Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Master Skylark: A Story of Shakspere's Time by John Bennett (interesting books to read in english .txt) 📖
- Author: John Bennett
Book online «Master Skylark: A Story of Shakspere's Time by John Bennett (interesting books to read in english .txt) 📖». Author John Bennett
The old precentor stepped beyond the screen.
Gaston Carew’s face was in his hands, and his shoulders shook convulsively. “I’ll leave thee go, lad,—ma foi, I’ll leave thee go. But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!”
Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. “Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir,” said he, in a low tone, as if half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in the hall.
Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man.
“‘THAT VOICE, THAT VOICE,’ NAT GYLES PANTED TO HIMSELF.”
The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his breast. “Mirabile!” he was saying with bated breath. “It is impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet credo—I believe—quia impossibile est—because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or dream—or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, ’twas a soul: the lad’s own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! Satis verborum—say no more. Humanum est errare—I am a poor old fool; and there’s a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!” He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.
“Thou’lt take him, then?” asked Carew.
“Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the hand. “Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. Take him? Pouf! I know my place—he shall be entered on the rolls at once.”
“Good!” said Carew. “I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is miserly. I’ll dress him, too; for these students’ robes are shabby stuff. But for the rest—”
“Trust me,” said Master Gyles; “he shall be the first singer of them all. He shall be taught—but who can teach the lark its song, and not do horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I’ll teach the lad myself; ay, all I know. I studied in the best schools in the world.”
“And, hark ’e, Master Gyles,” said Carew, sternly all at once; “thou’lt come no royal placard and seizure on me—ye have sworn. The boy is mine to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy prerogatives.”
For the kings of old had given the masters of this school the right to take for St. Paul’s choir whatever voices pleased them, wherever they might be found, by force if not by favor, barring only the royal singers at Windsor; and when men have such privileges it is best to be wary how one puts temptation in their way.
“Thou hadst mine oath before I even saw the boy,” said the precentor, haughtily. “Dost think me perjured—Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum? Pouf! I know my place. My oath’s my oath. But, soft; enough—here comes the boy. Who could have told a skylark in such popinjay attire?”
A NEW LIFE
And now a strange, new life began for Nicholas Attwood, in some things so grand and kind that he almost hated to dislike it.
It was different in every way from the simple, pinching round in Stratford, and full of all the comforts of richness and plenty that make life happy—excepting home and mother.
Master Gaston Carew would have nothing but the best, and what he wanted, whether he needed it or not; so with him money came like a summer rain, and went like water out of a sieve: for he was a wild blade.
They ate their breakfast when they pleased; dined at eleven, like the nobility; supped at five, as was the fashion of the court. They had wheat-bread the whole week round, as only rich folk could afford, with fruit and berries in their season, and honey from the Surrey bee-farms that made one’s mouth water with the sight of it dripping from the flaky comb; and on Fridays spitchcocked eels, pickled herrings, and plums, with simnel-cakes, poached eggs and milk, cream cheese and cordial, like very kings; so that Nick could not help thriving.
The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his worst enemy.
When there were any new curiosities in Fleet street,—wild men with rings in their noses, wondrous fishes, puppet-shows, or red-capped baboons whirling on a pole,—Carew would have Nick see them as well as Cicely; and often took them both to Bartholomew’s Fair, where there was a giant eating raw beef and a man dancing upon a rope high over the heads of the people. He would have had Nick every Thursday to the bear-baiting in the Paris Garden circus beside; but one sight of that brutal sport made the boy so sick that they never went again, but to the stage-plays at the Rose instead, which Nick enjoyed immensely, for Carew himself acted most excellently, and Master Tom Heywood always came and spoke kindly to the lonely boy.
For, in spite of all, Nick’s heart ached so at times that he thought it would surely break with longing for his mother. And at night, when all the house was still and dark, and he alone in bed, all the little, unconsidered things of home—the beehives and the fragrant mint beside the kitchen door, the smell of the baking bread or frying carrots, the sound of the red-cheeked harvest apples dropping in the orchard, and the plump of the old bucket in the well—came back to him so vividly that many a time he cried himself to sleep, and could not have forgotten if he would.
On Midsummer Day there was a Triumph on the river at Westminster, with a sham-fight and a great shooting of guns and hurling of balls of wild-fire. The Queen was there, and the ambassadors of France and Venice, with the Duke of Lennox and the Earls of Arundel and Southampton. Master Carew took a wherry to Whitehall, and from the green there they watched the show.
The Thames was fairly hidden by the boats, and there was a grand state bark all trimmed with silk and velvet for the Queen to be in to see the pastime. But as for that, all Nick could make out was the high carved stern of the bark, painted with England’s golden lions, and the bark was so far away that he could not even tell which was the Queen.
Coming home by Somerset House, a large barge passed them with many watermen rowing, and fine carpets about the seats; and in it the old Lord Chamberlain and his son my Lord Hunsdon, who, it was said, was to be the Lord Chamberlain when his father died; for the old lord was failing, and the Queen liked handsome young men about her.
In the barge, beside their followers, were a company of richly dressed gentlemen, who were having a very gay time together, and seemed to please the old Lord Chamberlain exceedingly with the things they said. They were somebodies, as Nick could very well see from their carriage and address; and, so far as the barge allowed, they were all clustered about one fellow in the seat by my Lord Hunsdon. He seemed to be the chiefest spokesman of them all, and every one appeared very glad indeed to be friendly with him. My Lord Hunsdon himself made free with his own nobility, and sat beside him arm in arm.
What he was saying they were too far away to hear in the shouting and splash; but those with him in the barge were listening as eagerly as children to a merry tale. Sometimes they laughed until they held their sides; and then again as suddenly they were very quiet, and played softly with their tankards and did not look at one another as he went gravely on telling his story. Then all at once he would wave his hand gaily, and his smile would sparkle out; and the whole company, from the old Lord Chamberlain down, would brighten up again, as if a new dawn had come over the hills into their hearts from the light of his hazel eyes.
Nick made no doubt that this was some young earl rolling in wealth; for who else could have such listeners? Yet there was, nevertheless, something so familiar in his look that he could not help staring at him as the barge came thumping through the jam.
They passed along an oar’s-length or two away; and as they came abeam, Carew, rising, doffed his hat, and bowed politely to them all.
In spite of his wild life, he was a striking, handsome man.
The old Lord Chamberlain said something to his son, and pointed with his hand. All the company in the barge turned round to look; and he who had been talking stood up quickly with his hand upon the young lord’s arm, and, smiling, waved his cap.
Nick gave a sharp cry.
Then the barge pushed through, and shot away down stream like a wild swan.
“Why, Nick,” exclaimed Cicely, “how dreadful thou dost look!” and, frightened, she caught him by the hand. “Why, oh!—what is it, Nick—thou art not ill?”
“It was Will Shakspere!” cried Nick, and sank into the bottom of the wherry with his head upon the master-player’s knee. “Oh, Master Carew,” he cried, “will ye never leave me go?”
Carew laid his hand upon the boy’s head, and patted it gently.
“Why, Nick,” said he, and cleared his throat, “is not this better than Stratford?”
“Oh, Master Carew—mother’s there!” was the reply.
There was no sound but the thud of oars in the rowlocks and the hollow bubble of the water at the stern, for they had fallen out of the hurry and were coming down alone.
“Is thy mother a good woman, Nick?” asked Cicely.
Carew was staring out into the fading sky. “Ay, sweetheart,” he answered in a queer, husky voice, suddenly putting one arm about her and the other around Nick’s shoulders. “None but a good mother could have so good a son.”
“Then thou wilt send him home, daddy?” asked Cicely.
Carew took her hand in his, but answered nothing.
They had come to the landing.
THE MAKING OF A PLAYER
Master Will Shakspere was in town! The thought ran through Nick Attwood’s head like a half-remembered tune. Once or twice he had all but sung it instead of the words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was in town!
Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all his trouble would be over; for the husband of his mother’s own cousin would see justice done him in spite of the master-player and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear—of that he was sure.
But there seemed small chance of its coming about; for the doors of Gaston Carew’s house were locked and barred by day and by night, as much to keep Nick in as to keep thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was away, the servants went about the lower halls, and Gregory Goole’s uncanny face peered after him from every shadowy corner; and when he went with Carew anywhere, the master-player watched him like a hawk, while always at his heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump of the bandy-legged man following after him.
Even were he free to go as he pleased, he knew not where to turn; for the Lord Chamberlain’s company would not be at the Blackfriars play-house until Martinmas; and before that time to look for even Master Will Shakspere at random in London town would be worse than
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