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
Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in sight to be driven away from Stratford trade.
Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother’s back would be so bent when she grew old.
“Whur be-est going, Nick?”
Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey Thompson’s new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a tenant-farmer’s son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.
“To Coventry,” said Nick, curtly.
“Wilt take a fellow wi’ thee?”
Poor company might be better than none.
“Come on.”
Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after.
“No school to-day?” he asked.
“Not for me,” answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about it.
“Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha’ comed to town, an’ plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled Roger; “Muster Pine o’ Welford saith that I ha’ learned as much as faither ever knowed, an’ ’tis enow for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o’ sons to know more than they’s own dads.”
Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the Latin he made a wry face.
“Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks,” said Roger, peering through the jeering crowd about the pillory and post; “a broke Tom Samson’s pate wi’ ’s ale-can yestreen.”
“‘WHUR BE-EST GOING, NICK?’ ASKED ROGER DAWSON.”
But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and drovers from the Bed Horse Vale still lingered at the Boar Inn door and by the tap-room of the Crown; and in the middle of the street a crowd of salters, butchers, and dealers in hides, with tallow-smeared doublets and doubtful hose, were squabbling loudly about the prices set upon their wares.
In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far from altering his purpose.
“Job Hortop,” said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking out suddenly over the crowd, “was that my Nick yonder?”
“Nay, master, could na been,” said Job, stolidly; “Nick be-eth in school by now—the clock ha’ struck. ’Twas Dawson’s Hodge and some like ne’er-do-well.”
IN THE WARWICK ROAD
The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden; cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in Fulbroke park.
Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge, and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him.
Nick’s ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom. The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the prick of conscience.
“Why art going to Coventry, Nick?” inquired Roger suddenly, startled by a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room.
“To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford.”
“Wull I see, too?”
“If thou hast eyes—the Mayor’s show is free.”
“Oh, feckins, wun’t it be fine?” gaped Hodge. “Be it a tailors’ show, Nick, wi’ Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An’ wull they set the world afire wi’ a torch, an’ make the earth quake fearful wi’ a barrel full o’ stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the Black Man over the pate wi’ a bladder full o’ peasen—an’ angels wi’ silver wingses, an’ saints wi’ goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine yards high, clad in the beards o’ murdered kings, like granny saith she used to see?”
“Pshaw! no,” said Nick; “none of those old-fashioned things. These be players from London town, and I hope they’ll play a right good English history-play, like ‘The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,’ to turn a fellow’s legs all goose-flesh!”
Hodge stopped short in the road. “La!” said he, “I’ll go no furder if they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood—an’ a plague on all witches, says I!”
“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Nick; “come on. No witch in the world could turn thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi’ thee; there be no witches there at all.”
“Art sure thou ’rt not bedaffing me?” hesitated Hodge. “Good, then; I be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?”
“Why,” said Nick, “would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son Will to do with witches?”
“I dunno,” faltered Hodge; “a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right to drownd ’em in the river.”
Nick hesitated. “Maybe it kills the fish,” said he; “and Master Will Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge, and he has na put a stop to it—and he’s a great man in London town.”
Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a corner. “Wully Shaxper a great man?” said he. “Why, a’s name be cut on the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where’s uncle Henry Shaxper lives, an’ ’tis but poorly done. I could do better wi’ my own whittle.”
“Ay, Hodge,” cried Nick; “and that’s about all thou canst do. Dost think that a man’s greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand at cutting his name on a tree?”
“Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might do a little thing passing well—so there, now!”
Nick pondered for a moment. “I do na know,” said he, slowly; “heaps of men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon.”
“Avon swans be mostly geese,” said Hodge, vacantly.
“Now, look ’e here, Hodge Dawson, don’t thou be calling Master Will Shakspere goose. He married my own mother’s cousin, and I will na have it.”
“La, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. And, anyway, I’d like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been ‘Muster Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?”
“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave Rick Hawkins, that’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding his horse.”
“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be soon parted.”
“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly. “He’s made a peck o’ money there in London town, and ’s going to buy the Great House in Chapel lane, and come back here to live.”
“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a ’s so great a man amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na come back to Stratford. An’ I say a ’s a witless loon—so there!”
Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!”
“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick Attwood bending over him.
“There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will surely box thine ears for thee.”
Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the four winds. “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ’tis all o’ that to thee, I take it back.”
Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “I’ll na go wi’ thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.”
Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on.
“An’ what’s more,” bawled Hodge after him, “thy Muster Wully Shaxper be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says I!”
As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across the field as if an army were at his heels.
Nick started back, but quickly paused. “Thou needst na run,” he called; “I’ve not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson: when I do come back, I’ll teach thee who thy betters be—Will Shakspere first of all!”
“Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!” on a sudden called a keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him.
Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the hedge and come striding up the road.
THE MASTER-PLAYER
He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye.
Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared.
The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. “What! How now?” he cried sharply. “Dost like or like me not?”
“Why, sir,” stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say—“why, sir,—” and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed.
“Come, come,” snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, “I am a swashing, ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratford dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on the very gentleman in proud Verona’s streets, laid in Stratford’s common stocks, like a silly apprentice’s slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste old Bless-his-heart here first!” and with that he clapped his hand upon the hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders. “Dost take me, boy?”
“Why, sir,” hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger’s wild words and imperious way, “ye surely are the master-player.”
“There!” cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in the hedge. “Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! Say, boy,” he laughed, and turned to Nick, “thou art no fool. Why, boy, I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?—a black murrain on the town!” And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back afraid of him.
“‘WHAT! HOW NOW?’ CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. ‘DOST LIKE OR LIKE ME NOT?’”
“But nay,” hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, “a town like that is its own murrain—let it sicken on itself!”
He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,—a rollicking, merry laugh,—and threw
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