Nevermore by Harold Schechter

Author:Harold Schechter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 1999-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

Among the countless examples of unparalleled wisdom contained within the corpus of Shakespeare’s plays is the immortal observation put forth by the melancholic Jaques in the pastoral comedy As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage,/ And all the men and women merely players.” When one considers the degree to which every human being is compelled, from the era of earliest childhood, to conceal his innermost self behind a mask of conventional propriety, the fundamental truth of this epigram can hardly be contested.

Nevertheless, it is equally the case that certain exceptional men and women are more innately suited to play-acting than the rest of humankind. Such, indeed, was my own situation. From the days of my youth—when I had earned the plaudits of my classmates for my performance as Colonel Manly in a school production of Royall Tyler’s delightful comedy, The Contrast—I have been noted for the plenitude—if not, indeed, the prodigality—of my histrionic gifts. That I should have been endowed so abundantly with this skill is, of course, a matter of little surprise, considering the brilliantly talented being who brought me into this world. (That the father who sired me was also engaged in the theatrical trade has little bearing on the matter, since his abilities were of such a notoriously negligible stripe.) To be sure, science has yet to account for the mechanism by which certain traits of character and ability—no less than of physical appearance—are transmitted from one generation to the next. But that our intellectual powers, our aesthetic aptitudes, indeed even our moral faculties, spring primarily from heredity—far more than from the circumstances of our upbringing or education—can hardly be doubted.

At all events, my intrinsic capacities in this regard stood me in especially good stead on the evening of Crockett’s visit, permitting me to assume a façade of polite sociability, even while my soul remained in a state of extreme and tumultuous agitation.

Crockett arrived just at sundown, attired in his customary garb. In one hand he clutched a bouquet of posies; in the other, he held a small, oblong package wrapped in white paper and secured with a length of string.

Standing in the entranceway of our abode, he extended the paper-wrapped bundle towards Muddy, who had arrayed herself for the occasion in her most becoming blue-calico dress. “Blamed if you don’t look downright elegant in that get-up, Miz Clemm,” he declared. “Here. These sweetmeats are for you.”

Then—as Muddy accepted the gift with a delighted exclamation of gratitude—he held out the bouquet to Sissy. “And I brought these-here flowers for you, Miz Virginny.”

Snatching it from his hands, Sissy buried her face in the blossoms, deeply inhaled their aroma, then looked up at Crockett with her face all aglow. “Oooh, thank you, thank you, thank you! They are so very beautiful!”

“Not half so much as you, Miz Virginny,” replied the frontiersman with a smile.

“Oh, where shall I keep them?” cried Sissy, casting an inquiring look at Muddy.

“Come, dear,” said the good woman. “Let us find a nice jar and put them in water.

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