thee upon His precious drops caught by the holly tree. He seeth not, but
she doth know!”
(_Christmas Eve._)
(_Jana_) “My lady, who doth come a knocking at the door? ’Tis Petro,
come to bid ye to the feast.”
(_Petro_) “The candles are long since lit and Sirrah John hath wearyed
him with jest. The feasting hath not yet begun, for he doth wait thee to
drink a health to feasters in the hall.”
(_Lady Marye_) “Yea, Petro, say unto my sire, the Lady Marye comes. And
say ye more, she bids the feasters God-love. And say thee more, she doth
bear the blessings of her Lady Mother who wisheth God’s love to them
all. And fetch ye candle trees to scores, and fetch the dulcimer and one
who knocketh on its strings, and let him patter forth a lively tune, for
Lady Marye comes.
“Jana, look ye once again to the valley there. The tapers burn not for
Christ-night. Nay, a sickly gleam, and see, the Stranger, how he doth
hold the lamb! And o’er his face a smile—or do my eyes beblur, and doth
he weep?”
(_Jana_) “Nay, lady, all is dark. ’Tis but the whitish snow and shadow
pitted by the tapers’ light.”
(_Lady Marye_) “Fetch me then my fan. I go to meet my Lord. Doth hear?
Already they do play. I point me thus, and trip my heart’s full
measure.”
(_In the Hall._)
(_Sir John_) “So, lily-lip, thee’lt scratch! Thy silky paw hath claws,
eh? Egad! A phantom! A ghoulish trick! My head doth split and where my
tung? Get ye! Why sit like grinning asses! And where thy tungs? My God!
What scent o’ graves she beareth with that shroud!”
(_Lady Marye_) “God cheer, my lord, and doth my tripping suit thee well?
These flags are but my heart and hers, and do I bruise them well for
thee? Ah, aha! See, I do spread my fan. To shield my tears, ye think?
Nay, were they to fall like Mayday’s rain and thee wert buried ’neath a
stone, as well then could’st thou see! And yet I love thee well. See
thee, my sire, I pour this to thee!
“Look ye, good people at the feast; the boar is ready to slip its bones.
(_Aside_) “God, send Thy mantling love here to Thine own! For should I
judge, when Thou I know dost love the saint and sinner as Thine own?
“To thee, my sire, to thee!”
* * * * *
And gusted wind did flick the tapers out and they did hear her murmuring
“The Stranger! He doth bid me come!”
And to this day they tell that Lady Marye cast the wine into a suckler’s
mouth and never did she drink!
“By all the saints! Do thee go and search!”
Thus spake her sire, Sir John. And all the long night thro’ the torches
gleamed, but all in vain. And they do say that Sirrah John did shake him
in a chilling and flee him to a friar, while still the search did last.
(_In Timon’s Cot._)
(_Leta_) “Timon, waken ye! Our Leta still doth court her dreams and I do
weary me. The long night thro’ the feasters cried them thro’ the hills
and none but Him could shield our Tina from their din.
“Take heart, my lad, I fear me yet to look within the crib. Hold thou my
hand, man. Nay, not yet! Come, waken Leta that she then do feed thy
lambs.”
(_Timon_) “Come, Leta, wake! The sun hath tipped the crown o’ yonder
hill and spread a blush adown her snow-white side.”
(_Leta_) “Yea, sire. And Tina, how be she?”
(_Timon_) “A fairy, sleeping, Tad.”
(_Leta_) “Ah, sire, but I did dream the dark o’ yesterday away. And,
mother, she doth strain unto the sun! I see her eyes be-glistened. See,
the frost-cart dumped beside our door, and look ye! he, the Frost man,
put a cap upon the chimney pot. I’ll fetch a brush and fan away his
cloak. My Christ-gift, it would be my Tina’s smile. She did know me not
at late o’ night; think ye it were the dark? Stay, sire! I’ll cast the
straw and put the sheep aright!” (_Exit._)
* * * * *
(_Timon_) “My Leta, come! Thy Christ-gift bideth o’er our Tina’s lips
and she doth coo!”
(_Leta_) “Timon, call aloud, that she heareth thee. Leta! Leta! Little
one! Dost hear thy sire to call? Why, what’s amiss with thee? Thy
staring eyes, my child! Speak thou!”
(_Leta_) “Sh-e-e-e! Sire, His mother’s come! And, ah, my heart! All
white she be an’ crushed unto her breast a holly bough, and one white
arm doth circle o’er a lamb! See, sire, the snow did drift it thro’ and
weave a fairy robe to cover her.”
(_Timon_) “Who leaveth by the door; a stranger?”
(_Leta_) “Nay, He bideth here.”
(_Timon_) “The Lady Marye, on my soul! Leta, drop ye here thy tears, for
madness bideth loosed upon the earth! And shouldst——”
(_Leta_) “Nay, sire! Who cometh there?”
* * * * *
And searchers there did find the Lady Marye, dead, amid the lambs and
snow—a flowering o’ the rose upon a bush o’ thorn.
And hark ye! At the time when winter’s blast doth sound, thee’lt hear
the wailing o’ the Lady Marye’s pipes, and know the Stranger bideth o’er
the earth.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The two dramatic stories presented here were but a paving of the way for
larger work. “The Stranger” had been hardly completed when Patience
announced, “Thee’lt sorry at the task I set thee next.” And then she
began the construction of a drama that in its delivery consumed the time
of the sittings for several weeks, and it contained when finished some
20,000 words. It is divided into six acts, each with a descriptive
prologue, and three of the acts have two scenes each, making nine scenes
in all. It, like the two shorter sketches, is medieval in scene, and the
pictures which it presents of the customs and costumes and manners of
the thirteenth or fourteenth century (the period is not definitely
indicated) are amazingly vivid. It has a somewhat intricate plot, which
is carried forward rapidly and its strands skillfully interwoven until
the nature of the fabric is revealed in the sixth act. This play is much
more skillfully constructed in respect of stage technique than the two
playlets that preceded it, and it could, no doubt, be produced upon the
stage with perhaps a little alteration to adapt it to modern conditions.
Some idea of its beauty, its sprightliness and its humor may be obtained
from the prologue to the first act, which follows:
Wet earth, fresh trod.
Highway cut to wrinkles with cart wheels born in with o’erloading. A
flank o’ daisy flowers and stones rolled o’er in blanketing o’ moss.
Brown o’ young oak-leaves shows soft amid the green. Adown a steep
unto the vale, hedged in by flowering fruit and threaded through
with streaming silver o’ the brook, where rushes shiver like to
swishing o’ a lady’s silk.
Moss-lipped log doth case the spring who mothereth the brook, and
ivy hath climbed it o’er the trunk and leafless branch o’ yonder
birch, till she doth stand bedecked as for a folly dance.
Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!
Rat-a-tat! Sh-h-h-h!
From out the thick where hides the logged and mud-smeared shack.
Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!
Sh-h-h-h!
And hark ye, to the tanner’s song!
Up, up, up! and down, down, down!
A hammer to smite
And a hand to pound!
A maid to court,
And a swain to woo,
A heiffer felled
And I build a shoe!
A souse anew in yonder vat,
And I’ll buy my lady
A feathered hat!
The play then begins with the tanner and his apprentice, and the action
soon leads to the royal castle, where the exquisite love story is
developed, without a love scene. There is no tragedy in the story. It is
all sentiment, and humor. And it is filled with poetry. Consider, for
example, this description of Easter morn, from the prologue to the sixth
act:
The earth did wake with boughs aburst. A deadened apple twig doth
blush at casting Winter’s furry coat, to find her naked blooms abath
in sun. The feathered hosts, atuned, do carol, “He hath risen!” E’en
the crow with envy trieth melody and soundeth as a brass; and
listening, loveth much his song. Young grasses send sweet-scented
damp through the hours of risen day. The bell, atoll, doth bid the
village hence. E’en path atraced through velvet fields hath flowered
with fringing bloom and jeweled drops, atempting tarriers. The sweet
o’ sleep doth grace each venturing face. The kine stand knee depth
within the silly-tittered brook, or deep in bog awallow. Soft breath
ascent and lazy-eyed, they wait them for the stripping-maid.
The play is permeated with rich humor, and to illustrate this I give a
bit of the dialogue between Dougal, the page, and Anne, the castle cook.
To appreciate it one must know a little of the story. The hand of the
Princess Ermaline is sought by Prince Charlie, a doddering old rake,
whom she detests, but whom for reasons of state she may be compelled to
accept. However, she vows she will not speak while he is at court, nor
does she utter a word, in the play, until the end of the last act. She
has fallen in love with a troubadour, who has come from no one knows
where, but who by his grace and his wit and his intelligence has made
himself a favorite with all the castle folk. Anne has a roast on the
spit, and is scouring a pot with sand and rushes, when Dougal enters the
kitchen.
_Dougal._—“Anne, goody girl, leave me but suck a bone. My sides have
withered and fallen in, in truth.”
_Anne._—“Get ye, Dougal! Thy footprints do show them in grease like
to the Queen’s seal upon my floor!”
_Dougal._—“The princess hath bidden me to stay within her call, but
she doth drouse, adrunk on love-lilt o’ the troubadour, and Prince
of Fools (Prince Charlie) hath gone long since to beauty sleep. He
tied unto his poster a posey wreath, and brushed in scented oils his
beauteous locks, and sung a lay to Ermaline, and kissed a scullery
wench afore he slept.”
_Anne._—“The dog! I’d love a punch to shatter him! And Ermaline hath
vowed to lock her lips and pass as mute until his going.”
_Dougal._—“Yea, but eye may speak, for hers do flash like lightning,
and though small, her foot doth fall most weighty to command.
“Yester, the Prince did seek her in the throne room. He’d tied his
kerchief to a sack and filled it full o’ blue-bells, and minced him
’long the halls astrewing blossoms and singing like to a frozen
pump.
“Within the chamber, Ermaline did hide her face in dreading to
behold him come, but at the door he spied the dear and bounded like
a puppy ’cross the flags, apelting her with blooms and sputtering
’mid tee-hees. She, tho’, did spy him first, and measured her his
sight and sudden slipped her ’neath the table shroud. And he, Anne,
I swear, sprawled him in his glee and rose to find her gone. And
whacked my shin, the ass, acause I heaved at shoulders.”
_Anne._—“Ah, Dougal, ’tis a weary time, in truth. Thee hadst best to
put it back, to court thy mistress’ whim. Good sleep, ye! And
Dougal, I have a loving for the troubadour. Whence cometh he?”
_Dougal._—“Put thy heart to rest, good Anne; he’s but a piper who
doth knock the taber’s end and coaxeth trembling strings by which to
sing. He came him out o’ nothing, like to the night or day. We waked
to hear him singing ’neath the wall.”
_Anne._—“Aye, but I do wag! For surely thee doth see how Ermaline
doth court his song.”
_Dougal._—“Nay, Anne, ’tis but to fill an empty day.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
When Patience had finished this she preened herself a little. “Did I not
then spin a lengthy tale?” she asked. But immediately she began work
upon another, a story of such length that it alone will make a book. It
differs in many respects from her other works, particularly in the
language, and from a literary standpoint is altogether the most amazing
of her compositions. This, too, is dramatic in form, but scene often
merges into scene without division, and it has more of the
characteristics of the modern story. It is, however, medieval, but it is
a tale of the fields, primarily, the heroine, Telka, being a farm lass,
and the hero a field hand. Perhaps this is why the obscure dialectal
forms of rural England of a time long gone by are woven into it. In this
Patience makes an astonishingly free use of the prefix “a,” in place of
a number of prefixes, such as “be” and “with,” now commonly used, and
she attaches it to nouns and verbs and adjectives with such frequency as
to make this usage a prominent feature of the diction. Let me introduce
Telka in the words of Patience:
“Dewdamp soggeth grasses laid low aneath the blade at yester’s
harvest, and thistle-bloom weareth at its crown a jewelled spray.
“Brown thrush, nested ’neath the thick o’ yonder shrub, hath preened
her wings full long aneath the tender warmth o’ morning sun.
“Afield the grasses glint, and breeze doth seeming set aflow the
current o’ a green-waved stream.
“Soft-footed strideth Telka, bare toes asink in soft earth and bits
o’ green acling, bedamped, unto her snowy limbs. Smocked brown and
aproned blue, she seemeth but a bit o’ earth and sky alight amid the
field. Asplit at throat, the smock doth show a busom like to a sheen
o’ fleecy cloud aveiling o’er the sun’s first flush.
“Betanned the cheek, and tresses bleached by sun at every twist of
curl. Strong hands do clasp a branch long dead and dried, at end
bepronged, and casteth fresh-cut blades to heap.”
Such is Telka in appearance. “She seemeth but a bit o’ earth and sky
alight amid the field.” Seemeth, yes, but there is none of the sky in
Telka. She is of the earth, earthy, an intensely practical young woman,
industrious, economical, but with no sense of beauty whatever, no
imagination, no thought above the level of the ground. “I fashioned jugs
o’ clay,” her father complained, “and filled with bloom, and she
becracked their necks and kept the swill therein.” Add to this a hot
temper and a sharp tongue, and the character of Telka is revealed.
Franco, the lover, on the other hand, is an artist and poet, although a
field worker. He has been reared, as a foundling, by the friars in the
neighboring monastery, and they have taught him something of the arts of
mosaics and the illumination of missals. Between these two is a constant
conflict of the material and the spiritual, and the theme of the story
is the spiritual regeneration or development of Telka.
“See,” says Franco, “Yonder way-rose hath a bloom! She be a thrifty
wench and hath saved it from the spring.”
_Telka._—“I hate the thorned thing. Its barb hath pricked my flesh
and full many a rent doth show it in my smock.”
_Franco._—“Ah, Telka, thine eyes do look like yonder blue and
shimmer like to brooklet’s breast.”
_Telka._—“The brooklet be bestoned, and muddied by the swine. Thy
tung doth trip o’er pretty words.”
_Franco._—“But list, Telka, I would have thee drink from out my
cup!”
_Telka._—“Ah, show me then the cup.”
And Telka’s father, a wise old man, cautions Franco:
“Thee hadst best to take a warning, Franco. She be o’ the field and
rooted there; and thee o’ the field, but reaped, and bound to free
thee of the chaff by flailing of the world. She then would be to
thee but straw and waste to cast awhither.”
But an understanding of the nature of this strange tale and its peculiar
dialect requires a longer extract. The “Story of the Judge Bush” will
serve, better perhaps than anything else, to convey an idea of the
characters of Telka and Franco, as well as to illustrate the language;
and the episode is interesting in itself. The dialogue opens with Telka,
Franco and Marion on their way to Telka’s hut. Marion is Telka’s dearest
friend, although one gets a contrary impression from Telka’s caustic
remarks in this excerpt; but unlike Telka, she can understand and
appreciate the poetic temperament of Franco. To show her contempt for
Franco’s aspirations, Telka has taken his color pots and buried them in
a dung-heap, and this characteristic act is the foundation of the “Story
of the Judge Bush.”
(_Franco_) “Come, we do put us to a-dry. ’Tis sky aweep, and ’tis a
gray day from now. I tell thee, Telka, we then put us to hearth, and
spin ye shall. And thou, Marion, shalt bake an ash loaf and put o’
apples for to burst afore the fire. ’Tis chill, the whine-wind o’
the storm. We then shall spin a tale by turn; and Telka, lass, I
plucked a sweet bloom for thee to wear. Thine eye hath softened, eh,
my lass? Here, set thy nose herein and thou canst ne’er to think a
tho’t besoured.”
(_Telka_) “Ah, ’tis a wise lad I wed, who spendeth o’ his stacking
hours to pluck weed, and thee wouldst have me sniff the dung-dust
from their leaf. Do cast them whither, and ’pon thy smock do wipe
thy hand. It be my fancy for to waste the gray hours aside the
fire’s glow,—but, Franco, see ye, the wee pigs asqueal! ’Tis nay
liking the wet. Do fetch them hence. Here, Marion, cast my cape
about thee, since thou dost wear thy pettiskirt and Sabboth smock.
Gad! Blue maketh thee to match a plucked goose. Thy skin already
hath seamed, I vow. And, Marion, ’tis ’deed a flash to me thy tress
be red! Should I to bear a red top I’d cast it whither.”
(_Franco_) “Telka, Telka, drat thy barbed tung! Cast thou the bolt.
Gad! What a scent o’ browning joint!”
(_Telka_) “Do leave me for to turn the spit that I may lick the
finger-drip. Thy nose, Franco, doth trick thee. Thou canst sniff o’
dung-dust and scoff at drip. Go, roll the apples o’er in yonder
pile. They then would suit thee well!”
(_Franco_) “Telka, I bid thee to wash away such tunging. Here, I set
them so. Now do I to fetch thy wheel. Nay, Marion, do cast thy
blush. ’Tis but the Telka witch. Do thou to start thee at thy tale
aspin.”
(_Telka_) “Aye, Marion, thou then, since ne’er truth knoweth thee,
thou shouldst ne’er to lack for story. Story do I say? Aye, or lie,
’tis brothers they be. And, Franco, do thou to spin, ’twill suit thy
taste to feed ’pon maid’s fare. I be the spinner o’ the tale afirst.
But, Franco, I fain would have thee fetch a pair o’ harkers. Didst
deem to fret me that thee dumped the twain aneath the stack? Go thou
and fetch. ’Tis well that thee shouldst bed with swine lest thee be
preening for a swan.”
(_Franco_) “Ugh, Telka! Thou art like to a vat o’ wine awork.
Thou’lt fetch the swine do ye seek to company them.”
(_Telka_) “So well, Polly, I do go, for ’tis swine o’ worth amore
than color daub. Set thee, since thou be wench.”
(_Franco_) “Look ye, Telka, ’tis here I cast the cloak and show thee
metal abared. Thou hast ridden ’pon a high nag for days, and I do
kick his hock and set him at a limp. Do thou to clip thy words
ashort or I do cast a stone athro’ thy bubble.”
(_Telka_) “Ah, Franco, ’tis nay meaning! Put here. Do spin thy tale,
but do ye first to leave me fetch the wee-squeals. Then I do be a
tamed dove. See ye?”
(_Franco_) “Away, then, and fetch thee back ahurry.” (_Exit Telka._)
(_Franco_) “Marion, ’tis what that I should put as path to tread?
She be awronged but do I feed the fires, or put a stop?”
(_Marion_) “Franco, ’tis a pot and stew she loveth. Think ye to coax
thy dream-forms from out the pot? Telka arounded and awrathed be
like unto a thunder-storm, but Telka less the wrath and round, be
Winter’s dreary.”
(_Franco_) “Not so, Marion, I shall then call forth the ghosts o’
painted pots and touch the dreary abloom. Didst thou e’er to slit
thy eye and view thro’ afar? Dost thou then behold the motes? So,
then, shall I to view the Telka maid. Whist! Here she be! Aback,
Telka? Come, I itch for to spin a tale. Sit thee here and dry the
wet sparkles from thy curls. List, do!
“’Twere a peddle-packer who did stroll adown the blade-strewn path
along the village edge, abent. And brow-shagged eye did hide a
twinkle-mirth aneath——”
“E-e-ek! E-e-e-k!”
(_Telka_) “Look, Franco, see they ’e-e-e-k’ do I to pull their tails
uncurl!”
(_Franco_) “Do ye then wish thee, Telka, for to play upon their
one-string lyre, or do I put ahead?”
“Bestrung, aborder o’ the road, the cots send smoke-wreathes up to
join the cloud. ’Twere sup-hour, and drip afrazzle soundeth thro’
the doors beope, like to a water-cachit aslipping thro’ dry leaf to
pool aneath. Do I then put it clear?”
(_Telka_) “Yea, Franco, what hath he in his pack? I’d put a gander
for a frock!”
(_Marion_) “On, Franco, thy tale hath a lilt.”
(_Franco_) “Awag-walk he weaveth to the door afirst-hand. The wee
lads and lass do cluster ’bout the door, and twist atween their
finger and thumb their smock-hem, or chew thereon. But he doth seem
aloth to cast of pack or ope, and standeth at apeer to murmur—then
to cast.”
“E-e-e-k! E-e-e-k!”
(_Telka_) “Nay, Franco, ’twere not my doing, I swear. ’Twere he who
sat upon a fire-spark. Do haste! I hot for sight athin the pack.”
(_Franco_) “What, Telka, thou awag and pig asqueak, and me the tail!
Do put quiet!
“The dame and sire do step them out from gray innards o’ the hut,
and pack-tipper beggeth for a mug o’ porridge, and showeth o’ the
strand-bound pack. Wee lads and lass aquiver, tip-topple at a peep,
and dame doth fetch the brew, but shaketh nay at offering o’ gift,
and spake it so: ‘A porridge pot doth hold a mug, and one amore for
he who bideth ’thout a brew. Nay, drink ye, and thank the morrow’s
sun. ’Tis stony path thee trod, and dust choketh. Do rest, and bide
thee at our sill till weariness awarn away.’
“Think ye, Marion, that peddle-man did leave and cast not pence?
What think ye, Telka?”
(_Telka_) “I did hear thee tell o’ his fill, but tell thee o’ fill
o’ pack.”
(_Franco_) “A time, Telka. Nay, he did drink and left as price an
ancient jug o’ clay, and thick and o’ a weight, to thank and
wag-weave hence.”
(_Telka_) “Did he then to pack anew and off ’thout a peep?”
(_Franco_) “Yea, and dark did yawn and swallow him. But morrow
bringeth tale that peddle-packer had paid to each o’ huts a beg, and
what think ye? Left a jug where’er, he supped!”
(_Telka_) “’Twere a clayster, and the morrow findeth him afollow for
price, egh?”
(_Franco_) “Nay, Telka, not so. And jugs ashaken soundeth like to a
wine; but atip did show nay drop. Marion, do tweak the Telka—she be
aslumber.”
(_Marion_) “Wake thee, Telka, the jugs be now to crack.”
(_Telka_) “Nay, ’tis a puddle o’ a tale—a packster and a
strand-bound pack, aweary.”
(_Franco_) “But list thee! For ’twere eve that found the dames awag.
For tho’ they set the jugs aright, there be but dust where they did
stand. Yea, all, Telka maid, save that the peddle-man did give to
dame at first hand. The gabble put it so, that ’twere the porridge
begged that dames did fetch but for a hope o’ price, where jugs
ashrunk.”
(_Telka_) “But ’twere such a scurvey, Franco! I wage the jug aleft
doth leak. What think ye I be caring ’bout jug or peddle-packer?”
(_Marion_) “Snip short thy word, Telka. Leave Franco for to tell. I
be aprick for scratch to ease the itch o’ wonder. On, lad, and tie
the ends o’ weave-strand.”
(_Franco_) “’Tis told the dame did treasure o’ the jug, and sire did
shew abroad the wonder, and all did list unto the swish o’ ’nothing
wine,’ and thirsted for asup, and each did tip its crook’d neck and
shake, but ne’er a drop did slip it through. And wonder, Marion, the
sides did sweat like to a damp within! So ’twere. The townsmen shook
awag their heads and feared the witch-work or the wise man’s cunger,
and they did bid the sire to dig a pit and put therein the jug.”
(_Telka_) “’Twere waste they wrought, I vow, for should ye crack
away its neck ’twould then be fit for holding o’ the swill. There be
a pair ahind the stack.”
(_Franco_) “Nay, Telka, not as this, for they did dig a pit and
plant jug therein, and morrow showed from out the fresh-turned earth
a bush had sprung, and on its every branch a bud o’ many colored hue
alike to rainbow’s robe. And lo, the dames and sires did cluster
’bout, and each did pluck a twig aladen with the bud, but as ’twere
snapped, what think ye? There be in the hand a naught—save when the
dame who asked not price did pluck. And ’tis told that to this day
the townsmen fetch unto the bush and force apluck do they make
question o’ their brotherman. And so ’tis with he who fashions o’
the rainbow’s robe a world to call his own, and fetcheth to the
grown bush his brother for to shew, and he seeth not, ’tis so he
judge.”
(_Telka_) “O, thou art a story-spinner o’ a truth, and peddle-packer
too, egh? And thou dost deem that thou hast planted o’ thy pot to
force thy bush by which ye judge. Paugh! Thou art a fool, Franco,
and thy pots o’ color be not aworth thy pains. So thou dost think
then I be plucking o’ naught aside thy bush. Well, I do tell thee
this. Thy pots ne’er as the jug shall spring. Nay, for morn found me
adig, and I did cast them here to the fire, afearing they should
haunt.”
(_Franco_) “’Tis nuff, Telka, I leave them to the flame. But thou
shouldst know the bush abud doth show in every smouldering blaze.”