After which the Green Box drew up in some place chosen by Ursus, and evening having fallen, and the panel stage having been let down, the theatre opened, and the performance began.

The scene of the Green Box represented a landscape painted by Ursus; and as he did not know how to paint, it represented a cavern just as well as a landscape.  The curtain, which we call drop nowadays, was a checked silk, with squares of contrasted colours.

The public stood without, in the street, in the fair, forming a semicircle round the stage, exposed to the sun and the showers; an arrangement which made rain less desirable for theatres in those days than now.  When they could, they acted in an inn yard, on which occasions the windows of the different stories made rows of boxes for the spectators.  The theatre was thus more enclosed, and the audience a more paying one.  Ursus was in everything—­in the piece, in the company, in the kitchen, in the orchestra.  Vinos beat the drum, and handled the sticks with great dexterity.  Fibi played on the morache, a kind of guitar.  The wolf had been promoted to be a utility gentleman, and played, as occasion required, his little parts.  Often when they appeared side by side on the stage—­Ursus in his tightly-laced bear’s skin, Homo with his wolf’s skin fitting still better—­no one could tell which was the beast.  This flattered Ursus.

CHAPTER IX.

ABSURDITIES WHICH FOLKS WITHOUT TASTE CALL POETRY.

The pieces written by Ursus were interludes—­a kind of composition out of fashion nowadays.  One of these pieces, which has not come down to us, was entitled “Ursus Rursus.”  It is probable that he played the principal part himself.  A pretended exit, followed by a reappearance, was apparently its praiseworthy and sober subject.  The titles of the interludes of Ursus were sometimes Latin, as we have seen, and the poetry frequently Spanish.  The Spanish verses written by Ursus were rhymed, as was nearly all the Castilian poetry of that period.  This did not puzzle the people.  Spanish was then a familiar language; and the English sailors spoke Castilian even as the Roman sailors spoke Carthaginian (see Plautus).  Moreover, at a theatrical representation, as at mass, Latin, or any other language unknown to the audience, is by no means a subject of care with them.  They get out of the dilemma by adapting to the sounds familiar words.  Our old Gallic France was particularly prone to this manner of being devout.  At church, under cover of an Immolatus, the faithful chanted, “I will make merry;” and under a Sanctus, “Kiss me, sweet.”

The Council of Trent was required to put an end to these familiarities.

Ursus had composed expressly for Gwynplaine an interlude, with which he was well pleased.  It was his best work.  He had thrown his whole soul into it.  To give the sum of all one’s talents in the production is the greatest triumph that any one can achieve.  The toad which produces a toad achieves a grand success.  You doubt it?  Try, then, to do as much.