Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard (37 page)

So in the summer the Squire told the Wanderer that he would surely die unless he had his lady's ring to kiss; and the fellow went again to the island. The Gorgons were not sorry to see him, and were willing to dance while he played and sang as before; and as before he took advantage of their pleasure, and stole the gold ring from the Princess's hand as she lay in tears behind her bars. But in place of the gold ring he left a silver one which had belonged to-- to the Squire. And the voice of her despair spoke through her tears, and he answered it as best he could with the voice of hope. And went away as before, leaving the Gorgons dancing.

Then in the autumn the Squire said to the Wanderer, "Who can live on flowers and rings? If you do not get me my lady herself, let me lie in my grave." So the Wanderer set sail for the third time, though he knew that the dangers and difficulties of this last adventure were supreme; and once more he landed on the island of the Imprisoned Princess. And this time the Gorgons even appeared a little pleased to see him, and let him stay with them six days and nights, telling them stories, and singing them songs, and inventing games to keep them amused. For he was very sorry for them.

(Joscelyn: Why? Why? Why?

Martin: Because he discovered that they were even unhappier than the Princess in her tower.

Joscelyn: It isn't true! It isn't true!

Martin: Look out! you're losing your slipper.)

Of course the Gorgons were unhappier than the Princess. She was only parted from her lover; but they were parted from love itself.

But as the week wore on, miracles happened; for every night one of the Gorgons turned into the beautiful girl she used to be before the Goddess of Reason, infuriated with the Irrational God who bestows on girls their quite unreasonable loveliness, had made her what she was. And night by night the Wanderer rubbed his eyes and wondered if he had been dreaming; for the guardians of the tower no longer hissed, but sighed at love, and instead of claws for the destructions of lovers had beautiful kind hands that longed to help them. Until on the sixth night only one remained this fellow's enemy. But alas! she was the strongest and fiercest of them all.

(Joscelyn: How dare you!)

And her case (said Martin) was hopeless, because she alone of them all had never known what love was, and so had nothing to be restored to.

(Joscelyn: How DARE you!)

And without her (said Martin) there was nothing to be done. She had always had the others under her thumb, and by this time she had the Wanderer in exactly the same place. And so--and so--

And so here is your shoe-string, Mistress Joscelyn; and I am sorry the want of it has been such an inconvenience to you all day, so that you could not make merry with us. But I must forfeit it now, for the story is ended, and I think you must own it is true.

(Joscelyn: I won't take it! The story is NOT true! The story is NOT ended! Finish it at once! None of the others ended like this.

Martin: The others weren't true.

Joscelyn: I don't care. You are to say what happened to the Gorgons.

Joyce: And to the Squire.

Jennifer: And to the Princess.

Jessica: And what she looked like.

Jane: And what happened to the King.

"Please, Martin," said little Joan, "please don't let the story come to an end before we know what happened to the Wanderer."

"I'm tired of telling stories," said Martin, "and I'll never tell another as long as I live. But I suppose I must add the trimmings to this one, or I shall get no peace.")

All these things, dear maidens, are very quickly told, except what the Princess looked like, for that is impossible. No man ever knew. He never got further than her eyes, and then he was drowned. But what does it matter how she looked? She died a thousand years ago of a broken heart. And her Squire, hearing of her death, died too, a thousand leagues away. And the King her father expired of remorse, and his country went to rack and ruin. And the five kind Gorgons had to pay the penalty of their regained humanity, and wilted into their maiden graves. Only the Sixth Gorgon lived on for ever and ever. I dare not think of her solitary eternity. But as for the Wanderer, he is of no importance. A little while he still went wandering, singing these lovers' sorrows to the world, and what became of him I never knew.

That's the end.

And now, dear Mistress Joscelyn, let me lace up your shoe.

(Joscelyn buried her face in her hands and burst out crying.)

POSTLUDE

PART I

There was consternation in the Apple-Orchard.

All the milkmaids came tumbling from their perches to run and comfort their weeping comrade. And as they passed Martin, Joyce cried, "It's a shame!" and Jennifer murmured "How could you?" and Jessica exclaimed "You brute!" and Jane said "I'm surprised at you!" and even little Joan shook her head at him, and, while all the others fondled Joscelyn, and petted and consoled her, took her hand and held it very tight. But with her other hand she took Martin's and held it just as tight, and looked a little anxious, with tears in her blue eyes. Yet she looked a little smiling too. And there were tears also in the eyes of all the milkmaids, because the story had ended so badly, and because they did not in the least know what was going to happen, and because a man had made one of them cry. And Martin suddenly realized that all these girls were against him as much as though it were six months ago. And he swung his feet and looked as though he didn't care, so that Joan knew he was feeling rather sheepish inside, and held his hand a little tighter.

Then Joscelyn, who had the loveliest brown, as Joan had the loveliest blue, eyes in England, lifted her young head and looked at Martin so defiantly through her tears that he knew she had given up the game at last; and he pressed Joan's hand for all he was worth, and began to look ashamed of himself, so that Joan knew he had stopped feeling sheepish in the least. And Joscelyn, in a voice that shook like birch-leaves, said, "I don't want it to end like that."

Martin: Dear Mistress Joscelyn, is it my fault? I promised you the truth, and with your help I have told it.

Joscelyn: How dare you say it's with my help? If I had my way--!

Martin: You shall have it. We will leave the end of the story in your hands.

Joscelyn: I won't have anything to do with it!

Martin: Then I'm afraid it's your fault.

Joscelyn: That's what a man always says!

Martin: Did he?

Joscelyn: Yes, he did! he said it was Eve's fault.

Martin: So it was.

Joscelyn: How dare you!

Martin: He said nothing but the truth. And what did you say?

Joscelyn: I said it was Adam's fault.

Martin: So it was. YOU said nothing but the truth.

Joscelyn: How could it be two people's fault?

Martin: How could it be anything else? Oh, Joscelyn! there are two things in this world that one person alone cannot bring to perfection. And one of them is a fault. It takes two people to make a perfect fault. Eve tempted Adam; and Adam was jolly glad to get tempted if he was half as sensible as he ought to have been. And Eve knew it. And Adam let her know it. And if after that she had not tempted him he would never have forgiven her. When it came to fault-making they understood each other perfectly. And between them they made the most perfect fault in the world.

Joscelyn: (after a very long pause): You said there were two things.

Martin: Two things?

Joscelyn: That one person alone can't bring to perfection.

Martin: Did I?

Joscelyn: What is the other thing?

Martin: Love. Isn't it?

Joscelyn: How dare you ask me?

Martin: I dare ask more than that. Joscelyn, how old are you?

Joscelyn: I sha'n't tell you.

Martin: Joscelyn, you are the tallest of the milkmaids, but you can't help that. How old are you?

Joscelyn: Mind your own business.

Martin: Joscelyn, the first three times I saw you, you had your hair down your back. But ever since I told you my first story you have done it up, like beautiful dark flowers, on each side of your head. And it is my belief that you have no business to have it up at all.

Joscelyn (very angrily): How dare you! Of course I have! Am I not nearly sixteen?

Martin: Nearly?

Joscelyn: Well, next June.

Martin: Oh, Hebe! it's worse than I thought. How dare I? You whipper-snapper! How dare YOU have us all under your thumb? How dare YOU play the Gorgon to Gillian? How dare YOU cry your eyes out because my lovers had an unhappy ending? Go back to your dolls'- house! What does sixteen next June know about Adam? What does sixteen next June know about love?

Joscelyn: Everything! how dare you? everything!

Martin: Am I to believe you? Then by all you know, you baby, give me the sixth key of the Well-House!

And he took from his pocket the five keys he already had, and held out his hand for the last one. Joscelyn's eyes grew bigger and bigger, and the doubt that had troubled her all day became a certainty as she looked from the keys to her comrades, who all got very red and hung their heads.

"Why did you give them up?" demanded Joscelyn.

"Because," Martin answered for them, "they know everything about love. But then they are all more than sixteen years of age, and capable of making the right sort of ending which is so impossible to children like you and me."

Then Joscelyn looked as old as she could and said, "Not so impossible, Master Pippin, if--if--"

But all of a sudden she began to laugh. It was the first time Martin had ever heard her laugh, or her comrades for six months. Their faces cleared like magic, and they all clapped their hands and ran away. And Martin got down from his bough, because when Joscelyn laughed she didn't look more than fourteen.

"If what, Joscelyn?" he said.

"If you'd stolen the right shoe-string, Martin," said she. And she stuck out her right foot with its neatly-laced yellow slipper. Then Martin knelt down, and instead of lacing the left shoe unlaced the right one, and inside the yellow slipper found the sixth key just under the instep. "Is that the right ending?" said Joscelyn. And Martin held the little foot in his hands rubbing it gently, and said compassionately, "It must have been dreadfully uncomfortable."

"It was sometimes," said Joscelyn.

"Didn't it hurt?" asked Martin, beginning to lace up her shoes for her.

"Now and then," said Joscelyn.

"It was an awfully kiddish place to hide it in," said Martin finishing, and as he looked up Joscelyn laughed again, rubbing her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand, and for all the great growing girl that she was looked no more than twelve. So he slid under the swing and stood up behind her and kissed her on the back of the neck where babies are kissed.

Then all the milkmaids came back again.

PART II

To every girl Martin handed her key. "This is your business," said he. And first Joan, and next Joyce, and then Jennifer, and then Jessica, and then Jane, and last of all Joscelyn, put her key into its lock and turned. And not one of the keys would turn. They bit their lips and held their breath, and turned and turned in vain.

"This is dreadful," said Martin. "Are you sure the keys are in the right keyholes?"

"They all fit," said little Joan.

"Let me try," said Martin. And he tried, one after another, and then tried each key singly in each lock, but without result. Jane said, "I expect they've gone rusty," and Jessica said, "That must be it," and Jennifer turned pale and said, "Then Gillian can never get out of the Well-House or we out of the orchard." And Martin sat down in the swing and thought and thought. As he thought he began to swing a little, and then a little more, and suddenly he cried "Push me!" and the six girls came behind him and pushed with all their strength. Up he went with his legs pointed as straight as an arrow, and back he flew and up again. The third time the swing flew clean over the Well-House, and as true as a diving gannet Martin dropped from mid-air into the little court, and stood face to face with Gillian.

PART III

She was not weeping. She was bathed in blushes and laughter. She held out her hands to him, and Martin took them. She had golden hair of lights and shadows like a wheatfield that fell in two thick plaits over her white gown, and she had gray eyes where smiles met you like an invitation, but you had to learn later that they were really a little guard set between you and her inward tenderness, and that her gayety, like a will-o'-the-wisp, led you into the flowery by-ways of her spirit where fairies played, but not to the heart of it where angels dwelled. Few succeeded in surprising her behind her bright shield, but sometimes when she wasn't thinking it fell aside, and what men saw then took their breath from them, for it was as though they were falling through endless wells of infinite sweetness. And afterwards they could have told you nothing further of her loveliness; when they got as far as her eyes they were drowned. Her features, the curves of her cheeks and lips and chin and delicate nostrils, were as finely-turned as the edge of a wild-rose petal, and her skin had the freshness of dew. The sight of her brought the same sense of delight as the sight of a meadow of cowslips. As sweet and sunny a scent breathed out from her beauty.

But all this Martin only felt without seeing, for he was drowned. Gillian, I suppose, wasn't thinking. So they held each other's hands and looked at each other.

Presently Martin said, "It's time now, Gillian, and you can go."

"Yes, Martin," said Gillian. "How shall I go?"

"As I came," said he.

"Before I go," said she, "I am going to ask you a question. You have asked my friends a lot of questions these six nights, which they have answered frankly, and you have twisted their answers round your little finger. Now you must answer my question as frankly."

"And what will you do?" asked Martin.

"I won't twist your answer," said Gillian gently. "I'll take it for what it is worth. You have been laughing up your sleeve a little at my friends because, having a quarrel with men, they were sworn to live single. But you live single too. Tell me, if you please, what is your quarrel with girls?"