“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
John Wedge always tried the soft discipline of a few compliments first. Those being over, he demanded, “So why have you chosen to keep
me
ignorant?”
“Ignorant?” Abraham instinctively took a step back, not that his father had ever struck him. He simply feared disappointing him.
“Do you know Puck?” asked John.
“Puck? The fairy from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
?”
“Did you know that your brother acted this fairy role?”
Abraham’s silence made his answer.
And John’s anger overflowed at his elder son, the dutiful one, the one who had always been conscientious, serious, religious. “Why did you not tell me of this?”
“It would upset you, Father. I hoped he would stop, but he’s not the only one who acts characters in his room. Just the . . .”
“The what?”
“The leader of them.”
“Have you heard that he is acting out a scene tonight?”
“He is acting out a bug, I believe,” said Abraham.
“A bug? An insect?”
“That is what he told me. He said he was doing a play from a book about bugs.”
A few minutes later, a door to a chamber in Massachusetts Hall burst open and Judge John Wedge stormed in, with Abraham close behind.
Sitting on a stool in the middle of the room was a young man who might have resembled John and, more strongly, Abraham, except that neither of them would ever have been seen like this—wearing a purple cape and a cone-shaped hat.
“Is this what fairies put on?” demanded John.
“No,” said Benjamin, “’tis what clowns wear.”
“And are you a clown, then?” John Wedge knocked the hat from his son’s head, grabbed him by the collar, and shook him.
“Sir! Sir!” cried one of the other young men, who wore a hat and cloak fashioned from drapery. “Stop this.”
John kept his eyes on his son. “Are you a clown to be laughed at by scoffers?”
Benjamin broke away. “I’m Costard the Clown. A character.”
“
Character?
Don’t speak to me of character. You have no character, to deceive me so.” John turned to Abraham. “You said he’d be a bug, not a clown.”
Benjamin said, “I read a play in a book of bugs, Father.”
“What is this book?”
“A book of bugs,” said Benjamin. “If you know nothing more, I’ll say nothing more.”
And there would be no further comment, because the noise had drawn Tutors Robie and Sever from their chambers. They needed only see the strange hats, the makeup, and the student feeding pages of script into the fireplace, and one of them shouted, “We have warned you about this, Benjamin Wedge.”
Benjamin was ordered to appear before President Leverett the next day at two o’clock. He would be accompanied by his father, for whom he would need explanations, because his father had been entirely too furious to talk the night before.
Benjamin knew that he would hear about the family’s reputation and the importance of observing the law. In response, he would tell his father that some boys were curious and some were careful, that some were smart and some were intelligent, that Abraham was intelligent but careful, but that Benjamin preferred curious and smart.
Such curiosity had led Benjamin to wonder about his grandfather. What boy would not be curious about a man who had traveled Europe, ministered to the Indians, fought them, founded a school, and died right there in the Yard? Benjamin would say that he had hoped to know his grandfather by reading the books his grandfather had left to Harvard. After all, as his father had often said, “A man will be known by his books.”
In time, Benjamin had come to
Corporei Insectii
and discovered the play within. He had sat in the library and read it all and felt that Isaac Wedge was speaking directly to him, telling him that it was all right to embrace an unorthodox idea, like a play preserved under the noses of those who would have cast it into the fire. And if it was all right to preserve plays and read them, Benjamin had decided, perhaps it would be all right to perform them, too, no matter the rules of the college or the customs of the colony.
And so, late in his first year, Benjamin and a few friends had decided to act out scenes from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
He had chosen to portray the fairy Puck, a troublesome spirit who took joy in confounding those around him. He had dressed as Puck, or undressed, stripping to the waist and tying fake goat’s horns to his head. He was beginning a scene with one of his mates, who was portraying the fairy princess Titania, when the door had burst open and the tutors had caught them.
All through their four-week summer break, Benjamin had remembered the excitement of putting on those goat’s horns. He had become someone—some
thing
—else. And others had been excited simply by watching him. He knew he could not resist his feelings, despite threats of punishment. So at the beginning of his second year, he went to the library and copied out scenes to play from
Love’s Labours Won
. He had resolved that if the tutors stopped him again, he would proclaim that a revered graduate had seen fit to preserve this play in darker days, and so it deserved attention.
But this August morning, he could not be certain if he had fulfilled his grandfather’s wishes or violated a secret. Until he could think more on it, he should protect the book. So after morning recitations, he made his way to the library on the second floor of Harvard Hall.
He did not intend to steal the book. The suspicious eye of Jacob Jones, keeper of the library, was too sharp for that. Benjamin had another plan.
Tutor Jones said, “Here to read more plays, are we? We have only a few. But considering the fate you face, read fast.”
Benjamin put on a polite demeanor and spoke polite words—“Please, sir, I would only distract myself with some reading before my punishment”—which seemed sufficient to convince Jones that Benjamin need not be watched any more closely than any other student. Moreover, Benjamin had been careful to come during library time allotted to sophomores. So Jones made a wave of the hand and turned away.
Benjamin went to section twelve, eighth shelf. He took down a book, flipped through it, and replaced it like a casual reader. Then he slipped a volume from the sixth slot and examined it; yes, this was one he would read. As he turned to go to a chair, he acted as if something else had caught his attention on the bottom shelf, so he crouched.
On a previous visit to this alcove, he had noticed that the bottom shelf was loose, held in place by no more than the weight of books upon it. Nails, after all, were expensive. If a shelf could be fitted without them, pennies could be saved.
Now his penknife was in his sleeve. Now it was dropping into his hand. And while he angled his body so that the keeper could not see what he was doing, he slipped the blade into the little space between the shelf and the base of the bookcase. There were only half a dozen books on the shelf, so he was able, with a twist of the knife, to pivot the shelf a few inches and—
“Master Wedge.” It was the voice of Jacob Jones.
“Yes, sir,” he said over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” The footfalls came toward him.
What
was
he doing? He should have left the book in place. But he was committed now. With his left hand, he took
Corporei Insectii
and slipped it into the little space between the bottom shelf and the floor. There would his grandfather’s secret be safe, at least until he knew how to dispense with it.
“I’ll ask again. What are you doing?” Tutor Jones stood over him.
But it was done. Benjamin was standing, smiling, a copy of a Latin text in his left hand, while with his right hand, he slipped his knife back into his sleeve.
“What am I to do with you, Benjamin Wedge?” asked President Leverett.
Benjamin tried to speak, but his father spoke first. “May I ask you, sir, what punishment the tutors threatened when my son was discovered playing the fairy Puck?”
“Rustication,” said Leverett, “if he played anything else.”
John Wedge looked at his son.
Benjamin looked down at his hands.
The meeting was held in the president’s office, in the front room of Leverett’s house, where once the home of Reverend Thomas Shepard stood.
Leverett was in his sixties, and the work of governing had aged him. An unhealthy puffiness filled his face, and his lower legs appeared like sausages in white-stocking casement.
John Wedge admired Leverett’s ability to balance himself between the Congregational clergy who saw the college as their seminary and those of the wider population who saw wider purposes for Harvard. Presenting himself in a fine black velvet coat and green waistcoat of grosgrain silk, out of respect to Leverett’s office, John had resolved to do nothing to make Leverett’s job harder. But he had also resolved to advocate for his son.
Such advocacy was difficult, however, considering the unrepentant demeanor with which his son presented himself. The boy did not even wear his academic gown.
“I am loath to rusticate anyone,” Leverett said sadly, “especially a young man whose grandfather died in my arms.”
“In your arms?” said Benjamin, and for a moment, he dropped his defiance.
“Yes,” said the president. “He died berating ignorance. Nevertheless . . .”
“Ignorance prevails?” said Benjamin.
John said, “Quiet yourself.”
“’Tisn’t ignorance,” answered Leverett. “’Tis the tutors, who bear a heavy burden, maintaining discipline amongst a hundred lively young men. I must support them. Then there’s Reverend Mather, an overseer who has attended but one meeting in all my presidency, so strong is his animus against me. He’s issued a report that damns students for doing no more than
reading
plays. This inspires Judge Sewall to prepare a visiting committee to look over my shoulder, to see if students are depraved or not.”
“And so,” said Benjamin, “I am to be sacrificed on Reverend Mather’s altar?”
“Quiet yourself,” snapped his father. “You were warned against this.”
“You tell me that I should think for myself,” said the boy, and he was a good enough actor that he could set his jaw, but he could not hide the hurt in his eyes.
“Benjamin,” said Leverett, “too many saw you dressed as Puck. Too many heard the tutors promise rustication. The punishment must be carried out. Do you have anything else to say before the sentence?”
Without hesitation, Benjamin asked, “Why is it that you allow Shakespeare to be read but not played?”
“Be quiet,” said the boy’s father.
“No,” said Leverett. “’Tis a fair question. We live in the colony of Massachusetts. We are funded by the colony. We must fulfill the public trust. And the proscription against theatrical performance is a powerful tradition.”
“You have not answered the question,” said Benjamin.
“Quiet,” repeated John Wedge.
“No,” said Leverett. “He’s young, and the young must say their say.” Then the president looked at Benjamin. “The clerisy could not forever keep plays from being read. The day will come when they cannot stop them from being played, either.”
“Perhaps we should usher in that day,” said Benjamin.
“And perhaps we should leave it for others.” Leverett put his hands on his table and lifted himself to his feet. “We have so much else to do. Don’t you agree?”
“He does,” said John.
Benjamin looked down at his hands again and nodded.
“Then ’tis done,” said Leverett. “You’ll go to Reverend Bleen’s in Sudbury, where you will work for your room and board while completing the prescribed course of study under his supervision. After Christmas, you’ll make a public apology during morning prayer and be readmitted as a member in good standing.”
A father and son walking across the Yard: they could have been John and his own father on John’s first day at Harvard, or on the day when they argued over the presence of Satan in Margaret Rule. John had enjoyed arguing with his father, and even now, he wished they could have one more go at a thorny issue. John could argue with Abraham and know that it was all part of the father-and-son debate. But with Benjamin, it was different. They did not argue because they enjoyed the challenge of testing their ideas. They argued because they
were
different.
“I shall accompany you to Sudbury,” said John.
“No,” said the boy. “I’ll go myself.” And he quickened his pace.
“That will take you a day or more on foot.” John walked a bit faster.
“Why did you not stand by me?”
“But I did.”
“You stood by, not
by
me. Had they tried to rusticate Abraham, you would have moved heaven and earth to keep him here, with his Philomusarian Society and his holy airs. But I wish to do things that are different.”
“And so you should.”
The boy stopped and looked at his father. “Then why did you not say it?”
“Because of your deceit. If you are to do things differently, do them forwardly.”
The young actor allowed the shock to play across his face.
“Now then,” said John, “about the book of bugs . . .
Corporei Insectii
? ’Twas your grandfather’s deceit and defiance.”
“You needn’t worry about it. . . . ’Tis hidden, hidden better than Grandfather hid it.”
“The day will come when it must be revealed,” said John. “Not now, but in time.”
“In time?” Benjamin could not suppress a smile. “When that time comes, I shall do it forwardly, then.”
John put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’ll hold you to it, and stand with you.”
And together they walked across the Yard.
iii
Two weeks later, John Wedge received a letter:
Dear Father:
Reverend Bleen works me as hard as he works his slave, Demetrius. Yet he expects me to expostulate daily upon Bible passages, deliver the solutions to a dozen mathematical problems, and report upon all of the readings that would have been assigned at the college. He is an unsmiling man who whips Demetrius and threatens to whip me. But I will do my best to serve my time.