THE tent was really as roomy as a small marquee, though bell-shaped. It was part and parcel of the theatrical1 properties of these Wandering Minstrels, and came in very handy in many ways during the performance of “The Forest Maiden3,” and other short plays, all of which were composed by Reginald Fitzroy, or “Father,” as the proprietor4 of this show was called.
One of the duties of Giant Gourmand5 was to pitch the tent, for the fact is that no one else could have raised it. The canvas once hoisted6, old Molly Muldoon went inside to stand by the pole and balance it until Gourmie went forth7 and fixed8 the outer and inner rows of pegs9 artistically11.
The giant slept in the tent at night, all the year round. Indeed, he preferred to do so, for this reason—he snored louder than a big basketful of bull-frogs. He knew that he did so. He snored so loud at times that he awoke himself, and the marvel{31} is that he didn’t swallow the pole. Snoring isn’t a poetic12 accomplishment13, and nobody need snore if the mouth is kept shut. But then giants are—well, giants are giants, you know, and have a great many queer ways that smaller people like you and me haven’t got.
Gourmand had all one side of the table to himself, and when there was a joint14 of meat it was his duty to carve it; and, really, with the great knife and fork in his huge fists he put one in mind of the story of “Jack and the Bean-stalk,” the tent pole being the stalk. He sometimes looked fierce enough to frighten a motor car. “Never mind,” Peggy could have told you, “Gourmie is the kindest big lump of a giant ever anybody knew.” He was nearly always smiling. His smile was an expansive one. In fun Willie the dwarf15 used to jump on Gourmie’s knee sometimes with a tape to measure it. When tired of Willie’s antics the giant would lift him off his knee, as one lifts a troublesome kitten, and place him gently on the ground. But, big as he was, this giant would have stepped aside rather than crush the life out of a beetle16.
Fitzroy himself was a strange kind of being, about fifty years old, smart and good-looking,{32} with a face that was easy to make up for any character, old or young, male or female. He came of a very good family, and might have graced either the Church or the Bar, but for his love of music and wandering. Anybody was Reginald’s friend if he could play some instrument well. Reginald Fitzroy’s fad17 was flute18-making. He was always fashioning a new flute, and, having a persuasive19 tongue, he generally managed to sell these well.
But come, breakfast is waiting, and old Molly has placed a splendid meal before the company to-day. That bacon is done to a turn, the bread and the butter are unexceptionable, the eggs new-laid, the coffee ever so fragrant20, and, in addition to all this which the little people may partake of, Gourmand has a goose’s egg, and the half of a cold roast hedgehog to finish off with.
Peggy, after breakfast, had to tell all the story of her adventure in the forest to Father and Johnnie. Reginald Fitzroy himself would not have listened to the best story in creation until he had first satisfied the cravings of nature and worked in a good meal. And Johnnie Fitzroy took after the old man. Besides, the boy—a very handsome lad of fourteen, but tall for his years—had been far{33} away among the rocks that morning fishing, with nothing worth mentioning on him, except a pair of brown bare legs and a sou’wester hat, from which the fair front locks of his irrepressible hair hung down and wouldn’t be controlled.
He was late for breakfast, of course, but he threw down a great string of flat fish in the corner of the tent by way of apology.
His father smiled fondly on his boy.
“Been up early, lad?”
“Ay, Dad, ’fore four o’clock. Went to bed at seven last night, you know, just on purpose.”
“Did you wash your face in the May dew, Johnnie?”
The boy looked at her, half disdainfully. He was a trifle tired, but he was very fond of sweet Peggy.
“Did I wash my face in the May dew, Johnnie!” he answered. “Just think of a boy doing anything so ridiculously silly. Humph!”
Then, seeing what looked like a tear in Peggy’s eye, he jumped off his seat, and ran round the table and kissed her.
“Never mind me, cousin Peggy. I’m ill-tempered because I’m hungry, and{34} because a lobster21 grabbed my big toe and cut it. Look!”
The toe was still bleeding through the white rag old Molly had bound it up with.
“Poor cousin Johnnie!”
“Never mind, Peg10. I brought him home, anyhow, and he is such a monster. He is walking about outside your caravan22 at this moment. Yes, Daddy, thank you. I love ham and eggs. Gourmie, do I see you well?”
“Well, don’t take on about it, there’s a little dear. And I’ll have the half of that cold hoggie.”
“Have the whole of it, lad. And the whole of it is only a half, after all. Our sweet little Molly is going to cook her Gourmie another goose’s egg.”
Molly was old, like a withered24 dock as to colour, but she tried to smile a girlish smile as she went bustling25 out of the tent now to do the giant’s bidding.
Peggy’s story set Mr. Fitzroy thinking. After breakfast he threw himself prone26 upon the tent sofa, with his flute in his hand. This was his favourite attitude. His sofa{35} was a very primitive27 one—three boxes covered with a goat-skin and with rugs for pillows—but it served the purpose very well indeed.
Fitzroy played a little, then mused28 a little, and kept this up for a good half-hour. He could think best when lying down, and the flute assisted his cogitations. He did not mean to build any flutes29 to-day, he told himself; he would take a forenoon off and be ready for afternoon rehearsal30. The neighbouring village had been well billed, and the giant had walked twice through it, dressed as a little charity school-boy with a big, treacle-stained bib on, while Willie, the dwarf, walked in front of him, and pretended to be his father. “The Forest Maiden” was emblazoned on every old wall and boarding to be found, so they were sure of a bumper31 house. Had not this great show been patronised by all the crowned heads of Europe?—so the bills informed one; surely, then, it was good enough for Stickleton-on-the-Moor. Fitzroy, without getting out of the horizontal, played a difficult study from Wagner.
“Nothing like Wagner for clearing the cobwebs out of the brain,” he murmured.{36}
And then he asked himself the question, What had been the meaning of the morning’s outrage32 upon poor Peggy?
It was a difficult one to answer, and somehow it brought back to him incidents in his past life that he would just as soon have forgotten.
Fitzroy had married for love, or something which appeared to have been cousin-german to that tender passion. He had not married a sweet-faced doll with wooden legs, such as you can pick up for twopence in a toy-shop, but a more expensive and equally useless commodity, namely, a young girl actress of second-class parts, to whom his flute had given him an introduction. Their married life had not been all lavender, for he was shiftless, and she was thriftless. But she died when Johnnie was but a mere33 child, and, after this, Fitzroy began to feel around him for some work that would not only be a prop2 and a stay to him, but enable him to forget his sorrow. So, somehow or other, he became gradually possessed34 of this same show. Then, when Johnnie was only seven years of age, little Peggy came upon the scene—a child of five summers, but wise beyond conception.{37}
Fitzroy was himself a gentleman at heart, although poverty had led him a little way apart from the path of rectitude. I don’t imagine for a single moment that because Fitzroy was one of a troupe35 of Wandering Minstrels, and was sometimes classed with the gipsies, that he ever robbed a hen-roost, or cleared a clothes-line, or even requisitioned turnips36 or potatoes from farmers’ fields. But he had for the sake of making money been something of a betting man, and the way that poor little Peggy had come into his possession was not so creditable to his sense of honour as it might have been. He never cared to think about this. But he had come to love the child quite as much as though she were his own daughter—perhaps, considering all he knew of the story of her life, a little more, because pity for Peggy was in some measure mingled37 with that love.
Peggy was his Peggy now, and no one should ever come between the child and him. He felt at that moment that he could strike down the man who dared—lay him dead at his feet. He was in reality too shrewd a person to do any such thing. Striking people down in this fashion is a game that does not{38} pay. But the thought had excited him, and he was fain to appeal once more to his flute, and that never failed to soothe38 him. What did these two men who had accosted39 Peggy want or desire, anyhow? Were they the same who seven long years ago had first—but there! he must dismiss the thought.
“Avaunt!” he cried, starting up and walking away from it, as it were, out and away into the cool summer air, as if he could leave that thought, leave his care on the sofa behind him.
“No, no,” he told himself; “some idiots tried to scare the girl, that is all; some itinerant40 fern-gatherers wanted to have a bit of fun to themselves. That is all. Nothing more.”
He played that sweet, tender, Irish air, “The Meeting of the Waters,” then picked up his rod, and went off to fish.
There was a little heaviness at his heart all day, nevertheless, which neither sport nor anything else could altogether dislodge.
But Peggy had quite forgotten her adventure, even before the rehearsal was over.
The giant, assisted by Fitzroy, Willie, and{39} Molly herself, was not long in getting the stage up, and the curtain too. The weather was fine. That was good luck; for nothing diminishes a house more speedily than a heavy shower, or a squall of wind and rain.
The Wandering Minstrels had to put up with all that, however, and during splendid weather they made quite a pot of money, as the caravan master, Fitzroy, termed it.
But a show or travelling theatre of this sort, with a company which was far from a powerful one, required a good deal of thought, and some skilful41 treatment. For the players had not only to play, but to act as the band, the carpenters, and the scene-shifters, and sometimes even take two parts in the same play.
The orchestra was down under the elevated stage, which was tented or covered with tarpaulins42. The musicians were hidden from the audience by a screen, and played there before the opening of the piece, and until some of their number were required on the stage, when, laying down their instruments, they entered the tent, whence steps led on to the boards. It was all very simple and nice.
The scenery was simple too, and ferns, pine{40} branches, and the wild-flowers of the forest were worked in most effectually and artistically.
Perhaps it was this very simplicity43 that had caused “The Forest Maiden” to catch on so quickly. For the bucolic44 mind, or, in simple language, the rustic45, loves neither ambiguity46 nor plot. Such as these come to the theatre not to confuse his brains—if he has some—with mystery on the unravelling47 of a plot. He wants to see and hear what he can understand, and nothing more. This play, “The Forest Maiden,” which they were led to believe had ravished the senses of every crowned head in Europe, was precisely48 the play for their money. (Front seats sixpence for the élite, or for the lover and his lass; back, threepence; and if anyone kept loafing about far in the rear and tried to get a treat for nothing, Ralph the blood-hound was sent to reason with him, and this method of reasoning was always effectual.)
“The Forest Maiden” was a comedy, combined with a good slice of tragedy, and a good deal of the rough and ranting49 fun which the gods in the low-class theatres of London so delight in. It was in five acts, not long ones, certainly, but full of go,{41} excitement, and strong situations, with a vein50 of true love running all through it like the blue thread on Government canvas. Oh, dearie me! as old Molly used to say, my memory is so bad that I cannot even describe the plot to my readers, although I was once present in the New Forest when the play was put on the boards there.
Let me see now if I can possibly recollect51 some little portion of it. I know, for instance, that it opened with low, sweet music of violin and flute, that came welling up from the orchestra beneath the stage, music so artfully concealed52 that even I, quick-eared though I be, could not tell whence it proceeded. At one time it seemed high up among the wind-stirred, whispering trees, at another it mingled with the sound of the sea-waves breaking solemnly on the shingle53 far in the rear, anon I could have felt certain the music was up yonder among the fleecy clouds. Now so interested was I with the simple scene before me when the curtain rose, that I soon forgot the music, and simply was content to know it was everywhere around.
The little Forest Maiden, seated by her cottage door, a rustic porchway overhung with roses yellow and red, the girl herself not{42} less rustic, none the less sweet, Leely she is to name, and she is knitting a stocking while she sings to herself. So breathless was the audience at this moment that you might have heard a pin fall, though it would have fallen on the grass. Leely presently let that stocking drop in her lap, and looked for a minute, or more, rather listless and sad. But presently, “Hist!” she said, with the point of a perfectly54 shaped and tiny forefinger55 on her rosy56 lips.
The great blood-hound, who had been asleep as she sang, raised his noble head.
“That footstep! yes, ’tis he. ’Tis young Adolphus the forester!”
And enter the young forester, clad chiefly in buff leather girdled with green, bow and arrows and huge knife. Scarcely can she hide her joy, her blushes, as Adolphus does an attitude, and throws himself at her feet, one arm placed half-carelessly and half-caressingly across the dog’s massive shoulder.
“And yet, Adolphus, though thou knewest I was alone, thou camest not near me all day long. Nay58, nay, tell me not of thy wild{43} adventures in the forest, how thou chased the deer far into its dark depths till lost, how——”
“Stay, Leely, stay! I have sweeter, better news for thee than all that.”
And Leely leaned forward now, a light in her blue eyes, that one only sees once in a lifetime.
“Leely!”
“Yes, yes. Speak, Adolphus. Why dost thou hesitate?”
“Leely, I met——”
“Oh yes, I know; some charming girl kirtled all in green and garlanded with roses. I hate her. I——”
“Leely, I met a witch, a real hag, in a cottage of turf and heather—a witch with wrinkled skin, and with forest snakes twining round her arms and chest. And Leely, she told me of thee, and bade me bring thee to her hut that she might read our fortunes.”
And so on, and so forth—a pretty scene, and rather pretty the language. Then, with promise to meet in the moonlight to visit the witch, they part just as the thunder (stage) begins to rattle59 over their heads and the lightning plays around them. Curtain.{44}
There is more appropriate music, and, in due time, the scene changes.
I need not say that Leely is Peggy herself, nor that Adolphus the forester is bold, handsome Johnnie Fitzroy.
The scene changes. It is the witch’s hut we now see, the interior of—but I suppose I must not tell you any more, reader. You say I must.
Very well, I’ll take my breath and open a new chapter.
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1
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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gourmand
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| n.嗜食者 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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15
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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16
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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23
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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24
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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25
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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29
flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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30
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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31
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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37
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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39
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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40
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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41
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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42
tarpaulins
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| n.防水帆布，防水帆布罩( tarpaulin的名词复数 ) | |
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43
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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46
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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47
unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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48
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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49
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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50
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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51
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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52
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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53
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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54
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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55
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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56
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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57
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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58
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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