Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard Part 1

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 ma.n.u.script affected me. I was a little overworked. I had been reading a great number of ma.n.u.scripts 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 ma.n.u.script 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.

INTRODUCTION

In Adversane in Suss.e.x 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 gra.s.s 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