MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see that we must have your tale.
TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about everywhere. One is of my own poor s.e.x, a man, a thing of whiskers; the other has the honour to belong to that s.e.x which--have I said it?--you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship"s permission?
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come.
MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all.
TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know--But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.]
DAUGHTER. Mother, something _is_ going to happen at last.
MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that?
[The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.]
TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they"re wandering minstrels.
MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir.
TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess--a courtesy t.i.tle bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day--plays upon the fiddle with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke--the t.i.tle was granted last Candlemas--has a voice of a rare richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal.
DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame!
SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies.
MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir.
TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays "cuckoo" with an air.)
SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies.
TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he maligns me. Have I not a G of surpa.s.sing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my G. Now, where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on the pipe.) I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to MOTHER and then to DAUGHTER.)
SINGER. Marvellous!
MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn"t he splendid?
TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame?
MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel more in need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no other talent to match the singing and playing of your friends?
FIDDLER. He talks.
MOTHER. I had noticed it.
TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit like myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn disposition; this--I--(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence. Have I your gracious permission to begin again?
MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir.
TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame--
MOTHER. If you could, sir.
TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I--er--go round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business.
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money.
TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which you observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to melancholy.
DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren"t you?
TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for myself I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance will be limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe.
MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be glad to hear your friends.
(The TALKER bows and turns to his company.)
TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.
FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.
SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)
Oh, when the wind is in the North, I take my staff and sally forth; And when it whistles from the East I do not mind it in the least; The warm wind murmurs through the trees Its messages from Southern seas; But after all perhaps the best Is that which whispers from the West.
Oh let the wind, the wind be what it will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
The staff which helps to carry me, I cut it from the Hazel-tree; But once I had a cudgel torn Most circ.u.mspectly from the Thorn; I know a fellow, far from rash, Who swears entirely by the Ash; And all good travellers invoke A blessing on the mighty Oak.
Oh let the wood, the wood be what it will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
Some years ago I gave my heart To Prue until we had to part; Then, seeing Susan"s pretty face, I left it with her for a s.p.a.ce; And Susan had my heart until I wanted it for Mistress Jill; I think, although I am not clear, That Chloe"s had it this last year.
Oh let the wench, the wench be whom you will, So long as I may walk on Morland Hill!
(The TALKER comes in proudly on the last note and takes most of the applause.)
DAUGHTER. I"m not sure that I like that last verse.
TALKER. Oh, you mustn"t believe all he sings. A cursed melancholy fellow by nature. But waggish--waggish withal.
SINGER (to DAUGHTER). We have to sing what the poets write for us, Mademoiselle. Had I written a song myself, it had been about one woman only.
TALKER. And there would have been a hundred and twenty-five verses to it.