Part 6

At the foot of the pageant, all holding flaming torches aloft, four boys were stationed, and the ruddy glow flickered over a beautiful group on the stage. The learned doctors in their long robes leant upon one another’s shoulders or whispered together, their eyes fixed upon a youthful figure in their midst, Who in a grave yet charming voice was reading something from a roll of parchment.

“It’s Jesus when He was a Boy, isn’t it?” whispered Margery; and again Giles nodded.

The boy wore a long sheepskin coat, and his fair hair was made brighter by gilding. His legs were bare, and on his feet were sandals.

“Andrew is wonderful!” said Giles gravely, “all his gestures are good and dignified. And so is his voice. This was the part they wanted me to play, but I would not attempt it. I knew Andrew would do it better.”

Margery glanced at her cousin admiringly. In her little mind she felt sure that Giles too was wonderful, and that all she had heard about the great things he was to do in the future had not been exaggerated. Some day, she was certain, Giles would be a famous man. Her thoughts were put to flight, however, by the entrance of her mother and a large company of other guests all ready for departure; so leave-takings were very hurried.

But she found time to hug Giles, who in spite of the laughter which went round, allowed himself to be kissed with very good grace.

“We will go out by the back way,” called Master Harpham, and the children soon found themselves in a quiet street, where the noise from the market-place sounded only as a faint murmur.

By winding lanes and passages Master Harpham led his guests towards the “Dragon” inn where they had left their horses and their wagons. Every now and then however, when they turned a corner, Margery and Colin caught a glimpse of a crowd, of flaming torches, and of the top of one of the pageants stationed sometimes half-way up a street, sometimes in a little open space, sometimes beneath a city gate.

“They are still going on!” Colin exclaimed.

“Yes; but only till the pageant of the _Doctors in the Temple_ has been played at the last halting-place,” said Master Harpham, looking back over his shoulder at the little boy. “It’s all over for to-night in our market-place, for instance; but the Doctors’ play won’t reach Girdlegate, the last place, for another half-hour, perhaps.... Now, here’s the inn! Hurry, all of you, and you will get out your horses before there’s too much of a crush.”

Dobbin and Jock, looking quite fresh after their long day’s rest, were soon led out from their corner of the stables, and in a moment Margery was perched on Dobbin’s back, in front of her father.

“Good-nights” were called, and, in company with various other travellers, the children rode along the cobble-paved streets towards Mikelgate, from which the pageants had long ago departed, leaving the road to the gate clear.

“’Tis luck to have moonlight!” exclaimed Farmer Short, as they emerged upon the country-road.

Margery looked back towards the city they had left, over which hung a dull red glow from the torchlights which still streamed and flickered there; and as she looked she drew a long sigh.

“She’s tired!” said her mother; but Margery indignantly denied the fact.

“I was thinking what a lovely day it’s been,” she declared; “and about all the plays they will be acting to-morrow and the next day. But Master Gyseburn says they will be sad plays. So perhaps I shouldn’t like to see them after all. I didn’t like it when the babies were killed!”

“Yes,” said a neighbour; “there are about twenty still to come. They’ll need two days more at least. The saddest plays will come last, when the Tapestry-weavers act the _Trial of Christ_; and the Tile-makers and Painters _The Crucifixion_.”

“’Twas a mercy it was fine,” exclaimed Mistress Short. “And likely to be fine to-morrow,” she added, with a glance at the clear sky, in which a full moon sailed.

Both the children grew silent as they jogged towards home along the white road, upon which fell their shadows and the shadows of the horses and of overhanging trees. It was very quiet and peaceful in the country, and they were both sleepy. All the curious and novel things they had seen during the day began to appear like a dream, in which the three kings passed and re-passed; and Herod, with his flashing sword, stamped and raved; and beautiful angels, with golden wings, hovered above a stable in Bethlehem; and the serpent talked to Adam and Eve. But more frequently than any of the other figures in the plays Margery saw the little white-robed Isaac begging for his life; and, when the cottage was reached at last, and she was in bed and really asleep, it was of him she dreamt.

X Everyman

As some of you may have noticed, the miracle plays to which long ago Colin and Margery listened were for the most part badly written, in such rough, uncouth verse, that a great deal of each play may be described as mere doggerel. Very few of them have any claim to be called _literature_. They are just rhyming stories, often very badly rhymed, to be acted before uncritical people, thousands of whom were poor and simple folk who, if the stories were sufficiently exciting and the actors well enough dressed, neither knew nor cared that the words were poor. Every now and then, indeed, in these old plays a fragment of verse is charming. For instance, in the Nativity scene, which used to be acted at Coventry, there are some delightful words. Here are a few lines from the prophets’ speeches about the new-born King.

Second prophet:

“Yet do I marvel In what pile or castle These herdsmen did Him see”

And the first prophet replies:

“Neither in halls not yet in bowers, Born would He not be, Neither in castles nor in towers That seemly were to see; But at His Father’s will, The prophecy to fulfil, Betwixt an ox and an ass Jesu this King born He was.”

The lullaby to the babies in the same play is pretty too, and so is the shepherds’ song when the angels have announced to them the birth of Christ. Here are the words:

“As I out rode this enderes’ night, Of three jolly shepherds I saw a sight, And all about their fold a star shone bright; They sang, Terli, ter low; So merrily the shepherds their pipes can blow.”

But the best of all the plays is one that does not appear in either of the four sets known as the York, the Coventry, the Chester, and the Wakefield series. It was probably first written in Dutch, and afterwards translated into English. For we must remember that not only in England were these miracle plays acted; they were just as popular in France, in Germany, and in Holland, as in our own country. This particular play is called _Everyman_, and it is in many ways different from any of the pageants we have so far talked about.

In the first place, instead of being a Bible story, it is an allegory, something like the allegory of the _Pilgrim’s Progress_. Just as Christian, the “Pilgrim,” stands for any human being born into this world and passing through it on his way to another life, so Everyman means just what the word says. Every man or woman of us. _Everyone_, in fact; since every one of us is born into this world and, after journeying through life, has to pass out of it at the gate of death.

Though the play is so old (it was first written and acted, perhaps, in the reign of Henry V), it remains true for people who live nowadays, and for the people who will live after us. Not only because it is true, but also because it is so dignified and touching, certain people who lately read it, thought that it might very well be acted again, and presented as nearly as possible in the same way as it was played by actors in bygone days—five hundred years ago.

So men and women were found to study it, to learn the parts, and to copy old dresses for the characters, and the first revival performance of _Everyman_ was given in London some years ago, in the open air, at Charterhouse, the old city school for boys. Since then it has been acted in many theatres, but perhaps that first performance was the best of all, because the play, like all other miracle plays, was meant to be acted out of doors, and Charterhouse, with its old courtyard and its old grey walls, was the best frame that could possibly have been devised for an old play.

In the courtyard of Charterhouse, then, a big wooden platform or scaffolding was set up, close against the wall of the school chapel. Steps at either end of the platform led down to the cobble-paved yard, and on the wooden stage itself, there were one or two little recesses, like shrines, hidden by curtains. There was no other scenery.

Some of the spectators sat on benches in front of the platform, and all the windows looking into the courtyard were filled with people, just as the windows overlooking that market-place in York were crowded, when miracle plays were acted long ago. And just as some of those plays began with the coming of a herald to explain what was going to take place, so this play of _Everyman_ began with the appearance of a messenger or _doctor_. He was dressed in a long black gown, something like those still worn by the dons and students at Oxford or Cambridge. Round his neck was a white ruff, and on his head a flat cap of velvet. Coming from one of the doorways which opened into the courtyard, he walked towards the platform, ascended its steps, and addressed the audience, beginning with these words.

Messenger:

“I pray you all give your audience, And hear this matter with reverence, By figure a moral play— The _Summoning of Everyman_ called it is, That to our lives and ending shows How transitory we be all day. This matter is wondrous precious, But the intent of it is more gracious And sweet to bear away.”

Continuing, he reminded his listeners that _Everyman_ would be required to give an account of his life before “the Heaven King,” and he called upon them to listen to the voice of the Almighty Himself.

His speech ended, he left the platform, and in a moment, a stately figure representing God the Father appeared at the chapel window which overhung the stage, in much the same way as five hundred years ago God Almighty used to come from a window above the church porch.

A balcony with a stone balustrade projected from the window, and leaning upon it the Figure, dressed as in olden days, like a pope, in costly robe and mitre, addressed the audience.

“I perceive here in My Majesty How all creatures are to Me unkind”—

He began in solemn tones—

“Living without dread in worldly prosperity; Of ghostly sight the people be so blind, Drowned in sin they know Me not for their God.”

He reminded them of the great Sacrifice which seemed to have passed from their thoughts.

“My law that I showed, when I for them died, They forget clean, and shedding of My blood red; I hanged between two, it cannot be denied; To get them life, I suffered to be dead; I healed their feet, with thorns hurt was My head; I could do no more than I did truly, And now I see the people do clean forsake Me.”

“And now,” went on the Almighty, “I must bring Everyman to a reckoning, for he is so cumbered with worldly riches that he forgets how all riches and pleasures are only lent to him for a time, and are to be used for My glory. I will send Death to him.”

“Where art thou, _Death_, thou mighty messenger?”

He called in grave accents. Then from a door beneath the stage there came a curious and grotesque creature.

He was like a skeleton; or rather the bones of a skeleton were painted on his close-fitting dress of black leather. The mask of a skull was over his face; his head was crowned with fading roses, and he carried a drum, upon which he beat with warning blows.

“Almighty God, I am here at your will, Your commandment to fulfil” (said Death).

“Go thou to _Everyman_, And show him in My Name A pilgrimage he must on him take, Which he in no wise may escape” (commanded God the Father).

To whom Death replied that he would run the world over and search for all who lived “out of God’s laws.”

“Lo, yonder I see _Everyman_ walking! (he exclaimed suddenly)— Full little he thinketh on my coming.”

And indeed it seemed as though the slim and handsome youth who at that moment came from one of the houses in the courtyard had never thought seriously of anything. Careless and light-hearted, beautifully dressed, and playing on a lute as he walked, he was thinking only of amusement and gaiety, when, as he reached the platform, he was suddenly confronted with Death.

“_Everyman_, stand still! (commanded the mighty messenger). Whither art thou going Thus gaily? Hast thou thy Master forgot?”

At these words poor Everyman trembled and hesitated, and Death went on to say that he had been sent to him in great haste “from God out of His Majesty” to tell him he was bidden to take a long journey and to bring with him his book of reckoning, to answer before God for all his deeds in this, his present life. In vain Everyman begged for a delay.

“O _Death_” (he cried), “thou comest when I had thee least in mind! In thy power it lieth me to save, Yet of my good will I give thee, if ye will be kind— Yea, a thousand pound shalt thou have, And defer this matter till another day.”

But Death replied that “to cry, weep, and pray” was of no avail, since he took neither gold, silver, nor riches from pope, emperor, king, duke, nor princes. He must instantly set forth on the journey from which there was no returning.

Then, in his great trouble, Everyman called upon God:

“O gracious God, in the high seat celestial, Have mercy on me in this most need!... Shall I have no company from this vale terrestrial?”

he asked of Death. For he dreaded to take the long journey alone.

“Yea, if any be so hardy That would go with thee and bear thee company,”

Death replied.

Then Everyman began to think of his friends, and to wonder which of them loved him well enough to go with him into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. And presently he saw _Good Fellowship_ approaching. Now in this story “Good Fellowship” means all the companions with whom Everyman had spent gay and delightful hours—men with whom he had laughed and jested; men who had professed the greatest affection for him. So when he saw the smiling face of Fellowship, he was full of hope, and he went eagerly to meet him.

“_Everyman_, good-morrow by this day (said _Fellowship_); Sir, why lookest thou so piteously? If anything be amiss, I pray thee, me say, That I may help to remedy.”

Everyman admitted that he was in great trouble, and nothing could have been kinder than Fellowship’s voice, as he declared himself ready to do anything for his friend. If any one had wronged him, he was ready to kill the offender. That he would never forsake his dear companion Everyman might rest assured.

So, greatly consoled, Everyman told him that he must take a long journey, and he begged that Fellowship would be his travelling companion. Then, for the first time, the gay and cheerful fellow began to look serious. “I promised not to forsake you,” he said; “but we must discuss the matter at greater length. If we took such a journey, when should we come again?”

“Nay, never again till the day of doom,” answered Everyman sadly.

At these words Fellowship started back in fear.

“Who hath you these tidings brought?” he asked in a strange voice.

“Indeed, Death was with me here,” Everyman replied.

Then Fellowship, more than ever afraid, absolutely refused to go on a journey commanded by Death. If Everyman had wanted him to eat and drink with him, or to help him in any of his pleasures, he would never have forsaken him, he declared. Even if he had wanted him to commit murder he would have been ready to serve him. But this request was an impossible one, so impossible that he would not even accompany him as far as the town gates.

So, very mournfully, Everyman wished him farewell, gazing after him as he hurried away, a brilliant figure in his scarlet doublet and hose, with his sword clanking at his side.

Good Fellowship had failed him; “but surely,” thought Everyman, “my own relations will be faithful to me in my sorrow?” And when he saw them strolling across the courtyard, hope once more revived in his heart.

Of the little company of young men who now came on to the platform, one was Everyman’s cousin, of whom he was very fond; and this cousin, seeing that something was wrong, begged for an explanation, which, in these words, Everyman gave:

“Gramercy, my friends and kinsmen kind, Now shall I show you the grief of my mind: I was commanded by a messenger, That is an high King’s chief officer; He bade me go a pilgrimage, to my pain, And I know well I shall never come again; Also I must give a reckoning straight, For I have a great enemy that lieth me in wait, Which intendeth me for to hinder.”

Now, as he spoke, the faces of the young men grew very grave and anxious.

“What account is that which ye must render? That would I know,”

demanded one of them.

And Everyman replied:

“Of all my works I must show How I have lived and my days spent; Also of ill deeds that I have used In my time, sith life was me lent; And of all virtues that I have refused. Therefore I pray you go thither with me To help to make mine account, for Saint Charity.”

But the kinsmen started back in horror.

“Nay, Everyman, I had liefer fast bread and water All this five year and more!”

exclaimed one of them.

And the cousin said:

“I have the cramp in my toe. Trust not to me.”

One by one they hastened away, and poor Everyman was left lamenting, till suddenly a thought struck him:

“All my life I have loved riches” (he reflected); “If that my Good [wealth] now help me might, He would make my heart full light. I will speak to him in this distress. Where art thou, my _Goods_ and riches?”

No sooner had he called, than the curtains before one of the recesses on the stage slid back, and disclosed a man richly dressed, seated within. Before him money-bags were piled, and huge chests containing gold and precious stones.

“Who calleth me?” (said _Goods_). “Everyman? What haste thou hast!... What would ye have, lightly me say.”

So Everyman began to relate his trouble, while _Goods_ gazed at him with his cold inhuman eyes.

“Therefore, I pray thee, go with me,”

concluded Everyman, falteringly;

“For, peradventure, thou may’st before God Almighty My reckoning help to clean and purify; For it is said ever among That money maketh all right that is wrong.”

“Nay, Everyman, I sing another song; I follow no man in such voyages,”

declared _Goods_; and, when Everyman spoke to him indignantly,

“What, weenest [imaginest] thou that I am thine?”

he exclaimed.

“I had wend [imagined] so,”

stammered Everyman.

“Nay, Everyman; I say no!”

returned Goods; and went on to assure him that _Goods_ were only lent, and that they generally killed a man’s soul. Then, in his great despair, Everyman cursed the cruel spirit, who only laughed mockingly, refused to follow him out of this world, and before Everyman could speak again drew close the curtains of his shrine.

Once more he strove to think of some help, and, at last, he recalled _Good Deeds_, only to remember that she was so weak that she could “neither go nor speak.”

“Yet will I venture on her now,” he told himself.

“My _Good Deeds_, where be you?”

Again, at the other end of the stage, a recess opened, and there, lying on the ground, so feeble and starved that she could scarcely move, was a beautiful woman dressed in a long white robe embroidered with stars.

“Here I lie cold in the ground (she said faintly). Thy sins hath me sore bound, That I cannot stir.”

Very humbly Everyman approached her, for he knew that it was through his fault that she was so weak and ill. He had neglected and scorned her, but now she seemed his only hope, and so he implored her to take the journey with him.

“I would full fain, but I cannot stand verily,” she declared. And then she showed him how his “book of accounts,” in which his good deeds should have been numbered, was almost empty, and the pages were so blurred and the letters so confused that Everyman could not decipher them. He was almost beside himself with grief and fear, when Good Deeds advised him to seek counsel of her sister, who was called _Knowledge_, for she possibly might help him “to make that dreadful reckoning.”

So Everyman stood before her shrine, and, when the curtains parted, he saw that Knowledge was grave, and beautiful, and kind.

To his great joy she promised to be his guide; but before all things she told him he must first seek _Confession_, who would cleanse him from his sins.

So Knowledge brought him to Confession, a stately figure in a monk’s cowl. Confession stepped from his shrine to counsel and instruct poor Everyman, who confessed his sins, and begged that Good Deeds might be strengthened.

Kneeling before Confession, he prayed earnestly to God, and presently Good Deeds stood at his side.

“I thank God, now I can walk and go; And am delivered of my sickness and woe (she said). Therefore with Everyman I will go, and not spare. His good works I will help him to declare.”

With an encouraging smile, Knowledge bade the penitent Everyman be of good cheer; and, with these words, she gave him a robe, which she told him to wear.

“It is (she said) a garment of sorrow: From pain it will you borrow; Contrition it is That getteth forgiveness; It pleaseth God passing well.”

So Everyman put on the sad-coloured robe, and was preparing to set forward on his journey with the two beautiful women, when Good Deeds told him that three other people must go with them, their names being _Discretion_, _Strength_, and _Beauty_.

“Also (said Knowledge), ye must call to mind Your five wits [five senses] as for your counsellors.”

So Everyman called aloud, and Discretion, Strength, Beauty, and the Five Senses (or wits), one after another, came towards him. They were all splendid and stately figures, and the _Five Wits_ were five beautiful women dressed in rainbow-coloured garments.

Then Good Deeds addressed them, praying them all to accompany Everyman on his last long journey, and each one in turn promised faithfully never to forsake him.

It seemed, therefore, as though the poor traveller had many friends with him after all, and when Knowledge advised him to go to a priest and take the Holy Sacrament, he consented gladly and humbly.

On his return, Everyman found his companions waiting for him, but suddenly he felt so weak that he knew he was almost at the end of that journey commanded by Death.

In the courtyard below the platform, at some distance, there was an open grave; and looking at it he said to Beauty:

“Friends, let us not turn again to this land, Not for all the world’s gold; For into this cave must I creep And turn to earth, and then to sleep.”

“What! into this grave? Alas! (exclaimed Beauty) And what—should I smother here?”

“Yes, by my faith (said Everyman), and never more appear; In this world live no more we shall, But in heaven, before the highest Lord of all.”

Then, full of fear, Beauty declined to go with Everyman.

“Peace, I am deaf; I look not behind me; Not and thou would give me all the gold in thy chest,”

she exclaimed; and turning from him in spite of her promise, she hurried away.

Strength followed, crying:

“Thy game liketh me not at all!”

And, after him, fled Discretion, saying:

“When Strength goeth before, I follow after evermore.”