiful — how could she bear it? It is a sad ending
to the story — after she sailed up the Nile in that grand
boat. But I am glad she wasn't captured and taken to
Rome as a prisoner. It wasn't as sad as Antony's death
— when he said 'I am dying, Egypt, dying.' After Daddy
read me the play those were the only words I could remem-
ber, and they almost made me cry. I suppose other poor
queens were led in those processions with their hands fast-
ened by chains."
"Oh dear! oh dear! Barbara, you look so solemn!"
exclaimed the Signorina. "All that was a long time ago.
We shall be talking about Nero next if we are not careful.
Let's run down the other side of the hill and see if we can
find some more violets. It is pretty late for them. Come
along! You must cheer up the poor, sad, unhappy, Sig-
norina. Look at me." She made a long face — as long
as her rosebud face could be made. "Look at me ! So
sad, so pale, and so neglected! Poor, povera Signorina!"
In a gale of laughter Barbara followed her down the
hill.
CHAPTER VIII
THE FAIRIES IN ROME
A most majestic vision and
Harmonious charmingly.
Ferdinand ("The Tempest")
HE event of the season in Rome that winter
was the production of a play of which every
child knows something, yet which, as it was
produced in the great theatre called the Ar-
gentina and repeated for twenty-two succes-
sive nights to crowded houses, seemed like a new birth of
poetry in the world. It was Shakespeare's comedy, "A
Midsummer Night's Dream," recently translated into
Italian.
86
The Fairies in Rome 87
It was a marvelous performance, such as had never been
seen in Italy. The talents of the whole of Europe and
the newest inventions for stage effects were drawn upon to
make the scenery, the acting, and the music worthy of the
play that Shakespeare wrote.
All this was possible only because, years before, a little
boy, living a somewhat lonely life in a Tuscan villa, had
turned the pages of an illustrated copy of Shakespeare's
plays until he had come to know and love the people of
Shakespeare's world. He knew the meaning of a few of
the words on the pages, for he was already beginning to
learn English — but only a few. He pored over the books,
however, until he found out what was happening; until
he knew so well what was happening to the persons of the
pictures that he laughed and cried over them. He longed
to understand their words and to make them live in his
own language, so that other boys of his country might
understand them more easily than he had done. He was
fascinated by Titania, first of all, and he used to go about
the great park of the villa searching among the mosses and
flowers for a glimpse of the fairy queen and her train of
elves; and when he grew up and began to translate Shake-
speare into Italian, desiring to create a more truthful ver-
sion than other translations had given, his first choice was
"A Midsummer Night's Dream."
Just before the play was acted, his work was published,
with Arthur Rackham's illustrations. It was a beautiful
book, printed in large type and bound in white and gold.
Barbara looked and looked at the illustrations before she
Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
saw the play; and what was her delight to find that their
delicate colors had been reproduced upon the stage.
Fairies delight to clothe themselves, as every one knows,
in "elfin-gray," the gray of lichens on old tree trunks. But
the gray of lichens on old tree trunks often shades into
exquisite tints of primrose and violet and saffron and pale
green. And all these colors of the pictures, softened by
the light of the moon, reappeared in the scenes. Only, on
the stage, they were in perpetual movement, changing and
interchanging upon the gauzy fabric of the vision.
Harmonies of sound as well as color were woven into
the marvelous dream. For the action, now brisk and
lively and humorous, now slow and soft and languorous
like the airs of a summer night, was accompanied by selec-
tions from the music which Mendelssohn had composed
for the opera made out of the play a hundred years before.
An English artist, an Italian poet, and a German mu-
sician had added their talents to Shakespeare's genius;
painters and engineers, electricians, mechanics, makers of
fine fabrics, designers and workers of many kinds had made
their contribution to the setting; the musicians, the singers,
and the dancers were of that high excellence which can only
be attained by lifelong devotion to an art; and, most im-
portant of all, the actors and actresses proved themselves
worthy of their roles.
Italy is a nation of actors. Even the conversation of
Italians is like fragments of a play, and every schoolboy
will tell a tale or repeat a poem like a born actor. More-
over, the greatest of Italian actors have been famous in
The Fairies in Rome 89
Shakespearian parts. It was therefore no surprise that in
"The Midsummer Night's Dream," successful acting
should crown the achievement. The "hard-handed men
of Athens" who presented the "lamentable comedy" of
Pyramus and Thisbe — the play within the play — were not
quite the same "rude mechanicals" that they appear on the
English stage. They were comical, but not very dirty; they
fitted well into a story of dreamland.
Under such conditions Barbara and Peggy were to hear
Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
They were taken in the afternoon; but when they came
into the box and looked down through the great lighted
theatre, day seemed changed into night; it was enchanted
night on the stage, when the house was darkened and the
curtain rose and the moonlight shades of silvery rose and
lavender appeared and enveloped scene after scene; and
real night was falling when they came out into the streets
again and were driven home.
They had been silent through the play, too spellbound to
say much even between the acts. But now their tongues
were loosened and they chattered freely, while the horse's
hoofs clattered on the paving stones.
"Isn't it cold!" Barbara exclaimed, pushing her hands
down deep in her coat pockets. "It was all a dream; and
you always have to wake up from dreams. I wish that
one could last forever."
"And it wasn't all love affairs, like that opera we went
90 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
to. I was glad of that," said Peggy. "Wasn't Puck a
darling little rogue? And Moth was the loveliest fairy I
ever saw." Her voice fell a little as she added, "Only they
were too big. Fairies are tiny."
"Yes," assented Barbara, "Titania could sleep under a
snake skin. And don't you remember, when she and Oberon
quarreled, how all the fairies were so frightened they crept
into acorn cups?"
"Well, of course," said Peggy, "these were not real
fairies. The real Puck could ride on the back of a tiny
bat and drink out of the moss cups in our fairy house.
Real fairies stay in the woods, in the country."
"Oh," answered Barbara, with a quick look at Peggy.
'The fairies came to Rome, for once."
She was thoughtful for a moment and then added, "There
are so many gods and goddesses in Rome, and all their
lovely stories! Cupid and Psyche are just like fairies. And
Diana, goddess of the woods — and Pan — I should think
the fairies would want to come to Rome."
"It just happens," her mother interrupted, "that Titania
was a name given to Diana by a Roman poet. That is
where Shakespeare got the name — from Ovid. And Queen
Elizabeth, who was Spenser's 'Faerie Queene,' was Bel-
phoebe, too, in the same poem — and Belphoebe is an-
other name for Diana. The fairies and the gods and god-
desses were all mixed together in Shakespeare's day in
England. When people read Chaucer they found that
Pluto was called the king of the fairies, instead of Oberon,
and Proserpina was their queen/'
The Fairies in Rome 91
Barbara clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, how
lovely!" she exclaimed. 'Why, of course, Proserpina, with
all her flowers, was a fairy. — Only, they were the size of
mortals, Peggy. In the statues and pictures they are, any-
way. So perhaps we don't mind so much if Titania was
too large for an acorn cup. And she was adorable ! Oh !
oh!" she exclaimed, "I never thought it could be like that."
They had alighted and climbed the long flight of stairs
to their house, and Fulvia was bringing them their supper,
when Daddy came in just in time to hear Barbara's words:
"I never thought it could be like that!"
"Well, what was it like?" he asked. "Tell me all about
it."
They told him, with many exclamations, both of them
talking at once, until Barbara had a chance to say, "It was
too bad, though not to have the real words and the real
songs. And, Daddy, Bottom was not quite as funny as
when I used to read it to Aunt Caroline. Was it because
he spoke Italian? The Signorina had read the translation
with me and I could understand most of it."
"It was partly that, but not entirely, I suppose," he
answered. "From what you tell me I think Shakespeare
would have been as much surprised as you were by that
production of his play. I believe he would have said, too,
'I never thought it could be like that!' When he saw it
on the stage, it must have been very different; — no elec-
tric lights, very little machinery, only a platform, and the
audience grouped around it and not much more. I sup-
pose they must have had the ass's head and such devices,
92 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
and beautiful costumes and gorgeous trappings, like those
in the pageants, — horses on the stage, richly caparisoned,
shining armor, jeweled crowns, and all that. But the stage
was not set off like a picture in a frame. Think of having
the actors close at hand — right down among the audience,
in fact I Probably a space at the back of the stage was cur-
tained off, so that, for instance, Portia and her suitors,
could do their part there, while the Venetian street scenes
could go on in front. But the whole stage was very sim-
ple, like the Greek and Roman stage, and for that reason
the words had to count for more. The audience could not
see Puck or Ariel fly through the air; they had to imagine
what the words suggested. Even if you had had Shake-
speare's own words to-day (you say the Italian words were
beautiful, but they were not his) there would have been
so much to look at that you might still have felt that the
words meant less than when you read them."
"How could they act it without electric lights?" asked
Barbara.
"With candles, of course," said Peggy. "What do you
think, Sister?"
"Perhaps they used candles when they acted in a small
way, in houses or in the Queen's palace. But the Globe
Theatre, where Shakespeare acted, was open to the sky-
all except the tiers of boxes that were built around it and
roofed over. There was no curtain in front of the stage.
The light came from the sky and they acted always in the
daytime."
"Something like the open-air theatre at home, where
The Fairies in Rome 93
Alice saw them play 'As You Like it,' Barbara ex-
claimed.
"It would have been nice," Peggy mused, "to have heard
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier."
"Oh, yes," Barbara exclaimed, "and to have heard Bot-
tom say 'I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove,' and
to hear Peter Quince say, 'Bless thee, Bottom, thou art
translated.' "
'Well, I'd rather see it on the stage than read it, any-
way," declared Peggy.
Barbara was not sure. She thought long about the dif-
ference between reading Shakespeare and seeing his plays
acted. Both were pleasures — one of them she had long
known, the other she had just discovered — and they were
such different pleasures. She wished she could see them
all on the stage — every one she had ever read; and yet
with that wish was a kind of dread lest they should seem
strange to her and different from the books she loved.
And she soon began to think of a way of combining these
two pleasures without destroying either of them.
The next morning she wrote to Alice Van Norden. She
and Alice had become better acquainted through their let-
ters than they had ever been at home, even during that
week's visit by the sea. For Alice wrote the most amus-
ing letters ! And she was so much interested in everything
that Barbara was doing — much more than any of the other
girls — that Barbara liked to write her long epistles, telling
94 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
her everything. This time, after a few sentences about the
scenery, she went on :
"It seems to me there are three stories in 'A Midsummer
Night's Dream' and Puck gets into all three of them. Of
course he belongs to the fairy story, and he gets into the
story about the lovers because when Oberon wants to
punish Titania for not giving him her little Indian boy he
sends Puck to drop on her eyelids, when she is asleep, the
juice of a flower that will make her love the first thing she
sees. — And Oberon tells Puck that he saw in the forest a
lady pursuing a man who will not love her, and he might
as well drop some of that juice on the eyelids of the man,
when the first thing he sees will be the lady. However,
Puck makes a mistake — Oberon tells him it is an Athenian
youth, but there are two of them in the woods; so Puck
puts the charm on the wrong man, and the lovers get aw-
fully mixed up. First both men love Hermia, then they
both love Helena, and she thinks they are making fun of
her. They quarrel, and the two men are going to fight,
but Puck finds out his mistake. So he leads them a chase;
they follow his voice and never find each other; they drop
down tired and go to sleep. Then Puck takes some more
juice and straightens out everything — so that story ends
happily. Puck gets mixed up with the other story, about
Bottom and the company of funny men who are rehears-
ing a play for the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta —
that is the reason the fairies are in those woods that night,
too; they have come to help with the celebration. Bottom
is so proud of himself he wants to take all the parts in
The Fames in Rome 95
the play, so Puck turns him into an ass; and the ass is
the first thing Titania sees when she wakes up. Isn't that
part funny, where the fairies are all waiting upon the big
ass Titania is in love with? Anyway, she sends the little
Indian boy to Oberon, while she is under the spell, so when
Puck takes the spell away, the fairies' quarrel is over, and
that story ends happily. Bottom is changed back, too. He
doesn't seem to have learned much. He is awfully proud
of the dream he has had! But he takes his part without so
much boasting — I guess he'll be afraid to boast like that
again! — and they give the play of "Pyramus and Thisbe,'
and Theseus and Hippolyta like it, and the lovers are mar-
ried, too, and the fairies bless the house. I suppose Oberon
wouldn't let Puck play any tricks at the wedding. Of course
you know this story, but I keep thinking about it and I
can't help writing about it.
"It was beautiful, but I missed the words, Alice, the
real words and songs. Don't you think it would be fun,
when I come home, for you and me to act some Shake-
speare together? Daddy says the stage was so plain in
Shakespeare's day — I think we could make one something
like it ourselves. And so, don't you see, we could get the
real thing, words and acting, if we did it ourselves. What
do you think of that for a plan?
"Sometimes I am almost homesick, though I am hav-
ing a beautiful time. It seems a good deal like home
here, because we have our own house, even if it is all on
one floor. The flowers on the roof garden help a little
bit, and there are bees up there, too. We have to keep
96 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
away from them. We have lots of fun in the big kitchen
with our jolly, fat cook, Pasqua. I went to market with
her one day, and the vegetable man called out to her,
'Buona Pasqua.' That means 'Happy Easter' in Italian,
and it also means, 'good Pasqua.' Do you see the joke?
"I remembered what you told me about seeing 'As You
Like It' in Hampton, when I came back from seeing 'A
Midsummer Night's Dream' in Rome. Shakespeare
seems to belong to the whole world."
CHAPTER IX
FLORENTINE LEGENDS
Spring come to you, at the farthest,
In the very end of harvest !
Ceres ("The Tempest")
T seemed as if the winter in Rome had
scarcely arrived when the spring began.
There was no time in the year when one
could not buy garden roses at the foot of the
Spanish Steps, and the fountains were never
silent. The air was often cold and piercing,
so that one pitied those that must go thinly clad, but on
windless days the sun \vas warm and delicious. Before the
end of January, bright pink almond blossoms appeared,
97
98 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
brought in from the country by the peasants, and about the
same time Barbara and Peggy gathered violets and cycla-
men in the half-wild gardens of Roman villas.
Often, on days of blue sky and sunshine, they went out
across the Roman Campagna to the quaint hill towns,
perched high above the plain, like eagles' nests. They
climbed up, in the steam tram, to Tivoli, where the roar of
the wonderful cascades drowns the songs of the birds in
the olive orchards, where you look far down and far away
through the purple distance to the sea, and where the Villa
d'Este is a little world of beauty by itself — a world of
solemn trees and laughing fountains and friendly, talka-
tive birds and dreaming fishes and lazy lizards. And if
the only nymphs and naiads one sees there are carved in
stone, that is one's own fault; for the real ones are there,
too, hiding in the shadows, if one has eyes to see them.
They tramped through the woods on the steep slopes
around Lake Nemi, where the ground is sprinkled with
white narcissus like a dark sky with stars. With their
lunch in a basket, they took the train for the Castle of
Bracciano and spent a day under its massive, medieval
walls that rise above soft meadows of wild flowers and
look across shimmering, blue water to snow-capped Mount
Soracte.
These places often took Barbara's thoughts far from
Shakespeare. But later, when she read the plays at home,
she realized how full they were of the scenery of Italy; and
often she would recall some trellised garden or some
arcade beside a fountain or some
Florentine Legends 99
pleached bower
Where honeysuckles ripened by the sun
Forbid the sun to enter,
which seemed the very place in which his people moved.
In April, when the days were long and warm and the
air was spicy, Barbara went off for "a spree" with her
mother to pay a visit to Cousin Emily in Florence. There,
for two happy weeks, much of the time was divided between
pictures and the skating rink, with lazy hours in the Boboli
Gardens or along the banks of the Arno or under the per-
golas of a villa on the hillside from which you looked down
upon the domes and towers of the proud old city and the
river winding under its bridges. In those loiterings Mother
and Cousin Emily talked together incessantly and, as
long as she kept them in sight, she could wander about
as she liked, to look at things and to think of things,
or just to bask, without thinking at all, in the warm sun-
shine.
But Barbara rather liked to think about things, even in
sunny Italy; and in Florence her mind fed upon wonder
as she thought of Dante and Beatrice (she knew them in
a bedtime story she had always loved) and of the Bible
stories and the legends of gods and goddesses and saints
and martyrs that she had seen pictured in the churches and
galleries. Her thoughts went far, indeed, from Shake-
speare; for when, at the end of the visit, Cousin Emily
asked her which of the paintings she would chose to take
home with her, she decided that her "favorite" was Bot-
ticelli's "Venus Rising from the Sea." And the little copy
ioo Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Cousin Emily gave her hung always in her room, wherever
she was, from that time on.
One afternoon they visited the Villa of the Portinari,
the family of Beatrice, who had recorded on a tablet the
proud memory that there they had entertained Dante and
tha,t there he had met Beatrice, their daughter, who had
remained the inspiration of his life and led him on over all
obstacles and through all sorrows into the very heart of
Paradise. When Barbara had first heard that story she
had asked her mother, "Did it happen in Heaven above or
in ages long ago?" Now it seemed to belong to this world,
wonderful as it was, while she sat there on the steps of the
house, under the covered porch, and listened to the black-
bird singing in the fig tree on the lawn.
"We know more about Dante's life than we know about
Shakespeare's" Cousin Emily was saying as the two talkers
sauntered down the garden path. Barbara listened. That
sounded interesting. "Although Dante lived three hun-
dred years before Shakespeare."
"Yes, because Boccaccio wrote the history of Dante's
life and nobody did the same thing for Shakespeare. I sup-
pose that is the reason why."
Barbara jumped up and slipping in between them saun-
tered along with them, her arms in theirs.
"We are talking," Mother explained, "about the great
story-teller, Boccaccio, the father of Italian prose, and
Dante, the father of Italian poetry." Then turning to
Emily, "Boccaccio never saw Dante, did he, although
he wrote the story of his life? I have forgotten my dates !"
Florentine Legends 101
"No," Emily answered. "You remember he was a lit-
tle boy running about over these hills above Florence when
Dante died in exile. Later he knew Dante's daughter,
named Beatrice ! And he so honored her father that he
thought it his duty to write down all that he knew about
him — partly, I think, to atone for the sin of Florence in
having forced him to eat the bitter bread of exile. But the
best thing he did for him was to copy some of his poems
which, otherwise, would have been lost."
"Who was Boccaccio?" asked Barbara. "Was he a
good story-teller?"
"He told good stories, certainly," replied Cousin Emily,
— "so good that they were taken up by the writers of France
and Italy and retold again and again, and some of them
found their way into Shakespeare's plays."
"Then some of Shakespeare's stories came from Flor-
ence!" Barbara looked down upon the City of Flowers
with a new interest.
"Very many of them came from Italy," said her mother,
"for the Italians were the greatest story-tellers of modern
Europe; and Boccaccio was the first and the greatest of
them all. Some of them came by way of one greater than
he — our own Chaucer, the father of English poetry. He
retold some of Boccaccio's stories, in the 'Canterbury
Tales,' and Shakespeare read them there and put one of
them into 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' "
"Did Boccaccio make up the story? I thought Shake-
speare made it up out of nothing." Barbara looked disap-
pointed for a minute.
IO2 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
''Nothing was ever made up out of nothing, Barbara.
No, Boccaccio and others picked up scraps of tales from
Greece and France and different parts of Italy and made
them into such good stories that they lived. And Shake-
speare made them into something absolutely new — as new
as anything can be. He always put in new characters that
do not belong to the old tale at all. Many of those he
made out of the people he saw about him in Stratford and
London; that is why, no matter where the tales came from,
the plays are thoroughly English after all."
They .sat down on the brow of the hill and Barbara lay
stretched on her back looking up into the branches of a
spreading pine tree, while Cousin Emily told her Boccaccio's
story of the seven ladies and three gentlemen who came out
from Florence one summer morning into these hills which
he had loved from boyhood and, to beguile the time they
were spending in one of the loveliest of the villas ("It is
just over there," she said, indicating the direction with
her hand), they told the hundred tales of the "Decam-
eron.'
"There was a terrible plague, called the Black Death,
raging in Florence. People were dying in the streets and
the city was like a desert of mourning. And it so chanced
that seven young ladies met together in an almost empty
church and one of them proposed that, since they were left
alone by the death of so many of their family and friends,
they should escape from the infected city into the country.
The plan met with favor, and the next day, accompanied
by their maids and by three young men of their acquaint-
Florentine Legends 103
ance who had agreed to join the party, they betook them-
selves by the road that Boccaccio knew so well — for he
had lived 'not too far from the city nor too near the gate'
— to a villa of their own estates — a palace of many rooms
and halls and loggias, adorned with paintings. — And when
they had examined the house and found everything in order,
the beds fresh and clean and the rooms filled with wild
flowers, they sat down in a circle on the grass, where there
was no sound but the voice of the cricket through the olive
trees, and decided to spend the time, not in games of dice
and chess, in which only the winners would be satisfied, but
in story-telling, which would give delight to every one. A
leader was chosen for every day and crowned with bay
leaves; and in ten days the hundred stories were told.
"But they did not stay always in the same spot. One
Sunday morning, at dawn, they walked, led by twenty
nightingales, to still another villa; and there, while the men
were playing chess, the ladies wandered into a heavenly val-
ley surrounded by five hills, where there was a pool of clear
water, so clear that they could see the pebbles on the bot-
tom and the fish darting about in all directions. Telling
their maids to keep watch for them, the ladies bathed in
this clear, deep pool, and went back refreshed to the arbor
by the villa where the men were still at their game."
"What a contrast it is," Barbara's mother remarked,
"to the gloom of the plague-stricken city ! And what a
contrast is that clear, pure setting to some of the tales those
innocent young people told ! You will never want to read
them all, as they stand, Barbara. They were suited to the
IO4 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
time in which they were written, and they are wonderful;
but I prefer to read them in forms like Shakespeare's plays
which are better suited to our time or to all times.
"Yes," said Cousin Emily. "Boccaccio told the story of
Imogen; but you would not love her there as you do in
Cymbeline. Why, she is not the same person in the least!
Shakespeare took only the outline of the story and created
the people."
"But not out of nothing, Barbara," said Mother, "out
of his own mind."
"Of course, that's what I meant," pleaded Barbara. "Oh,
no!" she tossed her head and laughed, "I didn't mean his
min d was nothing. Mother! You know what I mean."
Her mother gave her a reassuring smile, and she went on :
"I think they were sensible to tell stories. But why didn't
they stay and help the sick people in the city?"
"Ah! there," replied Cousin Emily, "you have the dif-
ference between their day and ours. Our young people
would have chosen games, I feel sure, but then they would
not have said, as those young ladies did, that as long as
they had none of their family to care for, they were free.
They would have stayed — let us hope — to nurse the waifs
in the streets, or any one who was suffering."
They were all three silent for a time, listening to the
birds. Then, as they rose to go home, Cousin Emily said
to Barbara: "Perhaps you would like to see, in the Florence
library, some of those works of Dante in Boccaccio's hand-
writing. For they are there, and oh ! there are many beau-
tiful manuscripts there, written on vellum in the most ex-
Florentine Legends 105
quisite script and illustrated in brilliant colors. Boccaccio's
'Decameron' is there. You must see them."
A few days later, Barbara saw with her own eyes these
books that were made before printing was invented. And
while she looked at the strange, black letters and the bright-
colored pictures of the manuscripts, and at Boccaccio's own
handwriting, her thoughts flew back to the country, and
she thought of the gay brigade of youths and maidens sit-
ting in a circle under the olive trees, telling the tales that
were to travel so far and yet would never be separated
from their picturesque setting in the hills above Florence.
Shakespeare had never been in Italy. No, that was not
necessary. Boccaccio and his followers had taken Italy to
Shakespeare's England.
CHAPTER X
JULIET'S GARDEN
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene.
Prologue ("Romeo and Juliet")
N the worn, leather-bound volumes of Shake-
speare on the shelf at home, among the books
inscribed with the name of Barbara's grand-
mother, were some old engravings of the
scenes, real and imaginary, where the action
of the dramas takes place. Barbara liked
them because they showed you exactly where you were when
you read the play. The lines of the pictures were clear and
definite, too — not blurred and lost as in many illustrations
1 06
Juliet's Garden 107
of to-day. They fascinated her, so that she sometimes
tried to copy them with her pencil. Once, when she was
little, she brought her paint box and was about to color
them, thinking thus to make them quite perfect, when some
grown-up stopped her. She knew many of them so well that
when she went to Verona in the month of May she had
her own idea of what she hoped to find there as the setting
of "Romeo and Juliet" and "The Two Gentlemen of Ver-
ona." She rather hoped to see Launce and his dog, Crab,
in the flesh. But in that, alas! she was disappointed.
For the most part, however, she found what she expected.
There was the castle on the hill and the fountain in the
square; there were the palaces with their towers and ter-
races and balconies, just as she had seen them in the pic-
tures, and the mysterious structure of pinnacles and statues
called a Tomb of the Scaligers, and the great amphitheatre
of the Romans called the Arena, and the swift river Adige
sweeping under bridges of stone, and, in the background,
the mountain tops against the sky. Only the so-called
"House of the Capulets" was a disappointment. Surely
this could be no more than a fragment, if it were that, of
the home of Juliet — the great house of a powerful family
where feasts were held and hospitality extended to the
entire city — to all but the Montagues, the lifelong ene-
mies of the Capulets. Where, thought Barbara, was the
marble terrace under Juliet's balcony? And where was
the orchard below it, and the high wall over which Romeo
had leaped? She wished most of all for the orchard and
the garden, where "the moonlight tipped with silver the
io8 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
fruit-tree tops" and the nightingale sang every night on
the same pomegranate bough.
For two days Verona was, to Barbara, a mixture of de-
lights and disappointments. But on the third day she came
in from her walk saying that everything was all right now;
she had "found Juliet's garden."
"Why, what do you mean?" asked her father, in some
surprise.
"It must be Juliet's garden," she answered. "It is just
like it anyway. You see, it is right here in Verona, and the
trees are hundreds of years old, the gardener said — and
you can see they are ! and there are pomegranate trees and
sycamore trees and roses and everything — and it is, oh,
so beautiful!"
"You have made a discovery," said Daddy. "It pays
to explore, doesn't it?"
The embowered spot known as "Juliet's tomb" was an-
other surprise. Barbara had rather dreaded that. But
there was nothing really sad about it, after all. The mar-
ble sarcophagus rested under an arched roof supported by
pillars forming a sort of open-air temple covered by sway-
ing vines of shining leaves. Flowers bloomed on every
side. The mellow voice of a church bell was chanting in
slow measured tones through the quiet air.
On a warm, sultry day the children came back to the
hotel from an early walk and, after luncheon and a long
nap, Peggy went to work with her dolls inside the house
Juliet's Garden 109
while Barbara sat down alone on a shaded balcony that
hung out from their room above the square. Below her,
carts and horses, men, women and children mingled to-
gether in a lively scene. Across the broad, paved square,
the marble Arena lay yellow and silent in the sun.
Little by little, as Barbara looked and dreamed, the scene
changed. She saw two young men in doublet and hose and
feathered hats, their short swords hanging from their belts,
talking and laughing together, down there on the pavement.
Presently one of them said to the other:
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And if we meet we shall not 'scape a brawl.
For now these hot days is the mad blood stirring.
But the gay Mercutio preferred to stay there jesting with
his friend, and while they talked, up came the fiery Tybalt
of the House of Capulet. High words were exchanged,
their hands felt for their swords, but the moment passed,
for another Montague approached and Tybalt cried,
<
Well, peace be with you, sir; here comes my man.
It is Romeo, whom he has been seeking, — Romeo, the
'Virtuous and well-governed youth" who had enraged Ty-
balt the night before by coming uninvited to the Capulets'
ball. There he had seen Juliet, the daughter of the house,
who seemed to him a "snowy dove trooping with crows."
He had contrived to speak with her, and after a few brief
words, they knew and loved each other, only to learn with
no Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
sad foreboding that their love was planted where it would
not be allowed to grow, in the camp of the enemy. Tybalt
would have drawn his weapon on the offending Montague
then and there but for Juliet's father, who would not
allow even an unwelcome guest to be maltreated in his
house. The hard-hearted old Capulet was too much of a
gentleman for that! Now Tybalt has been out seeking
him in the streets, determined to make him pay for his
rash act.
"Romeo," he cries, "thou art a villain."
But Romeo will not be driven into a quarrel. He can
find no hatred in his heart just now — and this Barbara
understands, for she remembers what has happened since
the Capulets' ball. She remembers the conversation in
the moonlit garden when Juliet, thinking herself alone, had
revealed her inmost thoughts to Romeo. She remembers
how the plotting of the parents to arrange Juliet's mar-
riage with Count Paris has hastened on the full confession
of her love for Romeo and driven her to consent to meet
him the next day at Friar Lawrence's cell, where the Friar,
thinking thus to end the family feud, married them. Even
now, while Tybalt is challenging Romeo, she is at home
waiting impatiently for his return.
Romeo, full of his great happiness, will not be driven
into a quarrel. He replies with gentle words, telling Ty-
balt that the reason he has for loving him makes him par-
don that word "villain." To Mercutio, who knows nothing
of Romeo's reason, this seems a vile submission, and he
now rushes forward to answer the charge with his sword.
Juliet's Garden ill
Romeo tries in vain to part them. They fight and Mercutio
is wounded. He dies with a jest on his lips.
And now everything seems changed. A different look
has come into Romeo's face. There is grief for his friend
who has died in his defense and anger at the murderer.
Foreseeing the woe that will follow "this day's black fate,"
he draws his sword and Tybalt falls. Tybalt, Juliet's
cousin, is slain by Romeo, her husband. The citizens rush
in, with the Capulets and the Montagues; and the Prince
of Verona, learning what has happened, condemns Romeo
to banishment.
It is a short, sw^ft scene which Barbara sees in her day-
dream. But it is the centre of the tragic story which Shake-
speare made so beautiful, into which he crowded so much
intense happiness, that it is less a tragedy than a song of
triumph.
The place is silent now. Romeo has taken refuge with
the Friar. The Nurse has carried the fatal news to Juliet.
And Barbara sits there recalling the events that followed.
She remembers that Romeo and Juliet were granted one
farewell visit, when the radiance of their happiness shone
against the background of their woes. She thinks of how
those strange parents insisted with cruel words upon her
marriage with Paris; of how she appealed for help to the
Friar, who, seeing her determined to die rather than desert
her husband, gave her a drug which would make her seem
to die, and promised to summon Romeo before she should
awaken in the family tomb; of how the Friar's letter mis-
carried and Romeo, hearing that Juliet had died, came back
112 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
to drink poison beside her; of how Juliet awakened a mo-
ment later to find him there and, in haste lest the others
should come and snatch her from him, thrust his dagger
into her side.
By their deaths the lovers have buried their parents'
strife. The fathers are reconciled over their bodies.
Romeo and Juliet have been sacrificed. There will be peace
henceforth in the streets of Verona.
uWas Juliet really only fourteen years old?" asked Bar-
bara as her mother stepped out upon the balcony.
"Girls were very different in those days," her mother
answered promptly.
"Her father said wicked things to her. That was why
she couldn't tell him the truth. And her mother was not
like a real mother at all. I should think she would have
run away. Even the old Nurse turned against her. . . .
But, oh! why did Romeo kill himself? Why didn't he
know she was alive, when she was so sweet and beautiful
lying there all ready to wake up ? Then it might have ended
happily. But I suppose Shakespeare had to tell what really
happened."
Barbara's mother did not try to tell her why she thought
the story better and greater as it was. Instead of that she
led Barbara back to the gardens where, it was easy to be-
lieve, Juliet had played when she was a little girl. Long
shadows lay across the paths between the boxwood hedges.
The broad-terraced palace of the old engraving might have
stood just there, Barbara thought, beyond those cypress
trees which were turning to gold in the afternoon light. It
Juliet's Garden 113
was pleasant to think of it all as happening right here, where
the roses were blooming so gaily among the dark trees and
the air was heavy with the perfumes of spring.
It was no ordinary garden now, but the moonlit orchard
which Shakespeare created, where the lovers' song mingled
with the nightingale and the lark. Juliet was happy there.
And Barbara looked happy, too, as she leaned over a rail-
ing, beside a fountain, and listened while her mother re-
peated Romeo's words:
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
CHAPTER XI
THE POET'S VENICE
How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Portia ("The Merchant of Venice")
ORE than all the other places, Barbara loved
Venice. That was the magical city, where
you moved about in a dream that lasted
longer than one midsummer night, through
streets of water that rose and fell with the
tides of the sea. It seemed impossible that
you had come there in a real railroad train, and that those
were real trunks piled on the gondola that took you from
114
The Poet's Venice 115
the station to the hotel. Surely it was not a real hotel. It
was a Venetian palace of a pale rose color, with pointed win-
dows tipped with leaves of marble, with sculptured bal-
conies, and steps that dropped down below the water. On
still days, while you floated through the canals under the
bridges, the marble palaces rose straight up from the water
to the sky and dropped down far below in shimmering re-
flections to the other sky under you. You lost sight of the
palaces under the sea again and again and the clouds of that
reflected sky broke into pieces, as the boats glided through
them. But you had nothing to regret because then you
watched the boats. And nothing could be more fascinating
than the boats.
Sometimes a gondola carried a party of gay people ; some-
times there were two sturdy gondoliers for one solitary gen-
tleman who leaned back luxuriously among the cushions.
There were broader, less graceful boats that carried more
fascinating cargoes — shining red tomatoes piled into pyra-
mids, oranges and apricots in large, round baskets, arti-
chokes that looked like buds of some rare, gigantic flowers,
grapes in glistening festoons, and mountains of curly cab-
bages. There were huge black hulks of boats, each one
with a blue virgin painted on the prow and a yellow, winged
lion on the rudder. Often they seemed to block the canal
and you looked for a collision. But they always slipped past
each other, a hair's breadth apart, yet never touching.
When they went in a gondola, the children liked to sit
on the low steps facing the proper seat, so that they could
watch the gondolier bending his supple body to the great
Il6 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
oar, steering, one knew not how, by the slightest motions
of his wrist, and clearing the way by his mysterious calls
that reechoed through the canals. For there were no sounds
of motor cars and trams in Venice, and you heard the voices,
and the plash of the oars, and laughter, and singing, as if
you were on some quiet, country stream. Once, when they
had taken two gondoliers for a long trip across the lagoon,
Peggy's smiles persuaded the man in the bow to let her hold
the oar and she plied it bravely till she was out of breath
and glad to give it up. "I learned how when I was smaller
than you," he told her, uand I have done it ever since. And
now my little boy is doing it. He is strong like you,
Signorina. But I have only one gondola and it is not often
that he has a chance to practice." — "Mumsie," whispered
Peggy, "couldn't we give him a gondola?" — How nice
it would have been if Mother could only have said yes !
Barbara and Peggy were not taken to see many pictures
in Venice. Wherever one turned one saw a picture. The
carved palaces under the blue sky were such works of art
in nature's setting that it was a pity to leave them for
churches and museums. Venetian painting could wait for
a later visit. So they fed the pigeons in St. Mark's Square
and stored up at the same time a precious memory of that
most beautiful of all city squares, which is like a great
festal chamber, surrounded by marble walls and colonnades
adorned with gold pinnacles and domes and the sculptured
arches of the cathedral, and open to the sky.
Amid all the life and motion, the color and the sounds,
nothing in Venice was of such great interest to Barbara as
The Poet's Venice 117
the house on the Grand Canal called Desdemona's Palace
and the old Bridge of the Rialto; for about them hung
stories that she knew.
This palace and this bridge were fascinating in them-
selves. But their charm for Barbara was lent them by
their stories. They were wonderful stories, full of the
poetry and mystery of Venice — wherein the sea and ships
that traffic in the Orient are made a part of the life of the
streets and the marketplace, and the wealth and power of
the Republic of Venice are woven into the loves and hatreds
of men, and strange adventures throb in human passions.
In one of them, at least, the light-hearted, merry temper
of the Venetian is given full play; in the other a sheltered
and innocent Venetian girl becomes the prey of the hot
emotions of men in a world where violence has not been
tamed to reason.
Barbara did not know the play of "Othello" as she knew
the "Merchant of Venice." It was too terrible to read, she
thought. But she liked the story of the gentle Desdemona
won by the brave Moor's tales of his adventures in wild
and unknown lands; and as she floated in a gondola past
the house which tradition called Desdemona's, while her
mother repeated the story and recalled certain lines of the
play, she could picture them sitting behind that balustrade
carved into patterns as delicate as the lace she had seen
young girls making on the island of Burano, while the waves
washed the steps below them and the boats came in from
those far eastern countries of which they talked. She
thought of Othello as an olive-skinned Moor, dark and
Ii8 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
swarthy, and so different from Desdemona's family and
friends that her father might have said — exaggerating in
his anger — that she "loved that which she feared to look
upon," but for all that a fine type of man, strongly built
and noble in his bearing. He must have looked even hand-
some— and the Venetian councillors must have looked pale
and weak beside him — when he stood up in the Signory,
in a room like those Barbara had seen in the Doges' Palace,
and, addressing them with perfect courtesy,
Most potent, grave and reverend signers,
My very noble and approved good masters,
delivered his "round, unvarnished tale" in such a way that
one of them was moved to say, "I think this tale would win
my daughter, too." Barbara liked him best when he said,
so very simply,
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.
Later, when his passions and suspicions were aroused
against Desdemona by the wicked lago, Barbara did not
understand him, and her mind refused to dwell upon that
part of the story. It was "too terrible." When she knew
the play much better, and had learned something of the
history of Venice, she understood Shakespeare's truth to
life in making him die with a word of devotion to the
Venetian state upon his lips. It justified his title, "Moor
of Venice."
The Poet's Venice 119
The great square of Saint Mark's was full of people,
sitting at tables or pacing to and fro under the arcades or
over the open pavement in the lengthening shadows of the
later afternoon, when Barbara and her father crossed from
the cathedral to the opposite end of the square and turned
into a narrow, crooked street called the Frezzeria — the
street of the arrow makers, which Shakespeare called the
Sagittary. They made their way between small shops and
over bridges built high on arches that let the boats pass
under, and came out into a busy square where there were
larger, quite modern-looking stores. In the centre of the
open space was a bronze statue of a man, raised on a low
pedestal so that he stood but a few feet above the crowd,
and smiling in such a jolly way that you could hardly look
at him without smiling back.
"Who is it, Daddy?" asked Barbara.
"That is the Venetian who wrote plays," he answered,
"Goldoni."
"Was there only one? — He is a dear! — Do you like his
plays, Daddy, as well as Shakespeare's?"
When her father had explained that there were many,
but he was the most famous, and that he liked Shakespeare's
plays much better, though Goldoni's were quite amusing
and "not half bad," he told her that the Venetians had
always loved to act, and that in the days before Goldoni,
who lived a long time after Shakespeare, they had found
it so amusing to invent their plays as they went along that
they would dress themselves up like certain familiar char-
acters and then make up the words these characters might
I2O Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
speak, right there on the stage, while the audience ap-
plauded, or hissed, as the case might be.
'That must have been hard!" exclaimed Barbara.
"When Peggy and I do plays, we think up the words first
and learn them by heart. They must have had their wits
about them!"
"They did," Daddy went on, "and for that reason it was
a long time before they had any real, written plays, worked
out with care so that they were good enough to keep.
Goldoni did what seemed impossible when he made com-
edies in which the people were full of wit and gaiety like
true Venetians and so well done that the people who lis-
tened were glad to hear them over and over and did not
ask for new fresh words every time they went to the
theatre. You know," he said, "that when you hear words
like so many of Shakespeare's, which make you feel,
'There! That is just right. That couldn't be better,' then
you want to hear them again, and you want to keep them
in a book so that you can read them when you are alone.
That is what the Venetians felt about Goldoni."
"And that is what we feel about Shakespeare," Barbara
assented. She understood that very well; and often, as
time went on, and she read the plays of Shakespeare
more frequently, Shakespeare's words would come into
her mind most unexpectedly, to help her express her own
thoughts.
Her father told her that Goldoni had been one of the
first Italians to know and appreciate Shakespeare and to
declare his "reverence" for him.
The Poet's Venice 121
They wandered through many streets — if you can call
them streets when there are no vehicles and so little room
for the people to walk that you must keep to the right or
block the way — and several times they thought they were
lost. The turns were so sharp that, as Daddy said, you
couldn't lose the direction; there was no direction to lose
through such streets as these.
"They make me think of Launcelot Gobbo's instructions
to his father in 'The Merchant of Venice,' said Daddy.
"Let me see, what was it? 'Turn up on your right at the
next turning, but at the next turning of all to your left, and
at the very next turning, turn down directly into the Jew's
house.' Was that it?"
"He must have been making fun of Venetian streets
when he said that, don't you think so?"
Barbara stopped and. looked into a little shop where an
old man and woman were frying shellfish and all kinds of
fish and selling them hot over a sort of counter that faced
the street.
"It looks better than it smells," Barbara remarked.
"And it looks clean, Daddy!"
"It's a miracle if it is," he answered.
They came soon to a broad opening and faced the Grand
Canal. From the edge of the foundation wall they looked
"up and down the river," as Barbara put it, adding, "only,
of course, it isn't a river." And there, close by them on
the right, was the Rialto Bridge.
"Can we go right up to it?" asked Barbara, who had seen
it only from the water, when it looked very high and rather
122 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
stern and unapproachable, as if it expected you to stay far
off and look at it with respect for its grave dignity.
"Certainly. We are going to cross it," and Daddy led
the way up a short flight of steps that rose by the side of
the canal to the end of the bridge, and, when they had
stopped to look in a shop window at some beautiful silk
damasks and brocades, they turned up other broad steps
onto the bridge — or rather into the bridge, as it seemed,
for they found themselves in a street like the other streets
of Venice, closed in between rows of shops. Only at the
top they came to a broad, arched opening through which
they could look far down upon the canal and watch the
boats come in and out of the dark shadow under them.
As they turned from the arch and walked on, they met
an old, stoop-shouldered man with a huge, gray beard and
white, unkempt hair, dragging his feet as if to keep from
losing his dilapidated shoes. He raised his head and
looked at them with a sharp, black eye, and passed on.
Barbara held on to herself until he was well past them
and then whispered, "Shylock!"
"There is a family resemblance, certainly," said Daddy.
"Don't, dear, don't look round at him. I wanted to say,
'What news to-day on the Rialto?' "
"Why didn't you, Daddy?"
Descending the steps on the other side, they looked into
an open marketplace where all kinds of things, — food and
clothing, muslins and cloth, household utensils and knick-
nacks — were displayed for sale in small shops on the outer
edge and queer little booths in the open square. It was
The Poet's Venice 123
odd to see chickens and ducks and pigeons, all ready to be
cooked, piled up under an awning, and fruit in heaps with
no covering but the sky.
"The things don't look very nice," was Barbara's com-
ment.
uAh! But they once did," her father answered. "All
the rare gems and stuffs of the Orient were on sale here
once, and with them the beautiful things made by Venetian
goldsmiths and silversmiths and workers in bronze and
leather and ivory. Even the paintings of great artists like
Titian and Tintoretto were hung up here in the open air
for all to see. The whole marketplace, and not the bridge
alone, was called the Rialto. The ships came up here with
their cargoes of gold and ivory and precious stones, and
the men who made them into works of art came here to
make their purchases, and then each kind of workman
would go off to his own little street where his kind of things
was made — as arrows, you know, were made in the street
of the arrows — and all kinds of people flocked here to buy
and sell and to look and talk and listen. It was here, you
remember, that Antonio's friends rallied him and teased
him about his silence. They wanted to know why he was
sad, and not gay and talkative like the rest of them "
"Oh, yes!" Barbara broke in, "and when they could not
find a reason they said he was 'sad because he was not
merry.'
"There were even public halls here on the edge of the
market," Daddy went on, "where students came to hear
lectures %nd learn everything from seamanship to Greek
124 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
philosophy. And gay processions went through the place,
to remind people of sports and athletic contests that were
to take place in other parts of the city; and processions
of church dignitaries, with boys in white surplices like those
we see nowadays, to remind the people of sacred festivals
in the cathedral."
"I suppose Shylock didn't like that," Barbara remarked,
"because he was a Jew and hated Christians."
"I am afraid the Christians hated the Jews, too," replied
her father. "The whole story centres in their hatred of
each other. When Antonio borrowed money from Shylock
to lend to his friend, Bassanio, who needed it so that he
could offer himself in marriage to the lady Portia, Shylock
demanded a pound of the merchant's flesh as a forfeit if
he failed to pay, just because of that hatred. He wanted
to be revenged on all Christians for hating the Jews.
Antonio understood Shylock's wicked thought, but he prom-
ised it gaily enough, trusting that his ships would be in with
their cargo before the day of payment. The ships were
delayed by storms, you remember, and if Portia had not
come to the courtroom, disguised as a lawyer, and pleaded
so well for Antonio, Shylock would have triumphed."
"I remember," said Barbara, "Portia told him that if
he shed a drop of Christian blood when he cut off the pound
of flesh he would have to die by the laws of Venice."
'Yes, and all his goods must go to the state. That cut
old Shylock worst of all."
'The other part of the story is so different, isn't it?"
Barbara mused. "I like the part about the casket, when
The Poet's Venice 125
Portia's lovers come to choose, and Bassanio chooses the
right box. That seems too good to be really true!"
"Nothing is too good to be true," her father answered.
"You must like Shylock's daughter, Jessica, too, don't you
— and the lovely things that Lorenzo says to her about
music, out in the moonlight. Shakespeare certainly loved
music.
u
It was wonderful of Shakespeare," he went on, uto
begin his play with that picture of the ships at sea —
Antonio's 'argosies with portly sail' and 'pageants of the
sea,' — because so much of their life centred in their ships.
And to put Portia into an inland villa — that was wonder-
ful, too, because the Venetians had a passion for fields and
hills and quiet, wooded valleys. If they possibly could, they
had villas on the shore of a river that comes down into the
lagoon, or in the mountains; and the combination in the
play is a perfect picture of Venice."
"And afterward," said Barbara, "I suppose Portia came
to live in Venice with Bassanio, and they went to their villa
for part of the time."
She was thoughtful for a minute, and then remarked,
"Portia had her wits about her, didn't she, Daddy?"
They walked down to the water's edge and hailed a
gondola and were soon slipping silently under the broad,
massive arch of the bridge and out again into the sunlight,
and around a corner into the shadow of narrow canals,
twisting their course under many bridges, while the rays
of the setting sun flushed the palaces above them and the
rising tide brought in fresh water and scents of the sea.
tff
hakespeare
* in France
?rfe^.fe^
~
' ~
CHAPTER XII
VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY
What wind doth blow you hither, Pistol?
Not the ill wind that blows no man to good.
Pistol ("Henry IV," Part II)
N route for Paris !
How many people in the history of the world
have set their faces toward Paris ! And with
what different aims !
Barbara and Peggy, in their brown linen
dresses, their hair tied back from their faces with soft,
black ribbon, looked out from the windows of the train that
129
130 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
carried them from Italy to France, little realizing over
what a famous route they were traveling. As they watched
the swift-passing scenes of snow-capped mountains and
river torrents, they could not appreciate how easy it was for
them to glide under the Alps by way of the St. Gothard
tunnel compared with the hardships and dangers endured
by travelers of earlier days.
Yet those children's eyes were open, and to both of them
going to Paris was a great adventure. To Peggy, it meant
a happy journey to the Paradise of Dolls! to Barbara it
was a voyage of discovery. Barbara was like those sea-
farers of ancient Greece who always wanted to see what
was beyond the next headland, and the next, and the next.
Wherever she went, her first words were always, "Now
let's explore." There were always things to investigate and
new things to discover, at home or abroad. And now she
was impatient to explore Paris. She wanted to know what
the city looked like, what kind of a place they would live in,
what kind of children there would be in the school they
were to enter, and just what wonderful and beautiful ob-
jects they would see.
"There'll be dolls and dolls," mused Peggy. "There'll
be dolls that walk and talk and dance and sing and laugh
and cry. And I wonder what they'll think of you, my dear
little Agrippina." She hugged the small Roman peasant in
a red velvet kirtle and black-and-white bodice and gay,
worsted apron.
"I wonder if it will be like the school in Rome," Bar-
bara pondered. "I wonder if we have to go in the after-
A Voyage of Discovery 131
noon. I wonder if they act plays there, too. I hope
there'll be a teacher as nice as the Signorina."
"Of course there won't!" declared Peggy. "I'm going
to write to the Signorina every — well, nearly every day."
"I wonder, I wonder Isn't it grand that Daddy and
I are going to ride horseback? — I wonder "
When they reached Paris at last, it was dark, and the
only thing they wanted in the world was to drop into their
comfortable beds and go to sleep.
In the months that followed, Barbara made many dis-
coveries. And among all the pleasant things that Paris
revealed, the most important of her discoveries was history.
She found history all about her — in churches and
palaces, in the streets and houses, as well as in stories that
she read in prose and verse. History as it was taught in
Barbara's school in Paris was a series of fascinating stories
about the heroes and heroines of France and of ancient
Greece and Rome. Some of those heroes and heroines
stood out from the others and became Barbara's favorites.
One of them was Bayard, the famous knight who was with-
out fear and without reproach. Another, for quite differ-
ent reasons, was Francis I (Frangois Premier, she called
him), the King who did so much to make Paris beautiful.
About him she centred all that she learned about the new
world that rose out of the Middle Ages, when travelers
from Italy were spreading the new learning and our mod-
ern ideals of life. Another was a French hero dear to the
132 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
England of Shakespeare's day, King Henry of Navarre.
But greater than all the heroes of France to Barbara's mind
was her heroine, Joan of Arc.
Barbara made another discovery.
The stories that she liked best were those of the age of
chivalry, when the air was full of jousts and tournaments;
when knights were brave and courteous and ladies were
beautiful and good; when kings conducted crusades to the
Holy Land and came back enriched with treasure of gold
and gems and ivory and silken stuffs from the Orient;
when the great cathedrals were built — like Notre Dame
in Paris and others that Barbara saw, in Chartres and
Rheims; when warfare, as it seemed, consisted chiefly of
riding in radiant armor on prancing steeds richly capari-
soned.
Barbara found that, in that interesting period, the his-
tory of France and England was one and inseparable. A
large part of what now is France belonged to England
then; French princesses became English queens and English
kings and dukes were even sovereigns of France; there
were constant wars to settle the rights to the lands and
cities of France and whether the provinces of Normandy,
Maine, Anjou, Touraine and the rest owed allegiance to
the King in London or to the King in Paris; and there were
constant alliances and new vows of friendship between the
rulers, to be broken as easily as they were made. King
Philip of France (Philippe Auguste) and Richard Coeur
de Lion, Crown Prince of England, went together like
brothers to the Holy Land and quarreled on their return,
A Voyage of Discovery 133
And so, for more than two hundred years, there was a
series of friendships and marriages and estrangements and
warfare.
It was in this period, when the history of France and
England was one and inseparable — and this was Barbara's
discovery — it was in this period that Shakespeare found the
stories which he told in his dramas of English history as
they have never been told since.
Philip Augustus, v/ho went to the Holy Land with
Richard of the Lion's Heart, is the King who espouses the
cause of Prince Arthur in Shakespeare's "King John."
The greatest victory of the English over the French was
in the battle of Agincourt, after which Henry V of England
was acknowledged to be the sovereign of France and heir
to the French throne. This is the story of Shakespeare's
"Henry V." It was not good for the French that an
English King should rule their land, nor for the English,
either, as it proved. They were driven out at last by the
brave leadership of Joan of Arc; and in the three plays
about "Henry VI" — but that is another story, to be told
in another chapter.
Twice after France and England were well established
as separate nations, the two countries were closely united:
once, in the reign of Henry V, Shakespeare's ideal King,
and again in Shakespeare's lifetime, in the age of Queen
Elizabeth. In the first period the union was that of the
conqueror and the conquered; in the second they were
united by common interests in a close friendship. In that
time of friendship, France inspired England to noble
134 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
efforts; and all through Shakespeare's plays the inspiration
of France is clearly reflected, from his earliest comedy,
which was laid in the France of his own day, to his latest
work, in which it may be seen that he had been reading the
books of a contemporary Frenchman.
When Francis I of France met Henry VIII of England
on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the bond of the friend-
ship between these two "mighty monarchies" was sealed
with great splendor and magnificence. That seal would
have proved as brittle as its glory but for the vital interests
that were to draw the nations together; and a part of that
story is in Shakespeare's play, "The History of the Life
of King Henry VIII."
A few months after Barbara and Peggy left Paris,
France and England were again close together, when their
armies fought side by side on the soil of France in the
World War. Not many miles from the field of Agincourt,
the British were drawn up against the Germans. Henry V
was marching toward Calais when he encountered the
French forces at Agincourt. The Germans were aiming at
Calais when the English stood with their "backs to the
wall" and helped the French to defeat them. And now all
that, too, is a part of history.
In France, Barbara remembered Italy. She was fasci-
nated by the walls of the Roman city underneath the
French. What she liked about Francois Premier was that
he brought painters and sculptors and architects and schol-
ars from Italy. And at every turn she was reminded of
England. And since America is the child of those older
A Voyage of Discovery 135
countries, she. was making discoveries about the people who
made America.
America's inheritance — England, France and Italy com-
bined— is it not all in Shakespeare? It was there, at any
rate, that it became real to Barbara. It was there that the
people seemed like those that walk the streets to-day, and
yet as truly belonging to those other times and places that
fascinated her. Shakespeare's words made them living
people.
Yet Shakespeare does not always keep to the facts of
history even in his history plays. And in the others! — we
know well with what a free hand he rearranges time and
space. But when he knows the facts and changes them, it
is always for the purpose of telling the real truth more
plainly. When, for example, he makes Harry Hotspur
many years younger than he was at the time, it is to contrast
him with Prince Hal in such a way that the true and actual
characters of both are made unforgettable.
For he is always true to life. He was often more true
to life than the history of Barbara's schoolbooks which,
though always interesting, was limited to great leaders and
great events. Barbara learned from Shakespeare that war
in the Middle Ages was something more than heroic ex-
ploits of kings and princes riding fully armed on prancing
horses or on ships whose sails were of purple silk, heavily
embroidered in gold. She learned about the hardships of
the English soldiers — poor threadbare fellows like those
that Justice Shallow offers to Falstaff — Wart and Feeble
and Bull-calf and Shadow and Mouldy. She met with brave
136 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
yeomen "whose limbs were made in England," and with a
coward now and then, like Nym or Pistol. The conversa-
tion between Henry V and his soldiers before the battle of
Agincourt showed her the King and the peasant in such a
way that — little girl though she was — she felt acquainted
with both.
It was a great world she was exploring — reaching out
far beyond her in tempting vistas. Paris was on the high-
way to knowledge. Shakespeare was often the gateway of
the world.
The highway sometimes led far beyond the city, into
Normandy and Brittany and the valley of the Loire. Six
weeks of the summer before the opening of school were
passed on the Breton coast, bathing in the sea, walking and
driving in wild, open places or in the quaint towns where
so much of the Middle Ages survives in the habits and
costumes of the people. At Angers, on the way to Brittany,
they found themselves again in that many-colored world of
which the gateway is Shakespeare.
CHAPTER XIII
IN OLD ANJOU
Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood joined! gone to be friends!"
Constance ("King John")
HE proud, injured Queen, mother of Arthur,
was sad and passionate in the army tent be-
fore Angers, down in the plain below the
castle walls on which Barbara and Peggy had
been walking until their feet were tired. A
modern city had sprung up there, in the green valleys of
the rivers Loire and Maine, but the mighty towers of the
138 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
grim, old castle still rose above it and the same cathedral
spires pierced the sky. And still, after seven hundred years,
the armies of King John of England and Philip, King of
France, were encamped below the walls; for Barbara saw
them there, as she stood beside Peggy, while Mother and
Daddy talked together at the other side of the round tower
roof. There was Constance, with young Prince Arthur
beside her. The boy's lovely face was troubled, while his
mother poured forth her indignation at the perjury of
kings. Barbara remembered what had happened. Philip
of France had espoused the cause of Arthur, who, as the
son of John's elder brother, had a real claim to the throne
of England, and, with England, to the French provinces,
Touraine, Anjou, Poitou, and Maine. The armies of the
two nations had met and fought, with no clear victory on
either side; and now, at the suggestion of a herald appear-
ing on the walls of the city, they had patched up a peace
by arranging a marriage between the French King's son
and a niece of the King of England. The citizens of
Angers, who had refused to side with either king, admitted
them as friends into the city, and the marriage was sol-
emnized in the cathedral. King John gave the disputed
provinces to France, and the claims of Arthur were cast
into the dust heap. He was made Duke of Brittany — but
what was that to the ambitious Queen who had seen him,
ever since his birth, as King of England?
While his mother flamed with indignation, Prince
Arthur was anxious that this conflict should be ended and
they should be at peace. Over there between the camps,
In Old Anjou 139
when the two sides were wrangling over him before the
battle, he had pleaded, with tears and sighs:
Good my mother, peace!
I would that I were low laid in my grave.
I am not worth this coil that's made for me.
And now again he begged her; ;'I do beseech you, madam,
be content." She replied that if he were grim and ugly
and misshapen, she could be content:
But at thy birth, dear boy,
Nature and fortune joined to make thee great.
Of nature's gifts thou mayst writh lilies boast
Or with the half-blown rose.
His beauty remained only to increase her wrath because
fortune had turned against him.
Barbara explained all this to Peggy as well as she could.
'You see, Arthur didn't care," she said, "whether he was
beautiful or great if his mother would only be content."
"And oh !" cried Peggy, "I know just how he felt. 'If
they'd only stop making a fuss about me,' he thought, 'I
don't care what happens. I'd rather die than have so
much talk about me.' I know just how he felt."
"So do I," said Barbara, "but there was something else.
Because, when he was taken prisoner Come over here
a little way so we can see where the English camp was, and
I will tell you what happened to poor little Arthur next.
There he is now, with King John and his mother, Queen
Eleanor, the one who is so afraid that Constance will win
and take her place. They have had another battle because
140 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
a legate came from the Church at Rome and the two kings
couldn't agree about what he said, so they broke their
friendship and had another battle; and Arthur was taken
prisoner, and he said, 'Oh, this will make my mother die
of grief!' You see he thought of her first. And then that
wicked King John gave him over to Hubert to put in prison
— and — oh, Peggy! it makes you shudder to read what he
said to him."
"Mother has the book. Please, go get it and read it
to me.'
"Well!" exclaimed Barbara, drawing herself up, "if you
want me to read it to you, you had better go and get the
book, — hadn't you?" she ended with a smile.
Peggy ran and Barbara followed her and, in spite of
tired feet, they raced each other across the tower and threw
themselves against Mother and Daddy at the same instant.
But it was time for lunch and the children were per-
suaded to do their reading in the garden of the hotel.
They took one more look at the fertile plain — the richest
garden spot of France — and at the river winding under the
massive castle walls and the gray, slate-roofed town and
the Gothic churches, and then climbed down the crooked
stairways and came out into the street.
'This ought to be the most interesting town in France
to English-speaking people," Daddy remarked, "because
Anjou furnished England with eight of her kings, not to
mention Margaret of Anjou, the powerful queen in the
Wars of the Roses."
"More interesting than Paris?" asked Barbara.
In Old Anjou 141
"Oh, no ! Always excepting Paris. Paris is a world by
itself. Did you know that Henry Plantagenet was really
Henry of Anjou — that Plantagenet was a nickname, from
the planta genista, the yellow flower that he wore in his
crest?"
"That lovely ginesta that we had in Rome? Did he
wear that in his cap? He must have been dashing!"
An hour later, the children sat on a bench among the
palms and flowers of the Hotel du Cheval Blanc — the
ancient Hotel of the White Horse, refashioned into a
large, white, comfortable, modern building. Peggy held
in her hand a little picture of the earlier structure, as it
looked in Shakespeare's day, while Barbara read aloud the
words that passed between King John and the rough, dark-
browed fellow, Hubert, when Eleanor had taken Prince
Arthur to one side out of hearing.
King John: Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much ! within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,
But I will fit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost ashamed
To say what good respect I have of thee.
Hubert: I am much bounden to your majesty.
King John: Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet,
But thou shalt have, and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say, — but let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
142 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton and too full of gawds
To give me audience: — if the midnight bell
Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth
Sound on into the drowsy ear of night;
If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words,
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.
But, ah, I will not ! — yet I love thee well,
And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well.
Hubert: So well that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I would do it.
King John: Do not I know thou would'st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And whersoe'er this foot of mine doth tread
He lies before me: dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.
Hubert: And I'll keep him so
That he shall not offend your majesty.
King John: Death.
Hubert: My lord?
King John: A grave.
Hubert: He shall not live.
King John: Enough,
I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee.
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee.
Remember
In Old Anjou 143
"And what then, Barbara?' demanded Peggy.
"Oh, then Arthur's mother mourned and mourned. She
seemed to know that she would never see him again till
she saw him in heaven. And she was afraid he would grow
so thin and pale in prison that when she met him in heaven
she would not know him. And Arthur was taken to
England and shut up in a castle, and Hubert was his keeper.
They were such good friends! — until — now let's read this"
— and she read the heart-breaking scene in the castle cham-
ber which was Arthur's prison. At the mere mention of
the hot irons which Hubert brings to fulfil his dastardly
promise, Peggy was frightened and caught Barbara's arm.
"Cheer up, Peggy, it doesn't happen, you know. I must
read it. I just must. Arthur is so adorable."
She read on bravely, as if performing a solemn duty
to little Arthur. Peggy simply must know how dear he
was, and how he won Hubert from his purpose.
The child's pleading would have melted a heart of stone,
and when Hubert yielded, saying:
Well, see to live. I will not touch thine eye
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out,
and Arthur answered:
O, now you look like Hubert! all this while,
You were disguised,
and Hubert assured him that for all the wealth of the
world he would not harm him, and Arthur cried:
O heaven ! I thank thee, Hubert,
144 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
both Barbara and Peggy were smiling through their
tears.
Their mother found them then, and proposed a run in
the park. But they could not be torn from the sad story
until they had taken Arthur to the end of his troubles.
And so Mother took up the book and read them his last
words, as he stood at the top of the castle wall:
The wall is high ; and yet I will leap down :
Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not !
There's few or none do know me; if they did,
This ship-boy's semblance hath disguised me quite.
I am afraid; and yet, I'll venture it.
If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I'll find a thousand shifts to get away.
As good to die and go, as die and stay.
He leaps down.
O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:
Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones.
"And when they found him there at the foot of the castle
wall," said Mother, turning over the pages, "one of them
exclaimed :
0 death, made proud with pure and princely beauty !
and another:
It is a damned and a bloody work!
When one of them lifted the boy's body, Faulconbridge
declared:
1 am amazed, methinks, and lose my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.
How easy dost thou take all England up!
In Old Anjou 145
The deed was so vile that this man foresaw that with
Arthur's soul the light had fled from England. He knew
(as King John for all his wickedness acknowledged) :
There is no sure foundation set on blood,
No certain life achieved by others' death.
Although Hubert had not killed Arthur, the King's sin
was none the less and he suffered the consequences of his
sin. His friends fell from him; the French invaded the
land; and he died an inglorious, remorseful death, "a
scribbled form drawn with a pen upon a parchment" and
shrunk up to nothing by the fire of the fever in his blood.
"But now," said Mother, "before we go, you must hear
the last words of the play. They are spoken by Faulcon-
bridge, and when you know him you know the only person
in the play worth knowing besides Arthur and Constance.
Faulconbridge was a rough, witty, selfish fellow at the
start. But as he served the King, he realized that he was
serving England; and he forgot his selfish ambitions and
thought, at the last, only of his country. And at the end
he spoke the often-quoted words :
This England never did, nor never shall
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
• •*••••
Nought shall make us rue
If England to itself do rest but true.
"Oh, but I want Arthur back," sobbed Peggy. "I do
rue ! I do rue ! I don't care about England."
"Wasn't there anybody good in those days?" queried
146 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Barbara, "any grown-up people, I mean. There was some
good in Hubert, though. I'm glad I'm in Angers now and
not then. Let's read some more 'Henry V and forget
about 'King John,' — only I'll never, never forget Prince
Arthur. He was right; if he could only have been out of
prison and keeping sheep he would have been as happy as
the day is long. . . . We ought to be happy, then. Let's
go now and play in the park."
^ *x
^%*$*jj^>:'' •';•'. '!i|$^>i.
'^M>^£K\*<^ .
w.'^Si-s.^
&: I! '1|.: '•;'',!•
HE site of "New Place," at the cor-
ner of Chapel Street and Scholars
Lane, opposite the Guild chapel
and the tavern.
CHAPTER XIV
BLUFF KING HAL
The mirror of all Christian kings.
Chorus ("King Henry V")
ONTHS had passed since their return from
Brittany, when they were walking home from
school one day through the most fascinating
street in Paris. It was the longest way home,
but they chose it always in bright weather be-
cause it lay along the quays of the River
Seine. They liked the long vistas up and down the river and
they never tired of looking down from the stone parapet at
149
150 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
the moving water and the steamers and the barges and tug-
boats and the river people plying their trades.
The temptation to linger was strong that afternoon, for
the air was warm with the first breath of spring, the trees
were tinged with green as if a thin gauze hung over them,
and a new life and gaiety seemed to be stirring under the
blue sky.
They had been in Paris long enough to know that much
of the history of the world had passed that way. Across
the river was the Louvre; they looked back at the cathedral
towers of Notre Dame; they walked out on the bridge a
little way so that they could see better the island which
had once been the entire city. To Barbara, everything she
saw meant something now. The spires and turrets of the
old churches and palaces had stories to tell her.
She had read very little Shakespeare in those winter
months. There were so many French stories to read, so
many lessons to learn, and so much to see and do in Paris!
But this afternoon, because of what had happened the day
before, her head was full of it and, as usual, she wanted to
share everything with Peggy.
The day before was a holiday and it had rained all day.
Barbara was not in a holiday mood at all; but it was not
on account of the rain. It was because she was gloomy
over the misfortunes of France. They had been reviewing
their history in school (they were always "reviewing" in
that school!) and Mademoiselle had painted a sorry pic-
ture of the state of the country just before Joan of Arc
appeared, when the poor afflicted King Charles VI was on
Bluff King Hal 151
the throne, when the people were distracted by civil wars
between the King's party and the Dukes of Burgundy;
when, after many struggles, the "oriflamme," the sacred
banner of the Kings of France, raised for the last time at
Agincourt, was taken down in token of submission to King
Henry V of England; and a little later when the infant
Henry VI of England was crowned in Paris, and there was
no King of France.
Barbara's mother, coming into the room in the middle
of the morning, found her on the rug by the open fire,
murmuring, half to herself and half to Peggy, who had
arranged a "circus" over by the window and was seating
the dolls around it for audience,
"That wicked Queen, Isabeau of Bavaria, and the Duke
of Burgundy helped the English! How could they? They
were traitors !"
Her mother took a book from the shelf and said quietly,
"Suppose we read the English side of the story."
Barbara looked at the book and her face brightened. It
was a volume of Shakespeare. But when she saw that it
was "Henry V," she shook her head and her face fell
again. "No, Mother," she said, "I don't think I can ever
like him again. He made the French so unhappy." How-
ever, she decided to read a little of it, and before very
long she was under the spell of Shakespeare's words, which
cast a glamor over the soldier-king of England even while
they do not let you forget the sorrows of France.
And now, as they lingered in the sunshine, she was telling
Peggy what a great king was Henry V; how he gave up the
152 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
bad habits of his youth and turned over a new leaf, and
all for the sake of his country; and how every one was
astonished that Prince Hal, the boon companion of Falstaff,
should suddenly, when he became king, show such wisdom
and courage. She explained that you couldn't really blame
him for invading France when his father and every one had
told him it was the only way to make England strong and
united.
They were standing at the corner of the bridge watch-
ing the river, when their mother, who was rummaging
among the queer old books in the bookstalls, heard Peggy
exclaim :
"Tennis balls! Why that was a nice present for the
French Prince to send. I don't see why King Henry was
angry about that."
'Well, you wouldn't want tennis balls if you had asked
for dukedoms, would you?" Barbara replied. "Besides,
he was making fun of the King — and you don't like to have
anybody make fun of you."
"No, but I wouldn't make a war just because some one
made fun of me."
"Oh, but that wasn't the real reason. He had other
reasons — we were just talking about them! He sort of
pretended that was the real reason. I suppose he did that
to make the Dauphin a little bit ashamed of being 'so
pleasant with him.' What the messenger said when he
came back to Paris has been running through my head all
day:
He'll make your Paris Louvre shake for it."
Bluff King Hal 153
She looked across the river at the Louvre, her eyes
wandering the long length of its magnificent facade.
"He didn't shake it down, anyway. I'm glad of that,"
she said.
"I suppose," she went on, still looking at the Louvre, "I
suppose the French Princess, Katherine, lived there before
she married King Henry. It was the royal palace then. In
that old picture, you know, it has round towers, like a
castle."
"Look," interrupted Peggy, "look at that funny little
tug dragging that big barge. There's a dog! Isn't he
having a fine ride?" Then, after a pause, she looked up
and said: "Sister, I can't help liking the Dauphin."
"Of course, so do I," said Barbara. ;'He's great about
his horse. I wish I could see him ride. King Hal was a
fine rider, too. Mother read me something about his
'noble horsemanship.' You don't like the Dauphin as well
as you like the King, Peggy? You can't when you read the
whole play."
"I don't like King Henry very much," declared Peggy.
"I don't see why he made his soldiers fight when they were
all tired out and sick and hungry."
"But Peggy, they won ! And it was the King's courage
that did it. He inspired them. And don't you think they
were glad, afterward? He was a real Englishman.
Mother says they never know when they are beaten; and
so, they are not beaten, you see. The King said, the greater
the danger the greater will our honor be. He went about
cheering them the night before the battle and calling them
154 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
his brothers. And he meant it, too. ... Of course," after
a pause, uhe didn't treat Falstaff just like a brother. He
played with him and played with him, and then, after he
was king, he pretended he didn't know that vain old
man. He thought he had to, because he was no longer
Prince Hal, but the King. And it broke the old man's
heart."
"Can't a king be a good man, then?" asked Peggy.
"I don't know. I know the King of Italy wouldn't do
such a thing! — I guess, maybe, Falstaff and the Prince were
not really truly friends. They just played together, maybe.
And perhaps the person who said, 'The king hath killed his
heart' was wrong. I hope so, anyway. And Falstaff was
terribly cocky!"
Mother called them and, as they walked on, Barbara
said: "I'm going to read all of Henry IV next — not just
parts of it. Perhaps I'd get to like Falstaff as much as
Uncle Waldo does. That tells about him and the madcap
Prince, doesn't it, Mother?"
"Yes," she answered, "and about many quarrels and
civil wars between the friends and the enemies of the King.
One of the leaders in those stormy times was that other
Harry, called Hotspur. Prince Hal was very funny about
him. He described him as 'he that kills some six or seven
dozen Scots at breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his
wife, "Fie upon this quiet life. I want work."
"Oh!" they both exclaimed, laughing and frowning at
the same time.
"One good thing!" said Barbara, "King Henry didn't
Bluff King Hal 155
like war. He thought he had to do it, and so he was going
to do it as well as he could. I don't believe Prince Hal
wanted to be king. But he had to be, and so he thought
he'd try to be the best king in the world."
CHAPTER XV
AT RHEIMS
No longer on St. Denis will we cry,
But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint.
The Dauphin ("Henry VI")
HE glories, not the sorrows, of France filled
Barbara's thoughts as she stood before the
Cathedral of Rheims, near the statue of Joan
of Arc, and looked up at the sculptured fig-
ures on its fagade. The whole vast structure
had been overpowering at first — rising above the city to such
amazing heights and yet carved as delicately as a jewel of
the finest gold. Now, after coming to see it every day for
several days, she was beginning to "see what she was look-
156
At Rhelms 157
ing at", as she expressed it. She was getting acquainted with
some at least of that great concourse of people who stand
in rows and groups, in solitary niches or on columns, on
pedestals and under carved canopies, around the great rose
window. High up, just under the towers, were the Kings
of France, with Clovis waist-deep in his baptismal font in
the center of the row, his wife, the holy Clotilda, on one
side of him holding the crown, and on the other Saint
Remi, founder of the cathedral, receiving from a dove the
heaven-sent oil for the sacred font from which through
many centuries of coronations in Rheims the Kings of
France were anointed. Between the Kings and the rose
window, who should appear but David and Goliath, and
David's sheep and the shepherds under the trees? While
around them and below them were the inhabitants of
heaven and earth, with the Virgin at her Coronation in
their midst.
They were so lifelike, all these people — smiling or
frowning, looking serene or worried, roguish or pious,
hopeful or discouraged, just like real human beings, that
the whole thing seemed like a big stage with people whom
the cathedral builders had known, ready for their parts, in
the costumes of kings and priests and bishops, pilgrims and
warriors, saints, martyrs, prophets, and angels. The
charming ladies wore their wings most gracefully. One of
them down near the ground smiled with such a bewitching
smile that Barbara went over to her again and again until
she felt that she knew her well.
There were musicians, too, and they added to the feeling
158 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
that this might be some French stage on which a pageant
was represented. When Barbara turned the corner and
walked down the long side of the Cathedral, past the flying
buttresses, she noticed that at the spring of every buttress
there was an angel spreading his wings beyond the openings
of the turret in which he stood. This row of lively angels
might have been a chorus for the pageant.
But when Barbara went back to the front again her eyes
were fixed intently upon the brave figure of Joan of Arc.
She was on her war horse, marching away from the Cathe-
dral and stretching out her arm with a sweeping gesture as
if urging on her followers; so that it no longer seemed like
a stage full of actors, but like a great company of living
people with the Kings of France at their head, and Joan
of Arc leading them on.
For good or for ill, Mademoiselle Lavoise was neglect-
ing her duties that morning. She ought to have been
conversing in French with Barbara. Instead of that, she
was seated on a bench, at the edge of the square, writing
letters. Barbara was glad. She liked to talk, but some
things demanded silence. She had forgotten the existence
of Mademoiselle and was wandering off again, down
toward the side p%ortal, looking at the long, lank beasts that
stretch out with open mouths as if to leap at you. The
serene angels just above them were comforting. They
reminded Barbara of the man high up on the mast of an
ocean steamer who shouts "All's well" from his lookout.
At Rheims 159
But Mademoiselle had not forgotten Barbara, and now
she overtook her, suggesting that they go inside where
Mother and Peggy were to join them.
A hush fell on them as they entered. Mademoiselle
Lavoise dropped on her knees before an altar, and Barbara
knelt beside her for a moment. This was not "her church,"
but she felt it was the time and place for prayer.
A little later she was wandering about, looking up at the
lofty columns that so mysteriously divide themselves, their
lines bending this way and that to meet one another in
graceful curves, forming avenues and openings to the rich
glass windows, or rising without interruption to the vault-
ing of the nave.
Her mother, catching sight of her, was reminded of a
kodak picture she had once taken of her when she was
walking in the woods, looking up at the treetops. The
sunlight streaming through the many-colored glass made
long stretches of light and shadow, as if this were indeed
the actual woods. The aisles, too, were like avenues of
trees arching overhead. And every kind of forest leaf and
vine had been brought here by the sculptors — and all kinds
of woodland animals, resting under the leaves or darting
in and out among them — birds and lizards, squirrels and
foxes, even lions and tigers, and strange creatures, half
bird and half woman, or half man and half goat, with the
faces of gnomes and sprites peering at you, laughing and
teasing you, like the little wild spirits that haunt the woods.
There is much in the woods, to be sure, that one missed
here. Was it not a shame to shut out the sky even by
160 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
means of the most beautiful architecture copying the lines
of the forest trees and combining them into a perfect har-
mony? And the air! the fragrance! the movement! the
mystery! Yet on the other hand there was something here
that one could not find in the woods. Barbara felt it with-
out knowing what it meant. It was because she felt it that
she had dropped on her knees when she came inside.
"Sister," whispered Peggy, "did you see those queer
animals on their haunches all around the back — the choir,
or apse, or whatever you call it? Come on out and see
them. They're the funniest things ! And one of them
frightens you. One has a spike in his head. Do you think
he's a unicorn? Don't you wish we could find the 're-
luctant dragon'?"
They all four followed Peggy and laughed at the strange
creatures that sat above the balustrade and formed a sort
of rear guard for this host of beings, human and divine.
It was hard to get a look at them because of the houses
built close about the church. Then Barbara wanted to show
Peggy the gargoyles and the angels perched in lookouts,
and some prim, stiff birds over the front entrance; and so
they came again to the statue of Joan of Arc.
"At first," said Barbara, "I thought she ought to be
marching up to the cathedral, leading the King to be
crowned. But now I see; the cathedral is France and she is
leading them to victory."
Peggy looked perplexed. "Why, there's the Virgin
At Rheims 161
Mary," she said, "she isn't French. And David and
Goliath — they're not French. And "
"Oh, Peggy, just think for a few minutes, all to yourself,
and you'll see what I mean. Just think!"
Peggy planted her feet firmly, folded her arms, and set
herself to thinking. But when Barbara, who had walked
over to where her mother stood, looked back a few minutes
later, Peggy was trotting gaily down the street with
Mademoiselle.
"Yes," explained Mother, "I told Mademoiselle to take
Peggy home because I wanted to talk with you for a few
minutes. Let us sit here on the bench. The warm sun is de-
licious.
"I know you were troubled, dear, because I said 'Don't*
when you wanted to read one of Shakespeare's plays, and
I have had no chance to explain."
"It was funny of you, Mother," answered Barbara.
"And you said it was because Joan of Arc was in that play 1
That was just why I wanted so much to read it."
"Well, you see, Barbara, I knew you would be terribly
disappointed. Because the Joan of Arc in 'Henry VT
is not the Joan of Arc you know. At the beginning you
think she is going to be, but at the end, you are shocked
and distressed. You can only be glad that nobody believes
that Shakespeare had very much to do with writing that
play."
"Didn't write his own play? What do you mean,
1 62 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Mother? Who wrote it then? What is she like? Didn't
Shakespeare know?"
"She is what the English thought she was — or pretended
they did — when they condemned her to the stake. She is
what the chroniclers of English history made of her — a
witch in communion with evil spirits, a cowardly impostor.
At the beginning, as I said, she is not like this. Whoever
wrote the first scenes of the play must have known that the
chroniclers were wrong — that even if she was the means of
humiliating England she was nevertheless not a devil! In
those scenes she appears as a holy maid with a high mission.
She is an Amazon, too, able to overcome trained soldiers
in single combat as well as to inspire the troops by her
presence and sway the destinies of nations by her strange
power. You can see that the brave English soldier,
Talbot, the real hero of the play, is wrong in his scorn and
suspicion of her. But the last scenes! Oh, I cannot bear
to have you read them!"
"Then Shakespeare must have written the first part,"
declared Barbara. "But why did he let anybody else finish
it for him?"
"Of course, we want to think," was the answer, "that
he wrote all of the good part and none of the bad. But all
that we really know is that these three plays about Henry
VI were written when he was first trying his hand at play-
writing and were not printed, so far as we know, till after
his death, and that his way of trying his hand was to join
with several other actors who would select some old play
or chronicle, when a new performance was desired for the
At Rhelms 163
stage, and work it over into something that would suit the
actors and entertain the audience. That was the customary
thing to do. Such a play would be put together in great
haste, nobody would know who wrote what, and it might
be changed by all kinds of people before it was finally
printed. Later, when Shakespeare had shown what he
could do, they gladly let him work alone. But at first he
did not know it himself! And even his very latest plays
suffered from tamperings with the text. Shakespeare
seemed to care very little about having his things printed,
once they were written.
"You can read a great many guesses about who the men
were that joined together to compose the three parts of
'Henry VF if you ever care to, and about who wrote
what. And read the plays now, if you like — now that I
have prepared you. They are really the history of the
War of the Roses. Talbot is one of the heroes; Warwick,
'The King-maker,' is another. The troubles of England,
not the triumphs of France, is their chief interest. When
you have time to read all of the histories together you will
have a wonderful time. It is a great way to get your his-
tory of England!"
"It is a wicked shame," sighed Barbara. "I am sure if
they had left him to himself he would have made a fine
play about her. He has a lot of women who put on men's
clothes and do brave, hard things just the way Joan of
Arc did."
Tes," said Mother, "he seemed to like women who
come to the rescue. He certainly makes us admire the way
164 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Portia did it. As you say, he must have cared for those
women who turned themselves into men to save the day or
to escape from some hopeless predicament. There are
Rosalind and Celia and Viola, Julia, Imogen — but as for
coming to the rescue, there is nobody who can compare with
King Lear's daughter, Cordelia ! Think how she gave
herself to save her father, at any cost. He had turned her
from him, in the beginning of the story, because, being
truthful, she would not, as her false sisters did, profess
greater affection for him than she really felt. And when
those two vile daughters had heaped agonies upon the old
man's head, had turned him out into the pitiless storm
and driven him about until he was crazed with misery, Cor-
delia came back to offer herself to save him from their
cruelties. — Yes, Shakespeare could have given us a great
Joan of Arc. She would have been condemned to death
in the end — as Cordelia lay dead on the breast of Lear.
Ah, well, Barbara, he didn't do it. But one thing is true.
We understand her better — not as a saint, but as a woman
of supreme courage who strove greatly and was sacrificed —
we understand her better for knowing Shakespeare's
women.'
Barbara's eyes wandered far away, following her
thoughts.
"What made her a saint, Mother?" she asked at length.
"The Church, dear, the Church of the twentieth century."
Barbara looked dubious. Surely that could not be the
whole truth. But her mother talked on :
"I was thinking last night about Macbeth — how he lis-
At Rheims 165
tened to the voices of evil until they gained a power over
him, so that evil possessed him and dragged him to his
ruin. And then I thought of how Joan listened to the
voices of good spirits in the fields until the power that spoke
through the voices held her and led her to her task. Think
what Shakespeare could have done with that!" After a
pause she added, "Shakespeare was an Englishman, of
course. And if he himself could see things as a citizen of
the world he had to think of his audience."
uBut, Mother, he has so many nice Italians and Romans
and so few nice French people. Why is that?"
"Let us think about that for a minute," said Mother.
"He had Romans and Italians becayse the stories about
them were at hand. The French, too, were rewriting those
stories about the older countries. Shakespeare got the
stories for his Roman plays from an English translation
of a French translation of the Greek of Plutarch ! That
is rather difficult. But, at any rate, tnat translation of
Plutarch was one of the favorites of the French in Shake-
speare's day. Henry of Navarre had loved it from child-
hood. But about Shakespeare's French people — let me
think — the Countess of Rousillon in "All's Well that Ends
Well" is one of the most charming of women. And Lafeu
in the same play is a golden-hearted old gentleman. And
Helena is a very wonderful person, and as lovely a creature
as could be made out of that strange plot that came from
Boccaccio. Then there is the King of Navarre in "Love's
Labour's Lost," and Biron! — above all, Biron, for he was
a living Frenchman who visited Elizabeth's court; yet
1 66 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Shakespeare has represented him with such sympathy that
he is supposed to have been drawing his own youthful
character in Biron! Surely that shows that he was rather
close to the French in his feelings. And do you remember
the French King who married Cordelia in 'King Lear'?"
"Oh, was he a French King? I didn't remember that."
"Yes, it was a nameless French King who took her
dowerless when her father had cast her off.
" 'Fairest Cordelia, thou art most rich being poor, most
choice forsaken, and most loved despised.' So said the
French King; and he loved her always, as you can see when
he comes back with his army to rescue her father.
"For once in the world an army invaded a country for
no selfish purpose. No bloated ambition, Cordelia said,
brought him there, 'but love, dear love and my aged
father's right/ "
Barbara's eyes shone with pleasure. "Oh, I am glad
that was a French army," she said, "and I am glad Shake-
speare told us about it. And, Mumsie, if Joan of Arc
couldn't have a really truly play of Shakespeare, this
cathedral is hers, isn't it?"
They rose and walked over to the entrance as her mother
answered :
'Yes, she seems to have made it hers on that famous
day when she stood holding the white banner while Charles
VII was anointed. Beautiful as it is, nobody can ever look
at this cathedral without thinking of the little peasant girl
of Domremy.
"But we must say good-bye to it now. Do you realize,
At Rheims
167
Barbara, that it looks to-day almost exactly as it did five
hundred years ago when Joan of Arc saw it? It was but
just finished then — the spires were burned later and never
rebuilt — except for that difference we really see it as she
saw it."
"Will the spires ever be finished?" Barbara asked.
"Oh, no !" was the confident answer. "Nobody would
ever think of touching the Cathedral of Rheims. Its beauty
is sacred."
The quiet of the noon hour held the square and the sun-
light poured down from a cloudless sky as they bade the
cathedral a silent farewell and turned reluctantly away.
In
hakespeare's
Country
CHAPTER XVI
TRATFORD-ON-AVON
|wj England, model to thy inward greatness,
Like little body with a mighty heart.
Chorus ("Henry V")
LL this while, England lay just across the Chan-
nel.
"It looks so little on the map, and it seems so
big and wonderful when you read about it,"
said Barbara. "I wish I could see it."
But Barbara was in the hands of her parents; and seeing
England at this time was not in the plans either of her
171
172 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
mother, who was looking up steamers for America, or of
her father, who was already at home waiting impatiently
for his family.
Fortune, however, was kind to Barbara. For the
steamer they chose was to sail from Liverpool; and when
Barbara pleaded, "You wouldn't — Mother, you couldn't
go so near without seeing the place where Shakespeare
lived," it was decided to make the pilgrimage which thou-
sands of Americans make every year to Stratford-on-Avon.
They were to give themselves time, also, to wander for a
little through the surrounding country of Warwickshire,
the "heart of England," which perhaps meant more to the
youthful Shakespeare than the town itself. This they
would do, even though they would have time for only a
glimpse of London.
"Anyway, a glimpse is something," Barbara cheerfully
remarked. And she was right. They had only two days
in London; but it was something to stand on the Thames
Embankment and look out across the river, trying to take
in all of the lively scene before them and at the same time
imagine how it looked when it was the great thoroughfare
of Shakespeare's London; when there was but one bridge
across it and boats of every kind — except the modern kind
— plied to and fro, and the banks were noisy with the cries
of the boatmen calling out "Eastward, ho!" and "West-
ward, ho!" and quarreling, no doubt, over their fares and
their rights of way; when the steps of the many landings
and the life of the boats made it look like the Grand Canal
of Venice; when the Queen sailed by in her great, gilt
Stratford-on-Avon 173
barge, followed by boatloads of gaily-clad lords and ladies,
with banners streaming and music playing, while lowlier
boats — perhaps the one in which Shakespeare was crossing
to his theatre — stood by to watch the regal procession. It
was something, too, to climb the steps and enter the great
door of St. Paul's Cathedral; and, although you were told
that the church had been rebuilt since the great fire that
destroyed so much of the city Shakespeare knew, you could
think of the old St. Paul's which stood right there and was
the centre of London when the young poet came up from
the country to try his fortune in the city. Barbara was
to learn many interesting things about St. Paul's a little
later; and about Westminster Abbey, too, and the Tower
of London. Just now, there was too much to take in all
at once. She remembered only the great beauty of the one
and the dark, forbidding strength of the other. She car-
ried away a faint recollection, too, of the "Poets' Corner"
in Westminster Abbey, where the greatest poet of them all
was not buried. They would know the reason for that
when they visited Stratford.
They had left the roar of London behind them; in a
little more than two hours by train they had made the
journey which, for Shakespeare, required two days of hard
traveling by coach or on horseback; and now they were
unpacking their bags in the Shakespeare Hotel of Stratford,
in a room named "As You Like It." They had seen the
names of the plays over the doors as they came in, and
Barbara had caught hold of Peggy's arm, whispering, "Oh,
I wonder which ours will be. Good luck! Good luck!" she
174 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
cried, when the maid had shown them their room and disap-
peared. "It might have been 'Macbeth' or 'King Lear.'
Now we shall sleep in the Forest of Arden."
" 'As You Like It' does sound good," answered Peggy.
"Fd like my dinner."
When dinner was over, they went out for a stroll in the
long twilight. The streets were very clean and trim and
orderly and quiet. A few steps brought them to the corner
of Chapel Street and Chapel Lane; and there — it seemed
like a dream ! — there was the square stone tower of the fine
old Guild Chapel which was a familiar sight to Shakespeare
all his life long. Behind it was his schoolroom — they could
see only the outside of it this evening — and the Guild Hall
where he went, as a little boy, to see plays acted by traveling
companies from London. On the opposite corner they
could see the trees and smell the flowers of the garden of
New Place, the home which Shakespeare made by his suc-
cess in London for himself and his wife and their two
daughters. The house had been torn down, but the trees
and flowers ! If they were not the same that the poet
planted, yet the air was filled with the same fragrance that
greeted him when he came out-of-doors on midsummer
evenings, in those quiet years at the end of his life which
he spent "in retirement and the conversation of friends."
"Did his little boy play in that garden?" Barbara asked
as they stood beneath the chapel tower looking across the
darkening shadows of the garden.
. • . •« • . • • •*•••
uMw
J •!•'.-' ;f ?
yJ\|iH
HAPEL of the Guild of the Holy
Cross and the Grammar School at
Stratford-on-Avon.
175
176 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
"No. He died the year before his father bought the
house. He was twelve years old. But Judith must have
enjoyed it. She and Hamnet were twins, and she lived at
home until the year of her father's death. For a long
time she and her older sister, Susanna, saw their father
only when he came home for visits, for he was very
busy in London; he was writing his greatest plays in those
years."
"Was he jolly when he came home, do you think?" asked
Peggy.
"I think he certainly was, except — except "
Barbara finished her mother's sentence, "Except when
he thought about his little boy." After a moment she
added, "He must have been awfully tired sometimes."
"I suppose so," sighed Peggy. "But I want to see where
he lived when he was a little boy."
"He lived all over the place, I suspect," her mother
replied. "But to-morrow we shall see the house where
he was born. And we shall go inside of the beautiful
church where he was baptized and where he was buried."
"I don't see," Barbara began slowly, as they walked on,
"I don't see why people who had such a lovely chapel and
such nice gardens had dirty streets."
"What makes you think they were dirty?"
"Uncle Waldo told me so."
"I suppose they were," her mother assented regretfully.
"When old Widow Baker swept the principal square with
a broom of twigs, the ordinary streets must have been
pretty bad. But still, we know that the boy Shakespeare
Stratford-on-Avon 177
had this chapel to look at and the beautiful Church of the
Holy Trinity, and many forest trees and orchards and
gardens and the clean, flowing river. So let's forget the
dirty streets, as he did when his mind was full of dreams
and visions, of bright scenes in the Forest of Arden and
enchanting creatures like Rosalind."
Barbara warmed to this idea. "Of course," she ex-
claimed. "What did he care if there were pigs and
chickens in the streets?"
"I think he did care," put in Peggy. "/ think he liked
'em."
Barbara laughed. But Peggy's face was quite serious,
as they turned toward the river and walked past the statue
of Shakespeare and the great new memorial building, where
there is a theatre for acting his plays and a Shakespeare
museum (the whole town, they soon discovered, is kept
by England as a monument to Shakespeare), and out on
to the long, stone bridge across the Avon. This bridge,
with its fourteen arches, was built almost as it stands to-day
by another prosperous citizen of Stratford who went up
to London many years before Shakespeare and, instead of
an actor and writer of plays, became Lord Mayor of
London.
They stood on the bridge, first on one side and then on
the other, looking up and down the stream that shone like
silver shot with gold between the drooping branches on
either bank. For some time they were silent, listening to
the lap of the water and the evening twitter of birds.
"I'd like to live here," said Peggy at length. "You
178 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
could fish on the river, and wade and swim and row and
paddle "
"And you could ride horseback," Barbara added, "all
^
THE KITCHEN IN THE HOUSE
WHERE SHAKESPEARE WAS
BORU, APRIL.
over the country. I'd like to live just outside of the town,
on the river "
Strut f or d-on-Avon 179
"Oh yes ! and then you could have all the pigs and
chickens you wanted, and cows and sheep and hay-
stacks "
"Then you know," said Mother, "why Will Shakespeare
liked to go to visit his grandmother. Mary Arden, his
mother, came from a place like that — a very superior one
of its kind, I believe, where they had painted hangings on
the walls of the house and fine pewter spoons and carved
oak furniture, in addition to the well-stocked barns and
cellars."
"He must have had a good time there!" exclaimed
Peggy. "I suppose they gave him cookies and ginger-
bread."
"I hope he was there for the sheepshearing," remarked
Barbara. "Because, don't you remember they had pies
and all kinds of good things to eat then?"
"It is getting dark, children. The river is too beautiful
to leave, but we must go back. I like to imagine," she
went on, as they started reluctantly, "what he was thinking
about when he crossed this bridge at different times in his
life. When he was little, he may have crossed it with his
father or some neighbor to go up to the magnificent town of
Coventry for the Corpus Christi festival, when the stories
of Bible heroes and saints and devils and angels were acted
on a stage out-of-doors, and there were brilliant proces-
sions, and all the town made merry. He crossed it many
times, no doubt, with his schoolmates, and sometimes alone,
when he strolled off among the fields to see what he could
see, or when he went to work in his father's fields. I
i8o Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
wonder what he was thinking when he walked across it to
go up to London for the first time, leaving his wife and
three children and his father and mother and brothers be-
hind. I suppose he was penniless — his father's business
seems to have failed — but I am sure he had verses in his
pocket; one of his old school friends, who was in London
before him, printed them when they were finished. And
eleven years later he came back, not walking this time, but
riding a horse, to buy the big house and garden. I suppose
if we had lived in Stratford we should have said: 'He has
been very successful; but, of course, he would be, because he
is so genial and friendly and everybody likes him.' We
should never have guessed that in his absence he was making
himself the greatest poet of England and the greatest
dramatist of the whole world."
"I don't suppose he knew it himself."
With that wise remark from Barbara, they entered the
hotel and went to their rooms.
"Sister," said Peggy, as she unbuttoned her shoes,
"what happened to Rosalind in the Forest of Arden? I
know she was a dear, and her friend was almost as nice.
I know they had that clown Touchstone with them, and I
know about the verses hanging on the trees. But I don't
know what happened"
"Oh, yes you do, Peggy. It's such a nice story. But
the lovely part is what everybody says. — Let's read it!"
She went to the door and spoke to her mother who was in
Stratford-on-Avon 181
the next room, "Mother, do you suppose you could find a
copy of 'As You Like It' in this hotel?"
"I should hope so. But no reading to-night, my dear
child. You must get up bright and early in the morning.
I will look for the book to-morrow. Go to bed now and get
a good sleep."
"It's no use, Peggy." She came back and went on with
her undressing. "Well, I'll tell you about it You
see Rosalind's father was the real Duke, but his brother
took the dukedom away from him and banished him. He
didn't banish Rosalind; he kept her at the court, because
his own daughter, Celia, was her dearest friend. And
Rosalind wasn't very happy, with her father banished, but
she was cheerful and gay just the same and she and Celia
had good times together. Then one day the Duke, — that
is, he called himself the Duke — came in and told her she
must go away, too. Everybody liked her so much he was
afraid they would begin to take her father's part. But
Celia said if Rosalind went she would go too. She would
not be separated from Rosalind. So they made a secret
plan to dress up as boys and run away together; and they
decided to take the fool, Touchstone, with them."
"Why did they want to take a fool with them?" inter-
rupted Peggy.
"Oh, you know, he wasn't really a fool. He was very
kind and jolly. He was a jester — that kind of a fool, you
know. But before they left, Rosalind met Orlando. Oh,
Mother, how did she meet Orlando?" But Mother did
not hear. "I've forgotten; but never mind. She saw him
1 82 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
at a wrestling match. He had a wicked brother, who kept
all their father's money, and he hoped the great wrestler
would kill Orlando. But he didn't have his wish. Orlando
won; and Rosalind was so pleased, and she was so much in
love with him all at once, that she put her gold chain
around his neck, and he was so overcome he could hardly
speak 1 suppose because Rosalind was so very, very
beautiful. She wasn't dressed up as a boy then."
"But what about the Forest of Arden?"
"Wait, Peggy, wait! Rosalind's father and his friends
were living in the forest, killing deer for food and all
that — you know — and they found it was nicer than at the
court. They loved it in the woods — all except the melan-
choly Jacques. He didn't like to see the lovely deer killed.
But then he didn't like much of anything, except Touch-
stone "
"Touchstone!" exclaimed Peggy. "He was with "
"Yes, but you see, Rosalind and Celia and Touchstone
came to that same part of the forest, after they wandered
about a long, long time. And Orlando came there too and
a nice old man who went with him when he had to run away
from his cruel brother. Orlando found the real Duke and
his friends when he was hunting for food for that old man.
They all came to the same place after a while and there
were shepherds and shepherdesses there; and the shep-
herdess thought Rosalind was a boy; they called Rosalind
Ganymede, and the shepherdess fell in love with Ganymede.
And Rosalind found Orlando's verses on the trees before
she knew he was anywhere near. At first she thought it
Stratford-on-Avon 183
was some other Rosalind the verses were meant for. And,
of course, when they met, he thought she was a boy; and
oh ! what fun she had making him talk to her about his
Rosalind! She made him pretend that she — or he — was
Rosalind and tell what he would like to say to her! And
all the time she was hoping he loved her as much as she
loved him — you can see that! When he was hurt, killing
a lion to save a poor man's life, she saw blood on his
handkerchief; and she fainted. And then she pretended
that she was only pretending to faint because she was pre-
tending to be Rosalind. The poor man turned out to be
Orlando's cruel brother; and he was very sorry for what
he had done, and Orlando forgave him; and that brother
fell in love with Celia.
'Well, Rosalind made everything come out right in the
end. She told Orlando that she understood magic; and
if he would come to the wedding of Celia and his brother,
she would promise him that he should be married to
Rosalind. The Duke was asked to the wedding, too, and
the shepherds, and everybody. Rosalind changed to her
girl's clothes just at the right minute, and her father knew
her, and Orlando knew her, and everybody was married
to everybody else ! — Anyway, Rosalind and Orlando were
happy, and the shepherd got his shepherdess, and the ban-
ished Duke got his dukedom back, and — and — won't that
do for to-night, Peggy?"
Mother had come in while she talked and was brushing
Peggy's hair. "Now," she said firmly, as she finished,
"climb into your beds, children, and go to sleep."
184 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
As she tucked them in, Peggy asked, opening her eyes
wide, "Did the Forest of Arden really have lions in it?"
uYes," said her mother, "and English shepherds and
Italian olive trees, and French dukes. There was a real
Forest of Arden near Stratford; but the one in the play is
a dream forest. However, the story came from an old
Robin Hood legend in the first place. Rosalind's father,
you see, was an outlaw, like Robin Hood. So that her
story is really a part of Merrie England, when there was
mirth and a witty answer for every sigh. To-morrow, we
can read the play; and it will bring us closer to the real man
who lived in Stratford than seeing his birthplace a hundred
times Oh, yes, Barbara, we'll see that too. We'll go
there right after breakfast."
She blew out the candles and sang them the song that was
sung for Touchstone and Audrey in the forest:
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, with a ho, with a hey non-i-no and a
hey no-ni-no-ni-no
That o'er the green corn fields did pass
In spring time, in spring time, in spring time,
The only pretty ring time
When birds do sing
Hey ding-a-ding, hey ding-a-ding, hey ding-a-ding,
Sweet lovers love the spring.
They were not quite asleep when she finished, so she
sang softly:
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat?
Stratford-on-Avon 185
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
She was quiet after that; and when she left them, they
were both sound asleep in the "Forest of Arden."
The sun was high and the lark had long since finished
his song "at Heaven's gate" when they came out into the
warm, fragrant air and made their way to Henley Street.
It was the time of roses and honeysuckle; and it was not the
time for the Shakespeare festival, when the town is
crowded with visitors; when plays are given every day;
when Elizabethan dances on the grass are watched from
motor cars, while the river is noisy with launches and, at
night, gay with electric lights. They would not see the
town in gala dress; but they liked it as it was on this radiant
morning, when it seemed to be lying on the lap of earth in
smiling contentment.
The day was far too lovely to be spent in the house, even
if the house were Shakespeare's birthplace, and they stayed
a shorter time inside the rooms sacred to the memory of
the poet's boyhood than in the garden behind the house,
where devoted hands have planted the flowers that bloom
in his verse. Besides, since the house has become the prop-
erty of the British nation, it has been kept in such a flawless
state of repair — it is so orderly and picturesque and so
dressed up for visitors (of whom there are some forty
1 86 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
thousand every year), that it is hard to see in its eight
spotless rooms the busy house where John Shakespeare
traded in wool and hides and corn and pork and mutton,
IRTH PLACE of William, third
child and eldest son of John and
Mary Arden Shakespeare.
while his wife cared for the children under the same roof.
Barbara looked with interest at some of the objects pre-
served there, especially at the only existing letter written
Stratford-on-Avon
to the poet, in which his neighbor addressed him as "my
loveinge good frend and countreymann, Mr. Wm. Shacke-
spere." Upstairs, the low, heavy-timbered room called the
birth-chamber was dark and cheerless, and the children's
faces brightened as they came out into the garden among
the fruits and flowers.
They followed the footsteps of the boy who has led us
to believe, whether rightly or not, that he went "like snail
unwillingly to school" and climbed the stairs to a long, bare
room that was his schoolhouse. The ancient rafters seemed
sagging above their heads; the small, latticed windows
were high from the floor.
,-^1331
' WfmgsSlafLi
A PESK TRADITIONALLY BEPOHTED TO
HAVE BEEN THAT \VH1(?H SHAKESPEARE
USED AT THE GRAMMAR- SCHOOL •
• STBATFOBD-OW-AVOH •
"Oh!" exclaimed Barbara, "when Uncle Waldo told
me about his school — and the hard benches and everything
— I never thought I was going to see it. He came every
morning at six o'clock and stayed all day."
1 88 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
"Look at this, children."
They went quickly to see what Mother was looking at.
It was a rough W. S. cut with a penknife on the wooden
bench. The letters were very old; they must have been
there a long, long time. What if it really was William
Shakespeare who had cut them? It was almost like seeing
him there, with his knife in his hand.
"I suppose the teacher wasn't looking," remarked
Peggy.
"Maybe he did it at recess," said Barbara. "Anyway,
he must have been glad when school was over; and / want
to go out-of-doors, too."
So they crossed the street to the garden of New Place
and wandered about among its trim paths and velvety
lawns. They could trace the foundations of Shakespeare's
house. From its windows he could see some of the same
gabled houses of which they caught glimpses through the
trees and the same gray tower of the chapel. They saw
the gnarled tree trunk, believed by the villagers to be an
offshoot of the mulberry tree planted by the poet.
"Here is something; what is it?" Barbara had caught
sight of a legend inscribed on a stone tablet. She read it
aloud. It was an abstract — so it claimed — from the "Acts
and Monuments of the Fairies". It explained that the
cutting of the famous mulberry tree had disturbed their
nightly revels; wherefore they decreed that their festivities
should be removed to another part of the estate where the
grounds were better cared for and the lawns clipped; that
the part of the grounds nearest the Avon should be called
Stratford-on-Avon 189
'The Fairy Lawn"; and that on that lawn should be
erected a tablet of stone recording the affection of the
fairies for William Shakespeare.
"I don't believe that," said Peggy firmly. "Fairies don't
write on stone — how could they? They don't write at all.
They dance and sing and talk and laugh and fly through
the air."
'We don't have to believe everything," answered Bar-
bara. She looked in the direction of the house for some
time before she told them what she was thinking about.
Then she explained:
'7 don't believe that he died because he drank too much
with his visitors the night before. Oh, yes, I believe his
friends from London were here (Ben Jonson and that
other poet) ; but I think he was just not well enough to
sit up late, and so he got worse and died."
"He was only fifty-two," added her mother, without
expressing her opinion. "Now let's go to the church.
Then we shall have followed him through his native town,
from the beginning to the end."
They walked in silence through the churchyard, under
the spreading branches of oaks and elms, through the ave-
nue of limetrees, shading the path even from the noonday
sun, to the fine, arched doorway of the church, then up
through its quiet aisles to the altar railing. There they
stood until some other visitors had come out, when they
walked inside and bent their heads to the floor to read
with their own eyes the curious epitaph inscribed on the
slab of stone that marks the burial place:
190 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare
Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
Had the great Shakespeare written those lines, suiting
his words to the language of sextons and warders for
whose feelings they were written? It was hard to tell;
but now, at any rate, they understood why his body had
never been removed to a place of honor in the Poets' Cor-
ner. It would lie here always, in the row of family tombs,
between his wife and his daughter and his daughter's hus-
band and the husband of the last of his line, his grand-
daughter, Elizabeth.
When they had looked up at the bust on the wall, which
has been so much restored since it was made that it seemed
hardly worth while to wonder whether it was a true like-
ness of the man Shakespeare, and when they had read the
praise of the poet in the old inscriptions under the bust,
they went out again into the sunshine and strolled under
the great church windows and down to the edge of the
stream.
"We are grateful to Barbara, aren't we, Peggy?" said
Mother, "for wanting so much to come to Stratford."
"Yes," she answered; "specially if you'll take us rowing
after lunch."
Three swans were floating by, their proud necks glisten-
ing in the sun, as the boat slipped away from the shore
Stratford-on-Avon 191
and moved lazily up the Avon, among punts and barges
and reeds and swaying branches. A husky boy named
George was rowing them; he had promised to give Barbara
and Peggy a turn at the oars whenever they liked. They
named him "Saint George," for his kindness — not because
he looked as if he could slay a dragon. He was only too
glad to keep his promise when they had passed under the
bridges and to lie down restfully in the bottom of the boat
while they tugged away at the heavy oars.
The river wound in and out among trees and cottages
and green fields. It was not always easy to guide the boat
around the curves; and after a while they were ready to
call Saint George back to his post, while they dragged their
hands idly in the water and watched the reflections of
trees and flowers hanging over the banks and the green
fields showing between.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There they were, on both sides of them — Shakespeare's
willows. And those yellow flowers were his marigolds:
The marigold that goes to bed wi' the sun
And with him rises weeping.
The birds that gave a call or a twitter now and then —
he had often heard them "chant melody in every bush."
He had been there in the morning when the sun was "kiss-
ing with golden face the meadows green," and in the even-
ing when
Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood.
192 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Barbara did not remember these lines at the time; but
when she read them afterward she remembered Shake-
speare's river; and she always liked the name another poet
once gave him, "Sweet Swan of Avon."
N old cornmill in Shakespeare's
country.
After a while they took up the little copy of "As You
Like It," bought in a Stratford shop, and read parts of it
aloud, taking turns at reading and listening. They could
Stratford-on-Avon 193
not read all of it; they would save it, they decided, for
the steamer, when they would have time on their hands.
It would be fitting to read it on the sea because the story
came to Shakespeare — so the preface to their little volume
told them — from a romance that was written, the author
declared, on a voyage to the Canary Islands, — "hatcht in
the storms of the Ocean and feathered in the surges of many
perillous seas."
They stopped at a charming tea house beside the river,
where they had delicious bread and butter with their tea,
and even jam and cakes. They brought sandwiches to
Saint George, who stayed by the boat, and he devoured
them with so much relish that they went back for more.
To judge from his appetite they might better have named
him for one of the giants that used to be so popular in that
neighborhood. However, the smile on his face was saintly,
while he rowed them as far as the church, so that they
could see its spire reflected in the still water, and then back
to their starting place.
The day lengthened out, as days will in English sum-
mers, and came to a pleasant close with a walk across the
fields to Shottery, where Shakespeare wooed Ann Hatha-
way.
They frolicked and danced, rather than walked, all the
way to the cottage. Peggy led her big sister a chase, dart-
ing away from the path and refusing to come back till she
was caught. When she was tired of that sport, they danced
194 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
together along the path, until their mother said, "You make
me think of the Nine Days' Wonder"; after which she
had to explain what she meant by telling them about Wil-
liam Kemp, the actor in Shakespeare's company, who danced
for nine days without stopping, all the way from London
to Norwich.
The old farmhouse, which has become famous as "Ann
Hathaway's Cottage," seemed to Barbara "more like a
picture than the Shakespeare house." Picturesque it cer-
tainly was, half-hidden behind shrubs and flowers that grew
almost to its thatched roof; but once inside she changed her
mind. The long, low room, with its fireplace, its wooden
settles and its latticed windows, had such a home-like ap-
pearance that she declared, "It's more real, Mother, and
not so much like a picture."
They both "loved" the little house. But not even Bar-
bara showed much interest in Ann Hathaway. She quite
forgot her on the way home and chatted all the time about
Rosalind and Orlando and Jacques. And that was only
natural, for she knew them as one knows real people, while
she had never heard so much as one word that Ann Hatha-
way had ever said.
"I wonder if Orlando guessed that Ganymede was Rosa-
lind." She seemed to be talking to herself. "Why, no,
of course, he didn't; because he told some one after it was
all over that he thought perhaps it was a brother of Rosa-
lind. He saw something about her — but he didn't guess.
Oh, I'm sure he didn't. That would have spoiled it."
"Mother," she went on, after a little while, "Jacques
"•• ' .• • /••'. 'I.-'.'"'-'. ••'•:•. .".-•.'. V.V/ '•,•'.•"/' .•." . •:••''!•
• ,...••• •: •. •• :::••:.•.•:.•;•;.•; (.:••' '.'..'• • • ' \.*s!t'V
mm
^ " -. "^'•v" «»\V '/.'fi'ft'pl1
Hw' v^^-v
HE Ann Hathaway Cottage
195
196 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
says such sad things. But it doesn't make us sad, does
it? It makes us just a little sad for a minute, and then,
right away, we are laughing."
"Yes; but not laughing just as we laugh at — well — at
Falstaff, for instance."
"Oh, no! It makes us merry, doesn't it? Then 'heigh
ho! the holly!'"
Peggy, hearing that, started up the old song of the for-
est, and they sang it as they had so often sung it and shouted
it around the fireside at home.
Blow, blow, thou wintry wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude.
• ••••••
Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh ho ! unto the green holly ;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly;
Then, heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
CHAPTER XVII
WARWICK AND KENILWORTH
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle
•••••••
This other Eden, demi-Paradise,
• ••••••
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
John of Gaunt ("Richard II")
HEY drove to Warwick from Stratford,
along the ten-mile road that follows the
windings of the river, between rows of
hedges and fields of ripened grain, through
farmland and woodland, dotted by villages
like those in which Shakespeare's father and mother were
197
198 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
born. The morning lay fresh over the quiet countryside.
Every now and then, "the lark that tirra lirra chants"
would rise from a wheat field and soar, singing, into the
sky.
After a few miles they entered the park of Charlecote
Manor, the estate of Sir Thomas Lucy, where young Shake-
speare, according to the story, was more than once caught
poaching. Herds of deer were grazing peacefully in the
shade of the trees. As they stopped to look at them,
Barbara whispered,
uDo you think he really shot one of them?"
"Of course not," Peggy answered with indignation.
"Not tame creatures like these, certainly," said Mother.
"But he went hunting for wild deer, as every one did, I
am sure. If he shot one of Sir Thomas Lucy's and was
charged with stealing "
"If they were wild it wasn't stealing!"
"Perhaps that is what Shakespeare thought, Barbara.
Or perhaps he had heard the proverb, 'Venison is noth-
ing so sweet as when it is stolen' and believed it. I im-
agine he was quite proud of getting his game safely past
the keeper's nose "
"And then he was caught!" Peggy shook her head re-
gretfully.
Barbara, remembering how Jacques pitied the slain deer,
declared, "I am sure he was sorry for them, anyway."
The spacious country house which, except for some addi-
tions, remains as it was when Shakespeare saw it, was built
in the form of a letter E (out of deference to Elizabeth,
Warwick and Kenilworth 199
it is said) and bore the Queen's crest and initials along with
those of the family in the carved decorations above the
entrance. For three hundred years the same family have
occupied the house. The children thought it was very good
of people living there to let strangers come into their
grounds, even if they did have to pay something to enter.
They would have liked to stay longer, to walk among the
flower beds and in the woods and along the banks of the
river.
As they drove on, they talked about how Shakespeare
got even with Sir Thomas by putting him into his plays and
drawing a most unflattering picture of him. Of course
he did not name him — he called him Justice Shallow — and
he placed his house in Gloucestershire instead of in War-
wickshire. Barbara remembered Shallow in "Henry IV,"
because it was at his house that Falstaff reviewed the ragged
regiment that were to follow him to the wars. She remem-
bered how Justice Shallow had boasted of the wild pranks
he and Falstaff had indulged in years before, when they
"heard the chimes at midnight." It was not made clear in
"Henry IV that Shallow was Sir Thomas, but when he
reappeared in "The Merry Wives of Windsor," the play
which Shakespeare wrote because Queen Elizabeth wanted
to see Falstaff in love, what is said there, about his coat
of arms and other things, made it perfectly sure.
They talked, as they drove along, about Christopher
Sly, the tinker, and the tricks the lords play on him, in
the farce at the beginning of "The Taming of the Shrew."
They wondered if Shakespeare had known some Chris-
2OO Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
topher Sly there in the country, and whether many others
could not be recognized if we knew enough about them.
"I don't see what good it would do," Barbara con-
cluded. "They are real people, of course. We know that."
When they entered the town of Warwick through its
ancient gateway, they were in another world. In Stratford,
rows of fresh new houses had reminded them that changes
have taken place in modern times. But here, not only the
fortress castle on its rocky height, but the little town as
well, seemed to belong to the olden times. It could have
changed but little since Shakespeare saw it, and perhaps
not in a hundred years before. It seemed to have sepa-
rated itself from the rest of the world and to have dropped
far back into the past.
After lunching at the inn and resting for a while, they
started forth to see the castle. Their first view of it was
a sight never to be forgotten. They stood on the bridge
across the Avon and looked up at its massive walls, planted
as if forever on its foundation of natural rocks at the edge
of the stream. The great, battlemented tower reflected
in the still water; — how many secrets it might have con-
fided to the silent stream in the hundreds of years it had
stood there !
"It seems to be thinking," whispered Barbara.
From the bridge they walked around to the porter's lodge,
and through a passageway, cut in the solid rock, to the en-
trance of the castle. The entrance, with its four towers,
Warwick and Kenilworth 201
seemed like a whole castle in itself. Although the draw-
bridge across the ancient moat had been replaced by a
new bridge, the terrible portcullis was still there. It was
a kind of door made of beams that crossed like a lattice,
and, instead of being on hinges, it was suspended by heavy
chains from above. It was finished at the bottom by a row
of sharp iron spikes that meant death to any one upon whom
the portcullis should fall. The children shuddered when
they were told that it is still dropped every evening by
way of shutting the house for the night.
Passing safely under the iron spikes, they came into
a most cheerful place. Soft, green grass covered this
inner court, flowers made bright spots under the grey
walls, and beautiful peacocks stood about; one of them high
up on the wall, against the sky, spread his tail as they
watched him, as if to say, "Look at me; I am far more
beautiful than this old castle."
It was a pity to go out of this delightful courtyard into
the black, dismal dungeon, or donjon, underneath the old-
est tower. They did not stay there long, and when they
climbed up to the light rooms above, Barbara felt obliged
to think of something cheerful. "Anyway," she said, "they
haven't had any prisoners there for a long, long time, have
they?"
"No, indeed," answered her mother, "not since long
before Shakespeare's day. Warwick was a relic of his-
tory when he saw it, although people lived in it as they do
now. Doubtless he saw many other castles of the same
kind, which have been destroyed since or made over into
2O2 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
modern palaces. But they were no longer needed as fort-
resses and prisons in the days of Queen Elizabeth. War-
wick, for some reason, stayed as it was; it has been re-
stored just enough to preserve it as it was in the times
that Shakespeare wrote about in his history plays. How
often he must have thought of Warwick when he was writ-
ing them!"
Inside the vast halls they were shown much splendor of
royal beds and canopies, china, tapestries, and pictures.
I am afraid they forgot all those things very soon. But
they remembered the portcullis and the donjon and the
Tower of Caesar which they were told was once held by
Britain's king, Cymbeline ; and if Cymbeline held it, then
Imogen might have seen it! And they remembered the
huge armor of Guy of Warwick, the ancient hero who
fought with giants and overcame them.
All of these things the boy Shakespeare must have seen.
They did not forget that; and the next morning, when they
visited the church in the village, they were quite sure that
he had looked up at the tall, stained-glass windows and at
the carved stone figures of the early knights of Warwick,
lying, clad in armor, above their tombs.
From the castle windows they had looked out into the
great park that stretched away as if it covered all of Eng-
land, and there they spent the rest of the afternoon, stroll-
ing over the smooth lawns and under the spreading trees.
They sat down in one lovely spot and wished they could
have a picnic there, while they talked about the famous
Earl of Warwick, called "The King maker," who had fed
Warwick and Kenllworth 203
hundreds of retainers every day inside the castle walls
(they could see its gray towers through the trees) and
could summon thousands from the surrounding country to
follow him into battle. In one of the parts of "Henry VI"
this Earl of Warwick says:
In Warwickshire have I true-hearted friends,
Not mutinous in peace but bold in war;
These will I summon up.
That was a hundred years before Shakespeare lived, but
those true-hearted friends were Shakespeare's own War-
wickshire fellow countrymen.
"It would be nice to live near Warwick," said Peggy, on
the way back to the hotel. 'Then you could come hefre
often."
"It's no wonder," said Barbara slowly and thought-
fully,— "it's no wonder Shakespeare wanted to write plays
about the history of England."
It was still daylight and the children were "not a bit
sleepy" when bedtime came. 'You must be tired," said
Mother. "You needn't go to sleep right away, but get into
bed as quickly as you can — yes, you too, Barbara — and
I will tell you a story."
They were not long about it after that. When they
were ready, Barbara asked for "a story with castles in
it.'
"I am going to tell you a true story," replied Mother,
"about Kenilworth, the castle we are going to see to-
2O4 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
morrow." As that seemed to meet with favor, she be-
gan:
"It is only a beautiful ruin now, as you will see; but in
Shakespeare's day it was a magnificent palace. Queen Eliz-
abeth had given it to one of her favorites, Robert Dudley,
Earl of Leicester, who enlarged it and made it so wonder-
ful that it was called The Palace of Princely Pleasures.
"You will hardly be able to imagine, when you see it,
how enormous the place was, with a deer park that ex-
tended for miles and a lake and orchard outside the walls,
and, inside, gardens and courts and buildings that covered
acres of ground. I couldn't tell you of all the wonders
of the place. In the garden, beside fountains and statues
of white marble, there was a great bird-house filled with
rare birds from distant countries. In the halls were
tapestries and carpets with all kinds of stories worked into
them. And pictures — of course the pictures were not very
fine compared to those in Italian palaces "
"How do you know that?" interrupted Peggy.
"Because, for one thing, I have seen the list of them.
Isn't it strange that the list should be preserved when so
many things have been destroyed! It is printed in a fas-
cinating book I was reading last night Oh, Peg^y!
You thought I just guessed that! Well, I might have, but
I didn't. I am telling you a true story!
"Now, where was I? I was going to tell you that
Leicester built a whole new wing, which I suppose was the
most elegant and luxurious of all. Some of the things he
had were curious — a mother-of-pearl ship for a saltcellar,
Warwick and Kenilworth 205
with an image of Dame Fortune on the stern; a candlestick
made in the figure of Saint George on horseback, with a
case for knives in the tail of the horse and one for oyster-
knives in the breast of the dragon. But we must go on
to our story.
'When this was all finished and ready, Queen Elizabeth,
who was fond of paying visits to the lords of the realm,
came to visit the Earl of Leicester; and it turned out to be
the most famous visit she ever made. She was attended
by any number of ladies of the court and over thirty
barons and four hundred servants; and the visit lasted for
nearly three weeks!
"When you think of taking care of all those visitors, and
when you hear about the entertainment that was offered
to the Queen by Leicester, you can imagine what a crowd of
people were in the castle day and night. And probably
thousands gathered in the fields and along the roads to see
the Queen arriving on horseback from Warwick, with
Leicester riding by her side and all the retinue following.
"Elizabeth must have looked very queenly and very un-
comfortable, I think, with her high ruff and her elaborate
headgear, her sleeves puffed at the shoulders, her skirts
standing out like a sail before the wind. But Leicester was
the handsomest of courtiers — all bevelveted and befrilled
— and if he regretted that his plumed hat must be carried
by an attendant, because one could not cover one's head in
the Queen's presence, he knew that his hair was curled in
the latest fashion and that altogether he was the most
admired gentleman of the company.
206 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
'The Earl of Leicester had a very special reason for
wishing to entertain the Queen after her own tastes. She
had shown him such special favors that he hoped she would
give up, for his sake, her determination to remain a
'maiden' and choose him for her husband. That hope was
hinted at in some of the poems written for the occasion."
"Did Shakespeare write them?" asked Barbara.
"No, indeed; Shakespeare was only eleven years old
when this happened. In Scott's novel, 'Kenilworth,' which
describes this visit, Shakespeare is spoken of as if he were
a grown man, acting his plays in London. But that is
wrong. However, Scott's description of the castle is fas-
cinating. You will never forget it after you read that
book,
Warwick and Kenilworth 207
"Besides the feasting and dancing and reveling at all
hours, the Earl had employed poets and actors and mu-
sicians to present a series of pageants, such as the age, and
especially Elizabeth, delighted in, when gods and god-
desses and heroes and nymphs and satyrs and dolphins and
mermaids appeared before the spectators to the accompani-
ment of music and spoke or sang their parts in verse. As
the Queen crossed the new bridge that Leicester had built
for her, the Lady of the Lake appeared on a floating is-
land and recited a poem of homage to Her Majesty. One
thing followed after another. Arion sang on a dolphin's
back; old Triton sported with the mermaids; gigantic
heroes of old Britain stood on the walls blowing gigantic
trumpets, while fireworks shot stars into the water and
rained down sparks like hail from the sky, fire flamed un-
quenched below the surface of the lake; and it is said that
the noise of these displays could be heard twenty miles
away.
"Shakespeare, as I said, was eleven years old, and, as
you know, he lived much less than twenty miles away. His
father, who was Mayor of Stratford at that time, would
certainly have been expected to be present at this spectacle;
and it is not at all unlikely that he took his little boy
with him. If he didn't, he was a worse father than I
think he was; so we might as well believe Will Shakespeare
was there. He knew all about it long beforehand, as the
performers were collected all through the country, and I
think it would have taken a good deal to keep him away !
"He may have seen the Queen's arrival; he may have
2o8 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
seen the Coventry players who acted in the great court of
the castle; he may have been on the outer edge of the lake
when Arion appeared on the dolphin's back. The dolphin,
which was about twenty feet long, was built on a kind of
boat of which the oars made the creature's fins; and inside
its body were concealed musicians and musical instruments,
so that while Arion sat on its back and sang, mysterious
music filled the air."
"How wonderful!" exclaimed Barbara. "I hope he was
there."
"Well, whether he was or not, he knew all about it. Do
you remember in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' what
Oberon tells Puck when he sends him to pick the flower
that contains the magic love-juice?"
There was no answer, but two pairs of wide-open
eyes showed that not a word was being lost, as she went
on:
"He tells Puck that once upon a time he sat on a prom-
ontory
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at the song ;
and stars, he says, shot madly from their spheres. Doesn't
that sound as if Shakespeare was thinking of this pageant?
But what makes it more likely is what he says next. Oberon
goes on to describe how he saw Cupid fly through the air
and take aim from his bow
At a fair vestal throned in the west;
Warwick and Kenilworth 209
in other words, at Queen Elizabeth. He shot as if he
would pierce a thousand hearts, but he missed the fair
vestal.
And the imperial votaress passed on
In maiden meditation fancy free.
Queen Elizabeth was the imperial votaress. Cupid's arrow
missed her; not all of Leicester's grand preparations could
make her bre.ak her vow to remain single; but the arrow,
says Oberon, struck a little white flower which became pur-
ple with love's wound; and it was the juice of that flower
that Puck used as his charm.
"So you see we have the whole story in a few lines of
Shakespeare."
"Oh, I wish I could see the dolphins and the mer-
maids," exclaimed Barbara. "I am so glad Shakespeare
saw it."
"And all the fireworks," added Peggy. "And we can
only see ruins !"
"Never mind," consoled Barbara. "We can imagine
it. Mother, I never knew Oberon meant that. That
makes four stories in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'
The sun deserted them the next day and they saw Kenil-
worth in a shower of mist. But the carpets of grass inside
the roofless walls were as green as emerald; they seemed
to be all the brighter for the mist.
"Oh 1" exclaimed Peggy, "it's the loveliest ruin I ever
saw! It's so decorated."
2io Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
It was indeed decorated high and low by festoons of
ivy. Great clumps of green nestled about the founda-
tions and hung down from above the walls and windows.
Gay flowers bloomed here and there and everywhere.
The sun was drying up the mist so that it ceased to fall
down in a shower; and they were able to roam around and
find out the different parts of the buildings. They began
with the oldest part, the Norman Keep, which is also
called Caesar's Tower. They were beginning to think that
when things were so old that nobody knew just how old
they were, they were said to belong either to the Norman
Conquerors or to Caesar's time. The thousand years in
between them seemed to make little difference. The walls
of this tower were so thick that Peggy thought the giants
must have built them.
Walking across the space where the kitchens had been,
they came to the most beautiful part of the castle, the Great
Hall. With its deep-set windows and pointed arches, it
seemed like a Gothic cathedral that had been opened to
the sky so that the sunshine and the rain could enter and
the birds could fly through and all kinds of growing things
from out-of-doors could find their way inside.
This, the children thought, must be the Earl of Leices-
ter's wing; but they learned that it was much older than
his. Leicester's newer wing, they found, had fallen into
greater decay; it had not withstood so well exposure to
the winter's storms.
This beautiful hall was built by John of Gaunt; — "Old
John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster."
Warwick and Kenllworth 211
As her mother quoted that familiar line, Barbara tried
to recall where she had heard it or read it.
"It's the first line of 'Richard II,' " said Mother.
"Oh, yes," cried Barbara, "that is the story of the poor,
foolish King that lost his throne. I read that with Alice."
"And it was Henry Bolingbroke, the son of John of
Gaunt, who took the throne away from him," said Mother,
"and became Henry IV."
Barbara sat down on a loose stone and tried to recall
what happened in that play, while Peggy gathered some
buttercups, but stayed near enough to hear what they would
say next.
"I remember," Barbara began, after a few minutes, "I
remember a grand tournament, with all the people and the
heralds; and just when the two knights were going to begin
to fight, the King gave a signal for them to stop. He had
decided to banish them both."
She paused, and her mother went on. "And one of
those two knights was Bolingbroke, the son of John of
Gaunt. Don't you remember the old man's death? — how
he warned the King that dreadful things would happen if
he kept on robbing his people to give everything to his
favorites and flatterers? And instead of listening to the
wise old man, Richard seized his castles and lands, after
his death — that is, he took this castle of Kenilworth, which
belonged to Bolingbroke."
"Oh, yes," Barbara's face cleared. 'That's why he came
back — I couldn't remember. Was it really this very cas-
tle? And the people took his side, didn't they? and he
212 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
raised an army, and the King was frightened and just gave
up his crown. I remember, he came out on the walls of
some castle to meet Bolingbroke, and he told him he could
have anything he wanted."
"And begged," put in Mother, "that King Bolingbroke,
as he called him, would 'give Richard leave to live till
Richard die.' "
"And then poor King Richard was put to death in a
dungeon."
"Was it that dungeon we were in yesterday?" asked
Peggy.
"It was not that castle," Mother answered, "but they
are all much alike."
"I keep remembering more of it," said Barbara, as they
walked on. 'The King had to give up his crown before
all the lords, and he asked for a looking-glass; and when
he saw his face in it, he smashed the glass. I suppose he
wanted them to feel sorry for him."
"There was one man who was sorry for him at the end,"
said Mother. "Do you remember the groom of King
Richard's stable who came to him in his castle dungeon and
told him how much it grieved him to see the new King
riding on Barbary, his master's horse? Richard asked how
the horse went under Bolingbroke, and the man answered
that he went as proudly as ever; and then Richard remem-
bered how that same horse had eaten bread out of his
hand. Even his horse was loyal to the new King."
After a little while they remembered that it was old
John of Gaunt who spoke the words about England that
Warwick and Kemlworth
213
are always quoted to show how much Shakespeare loved
his country. They repeated as much of them as they could
remember. And the next day, on the train for Liverpool,
they remembered more :
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle
• ••••••
This precious stone set in the silver sea;
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land —
and with these words on their lips they left Shakespeare's
country and went on their way to their own dear land.
With
hakespeare
at Home
CHAPTER XVIII
HE NEW WORLD
lo unpathed waters, undreamed shores.
Camilla ("The Winter's Tale")
HEY were at home again. Nothing so exciting
had happened to Barbara and Peggy in their
two years of "foreign travel." And Hampton
in its setting of blue lakes was without doubt
the most beautiful of towns! Above all, it
was home. There had been one corner of Italy and an-
other of France that they had called "home." But this
was home in a different sense. This was where you be-
217
218 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
longed; where you were born; where you had the accumu-
lated treasures of your "earlier ages," as Barbara once
called her childhood, stored away in your own house to be
taken out and pored over and to make you feel that you
were really yourself again.
School had begun. They wasted no time in comparing
it with the schools of Paris and Rome. They were de-
lighted to hear their "own language" all around them. And
they were especially glad to be allowed to go back and
forth alone, instead of having to be accompanied by
some grown-up every time they stepped out into the
street.
As a matter of course every one in Hampton exclaimed:
"How you have grown!" and "Why, Barbara, you are as
tall as your mother!" and "How well they look!" and all
the usual things.
Barbara was very tall and strong-limbed for a girl of
fourteen and more lively than ever. She rode and tramped
and paddled, and, when winter came, she skated and skied
and picnicked in the snow, rejoicing in a newfound free-
dom. The woods and a quiet lake shore were close to her
home in Hampton. Beautiful old parks and gardens were
very pleasant, but these woods and this lake shore offered
much greater pleasures. Even those wonderful forests of
France where you could drive for hours through winding
avenues, under the arching branches of ancient trees — what
were they to the freedom of these woods, where you could
tramp through the leaves or the snow, and build a fire when
you liked, or slide on sleds or skis down the slopes and out
The New World 219
across the ice; where you could explore the out-of-doors
world at all seasons and in all weathers? It seemed to
Barbara that she had never before known how good it
was.
Then there were dancing parties and clubs, with your old
friends. You knew how to appreciate these things when
you had been away from them so long. You felt no desire
to find any fault with your native country, like those trav-
elers whom Rosalind taunted, saying, "If you don't find
fault with everything in your own country, I will scarce
think you have swam in a gondola."
But Barbara wanted something more. She was still
like the young seafaring Greeks who were never content
to rest so long as there was another headland to be rounded.
She and Alice had their chance now to pursue their plan of
"acting Shakespeare." That was the "undreamed shore"
they would sail for now; and the first excitement of the
travelers' return was scarcely over when they began to
lay out their course.
While the warm weather lasted they seized every oppor-
tunity out of school hours to slip off with their books in a
canoe, promising to keep near the shore. Or, if the weather
was forbidding, they shut themselves in Alice's room or
Barbara's — for their preparations were being made in
secret. They would not ask for any help or consult any-
body about this important undertaking. They might do it
very badly, but they would do it by themselves.
"Alice and I have a lovely plan," — so much she con-
fessed to her mother. "I can tell you that it is a Shake-
22O Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
spearean plan — that is all I can tell you. It is to be a sur-
prise." And her mother smiled to herself, remembering
how Barbara had loved a "sprise" from babyhood.
A great deal of exploration in Shakespeare's plays was
required before they could settle upon the scenes they were
to act. Some of this Barbara did alone, but most of it
they did together. There was no promise to keep near
shore in these explorations, and they read and read, more
than ever before, usually forgetting everything but the
story and its people when they got into a play and under
the spell of the lines. At the end, they would pull them-
selves together and consider whether any of the scenes they
had read would suit their purpose.
Although Alice was quite as enthusiastic as Barbara over
these explorations, she sometimes wished that Barbara
would talk more about her "travels." But Barbara was
always pressing on to some new thing. The new thing
might have been written three hundred years ago; it might
be a story thousands of years old. Still, it was new to her.
Even if she had read it more than once before, it was as
fresh as ever. Indeed, the plays she had read before were
the best of all, because there were always surprises as you
knew and understood them better. It was like finding rare
and unexpected flowers in a garden you had known and
loved. Surely that was better than sitting still and telling
about what you had done and the things you had seen.
And, although she talked so little about them, Alice felt
that Barbara had a great many beautiful sights stored away
in her mind and that those memories added something for
The New World 221
both of them to Shakespeare's bright scenes. That ex-
perience she thought made up for the difference in their
ages. She said one day, "It's a new world, Barbara, since
you came back."
They had many things to consider in selecting their
scenes. Their requirements were not easily satisfied.
In the first place, there must be just two people in the
scene. It must be a dialogue. And it must tell enough of
the story to be interesting by itself. It must be a play in
miniature, really — able to stand alone, apart from the rest
of the drama. Then, too, they must mix comic scenes
with serious ones. And they must not attempt the impos-
sible. They would not try any ghosts or murders; they
would not brandish swords or daggers; simple conversa-
tions would be hard enough — and good enough, too. What
they liked was to hear the sound of the words and to feel the
lines roll out and actually to be the people who were speak-
ing them, in costume and in action. Only then could they
realize the whole story and all that was happening to these
interesting persons.
One might suppose that the conversations which the chil-
dren thought easy were really more difficult than ghosts
and duel scenes. For example, the conversations between
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth — these, they thought, were
quite within the limits of the possible. But they seemed to
realize that high comedy is more difficult than high tragedy.
For they chose Launce and Speed for their comic person-
222 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
ages and did not even think of attempting Falstaff. Even
Bottom they rejected for reasons of their own.
There must be perfect fairness in the distribution of the
parts. If Alice had a man's part in one of the scenes, they
must choose another in which Barbara would be a man
and Alice a woman. Or both must be of the same sex.
And if one of them had to be a very wicked person in one
scene, they tried to make it up by letting her be a nice
person in another. Sometimes they tried to persuade Peggy
to help them out — they had trusted her with their secret —
but it was only when they found a silent part for her that
she could be persuaded.
They pondered over scene after scene. Should they do
Prospero and Miranda? They reread 'The Tempest,"
and talked about their own adventure, when they were cast-
aways on that lonely island. They discovered that the only
scene when Prospero and Miranda were alone was the nar-
rative in the first act; and there, Miranda had too little to
say. There was not enough acting in it, either, they
thought. There must be some acting, of course. They
liked the conversations between Ferdinand and Miranda;
but there was not much to them, after all! 'You must
have something more than two people in love," said Bar-
bara. "I should think so," Alice agreed.
Should they do Beatrice and Benedick? They spent
some time over "Much Ado About Nothing." They read
it out-of-doors on some unusually warm days in the late fall,
when they had drawn the canoe up to the shore under the
willow trees. It tempted them. They liked it because it
The New World 223
was funny and serious at the same time. Barbara said that
Beatrice reminded her of that dear Signorina in Rome.
She, too, was both gay and serious, with the best of hearts
under her wit and laughter.
They had the chance, just about that time, to see "Much
Ado About Nothing" on the stage, at the Hampton
Theatre.
They talked it over the next day. It was "perfectly de-
licious," and the costumes were "fascinating," and Beatrice
was "ripping." But, oddly enough, seeing the play had
convinced them that they would not try to act any of it
just yet. It was not because it seemed too hard to do. It
was because they could find no conversation that would
represent the real Beatrice and Benedick.
For those two merry wits, who boasted of their hard
hearts that could love no one, were very much changed by
the events of the play. They were most amusing at the
beginning. Their fir§t greeting showed them at their merry
warfare with each other, when Beatrice broke in upon
Benedick's conversation with the Prince to remark: "I won-
der you will still be talking, Signior Benedick; nobody
marks you"; and he turned toward her with: 'What, my
dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?" to which she re-
torted: "Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath
such meat to feed on as Signior Benedick?"
They were amusing, too, when their friends were practic-
ing on them their scheme for bringing them "into a moun-
tain of affection, one for the other." How delightful those
scenes were! especially that one in the "pleached bower" of
224 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
the orchard, when Beatrice, having been told that Hero and
Ursula were talking about her, runs like a lapwing, close
to the ground, and hides in a "woodbine overture" to hear
them say what a pity it is that Beatrice is so wild and coy
when Benedick, as they declare, is entirely in love with her;
to hear them praise him as the foremost man of Italy and
abuse her as loving herself alone; to hear them resolve to
counsel Benedick to fight against his passion — though it
were better for him to waste away with sighs than to die
from her mocks.
The change in her began at once, at this startling news
— as it began in Benedick when he heard a similar made-up
conversation. And later, when Hero, the friend of Bea-
trice, was the victim of a very different kind of a scheme —
a cruel plot — they were both so absorbed in their sorrow
for her and a desire to help her, that they forgot their
jesting and became serious; and in that softened mood the
warfare between them was ended and they confessed that
they had "fallen in love against their wills."
In the last scene, Benedick's friends hail him, in jest, as
Benedick the married man. But he will not be moved by
their "wit-crackers." He cares not for their jokes. He
calls for music and a dance, and advises the Prince to get
him a wife.
The children could not find any dialogues that would tell
enough of this story to satisfy them. So they gave it up
and continued their search.
They lingered longingly over "As You Like It." Rosa-
The New World 22$
lind and Celia were perfect. "They are too perfect," Alice
said. "Yes," replied Barbara, "we'll save Rosalind and
Celia for another time."
Finally the scenes were chosen and the program was
made out. It was to consist of three parts: The courting
of Katherine by Petruchio in "The Taming of the Shrew";
a comic dialogue in prose between Launce and Speed from
'Two Gentlemen of Verona" ; and the balcony scene from
"Romeo and Juliet." It was a spirited program, certainly,
and offered much variety. And before they had finished the
rehearsals for the first entertainment they had planned a
second, to consist of scenes from 'Julius Cassar" and
"Macbeth."
Meanwhile, school and play went on as usual. Many
things besides Shakespeare filled their busy days. Yet when
you are especially interested in something, you find that
other things are always leading up to that. It gets mixed
up with all the other things you are doing. That is ex-
actly what happened to Alice and Barbara.
If Shakespeare could have known, when he was writing
his plays, that, three hundred years later, in the centre of
the New World, hundreds of miles inland from the Virginia
Colony which was all that he knew of that wild, unexplored
Eldorado, there would be found two schoolgirls who had
chosen for their chief entertainment the reading and learn-
ing and reciting of parts of those plays, I think he would
have said, as the clown in "The Winter's Tale" said of
226 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
pedlars: "There is more in these little girls than you
would think."
If, through some prophetic glass, he could have seen
those two girls sitting in a canoe on the edge of a lake, under
willow trees like those that shadow the banks of the Avon,
repeating to each other the words of Brutus and Cassius
or Jacques and Touchstone or Benedick and Beatrice; and
if he could have known from what a wealth of amusements
they had chosen this as their chief diversion; if he, who
never saw a photograph, could have foreseen the movies; if
he, who never rode on a tramcar or a steamboat or a rail-
road train, could have imagined the fun of driving through
the country in motor cars; if he, who loved a merry tune
as he loved all music, could have foretold the invention of
a machine that would reel off melodies by the yard; and if
he could have known that in the midst of such things these
two girls were finding their best enjoyment in his inven-
tions, he would perhaps have said: "There is more in
these plays of mine than you would think."
What, then, would he have said, if he had known all that
was happening as a result of their choice? Shakespeare
has more than once represented very beautifully the friend-
ship between young girls. If he had known what a perfect
friendship would be formed between Barbara and Alice by
their pursuit of his poetry — through sharing together its
truth and beauty — I think he would have found some unim-
aginable words with which to describe how much more was
waiting to be discovered in that western world than was
dreamt of by its explorers.
CHAPTER XIX
ON HORSEBACK
As full of spirit as the month of May.
("Henry IV," Part I)
ARBARA and her father had brought their
horses to a walk, after a lively canter along
the road by the lake. They went along
slowly, listening to the sounds of the spring
morning, until they turned into a lane that
crossed a broad, level meadow.
"Stop here for a minute, Barbara," said Daddy, "and
let me go ahead. Regina always insists upon running like
227
"
228 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
lightning across this stretch. Come along slowly after me
and I will wait for you at the end of the lane."
He started off, his horse running at full speed, and drew
up at a sharp hill beyond the meadow. He turned back
to look for Barbara, — and there she was, just behind him!
She was laughing at his surprise, her hair was flying, her
cheeks were glowing with excitement.
"Couldn't you hold him back?"
UI didn't try. I tried to catch up with you I'1
uWhy, Barbara! How did you dare?
" 'I dare do all that may become a man !'
She stopped panting for breath long enough to make that
speech. She was so full of Shakespeare at this time that
his words often came to her, unexpectedly, at exciting mo-
ments.
Daddy hardly knew what to say. He couldn't help be-
ing pleased — he was always pleased with her riding — but
he looked serious; and when she begged, "Let's go back
now and have a real race," he refused quite firmly, and they
went slowly and carefully for the rest of the way.
Barbara really did not mind going slowly, after the ex-
citement of the run was over, because she liked to talk.
They chatted about things in general, until Barbara said,
"I suppose Mother told you about the great argument
we had at school yesterday."
"No. Was she there?"
"She wasn't there, but I told her about it as soon as I
came home."
"What was it? Tell me."
On Horseback 229
"It was at recess. They had all gone out and I was just
going, too, when Ned Willard came along. He said
'Hello' and picked up a book on my desk. It was my
'Merchant of Venice.' 'Do you like Shakespeare?' he said;
and of course I said, 'Yes, don't you?' — He told me he
hadn't read much of it, but his father has; and he says
Shakespeare won't do nowadays.
'Then I wanted to know why, and he said all kinds of
things about Shakespeare caring for kings and princes and
not standing for the people — he said that was 'old stuff'—
we don't care about people that are nobly born and rich and
so forth nowadays — we think all men are equal.
'Well, 7 thought Shakespeare didn't care a cent about
birth and riches and such things, and I told him so. I said,
'Anyway, some of his wickedest men are kings.'
"Just look at 'Julius Caesar,' he said — he had read that
— 'Look at the people there ! They're just a mob.'
"And then I told him — what do you think I told him,
Daddy? I know it was naughty. I told him that I had
heard my father say that his father could make the crowd
change their minds by talking to them, just the way Mark
Antony did. I thought he would be awfully angry, but he
seemed to like it! And I said, 'Anyway, that was Rome,
and I don't see how that shows what he thought about the
common people in England.' Oh, but then he flew up !
'Common people!' he just shouted, 'I wish my father could
hear you say that. He is working for their rights because
they are not common. He wouldn't let anybody say that.'
Of course, Daddy, I didn't mean that they were common;
230 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
but before I could explain, Mr. Woodward came in and
asked what we were so excited about; I told him what Ned's
father said about Shakespeare. Then Miss Lawrence came
in, too, and Alice, and some of the others, and we had a
great time."
"What did you decide?" asked Daddy.
"We didn't decide anything. But Mr. Woodward
thought Shakespeare sympathized with Brutus — not with
his act, he said, but his cause — and his cause was to save
the people from having a tyrant over them. He thinks
Shakespeare believed in democracy — but more than any-
thing in law and order. And then Miss Lawrence said she
thought we needed to read him more than ever nowadays.
She told us about Jack Cade's rebellion — how they shouted
'Off with the head of any one who can read and write,' and
'It was never merry in England since we had gentlemen,'
and 'Let's kill everybody, beginning with the lawyers.'
Shakespeare had no use for such rebels — and I guess Miss
Lawrence hasn't either! She said Shakespeare believed in
law and order; and that you can't just say you are equal to
anybody — you have to prove it."
"You didn't decide that Shakespeare was a reformer, did
you?" Daddy asked.
;'No. Mr. Woodward said he wasn't. But he asked if
we knew what noblesse oblige means, and Alice told him —
it means that if you have a chance to learn, you must act
better and more politely than people that haven't had a
chance. Then Mr. Woodward said, 'That's just what
Shakespeare thought/
On Horseback 231
"And he said something else. He said Shakespeare never
makes you think that if you are good you will be happy.
But he shows you good and bad people side by side and
makes you feel you'd rather be like the good people. Of
course you'd rather be like Cordelia than Goneril — no mat-
ter what happened to you.
"Ned wasn't very happy at the end, when the bell rang.
He muttered something about, Til bring my father to this
school.' And Alice said afterward, 'Let him. We're not
afraid.' "
She had hardly spoken Alice's name when they saw her,
on the path, just on the edge of the woods near Barbara's
house.
uWhy, Alice!" exclaimed Barbara, as they drew in their
horses. 'Where did you come from?"
"I thought I might meet you," she answered. "I went
to your house to see if you didn't want to rehearse our
parts. They told me where you were, so I came on and
brought the book. I thought I might meet you."
"Fine! I can stop, can't I, Daddy? and you can take
my horse home. You don't mind."
"In your riding clothes?"
'Why, yes. I'm cooled off now. And my riding clothes
will do for a costume."
'Very well," he replied, helplessly, as they dismounted
and he took her horse by the bridle.
'You have chosen a beautiful spot for rehearsing,
Alice," he remarked as they started off.
He stood still for a minute watching them as they walked
232 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
away arm in arm. Soft spring buds were hanging from the
branches above them. The blue sky glistened beyond.
"What a lovely bank," he heard Barbara say, uand what
lovely moss!"
She stooped down to feel it with her hand and he heard
her chant,
"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows
And fading violets covered up in leaves
oh! that's all wrong," she broke off. "That's some-
thing else." She laughed at herself. "I'm crazy! That
last isn't Shakespeare. What is it?"
"She is mixing Keats with Shakespeare," her father said
to himself, as he put his foot in the stirrup. 'Well, let her.
She's happy doing it."
CHAPTER XX
A DAY IN LONDON
I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.
Puck ("A Midsummer Night's Dream")
ARBARA came in one Saturday afternoon with
shining eyes and rosy cheeks, threw her hat
and coat on the nearest chair, and exclaimed,
uOh, Mother ! I've had the grandest time !
I've been to London."
Peggy murmured from the couch where she was curled
up with a book,
Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?
I've been to London to see the great queen.
233
234 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
"What do you mean, Barbara?" asked Mother. "What
have you been doing?"
"Oh, Uncle Waldo called us in when Alice and I were
going past his house to show us some books and pictures;
and then he got to talking, and we stayed and stayed; and
when we came away Alice said, 'Well, we've spent the after-
noon in London, with Shakespeare. Wasn't it fun?'
"Hang up your things," said Mother, "and then tell us
about it. Did you drink Canary at the Mermaid?"
"Oh, the Mermaid Tavern! Yes, that was the nicest
part of all." She came back after a minute and threw her-
self in a. big armchair.
"Why didn't we go there, Mother," asked Peggy, "if it
is the nicest part of London?"
"It isn't there now." Barbara answered the question;
then, turning to her mother, she went on, "I never knew
that Sir Walter Raleigh started the club there at the Mer-
maid, where they all met and talked and had such great
times. You know, Mother, that other man that wrote
plays, Ben Jonson, had fierce arguments with Shakespeare,
and somebody said Jonson was like a huge, Spanish galleon
and Shakespeare like an English man-of-war, that was
lighter and couldn't stand so firm, but tacked about and ran
in and out, and got ahead of the big, heavy ship every
time. Can't you just see them? I love discussions."
"And what else did you see in "
'Why, Mother," Barbara interrupted, "London was per-
fectly great in those days ! It was crowded full of people,
because the country was changing and lots of farm people
A Day in London 235
were out of work, and everybody wanted to go to the city.
And the ships — such beautiful ships! — were coming and
going all the time, and the town was full of sailors who had
been all over the world, and the theatres were crowded and
new plays were given all the time, and the taverns were ex-
citing places.
"Uncle Waldo showed us some pictures of Westminster
and St. Paul's and the Tower of London — the way they
looked then and the way they look now — just the very
places we saw, Peggy! Only then, the middle aisle of St.
Paul's was a public walk where people met and told the
news; you saw all kinds of people there, men dressed in
gorgeous clothes (they dressed up more than the women
did), and there were little shops where they sold things.
It sounds like the Rialto, doesn't it?"
"It doesn't sound much like a church," remarked Peggy.
"I think it is much better to have the stores outside, in the
streets, the way they are now."
"But it wasn't quite given up to shops even then," said
Mother. "If I remember rightly there were two very great
ceremonies in that cathedral, about the time Shakespeare
went up to London: one was the funeral of the poet, Sir
Philip Sidney, and one was the celebration of the victory
over the Spanish Armada."
"Uncle Waldo didn't tell us about that," replied Bar-
bara. "Oh, he told us about the victory! It was after
that that they had peace for so long and the country was
so prosperous. And Drake's ship, the 'Golden Hind,'
was kept in the Thames where the people could see it.
236 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
"And he told us about Queen Elizabeth and her grand
court. She left one thousand dresses when she died! She
just loved jewelry and silks and satins and lace. She was a
sport, too; she liked parties and plays and hunting and
going a-Maying and grand celebrations like that one at
Kenilworth Castle. But she knew a lot! She entertained
ambassadors from other countries, and she talked to them
in French or Italian or Latin — she didn't care which; and
she read Greek every day. Once when she was pretty old,
some ambassador made her a speech that she didn't like
very much, and she answered back in Latin; and then she
turned around and said: 'God's Death! my lords, I had to
scour up my Latin which has been rusting these many years.'
She always said 'God's Death' when she was excited. Alice
said her big lace ruff must have trembled. It looks like
gauzy wings.
"She had suitors from all over, just like Portia, in 'The
Merchant of Venice.' The Earl of Leicester wasn't the
only one."
"Did Uncle Waldo tell you about Shakespeare's later
years, under King James?" asked Mother, "and about how
the Puritans were beginning to talk against the gaiety and
splendor of court life and theatres and all kinds of amuse-
ments?"
"He showed us a picture of the great hall in King James's
palace — it looked like the inside of a church — where
Shakespeare and his company acted some of his plays for
a Christmas celebration. King James liked plays and
helped Shakespeare and his actors. But the people loved
A Day in London 237
Elizabeth much more. Why, once when she ordered a
man's right hand to be cut off for punishment, as soon as
it was done, he pulled off his cap with his left hand and
shouted: 'God save the Queen!' . . . Shakespeare didn't
care a cent about going to the court. Somebody said, when-
ever he was invited there he was in pain. ... I told Uncle
Waldo I didn't see why; and then he explained that if you
were a courtier you had to just about worship the Queen;
and everybody was trying to get ahead of everybody else,
and it wasn't any tqo pleasant. He said that maybe Shake-
speare was thinking about that when he wrote 'As You
Like It,' and that Shakespeare could see very well why
the lords liked it better in the Forest of Arden. ... I
think Uncle Waldo likes Jacques almost as much as Fal-
staff. He says he really likes Hamlet best of all."
"He has wonderful editions of Shakespeare," Mother
remarked.
"Oh, yes! Some of them are so big you can hardly lift
them. He told us about how they made the paper and ink
and type and everything especially for those books. An
awfully rich man spent his whole fortune getting them pub-
lished. Shakespeare never thought that would happen
to his plays. Uncle Waldo told us about the treasure that
Drake brought back in the 'Golden Hind,' but he said it
wasn't used making beautiful books of Shakespeare's plays;
it was used for a grand celebration the Queen had when her
French suitor came to London."
Peggy had dropped her book and was listening to every
word. Now she spoke:
Q^/mported ostatian o/upp
&
if
nlmlrle
&cr rfe (zfcptuvltic of amc
e ofi ff renders, or ctyerly/fe
G),
our good o/ feature ,
*
<
P jhe ylurtaio o/lauehcuze
^— x f Gx '
Puppet Play Bill with Quaint Advertisement
A Day in London 239
"You said London was such a wonderful, exciting place,
and then you said Shakespeare thought it was nicer in the
woods. Didn't he like London?"
"He liked the streets and theatres and inns," said
Mother. "Barbara means that he seems to have disliked
the life of fashion that centered in the Queen's royal
court. You know the Queen, with all her many palaces,
and the hosts of lords and ladies who held positions under
her, was a leader of amusements — and of everything else.
Even education — even universities like Oxford and Cam-
bridge— depended on her favor. She was a very clever
ruler, too, and did great things for England. She used to
refuse her suitors, saying she was married to England.
Shakespeare loved freedom too much to be a courtier. He
didn't like what one of his characters calls 'hanging on
princes' favors.' He may never have had the chance,
although some of the most powerful lords of the kingdom
were his most intimate friends. They became his friends,
however, because they encouraged literature and so helped
make Elizabeth's reign the Golden Age of English poetry.
The Earl of Southampton gave Shakespeare money for
his theatrical ventures, without which he could hardly have
risen to success and prosperity in ten years. And then,
when he was successful, we know that he went back to the
little town of Stratford where he had his house and garden
for the rest of his days. That is the proof of what he
liked best."
"And, Peggy," said Barbara, "when he lived in Strat-
ford, they had stocks and a whipping post set up in the
240 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
marketplace; and if boys stayed out-of-doors after nine
o'clock they were put in the stocks. I didn't know that
when we were there."
"Ugh!" said Peggy. "I'd rather have lived in London."
"Or in the Forest of Arden," Barbara concluded.
"We saw a funny picture of London," she continued,
"with the narrowest streets, and a big round theatre on
one side — I think it was the Globe Theatre — and a house
where they kept bears for — what was it called?"
"Bear-baiting," answered Mother. "That must have
been the amphitheatre they called the Bear Garden, where,
I believe, about a thousand people could watch the cruel
sport. That, too, was under the Queen's patronage. They
tied the bear to a stake in the middle of the circle and set
five or six mastiffs loose on him; and then the people
watched him claw the dogs "
"Don't talk about it," cried Peggy.
"The river parties on the Thames must have been too
lovely." Barbara half closed her eyes as if she saw them.
"And they had fine gardens in London, too."
"Yes," her mother added, "when Shakespeare was in
London he didn't have to go far to see gardens and open
country. He was quite a traveler, too, — going about the
country with his company of actors, — even if he never left
England."
"He traveled on horseback," remarked Barbara. "When
he went from Stratford to London, he could see the Castle
of Warwick on the hill. I wonder how London looked
when he came near. London Bridge, in the picture, has
A Day in London 241
houses built all the way across it. He stayed at a place
just between his theatre and the Mermaid Tavern; that was
very convenient for him.
"Uncle Waldo has never been in England, but he knows
everything about it. I asked him if he didn't want to go to
Stratford and explore the place where Shakespeare lived.
He says he would rather explore the pages that Shake-
speare wrote. He says he never could cross the ocean be-
cause in the winter he is too busy and in the summer he
can't leave his fishing. But he doesn't care. He says he'd
rather go to the places Shakespeare takes him — when he
sits down in the evening with his books — than to the places
where Shakespeare happened to go when — when "
"You mean," Mother helped her, "he would rather fol-
low Shakespeare's mind than his body."
"I should think so!" threw in Peggy. "If he followed
his body he'd be dead."
A little later, when they sat at their evening meal, Bar-
bara was unusually silent and a little absent-minded. Daddy
looked from her to her mother questioningly. "She will
come back presently," her mother said quietly. "She is
off in dreamland now — exploring London."
'In the spacious times of great Elizabeth,' quoted
Daddy.
CHAPTER XXI
REHEARSALS
Sure, this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.
Perdita ("The Winter's Tale")
HEY rehearsed indoors and out-of-doors, as
opportunity offered. Sometimes Peggy, who
was let more and more into the secret, was
present as prompter and first assistant.
Sometimes she helped and sometimes she
hindered. She got them to laughing so hard
one day that the rehearsal went all to pieces. Then sud-
denly she grew serious.
242
Rehearsals 243
"Hurry up now!" she cried. "Please stop laughing, Sis-
ter, and go on."
"You made us laugh yourself, Peggy," Alice managed to
say. "You're a great prompter!"
"Did I? Then I'll have to make you stop now. Go on,
I say. I have to go to a meeting of the Busy Bees. Betty'll
be waiting for me."
"Buz-z-z!" hissed Barbara. (That was in the part she
was learning. She was quoting from Petruchio.) 'You'd
better run along, Peggy. We'll try to rehearse without
your help."
They had resolved not to do anything about their cos-
tumes until they had learned all of their parts. But they
could not keep their eyes off the old engravings in Bar-
bara's volumes, under the heading "Costumes"; and they
were drawn irresistibly to the attic now and then, not to
do anything but just to see how this and that would fit to-
gether when the time came. 'We must not wait too long,"
Alice suggested. 'We might forget our parts while we
are doing our costumes."
The matter of the stage setting gave them little trouble.
Barbara had given up her idea of reproducing the Globe
Theatre. It would have meant the betrayal of their se-
cret. And, besides, they were too busy. The days were
too full even to plan such a thing. They must content
themselves with one end of Alice's drawing-room, which
was conveniently marked off by pillars, and in which were
two French windows, opening on the veranda, that made
perfect doors for the back of the stage. For two of their
244 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
scenes not much scenery would be needed — they had thought
of that, too, in making their selections — and for the third,
a table hidden by a vine-covered screen would serve for
a balcony.
Their only desire in studying their parts was to "be the
persons" they represented. As there was nobody to train
them, they had to think hard and carefully about the char-
acters, in order to be sure just how they would have said
the things Shakespeare makes them say. As for the metre
— they never thought of that! But when you head is full
of Shakespeare's verse day after day and week after week,
your instinct may be trusted to guide you in that.
There were times when the rehearsals called for a great
deal of patience. It was fun to say over the parts when
you only half knew them; when it was a sort of game to
see how much you could remember. But when you had to
learn them so thoroughly that you could not possibly forget
— that was not quite so easy.
However, when they were far enough along to begin
arranging their costumes, then every rehearsal was more
exciting than the last. And then Peggy was glad to be
prompter. She was never bored. For they experimented
with many combinations and tried many "effects," putting
together the things they found in the big chest in Bar-
bara's attic or in a closet from which Alice's mother had
told them they could "take what they liked." They were
surprised to find how different the same things could be
made to look by combining them differently. Sometimes
their experiments were so funny that they roared with
Rehearsals 245
laughter and ripped them up in a hurry. They soon learned
not to waste time sewing until they had tried the effect with
many pins. They were not very fond of sewing. They
could sew if it was necessary; but they would hunt for a
long time and knit their brows over ways and means before
resorting to that trying expedient.
Barbara was especially concerned, in arranging the cos-
tumes, that she should "look the part." Whether she
looked well or not troubled her very little. Alice some-
times wondered that she could care so little about that.
She thought it noble of her. "I don't think that is very
pretty, Barbara," she would say. And Barbara would an-
swer, "Oh, never mind. I want to look like Petruchio, and
I don't think he was very pretty." Barbara was inclined to
think that Alice, as Katherine, looked rather too pretty in
the blue silk evening gown of her mother's that she finally
chose. But again she said, ;'Never mind." Perhaps Alice
was right, she thought. Certainly the Italian ladies in
the old paintings were always lovely, and Katherine, the
shrew, lived in Italy. She was quite sure she liked to see
Alice in that long gown, so tall and straight, like a grown-up
lady with her soft neck and her white arms showing.
Committing to memory was a very small part of re-
hearsals, they soon learned. There were so many things
to decide that they often longed to ask for advice. But
they never yielded to that temptation; not because it would
be wrong, but because they had made up their minds not to,
and it would spoil the fun.
For one thing, it seemed to them that some of the lines
246 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
in "The Taming of the Shrew" ought to be omitted. A
few of the expressions, they felt, were out of date. For
their part they did not understand them, and they doubted
if the audience would. So they took the matter in their
own hands and cut them out. Perhaps they were falling
into the ancient folly of meddling with Shakespeare's text.
But there was nothing else to do. They could not repeat
lines they did not understand and suspected of being a bit
immodest. No doubt these were quite all right in the
Globe Theatre.
They were helped through all their difficulties by the
thought of the event that was coming and the surprise they
were preparing for their audience. It was to be a very
select audience, consisting only of invited guests. They had
no ambition to perform before a large number of people.
Their families, they knew, could be counted upon to be
not over critical; and how delicious it would be to see their
surprise ! And certain of their friends — nearly all of
them older friends — must of course be asked to come.
They must have a sympathetic audience above all. Modesty
prevented them from asking many of their schoolmates,
and they would have no boys, not even Arthur Lee. They
really wanted to ask Arthur. He was fond of Shakespeare
and they were fond of Arthur. But what if they should
forget their parts? Oh, no, they would not dare to invite
Arthur.
It was not easy to find free hours for their preparations.
Fortunately there was no rush. It was all so simple that
they could choose their own time. But their interest in the
Rehearsals
247
event was too keen to allow of long postponement They
were impatient to fix the date and at the same time they
were almost afraid to fix it. So they got everything ready
first. The programs were printed and painted by their own
hands, and spaces were left for inserting the day and the
hour whenever they could bring themselves to decide
upon it.
"We must settle it," said Barbara, one day. "If we
don't have our first performance soon, we shall never get
started on our second."
And with that spur to drive them to it, the date was
set.
CHAPTER XXII
THE PLAYERS
Let your own discretion be your tutor.
Hamlet ("Hamlet")
HE evening of the great surprise came at
length and one by one the favored spectators
arrived. Peggy, dressed as a page, with her
hair hanging straight and rolled under to
make her a real boy, received them at the
door and gave to each one a painted pro-
gram on which, in a design of pale green columns, were
inscribed the simple words so full of meaning, "Scenes from
Shakespeare." On that pale green portal, the secret was
248
The Players 249
announced; what lay behind it the guests, who took their
seats facing the alcoved end of the drawing room, were
soon to discover.
What they noticed at first was the extreme simplicity
of the stage setting. There were no footlights, no raised
platform, no artificial walls and pasteboard towers, no
silver paper, no gilt and tinsel. Everything was real as
far as it went; and when the actors appeared on the same
level as the audience, it was more like an actual scene in
which the spectators had an intimate share, than if they
had been placed in the midst of an elaborate setting, high
upon a stage, framed in like a picture. It was more like
the stage of Shakespeare's day than like the modern
theatre.
Whatever the young actors felt, to the audience the per-
formance seemed to proceed without a hitch. Now more
than ever the actors forgot themselves — never their parts !
— and became for the moment Shakespeare's characters.
Alice, as Katherine, dressed in that long, trailing gown
of light blue silk, with puffs at the shoulders and a stiff
lace frill at her neck, was as shrewish as possible. Yet
she looked like a shrew that could be tamed — one who
might indeed deserve all the flattering things that Petru-
chio called her when he came to woo. And Barbara, as
Petruchio, in silken doublet and velvet hose and a scarlet
coat, had a subtle smile on her face, as if much were hidden
under the extraordinary behavior of this impetuous lover.
He was a most spirited Petruchio. His changes of manner
kept you guessing as they did Katherine. His voice was
250 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
soft and alluring as he called her the prettiest Kate in
Christendom, but his angry "Buz-z-z" came out with a tell-
ing hiss. And Katherine was his equal. After his elo-
quence about "Dian in her grove," she drew her head back
with a most superior gesture, and put her question:
Where did you study all this goodly speech?
The acting showed real enjoyment of the situation. It
was clear that Alice and Barbara were not troubled by this
idea of taming a woman. Indeed, it seemed to them that
nothing was too bad for such an ill-tempered person. Be-
sides, she was a match for any man. If any one could get
ahead of this shrew as Petruchio did, so much the better.
Between this scene and the next, Peggy came upon the
stage and hung up a pasteboard sign which read, UA Street
in Milan." The audience felt flattered. It was plain that
they were expected to imagine how the street looked.
What a transformation when the children appeared as
Launce and Speed! They were really disguised now; one
would hardly have known them. They were rather ragged
and unkempt for the servants of gentlemen, but their cos-
tumes suited the style of their language. They changed
their voices; they slunk about in a loose-jointed sort of way,
as if they enjoyed being as rough as they were shrewd and
witty. When Launce got off his pun, "My staff under-
stands me," a twinkle in Barbara's eye betrayed her enjoy-
ment of the joke.
The Players 251
The lights were turned off and the audience were left for
a few minutes in total darkness. They could hear sounds
of moving scenery. And then, what another transforma-
tion! when the lights shone upon Juliet on her balcony and
Romeo half hidden behind a palm tree. The balcony was
a screen with a table behind it and the palm trees, alas!
were not real. They were some artificial ones Barbara
had found in the attic and they had to serve.
But what did it matter to the audience when there were
Romeo and Juliet, with joy in their faces, reciting to the
imaginary heavens that matchless poem of young love!
Through the first scene the audience wondered and ad-
mired. Through the second they laughed. Through the
last they were carried away by the dark-eyed beauty and
soft voice of Juliet (Was she not indeed a young Italian
in color and feature as well as in sentiment?) and by the
tenderness and gracious bearing of Romeo. The audience
had forgotten Alice and Barbara. Romeo and Juliet stood
before them, in the garden of the Capulets; the well-known
words were as new and fresh as love and spring-time.
These two children, by their sincere love of the poetry,
brought home to the audience its beauty and truth, till the
air was tense with it. There was a breathless moment of
silence; then the applause burst forth.
Again, on another evening, the living room was dark-
ened and the lights beyond the pillars, dimmed with col-
ored shades, revealed a corner of the hall of Macbeth's
252 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
castle. Two oriental rugs, hung against the wall, served
for the ancient "arras." A carved oak table stood on one
side of the space with a low settee beside it. On the table
were lighted candles in tall brass candlesticks. One of the
three windows at the back had been transformed by drap-
eries into a low doorway, the others into pointed Gothic
windows, long and narrow. Beyond them one caught
glimpses of the moonlight on the lawn.
From an "inner chamber" formed by curtains across
the stage<, Lady Macbeth entered. She wore a straight,
flowing gown of deep red, with a gold cord and tassel hang-
ing heavily about her waist. A soft headdress of pale
yellow silk covered Alice's blond hair and fell about her
shoulders. She was reading a letter. The weird sisters,
her husband wrote, had met him on the heath on the day of
success — they who, as he had learned, had in them more
tha.n mortal knowledge. They saluted him as 'Thane of
Cawdor" and "King that shalt be," and when he would
have questioned them further, they made themselves air
and vanished. And while he stood rapt in wonder came
messengers from Duncan, the King, to bestow upon him
a new title, "Thane of Cawdor." The first part of the
witches' prophecy had come true! This news he sent his
dearest partner in greatness, that she might know of the
sure promise that he would be King.
Lady Macbeth clasped the letter in her hand and medi-
tated. She spoke as if she were talking to her husband:
Glamis thou art and Cawdor, and shalt be
What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature.
The Players 253
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way.
• •••••*
Hie thee hither
That I may pour my spirit in thine ear.
She had seated herself on the bench. Her thoughts ran
on in silence, while she moved restlessly, and her eyes wan-
dered from side to side. Suddenly she clutched the table
and sat quite still gazing into space with fixed, wide-open
eyes. . . . She started up, steadied herself for an instant
on the table, and turned to meet her husband as he entered
from the outer door. Smilingly she greeted him:
Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both by the all-hail hereafter.
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The future in the instant.
Barbara, in a short cloak and belt, with a sword hanging
from her side, made a tall and manlike Macbeth. Her
voice was clear and untroubled as she spoke the simple
statement which announces to the audience that fearful
deeds are close at hand:
My dearest love,
Duncan comes here to-night.
Lady Macbeth: And when goes hence?
Macbeth: To-morrow — as he purposes.
Macbeth started and caught his breath over those three
words, for he had seen a strange look in his wife's face.
254 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
Lady Macbeth: O never
Shall sun that morrow see !
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men
May read strange matters.
Already she was persuading him that her own grim
thoughts were his; that the "strange matters" were in his
face, not hers. She assumed a lighter tone, bade him wel-
come the King with eye and hand and tongue — to look like
the innocent flower and be the serpent under it — and he
could perform a deed that night which would change and
govern all their future days and nights. She little knew
the dark truth that she was speaking.
Macbeth bowed his head. He was not strong enough
to crush her plan. He put off decision, saying, 'We will
speak further."
During the pause that followed, the audience reflected
that this scene had been well chosen for revealing the plot
of the play and the characters of this man and this woman.
She was stronger than he; she and the weird sisters to-
gether would conquer. But how?
The lights on the stage had been extinguished. Now
they came out brighter than before and disclosed Macbeth
sitting alone, speaking his thoughts aloud:
If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly.
The temptation was working. Fear of the life after
death, and his conscience reminding him that Duncan was
his guest whom, by every law of charity, he should protect
from harm, were working against the temptation. Dun-
The Players 255
can, his conscience argued, was so good a king that his
virtues would plead "like angels trumpet-tongued against
the deep damnation of his taking-off." There was no right
reason for such a deed.
Lady Macbeth came in upon his revery. The King,
she told him, had asked for him — the kindly King who
had shown him special favor. Macbeth declared with a
show of firmness:
We will proceed no further in this business.
Then Lady Macbeth taunted him. She stung his pride
by charging him with weakness and cowardice. Why had
he ever planned this deed, she asked him — always making
it appear that the suggestion had come from him — if he
had not the courage to carry it out? Was he, a man, so
much weaker than she, a woman? She pricked and goaded
him, until he cried out upon her:
Prithee peace!
I dare do all that may become a man.
Who dares do more is none.
Then, very craftily, she turned this fine thought of his to
her own ends:
When you durst do it, then you were a man.
Thus, flattering him for what he was and ridiculing his
conscientious scruples, she worked upon his ambitious
pride until he muttered, "If we should fail?"
She rose to her full height and answered boldly:
We fail.
But screw your courage to the sticking place
And we'll not fail.
256 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
She had won. His fear was no longer fixed upon the
consequences of the crime but upon the chance of failure.
And now she could unfold the details of her plot. His
mind was in the clutch of that new fear, failure, and he was
ready to listen. He was moved by her undaunted mettle.
He lent himself to her clearer purpose and stronger will.
Closing his eyes to the evil, he raised his head and de-
clared, with something of her calm assurance:
I am settled.
It was no longer a crime to his poisoned mind but a feat
to be accomplished. His wavering was at an end.
He had already proved himself twice a coward by
fearing to be thought one. Henceforth, the evil spirits
that had spoken to him on the heath and would speak
again would have their way with him. He had surren-
dered.
The young actors did not attempt to carry the tragedy
beyond this point. Here, indeed, is the great climax of
the drama. What follows represents the fulfillment and
the results of an act which is already accomplished when
it is accomplished in Macbeth's mind. The horrors of
the murder, the picture of Macbeth led on from crime to
crime, of Lady Macbeth pursued by the furies of a guilty
conscience, of Macduff entering the action to wreak the
vengeance of outraged justice upon the murderer this
is but the result of the two scenes the children acted, and
they wisely let the rest alone. In the silence that followed
it was all present in the hearers' minds to enforce the words,
The Players 257
which, in the voices of Alice and Barbara, had sounded
the depths of the tragedy.
Screens were drawn out to hide the stage; and when, a
few minutes later, they were folded back, the scene had
shifted to ancient Rome. The rugs had been removed; the
draperies hung straight and concealed the windows; the
entire medieval setting had disappeared. Barbara's arti-
ficial palm trees, with a few flowering plants, a few statu-
ettes, and a marble bench, created the atmosphere of a
garden in the time of Julius Caesar.
The boy Lucius was asleep. Peggy had allowed herself
to be costumed for this silent part. In a short, blue tunic,
her hair fastened up under a cap, her feet shod with san-
dals, a long spear in her hand, she sat cross-legged on the
ground under a palm tree. Her spear had fallen across
her knees, her hand rested against the tree trunk, her face
was partially turned toward the audience, her eyes were
closed.
The boy Lucius did not stir when Brutus, in his long white
toga, entered and called: "Boy, Lucius!" nor while he
said to himself, looking down at the boy:
Fast asleep ! It is no matter.
Enjoy the heavy honey-dew of slumber.
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies
Which busy care draws in the hearts of men ;
Therefore thou sleepst so sound.
The serene face of the sleeping child gave point to these
words. They revealed, too, the gentle nature of Brutus
258 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
and the burden on his mind. Then Portia entered, drawing
her long purple robe about her shoulders; and the con-
versation that followed showed forth the character of this
man and wife — so different from the two Macbeths! —
and the overhanging tragedy.
Alice was Portia; Barbara was Brutus. Was it quite
fair, according to their principle of distributing the parts,
that Alice should be the woman in both plays? They had
their reasons. For one thing, Alice had taken the chief
part in "Macbeth"; she insisted that .Barbara should have
that honor in 'Julius Caesar." "Besides," she had said,
"Brutus is one of your favorite characters. You detest
Macbeth. You must be one person you like. If I am
Cassius, I shall have one man's part. It is perfectly fair.
And, anyway, I think you do men better and I do women
better, and that is more important than anything else."
And so it was settled.
It was true that Barbara was very partial to Brutus.
She pitied him because he had been led by generous im-
pulses— not like Macbeth by weak ambition — to perform
an act which he despised. His "ancient Roman valour"
made him a hero in her eyes — a victim of the wrongs of
other men. When Cassar cried, as the swords pierced him,
"Et tu, Brute?" she understood him to mean, "And you,
too, my noble friend — are you a part of this wicked plot
against me?" That cry showed that Brutus was lovable as
well as high-minded. He was a lonely figure, too. The
real conspirators, who had misled him, could not under-
stand his motive. He was lonely; and the blow he struck
The Players 259
at Caesar for the sake of justice failed utterly. And through
it all, he spoke the most wonderful words ! Barbara liked
even his angry speeches, as when he said, "I'd rather be
a dog and bay the moon than such a Roman." His gentle
words to his wife and to his friends and to the boy, Lucius,
— how they melted your heart ! Barbara thought Hamlet
spoke marvelous words, too, and she loved to read them.
But she understood Brutus better. Perhaps he seemed most
noble and most pitiable in this scene they were acting when
he said to Portia:
You are my dear and honourable wife,
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.
The boy Lucius slept undisturbed through the whole
scene and in a moment of darkness at the end silently dis-
appeared.
And now came Brutus and Cassius in the famous scene
of their quarrel and reconciliation. It should have taken
place in an army tent. But the children, thinking it might
well have been outside the tent, merely removed the statu-
ettes and let the trees and flowers represent the out-of-
doors.
This scene, the children thought, was one of the greatest
they had ever read. No love scene could compare with it
in their opinion. And they made of it a most spirited
quarrel and a most tender reconciliation. They deepened
their girlish voices and put into the words all the vim and
260 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
energy that seemed to them the natural manner of Roman
generals. Barbara had the face of a madonna rather than
of a Brutus! Yet there was a fine scorn in the curl of
her lip and much haughtiness in her gesture when Brutus
exclaimed :
I'll use you for my mirth, nay, for my laughter —
and great dignity in her manner, when he grew gentle, say-
ing with a smile :
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb.
As Barbara acted the part, there was great dignity,
too, in his sadness, when his shoulders drooped and a far-
away look came into his eyes and, with a world of meaning
in his voice, he murmured something about his sorrows.
And when Cassius, all sympathy now, wanted to know
more, he seated himself on the bench, and, lifting his head
and looking into space, his hands pressed against his knees,
he said, in a voice that wrung the heart:
Portia is dead.
A great solemnity fell upon the audience. They had
been amused at the way the sparks flew and the flame
cooled up to this point. Now they felt only what the
children felt. They were conscious only of Brutus and his
lonely sorrow.
There was a pause. Alice and Barbara had wished that
this pause might be filled by some low strains of music in
the distance. It was not needed. A kind of inaudible music
filled the air. While Brutus recounted the story of Portia's
The Players 261
death, solemn harmonies seemed to linger in the back-
ground. Then, raising his head, with a quick gesture of
determination, he turned to the affairs that were pressing
for attention, saying:
Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine —
and the boy Lucius entered and poured out the wine in
which they buried all unkindness.
In response to a request, the last number on their pro-
gram was a repetition of the scene from "Romeo and
Juliet."
How many times they had repeated it! They had re-
hearsed it more than anything else. And yet the words
seemed more beautiful every time they spoke them. To-
night, coming from the grim tragedy of Macbeth and the
sorrows of Brutus, there seemed to be some strange en-
chantment in every syllable.
Romeo: Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear
That tips with silver all these fruit tree tops, —
Juliet: O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon
That monthly changes in her circled orb
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Romeo: What shall I swear by?
Juliet: Do not swear at all ;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.
262 Shakespeare and the Heart of a Child
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee
The more I have, for both are infinite.
A rich color had come into Juliet's cheeks — the natural
color of excitement. Now she turned away to answer the
nurse's call, while Romeo stretched out his arms and folded
them as if embracing the soft air, and exclaimed:
O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.
With this dream of beauty and young love, the acting
ended.
And now it was the actors' turn to receive a surprise.
They were led into the dining room where a supper was
spread out on the table. They sat down, Peggy between
Alice and Barbara, and, while the others grouped them-
selves about, they feasted like true heroes on simple and
delicious viands. Looking at the color in their cheeks, the
spectators understood that there had been no "make-up"
in the green room of this theatre.
Uncle Waldo proposed a toast to the young actors.
"They have made the great poet live for us to-night," he
said, as they all raised their glasses filled with an amber
liquid that was also acting a part. But before they could
drink Barbara had risen from her chair. She lifted her
glass high above her head. Her hand trembled a little
with excitement, but her voice was clear and her eyes
sparkled as she said:
"Let's drink a health to Shakespeare."
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