The Spring was here, the Spring is here again, The Spring will die.
Life passes by. The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide, The crowd streams in--and I am left outside. ... They know; not I.
[You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.]
MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a melancholy song, dear.
DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.
MOTHER. Why are you that, child?
DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.
MOTHER. Well, so do we all.
DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world?
MOTHER. It's all there is in our world.
DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?
MOTHER. We have the house--and very little else.
DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were _really_ poor--
MOTHER. You needn't wish, child.
DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next morning, and--
MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm peculiar.
DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy?
MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear.
DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and sings again.)
_Lads and lasses, what will you sell, What will you sell?_
Four stout walls and a roof atop, Warm fires gleaming brightly, Well-stored cellar and garnered crop, Money-bags packed tightly; An ordered task in an ordered day, And a sure bed nightly; Years which peacefully pass away, Until Death comes lightly.
_Lads and lasses, what will you buy? What will you buy?_
Here is a cap to cover your head, A cap with one red feather; Here is a cloak to make your bed Warm or winter weather; Here is a satchel to store your ware, Strongly lined with leather; And here is a staff to take you there When you go forth together.
_Lads and lasses, what will you gain, What will you gain?_
Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees New Spring houses taking; Daffodils in an April breeze Golden curtsies making; Shadows of clouds across the weald From hill to valley breaking, The first faint stir which the woodlands yield When the world is waking.
_Lads and lasses, this is your gain, This is your gain._
(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and happy smile until the song is finished.)
TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again.
MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion.
TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote you Rex--What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say? _Via_, says Rex, meaning the road; _communis_ is common; _omnibus_ to all, meaning thereby--but perchance I weary you?
DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he?
TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is he? Is he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he the Cham of Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he were the Cham of Tartary--
MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you are and what you want.
TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am named by my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These things you will have already noticed. But now I will commit to you it secret, known only to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I am by nature (he disappears and reappears at the middle window), I am still more so when compelled to hold converse with two such ornaments of their sex (he disappears and reappears at the right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I getting any nearer the door?
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 sex, a man, a thing of whiskers; the other has the honour to belong to that sex 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 title 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 title 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 surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame,