’Tis Grammar teaches how to speak,
And Logic sifts the false from true,
By Rhetoric we learn to deck
Each word with its own proper hue.
Arithmetic of number treats,
And Music rules the Church’s praise;
Geometry the round earth metes,
Astronomy the starry ways.
They had holidays, of course, eighteen days at Christmas, twelve at Easter and nine at Whitsuntide, but it was extraordinary how quickly they seemed to pass. . . . They envied the twins, who stayed at home and were taught by Great-Aunt.
Not that the twins envied themselves. Joyeuce and Grace had long ago learnt all of the little that Great-Aunt knew and Grace now helped Joyeuce in the work of the house, so the twins and Diccon received Great-Aunt’s instructions in solitary glory, and it was awful.
As they stood at the front door, seeing the men of the family off to work, their hearts sank down and down. . . . Oh, if only they were grown up, or men, or dead, or anything so that they need not receive instructions from Dame Susan Cholmeley. . . . But it would be best of all to be grown up.
Chapter 3: The Madonna
See, where she sits upon the grassy green,
(O seemly sight)
Yclad in scarlet like a maiden Queen,
And ermines white.
Upon her head a cremosin coronet,
With damask roses and daffodillies set:
Bay-leaves between,
And primroses green
Embellish the sweet violet.
I saw Phoebus thrust out his golden head,
Upon her to gaze:
But when he saw how broad her beams did spread,
It did him amaze.
He blushed to see another sun below,
Ne durst again his fiery face outshow:
Let him, if he dare
His brightness compare
With hers, to have the overthrow.
Bring hither the pink and purple columbine,
With gillyflowers;
Bring coronations, and sops in wine,
Worn of paramours.
Strew me the ground with daffodowndillies,
And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lilies:
The pretty paunce,
And the chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fair flower delice.
EDMUND SPENSER.
1.
GREAT-AUNT delivered her instructions from half-past six till half-past eight in the parlor, a little room reached by a door under the staircase, and here the three children sat on low stools waiting for her.
The parlor was a lovely room, paneled in oak and with a beautiful modeled plaster ceiling. Over the fireplace was a carved overmantel where the arms of Cardinal Wolsey and Henry the Eighth were set in a frame of leaves and Tudor roses, wonderfully rich and luxuriant. In the winter they burned sea coal in the fireplace, and a great luxury Joyeuce and her father felt it to be. In London sea coal must not be burnt while Parliament was sitting, lest the health of members be affected, but Oxford laid no such restrictions upon its use. In spring and autumn they burned the wood that had been torn from the trees in the Christ Church meadows by winter gales, and the twins liked that best, for the flames from the wood seemed to them prettier than the flames from the coal because they were of different colors, as though each different tree had a different flame flower: some yellow, some orange, some blue and some red. In the evenings, when it was growing dark, the reflected flames leaped and danced on the dark paneled walls so that you thought that that wood too was on fire with flowers.
There was very little furniture in the room; a few stools and chairs, the chest where the children kept their needlework and lesson books and the clavicytherium that Joyeuce, the musician of the family, played to their father in the evenings. It was like a spinet set up on end and if its compass was no larger than that of the human voice the harp music that came from it was very sweet.
The parlor’s one window looked out on the street that ran past the Fair Gate, leading from the center of the town to the South Gate of the city. Its real name was South Gate Street but it was always called Fish Street after a certain Master Fish, a mayor of corpulent and happy memory. It was not always a pleasure to have this window open because the housewives of Fish Street flung all their slops cheerfully out of the window to drain down through the cobbles to the kennel; but today, after the downpour in the night, the smells were nicely damped down and Fish Street quite at its best, with little blue pools between the cobbles that reflected the blue sky above, and the wet roofs of Saint Aldate’s church and the Christ Church almshouses shining brightly across the way.
This outside world was so tempting that the children left their stools and ran to the window to look out. . . . From the town came distant and thrilling sounds of pipes, drums and jingling bells. . . . Joan, who had felt when she woke up that this was going to be a particularly adventurous day, jigged up and down on her toes and squeaked excitedly. “It’s the morris dancers,” she said, and then, a little mournfully, “everyone has a holiday on May-Day but us.”
“We do not join in these vulgar holidays because we are Well Born,” said Meg, passing on an explanation of their hard lot already given her by Great-Aunt; but she sighed as she gave it, for the advantages of Blue Blood seemed at the moment few.
Diccon, hanging out of the window with his short legs well off the floor, was taking no notice of their conversation. “I can spit further than you can,” he announced, and gave a demonstration.
“You can’t!” cried Meg indignantly, and showed him at once that he was mistaken.
Joan did not waste her breath on words but used it all to reach further than either of the others; and at this unfortunate moment Great-Aunt entered.
When dressed for the day she was an awe-inspiring sight in any mood; but when in the grip of righteous indignation, she struck terror to the hearts of the boldest. She stood in the center of the room leaning upon her ivory-topped stick, arrayed in her black satin farthingale over a green kirtle embroidered with purple daisies. She wore a wig of jet black curly hair and over it a veil of lawn edged with lace. She had jewels in her ears and on her fingers. She looked magnificent, if a trifle barbaric, with her dark eyes sparkling with rage and her mouth set so strong-mindedly that her nose and her chin almost met.
The twins seized Diccon’s legs and pulled him to the ground, whirled him about to make his bow and sank themselves into agitated and rather wobbly little curtseys. . . . . But it was too late. . . . Great-Aunt had seen.
“Children,” she said in a terrible voice, “hold out your hands.”
They held out their hands and she produced from the black satin folds of her farthingale a very potent little cane that had been presented to her by her husband upon the occasion of the birth of their first child, and had been used by her with great effect ever since. It was unbelievable that an old lady of eighty-five could have such strength in her arm. When she had done with them the three little palms were on fire and tears were trickling down the twins’ cheeks. . . . They never cried when Joyeuce spanked them, but then Great-Aunt could hit harder than Joyeuce and there was something in the way she did it that hurt their feelings. . . . Joyeuce spanked them because she loved them but Great-Aunt caned because caning in itself gave her pleasure.
“Weak little poppets,” she snorted, regarding the tears with disfavor. “Look at your brother. He does not cry though he’s still but a babe.”
Diccon grinned wickedly at her, his green eyes narrowed to slits, and thrusting out his bright pink tongue—his tongue was of an unusually vivid pink—he licked his smarting palm. He was not afraid of Great-Aunt but when with her he usually behaved himself, for in Great-Aunt he had met his match. It cannot be said that they loved each other, for neither of them had much power o
f affection, but they saw each in the other qualities that they themselves possessed, and being both of them chock-full of conceit they were naturally full of mutual admiration.
Great-Aunt had no use for sensitiveness in any form. That idiotic shrinking from giving pain that characterized both Joyeuce and her father, together with their imbecile reserve and morbidity of conscience, aroused in her nothing but contempt. She cared as little what she did to other people as she cared what they did to her, and as for reserve, if you did not say straight out what you wanted, how could you expect to get it? This attitude towards life was also Diccon’s and their aim being the same they got on uncommonly well.
“Put your tongue in, Diccon!” thundered Great-Aunt. “And collect your thoughts for the morning’s instruction. Sit down, little girls, and take up your hornbooks.”
Great-Aunt seated herself majestically upon a big carved chair, with the children’s lesson books ready to her hand on a stool by her side. She fancied herself as an instructress and example to the young and was not now recognizable as the same old lady who had made such unfortunate remarks at breakfast.
The children seated themselves upon their stools and took up the hornbooks that were attached to their waists by cords and accompanied them through their day. The hornbook was intended for purposes of edification and that it was also used for purposes of battledore and shuttlecock was unfortunate, but inevitable owing to its shape. A sheet of vellum, covered by a thin sheet of horn to protect the vellum from the soiling of grubby little hands, was fastened to a piece of wood with a handle, very much the shape of a square hand mirror. On the vellum were inscribed the essentials of education. First in importance came the cross, followed by the rhyme,
Christ’s cross be my speed
In all virtue to proceed.
Then came the alphabet and then, reading and writing being now presumably mastered, a dedication of learning. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and the Holy Ghost.” Then came the Lord’s Prayer and finally, but only if there was room, the numerals, for the genius who designed the hornbook was probably a monk in one of the monastery schools who thought moneymaking arithmetic less important than prayer and dedication. The children, too, quite understood the relative importance of these things. Christ’s cross, they knew, came first, and they called the hornbook their criss-cross, after it, and the alphabet the criss-cross row.
When they had repeated the prayers on the hornbook Great-Aunt set them to do a little juggling with the numerals.
“If I had five apples,” she said, “and you took away two, what then?”
“You would cane us,” said Diccon, and licked his palm again.
“Insolent varlet!” cried Great-Aunt, and felt for her cane; but Diccon grinned at her and she thought better of it.
“Three apples, Great-Aunt,” squeaked Meg, the more intellectual of the twins, and the arithmetic lesson pursued its way in comparative calm.
When it was over Great-Aunt took from the table beside her a battered little brown book on deportment for the young. Every day she and the children went solemnly through this book, Great-Aunt reading out the precepts and the children repeating them after her. There were a great many precepts, dealing with every department of manners, though special attention was paid by the author to table manners.
Bite not thy bread, but break it, but not with slovenly fingers, nor with the same wherewith thou takest up thy meat.
Dip not thy meat in the sauce.
Take not salt with a greasy knife.
Cough not, nor blow thy nose at table if it may be avoided; but if there be necessity, do it aside, and without much noise.
Spit not in the room, but in a corner, and rub it out with thy foot, or, rather, go out and do it abroad.
Stuff not thy mouth so as to fill thy cheeks; be content with smaller mouthfuls.
Blow not thy meat, but with patience wait till it be cool.
Sup not broth at the table but eat it with a spoon.
The author also laid stress on the necessity for courtesy. “If thy superior be relating a story,” said one wise precept, “say not, I have heard it before, but attend as if it were to thee altogether new. Seem not to question the truth of it. If he tell it not right, snigger not, nor endeavor to help out or add to his relation.”
There was yet another that might have been laid to heart with advantage by Nicolas de Worde. “Be not hasty to run out of Church when the worship is ended, as if thou wert weary of being there.”
It took them nearly an hour to get through the book from cover to cover, and sitting bolt upright on their stools their backs ached dreadfully, but at the least suspicion of a sigh or a yawn, or the tiniest relaxation of the vertical backbone, Great-Aunt’s hand felt for the cane, so there was nothing for it but endurance.
But at half-past seven the agony was over. Diccon was allowed to go scuttling back to the kitchen and his cat while the little girls took up their samplers. This, of course, was a fresh agony, but not so bad as the first because the twins were naturally domesticated and took readily to their needles.
The samplers were very beautiful, worked in minute cross-stitch upon fine linen. Round the edges the twins were working a border of forget-me-nots, honeysuckle and sundry sorts of spots from a wonderful new book that had just come out with the imposing title, “Here followeth certain patterns of cutworks; newly invented and never published before. Also sundry sorts of spots, as flowers, birds, and fishes, etc., and will fitly serve to be wrought, some with gold, some with silk, and some with crewel in colors. And never but once published before. Printed by Richard Shorleyker.”
When they got tired of this they cheered themselves up by re-threading their needles and doing a little work upon some breathless remarks they were embroidering in the center of the sampler.
In life there is no sure stay
For flesh as flower doth fade away
This carcass made of slime and clay
Must taste of death there is no way
While we have time then let us pray
To God for grace both night and day
While the twins worked Great-Aunt read aloud to them from a book called “De Civilitate Morum Puerilium: a little book of Good Manners for Children: into the English Tongue by R. Whytyngton. 1540.” It was a book written by Erasmus and it had a picture on the title page of good, well-behaved little children which the twins were allowed to look at at the end of the lesson.
It is doubtful if they derived as much benefit from this book as could have been wished because reading aloud was not one of Great-Aunt’s gifts. She took her breaths at the command of nature instead of at the command of Erasmus, who had thoughtfully placed commas where breaths should be taken but was not attended to by Great-Aunt; also her lack of teeth made articulation a little difficult. However they all three liked to feel that they were studying Erasmus, who was after all a noted scholar and who deserved to be patronized by them because he had had the good taste to like Oxford and its people. “The air,” he had said, “is soft and delicious. The men are sensible and intelligent.” The girls, he had gone on to say, were divinely pretty, and the kiss of greeting which they bestowed upon all and sundry was most delightful to receive. . . . Certainly a man to be taken notice of.
But at half-past eight Great-Aunt had had enough of him. She shut “De Civilitate Morum Puerilium” with a bang, sighed to the twins to put away their work and leave the room, leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. . . . She would slumber now, dreaming of the glories that were past, until it was time to go to her room for ten o’clock dinner.
2.
The twins scuttled joyously from the room, for now they might go and play in the garden. This was to them the loveliest hour of the day because it was the only time when, except for the darling dogs, they were alone together. Diccon and his wretched cat, w
hom they and the dogs hated, were shut up in the kitchen with Dorothy, and Joyeuce and Grace were doing the housework.
There was a cupboard under the stairs, beside the door into the parlor, that was the children’s own special cupboard, and from this they took their leggings and their little dark blue cloaks lined with scarlet, with the hoods that came right over their heads and protected their snowy caps. They sat on the floor and pulled on their leggings, giggling and squeaking happily, while the dogs sat and watched and thumped their tails on the floor.
Also in the cupboard were the children’s toys, their dolls and popguns and battledores and shuttlecocks, and Diccon’s white woolly lamb with tin legs, bought for the most part at the annual St. Giles’ Fair that was the greatest excitement of their lives.
Meg’s favorite doll was called Bloody Mary. The family had implored Meg to think of a nicer name, but Meg wouldn’t. She thought Bloody Mary sounded well, and she had a sensitive ear for sound. Bloody Mary wore a black velvet farthingale over a kirtle of purple satin, with a plain ruff and coif. Her hair had come off and her composition face was very pale because she had once been left out in the rain, so that her likeness to the late Queen was really very remarkable.
Joan’s favorite doll, Queen Elizabeth, was quite different. Her hair was rich and red and her cheeks were painted a bright scarlet. Her red velvet farthingale was trimmed with gold braid and her green satin kirtle had orange flowers embroidered on it; her ruff was splendid and her coif spangled. The bodies of these ladies were not jointed, like the superior bodies of their twentieth century descendants, so that they could not take up any position but that of the horizontal or the vertical, but on the other hand they had a stiff dignity, a blandness of expression, a fixity of regard and a magnificence of attire which if copied by their successors would most certainly prolong their lives. . . . For these dolls were not dolls with whom liberties could be taken.
Meg and Joan, now fully attired in cloaks and leggings, lifted their darlings—usually referred to as Bloody and Bess—tenderly from the cupboard, laid them in the crooks of their left arms and trotted through the kitchen to the garden, the dogs following. Dorothy was momentarily out of the kitchen and Diccon in her absence had betaken himself and the cat to the cupboard where the raisins were kept. He popped out his head and made a rude noise as the little girls passed, but they took no notice.