The Red House Mystery and Other Novels. A. A. Milne
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MOTHER. I don't understand you, sir. Are you referring to my daughter?
TALKER (looking towards the window). There is a stream which runs beyond the road, with a green bank to it. We were seated on that bank, I and my two companions, eating our bread and cheese, and washing it down with draughts from that good stream. We were tired, for we had come from over the hills that morning, and it was good to lie on our backs there and watch the little clouds taking shape after shape in the blue, and so to dream our dreams. In a little while the road would take us westward, here through a wood banked with primroses, there across a common or between high spring hedges with the little stream babbling ever at the side of us. And in the evening we would come to an inn, where there would be good company, and we would sing and play to them, and they would reward us. (With a shrug) It is a pleasant life.
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, go on!
MOTHER. Yes, go on, Sir.
TALKER. We were lying on our backs thus, Madame, when we heard the nightingale. "Duke," says I, "it is early yet for the nightingale." His Flutiness removes his cap from his face, takes a squint at the sun, and says "Monstrous early, good Master Johannes," and claps his cap back again. "What says you, Fiddler," says I, "in this matter of nightingales? Is it possible," says I; "the sun being where it is, and nightingales being what they are--to wit, nightingales?" "It's not a nightingale," says Fiddler dreamily, "it's a girl." "Then," says I, jumping up, "it is a girl we want. She must put the red feather in her cap, and come her ways with us." (With a bow) Madame, your humble servant.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, you will let me go, won't you? I must, I must! He is quite right. I'm caged here. Oh, you will let me see something of the world before I grow old!
FIDDLER (suddenly). Yes, let her come. If she feels like that, she ought to come.
SINGER (with a very winning smile). We will take great care of her, Madame, as if she were our own sister.
MOTHER (surprisingly to JOHANNES). What do you think of cider as a drink, Master Johannes?
TALKER (who had not expected it, but is always ready). Cider--ah, there's a drink! Oh, I can talk to you about cider, glum body as I am by nature, having been as it were taciturn from birth. Yet of cider I could talk you--
MOTHER. Ours is considered very good cider. (To her daughter) Take them, child, and give them such refreshment as they want. They have deserved it for their entertainment.
DAUGHTER. Why, of course, Mother. Come this way please.
[She leads the way, and the others follow, the TALKER coming last and murmuring "Cider" to himself.]
MOTHER. Master Johannes. (He turns round.) A word with you, if you please, sir.
TALKER. But certainly, Madame. The cider will be all the better for the expectation.
MOTHER. Sit down, please. (He does so.) Master Johannes, who are you, all of you?
TALKER. I thought I had explained, Madame. Her Royal Sweetness Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a humble Marquis. We may be referred to collectively as the Red Feathers. For myself I am sometimes called Silent John, being of a close disposition.
MOTHER. Whatever you are called, you are, I think, a man of the world, and you will understand that if I am to trust my daughter to you, for however little a time, I must know something more about you.
TALKER. Madame, I will make a confession to you, a confession I have never yet made to man, woman, or child. I am forty-six years of age; it is, in fact, my birthday. Were I to begin to tell you something about myself, starting from that day, forty-six years ago, when I was born--were I to begin--well, Madame, I am only too ready to begin. It is a subject I find vastly pleasant. But, (looking at her comically) shall I begin?
MOTHER (with a smile). Would you make it so long a story, sir?
TALKER (with a sigh). The tongue is an unruly member, and to one who has but three notes on the pipe, and yet desires to express himself, talking is a great comfort.
MOTHER. I said you were a man of the world, sir. May I say now that I think you must be a man of _our_ world?
TALKER. I am a man of many worlds. But if it would comfort your mother's heart to know that your daughter will be in good company, I think I can give you that comfort.
MOTHER. Is that all you can give me?
(The TALKER gets up and walks about, frowning to himself. Suddenly he takes out his pipe, plays "cuckoo" to himself very solemnly, and is immensely relieved thereby. He comes back to the MOTHER with a beaming face.)
TALKER. Madame, I will tell you a story. (Holding up his hand to stop any expostulation) No, quite a short one. Once on a time there was a certain noble gentleman, a baron of estates and family. Conceiving himself to be in love, he dared to put it to the touch to win or lose it all. I regret to say that he lost it all. In a fit of melancholy he abjured society, cursed all women and took to the road. A pleasant melancholy gentleman. I made him a duke.
MOTHER (eagerly, indicating the door out of which the duke has just gone). You mean he really is--
TALKER. We will name no names, madame. I doubt not I have no right to speak of him to another. It is just a story. (Putting his pipe to his lips) Cuck-oo!
MOTHER. Poor child, she is not happy here. We live so quietly; we have no neighbours. I have wondered what to do--it seemed that I could do so little. If only I could be sure--(Suddenly) Master Johannes, do you like the look of this house with its little stream opposite, and the green bank running down, on which one may lie on one's back and look up at the sky?
TALKER. Did we not single it out above all others by having our bread and cheese outside it?
MOTHER. Will you all stay with me for a little? I think I can find room for you. Before I can lend my daughter to you, I feel that I must know something of you. I think that is the best way, is it not? (With a very friendly smile) The cider is good, you know.
TALKER (rising and boning). Madame, we need say no more.
[The other three come in. The DAUGHTER has found from somewhere a cap with a red feather in it. They stand in a row opposite the MOTHER, and to the FIDDLER'S accompaniment sing a merry song.]
TOGETHER. The cuckoo comes in April, Sings his song in May, Changes his tune in the middle of June, And then he flies away.
HE. The cuckoo comes when April's here-- He is not very good, I fear. He goes and takes another nest-- Perhaps he does it for the best. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
SHE. When April's over he begins Repenting of his former sins; From tree to tree he takes his way, But this is all he finds to say: Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
HE. By June he gets a trifle flat, Which is not to be wondered at, And critical observers note A huskiness about the throat. (Huskily) Cuckoo! Cuckoo! ...
SHE. Alas! he does not stay for long, But other birds take up the song Of summer gently following The wild and happy days of Spring. Cuckoo!
(The TALKER conducts with his pipe in his hand, and hums "La, la, la!" to himself. He pipes the chorus with them. At the conclusion they all bow or curtsey deeply to the MOTHER.)
MOTHER (half laughing, half crying). Oh!
TALKER (suddenly and dramatically, holding up his hand). Listen!
EVERYBODY. What?