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Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard

E >> Eleanor Farjeon >> Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard



Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard
by Eleanor Farjeon




FOREWORD

I have been asked to introduce Miss Farjeon to the American public,
and although I believe that introductions of this kind often do more
harm than good, I have consented in this case because the instance
is rare enough to justify an exception. If Miss Farjeon had been a
promising young novelist either of the realistic or the romantic
school, I should not have dared to express an opinion on her work,
even if I had believed that she had greater gifts than the
ninety-nine other promising young novelists who appear in the course
of each decade. But she has a far rarer gift than any of those that
go to the making of a successful novelist. She is one of the few who
can conceive and tell a fairy-tale; the only one to my
knowledge--with the just possible exceptions of James Stephens and
Walter de la Mare--in my own generation. She has, in fact, the true
gift of fancy. It has already been displayed in her verse--a form in
which it is far commoner than in prose--but Martin Pippin is her
first book in this kind.

I am afraid to say too much about it for fear of prejudicing both
the reviewers and the general public. My taste may not be theirs and
in this matter there is no opportunity for argument. Let me,
therefore, do no more than tell the story of how the manuscript
affected me. I was a little overworked. I had been reading a great
number of manuscripts in the preceding weeks, and the mere sight of
typescript was a burden to me. But before I had read five pages of
Martin Pippin, I had forgotten that it was a manuscript submitted
for my judgment. I had forgotten who I was and where I lived. I was
transported into a world of sunlight, of gay inconsequence, of
emotional surprise, a world of poetry, delight, and humor. And I
lived and took my joy in that rare world, until all too soon my
reading was done.

My most earnest wish is that there may be many minds and
imaginations among the American people who will be able to share
that pleasure with me. For every one who finds delight in this book
I can claim as a kindred spirit.
J. D. Beresford.



CONTENTS

Foreword
Introduction
Prologue--Part I
Part II
Part III
Prelude to the First Tale
The First Tale: The King's Barn
First Interlude
The Second Tale: Young Gerard
Second Interlude
The Third Tale: The Mill of Dreams
Third Interlude
The Fourth Tale: Open Winkins
Fourth Interlude
The Fifth Tale: Proud Rosalind and the Hart-Royal
Fifth Interlude
The Sixth Tale: The Imprisoned Princess
Postlude--Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Epilogue
Conclusion



INTRODUCTION

In Adversane in Sussex they still sing the song of The Spring-Green
Lady; any fine evening, in the streets or in the meadows, you may
come upon a band of children playing the old game that is their
heritage, though few of them know its origin, or even that it had
one. It is to them as the daisies in the grass and the stars in the
sky. Of these things, and such as these, they ask no questions. But
there you will still find one child who takes the part of the
Emperor's Daughter, and another who is the Wandering Singer, and the
remaining group (there should be no more than six in it) becomes the
Spring-Green Lady, the Rose-White Lady, the Apple-Gold Lady, of the
three parts of the game. Often there are more than six in the group,
for the true number of the damsels who guarded their fellow in her
prison is as forgotten as their names: Joscelyn, Jane and Jennifer,
Jessica, Joyce and Joan. Forgotten, too, the name of Gillian, the
lovely captive. And the Wandering Singer is to them but the
Wandering Singer, not Martin Pippin the Minstrel. Worse and worse,
he is even presumed to be the captive's sweetheart, who wheedles the
flower, the ring, and the prison-key out of the strict virgins for
his own purposes, and flies with her at last in his shallop across
the sea, to live with her happily ever after. But this is a fallacy.
Martin Pippin never wheedled anything out of anybody for his own
purposes--in fact, he had none of his own. On this adventure he was
about the business of young Robin Rue. There are further
discrepancies; for the Emperor's Daughter was not an emperor's
daughter, but a farmer's; nor was the Sea the sea, but a duckpond;
nor---

But let us begin with the children's version, as they sing and dance
it on summer days and evenings in Adversane.

THE SINGING-GAME OF "THE SPRING-GREEN LADY"

(The Emperor's Daughter sits weeping in her Tower. Around her, with
their backs to her, stand six maids in a ring, with joined hands.
They are in green dresses. The Wandering Singer approaches them with
his lute.)

THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my spring-green lady,
May I come into your orchard, lady?
For the leaf is now on the apple-bough
And the sun is high and the lawn is shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady!
O my spring-green lady!

THE LADIES
You may not come into our orchard, singer,
Because we must guard the Emperor's Daughter
Who hides in her hair at the windows there
With her thoughts a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my spring-green lady,
But will you not hear an Alba, lady?
I'll play for you now neath the apple-bough
And you shall dance on the lawn so shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my spring-green lady!

THE LADIES
O if you play us an Alba, singer,
How can that harm the Emperor's Daughter?
No word would she say though we danced all day,
With her thoughts a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

THE WANDERING SINGER
But if I play you an Alba, lady,
Get me a boon from the Emperor's Daughter--
The flower from her hair for my heart to wear
Though hers be a thousand leagues over the water,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my spring-green lady!

THE LADIES
(They give him the flower from the hair of the Emperor's Daughter,
and sing--)
Now you may play us an Alba, singer,
A dance of dawn for a spring-green lady,
For the leaf is now on the apple-bough,
And the sun is high and the lawn is shady,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

The Wandering Singer plays on his lute, and The Ladies break their
ranks and dance. The Singer steals up behind The Emperor's Daughter,
who uncovers her face and sings--)

THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER
Mother, mother, my fair dead mother,
They have stolen the flower from your weeping daughter!

THE WANDERING SINGER
O dry your eyes, you shall have this other
When yours is a thousand leagues over the water,
Daughter, daughter,
My sweet daughter!
Love is not far, my daughter!

The Singer then drops a second flower into the lap of the child in
the middle, and goes away, and this ends the first part of the game.
The Emperor's Daughter is not yet released, for the key of her tower
is understood to be still in the keeping of the dancing children.
Very likely it is bed-time by this, and mothers are calling from
windows and gates, and the children must run home to their warm
bread-and-milk and their cool sheets. But if time is still to spare,
the second part of the game is played like this. The dancers once
more encircle their weeping comrade, and now they are gowned in
white and pink. They will indicate these changes perhaps by colored
ribbons, or by any flower in its season, or by imagining themselves
first in green and then in rose, which is really the best way of
all. Well then--

(The Ladies, in gowns of white and rose-color, stand around The
Emperor's Daughter, weeping in her Tower. To them once more comes
The Wandering Singer with his lute.)

THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my rose-white lady,
May I come into your orchard, lady?
For the blossom's now on the apple-bough
And the stars are near and the lawn is shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my rose-white lady!

THE LADIES
You may not come into our orchard, singer,
Lest you bear a word to the Emperor's Daughter
>From one who was sent to banishment
Away a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my rose-white lady,
But will you not hear a Roundel, lady?
I'll play for you now neath the apple-bough
And you shall trip on the lawn so shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my rose-white lady!

THE LADIES
O if you play us a Roundel, singer,
How can that harm the Emperor's Daughter?
She would not speak though we danced a week,
With her thoughts a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

THE WANDERING SINGER
But if I play you a Roundel, lady,
Get me a gift from the Emperor's Daughter--
Her finger-ring for my finger bring
Though she's pledged a thousand leagues over the water,
Lady, lady
My fair lady,
O my rose-white lady!

THE LADIES
(They give him the ring from the finger of The Emperor's Daughter,
and sing--)
Now you may play us a Roundel, singer,
A sunset-dance for a rose-white lady,
For the blossom's now on the apple-bough,
And the stars are near and the lawn is shady,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

As before, The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; and through the
broken circle The Singer comes behind The Emperor's Daughter, who
uncovers her face to sing--)

THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER
Mother, mother, my fair dead mother,
They've stolen the ring from your heart-sick daughter.

THE WANDERING SINGER
O mend your heart, you shall wear this other
When yours is a thousand leagues over the water,
Daughter, daughter,
My sweet daughter!
Love is at hand, my daughter!

The third part of the game is seldom played. If it is not bed-time,
or tea-time, or dinner-time, or school-time, by this time at all
events the players have grown weary of the game, which is tiresomely
long; and most likely they will decide to play something else, such
as Bertha Gentle Lady, or The Busy Lass, or Gypsy, Gypsy, Raggetty
Loon!, or The Crock of Gold, or Wayland, Shoe me my Mare!--which are
all good games in their way, though not, like The Spring-Green Lady,
native to Adversane. But I did once have the luck to hear and see
The Lady played in entirety--the children had been granted leave to
play "just one more game" before bed-time, and of course they chose
the longest and played it without missing a syllable.

(The Ladies, in yellow dresses, stand again in a ring about The
Emperor's Daughter, and are for the last time accosted by The Singer
with his lute.)

THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my apple-gold lady,
May I come into your orchard, lady?
For the fruit is now on the apple-bough,
And the moon is up and the lawn is shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my apple-gold lady!

THE LADIES
You may not come into our orchard, singer,
In case you set free the Emperor's Daughter
Who pines apart to follow her heart
That's flown a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

THE WANDERING SINGER
Lady, lady, my apple-gold lady,
But will you not hear a Serena, lady?
I'll play for you now neath the apple-bough
And you shall dream on the lawn so shady,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my apple-gold lady!

THE LADIES
O if you play a Serena, singer,
How can that harm the Emperor's Daughter?
She would not hear though we danced a year
With her heart a thousand leagues over the water,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

THE WANDERING SINGER
But if I play a Serena, lady,
Let me guard the key of the Emperor's Daughter,
Lest her body should follow her heart like a swallow
And fly a thousand leagues over the water,
Lady, lady,
My fair lady,
O my apple-gold lady!

THE LADIES
(They give the key of the Tower into his hands.)
Now you may play a Serena, singer,
A dream of night for an apple-gold lady,
For the fruit is now on the apple-bough
And the moon is up and the lawn is shady,
Singer, singer,
Wandering singer,
O my honey-sweet singer!

(Once more The Singer plays and The Ladies dance; but one by one
they fall asleep to the drowsy music, and then The Singer steps into
the ring and unlocks the Tower and kisses The Emperor's Daughter.
They have the end of the game to themselves.)

Lover, lover, thy/my own true lover
Has opened a way for the Emperor's Daughter!
The dawn is the goal and the dark the cover
As we sail a thousand leagues over the water--
Lover, lover,
My dear lover,
O my own true lover!

(The Wandering Singer and The Emperor's Daughter float a thousand
leagues in his shallop and live happily ever after. I don't know
what becomes of The Ladies.)

"Bed-time, children!"

In they go.

You see the treatment is a trifle fanciful. But romance gathers
round an old story like lichen on an old branch. And the story of
Martin Pippin in the Apple-Orchard is so old now--some say a year
old, some say even two. How can the children be expected to
remember?

But here's the truth of it.




MARTIN PIPPIN IN THE APPLE-ORCHARD


PROLOGUE
PART I

One morning in April Martin Pippin walked in the meadows near
Adversane, and there he saw a young fellow sowing a field with oats
broadcast. So pleasant a sight was enough to arrest Martin for an
hour, though less important things, such as making his living, could
not occupy him for a minute. So he leaned upon the gate, and
presently noticed that for every handful he scattered the young man
shed as many tears as seeds, and now and then he stopped his sowing
altogether, and putting his face between his hands sobbed bitterly.
When this had happened three or four times, Martin hailed the youth,
who was then fairly close to the gate.

"Young master!" said he. "The baker of this crop will want no salt
to his baking, and that's flat."

The young man dropped his hands and turned his brown and
tear-stained countenance upon the Minstrel. He was so young a man
that he wanted his beard.

"They who taste of my sorrow," he replied, "will have no stomach for
bread."

And with that he fell anew to his sowing and sighing, and passed up
the field.

When he came down again Martin observed, "It must be a very bitter
sorrow that will put a man off his dinner."

"It is the bitterest," said the youth, and went his way.

At his next coming Martin inquired, "What is the name of your
sorrow?"

"Love," said the youth. By now he was somewhat distant from the gate
when he came abreast of it, and Martin Pippin did not catch the
word. So he called louder:

"What?"

"Love!" shouted the youth. His voice cracked on it. He appeared
slightly annoyed. Martin chewed a grass and watched him up and down
the meadow.

At the right moment he bellowed:

"I was never yet put off my feed by love."

"Then," roared the youth, "you have never loved."

At this Martin jumped over the gate and ran along the furrow behind
the boy.

"I have loved," he vowed, "as many times as I have tuned lute-strings."

"Then," said the youth, not turning his head, "you have never loved
in vain."

"Always, thank God!" said Martin fervently.

The youth, whose name was Robin Rue, suddenly dropped all his seed
in one heap, flung up his arms, and,

"Alas!" he cried. "Oh, Gillian! Gillian!" And began to sob more
heavily than ever.

"Tell me your trouble," said the Minstrel kindly.

"Sir," said the youth, "I do not know your name, and your clothes
are very tattered. But you are the first who has cared whether or no
my heart should break since my lovely Gillian was locked with six
keys into her father's Well-House, and six young milkmaids, sworn
virgins and man-haters all, to keep the keys."

"The thirsty," said Martin, "make little of padlocks when within a
rope's length of water."

"But, sir," continued the youth earnestly, "this Well-House is set
in the midst of an Apple-Orchard enclosed in a hawthorn hedge full
six feet high, and no entrance thereto but one small green wicket,
bolted on the inner side."

"Indeed?" said Martin.

"And worse to come. The length of the hedge there is a great
duckpond, nine yards broad, and three wild ducks swimming on it.
Alas!" he cried, "I shall never see my lovely girl again!"

"Love is a mighty power," said Martin Pippin, "but there are
doubtless things it cannot do."

"I ask so little," sighed Robin Rue. "Only to send her a primrose
for her hair-band, and have again whatever flower she wears there
now."

"Would this really content you?" said Martin Pippin.

"I would then consent to live," swore Robin Rue, "long enough at all
events to make an end of my sowing."

"Well, that would be something," said Martin cheerfully, "for fields
must not go fallow that are appointed to bear. Direct me to your
Gillian's Apple-Orchard."

"It is useless," Robin said. "For even if you could cross the
duckpond, and evade the ducks, and compass the green gate, my
sweetheart's father's milkmaids are not to be come over by any man;
and they watch the Well-House day and night."

"Yet direct me to the orchard," repeated Martin Pippin, and thrummed
his lute a little.

"Oh, sir," said Robin anxiously, "I must warn you that it is a long
and weary way, it may be as much as two mile by the road." And he
looked disconsolately at the Minstrel, as though in fear that he
would be discouraged from the adventure.

"It can but be attempted," answered Martin, "and now tell me only
whether I go north or south as the road runs."

"Gillman the farmer, her father," said Robin Rue, "has moreover a
very big stick--"

"Heaven help us!" cried Martin, and took to his heels.

"That ends it!" sighed the sorry lover.

"At least let us make a beginning!" quoth Martin Pippin.

He leaped the gate, mocked at a cuckoo, plucked a primrose, and went
singing up the road.

Robin Rue resumed his sowing and his tears.


"Maids," said Joscelyn, "what is this coming across the duckpond?"

"It is a man," said little Joan.

The six girls came running and crowding to the wicket, standing
a-tiptoe and peeping between each other's sunbonnets. Their
sunbonnets and their gowns were as green as lettuce-leaves.

"Is he coming on a raft?" asked Jessica, who stood behind.

"No," said Jane, "he is coming on his two feet. He has taken off his
shoes, but I fear his breeches will suffer."

"He is giving bread to the ducks," said Jennifer.

"He has a lute on his back," said Joyce.

"Man!" cried Joscelyn, who was the tallest and the sternest of the
milkmaids, "go away at once!"

Martin Pippin was by now within arm's-length of the green gate. He
looked with pleasure at the six virgins fluttering in their green
gowns, and peeping bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked under their green
bonnets. Beyond them he saw the forbidden orchard, with
cuckoo-flower and primrose, daffodil and celandine, silver
windflower and sweet violets blue and white, spangling the gay
grass. The twisted apple-trees were in young leaf.

"Go away!" cried all the milkmaids in a breath. "Go away!"

"My green maidens," said Martin, "may I not come into your orchard?
The sun is up, and the shadow lies fresh on the grass. Let me in to
rest a little, dear maidens--if maidens indeed you be, and not six
leaflets blown from the apple-branches."

"You cannot come in," said Joscelyn, "because we are guarding our
master's daughter, who sits yonder weeping in the Well-House."

"That is a noble and a tender duty," said Martin. "From what do you
guard her?"

The milkmaids looked primly at one another, and little Joan said,
"It is a secret."

Martin: I will ask no more. And what do you do all day long?

Joyce: Nothing, and it is very dull.

Martin: It must be still duller for your master's daughter.

Joan: Oh, no, she has her thoughts to play with.

Martin: And what of your thoughts?

Joscelyn: We have no thoughts. I should think not indeed!

Martin: I beg your pardon. But since you find the hours so tedious,
will you not let me sing and play to you upon my lute? I will sing
you a song for a spring morning, and you shall dance in the grass
like any leaf in the wind.

Jane: I think there can be no harm in that.

Jessica: It can't matter a straw to Gillian.

Joyce: She would not look up from her thoughts though we footed it
all day.

Joscelyn: So long as he is on one side of the gate--

Jennifer: --and we on the other.

"I love to dance," said little Joan.

"Man!" cried the milkmaids in a breath, "play and sing to us!"

"Oh, maidens," answered Martin merrily, "every tune deserves its
fee. But don't look so troubled--my hire shall be of the lightest.
Let me see! You shall fetch me the flower from the hair of your
little mistress who sits weeping on the coping with her face hidden
in her shining locks."

At this the milkmaids clapped their hands, and little Joan, running
to the Well-House, with a touch like thistledown drew from the
weeper's yellow hair a yellow primrose. She brought it to the gate
and laid it in Martin's hand.

"Now you will play for us, won't you?" said she. "A dance for a
spring-morning when the leaves dance on the apple-trees."

Then Martin tuned his lute and played and sang as follows, while the
girls took hands and danced in a green chain among the twisty trees.

The green leaf dances now,
The green leaf dances now,
The green leaf with its tilted wings
Dances on the bough,
And every rustling air
Says, I've caught you, caught you,
Leaf with tilted wings,
Caught you in a snare!
Whose snare? Spring's,
That bound you to the bough
Where you dance now,
Dance, but cannot fly,
For all your tilted wings
Pointing to the sky;
Where like martins you would dart
But for Spring's delicious art
That caught you to the bough,
Caught, yet left you free
To dance if not to fly--oh see!
As you are dancing now,
Dancing on the bough,
Dancing on the bough,
Dancing with your tilted wings
On the apple-bough.

Now as Martin sang and the milkmaids danced, it seemed that Gillian
in her prison heard and saw nothing except the music and the
movement of her sorrows. But presently she raised her hand and
touched her hair-band, and then she lifted up the fairest face
Martin had ever seen, so that he needs must see it nearer; and he
took the green gate in one stride, and the green dancers never
observed him. Then Gillian's tender mouth parted like an opening
quince-blossom, and--

"Oh, Mother, Mother!" she said, "if you had only lived they would
not have stolen the flower from my hair while I sat weeping."

Above her head a whispering voice made answer, "Oh, Daughter,
Daughter, dry your sweet eyes. You shall wear this other flower when
yours is gone over the duckpond to Adversane."

And lo! A second primrose dropped out of the skies into her lap. And
that day the lovely Gillian wept no more.



PART II

It happened that on an afternoon in May Martin Pippin passed again
through Adversane, and as he passed he thought, "Now certainly I
have been here before," but he could not remember when or how, for a
full month had run under the bridges of time since then, and man's
memory is not infinite.

But in walking by a certain garden he heard a sound of sobbing; and
curiosity, of which he was largely made, caused him to climb the old
brick wall that he might discover the cause. What he saw from his
perch was a garden laid out in neat plots between grassy walks edged
with double daisies, red, white and pink, or bordered with sweet
herbs, or with lavender and wallflower; and here and there were
cordons of fruit-trees, apple, plum and cherry, and in a sunny
corner a clump of flowering currant heavy with humming bees; and
against the inner walls flat pear-trees stretched their long
straight lines, like music-staves whereon a lovely melody was
written in notes of snow. And in the midst of all this stood a very
young man with a face as brown as a berry. He was spraying the
cordons with quassia-water. But whenever he filled his syringe he
wept so many tears above the bucket that it was always full to the
brim.

When he had watched this happen several times, Martin hailed the
young man.

"Young master!" said Martin, "the eater of your plums will need
sugar thereto, and that's flat."

The young man turned his eyes upward.

"There is not sugar enough in all the world," he answered, "to
sweeten the fruits that are watered by my sorrows."

"Then here is a waste of good quassia," said Martin, "and I think
your name is Robin Rue."

"It is," said Robin, "and you are Martin Pippin, to whom I owe more
than to any man living. But the primrose you brought me is dead this
five-and-twenty days."

"And what of your Gillian?"

"Alas! How can I tell what of her? She is where she was and I am
here where I am. What will become of me?"

"There are riddles without answers," observed Martin.

"I can answer this one. I shall fall into a decline and die. And yet
I ask no more than to send her a ring to wear on her finger, and
have her ring to wear on mine."

"Would this satisfy you?" asked Martin.

"I could then cling to life," said Robin Rue, "long enough at least
to finish my spraying."

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