Chapter 29

On the quarterdeck of the good ship _Pinafore_, along about noon, on a brilliant sunny day, the sailors, in charge of the Boatswain, are polishing up the brasswork of the ship, splicing rope, and doing general housekeeping, for the excellent reason that the high cockalorum of the navy--the Admiral, Sir Joseph Porter--together with all his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, is expected on board about luncheon time. When an Admiral goes visiting either on land or sea, there are certain to be "doings," and there are going to be mighty big doings on this occasion. If sailors were ever proud of a ship, those of the _Pinafore_ are they. The _Pinafore_ was, in fact, the dandiest thing afloat. No sailor ever did anything without singing about it, and as they "Heave ho, my hearties"--or whatever it is sailors do--they sing their minds about the _Pinafore_ in a way to leave no mistake as to their opinions.

We sail the ocean blue, And our saucy ship's a beauty. We're sober men and true, And attentive to our duty.

When the balls whistle free, O'er the bright blue sea, We stand to our guns all day. When at anchor we ride, On the Portsmouth tide, We've plenty of time for play--Ahoy, Ahoy!

And then, while they are polishing at top speed, on board scrambles Little Buttercup. Naturally, being a bumboat woman, she had her basket on her arm.

"Little Buttercup!" the crew shouts; they know her well on pay-day.

"Yes--here's an end at last of all privation," she assures them, spreading out her wares, and this ridiculous "little" Buttercup sings:

[Music:

I'm called little Buttercup, Dear little Buttercup, Though I could never tell why, But still I'm called Buttercup, Poor little Buttercup, Sweet little Buttercup I.]

I've snuff and tobaccy, And excellent jacky; I've scissors and watches and knives. I've ribbons and laces To set off the faces Of pretty young sweethearts and wives. I've treacle and toffee, I've tea and I've coffee, Soft tommy and succulent chops, I've chickens and conies, I've pretty polonies, And excellent peppermint drops--

which would imply that Little Buttercup might supply on demand anything from a wrought-iron gate to a paper of toothpicks.

"Well, Little Buttercup, you're the rosiest and roundest beauty in all the navy, and we're always glad to see you."

"The rosiest and roundest, eh? Did it ever occur to you that beneath my gay exterior a fearful tragedy may be brewing?" she asks in her most mysterious tones.

"We never thought of that," the Boatswain reflects.

"I have thought of it often," a growling voice interrupts, and everybody looks up to see Dick Deadeye. Dick is a darling, if appearances count. He was named Deadeye because he _had_ a dead-eye, and he is about as sinister and ominous a creature as ever made a comic opera shiver.

"You _look_ as if you had often thought of it," somebody retorts, as all move away from him in a manner which shows Dick to be no favourite.

"You don't care much about me, I should say?" Dick offers, looking about at his mates.

"Well, now, honest, Dick, ye can't just expect to be loved, with such a name as Deadeye."

Little Buttercup, who has been offering her wares to the other sailors, now observes a very good-looking chap coming on deck.

"Who is that youth, whose faltering feet with difficulty bear him on his course?" Buttercup asks--which is quite ridiculous, if you only dissect her language! Those "faltering feet which with difficulty bear him on his course" belong to Ralph Rackstraw, who is about the most dashing sailor in the fleet. The moment Buttercup hears his name, she gasps to music:

"Remorse, remorse," which is very, very funny indeed, since there appears to be nothing at all remarkable or remorseful about Ralph Rackstraw. But Ralph immediately begins to sing about a nightingale and a moon's bright ray and several other things most inappropriate to the occasion, and winds up with "He sang, Ah, well-a-day," in the most pathetic manner. The other sailors repeat after him, "Ah, well-a-day," also in a very pathetic manner, and Ralph thanks them in the politest, most heartbroken manner, by saying:

I know the value of a kindly chorus, But choruses yield little consolation When we have pain and sorrow, too, before us! I love, and love, alas! above my station.

Which lets the cat out of the bag, at last! "He loves above his station!" Buttercup sighs, and pretty much the entire navy sighs. Those sailors are very sentimental chaps, very!--They are supposed to have a sweetheart in every port, though, to be sure, none of them are likely be above anybody's station. But their sighs are an encouragement to Ralph to tell all about his sweetheart, and he immediately does so. He sings rapturously of her appearance and of how unworthy he is. The crew nearly melts to tears during the recital. Just as Ralph has revealed that his love is Josephine, the Captain's daughter, and all the crew but Dick Deadeye are about to burst out weeping, the Captain puts in an appearance.

"My gallant crew,--good morning!" he says amiably, in that condescending manner quite to be expected of a Captain. He inquires nicely about the general health of the crew, and announces that he is in reasonable health himself. Then with the best intentions in the world, he begins to throw bouquets at himself:

I am the Captain of the _Pinafore_,

he announces, and the crew returns:

And a right good Captain too.

You're very, very good, And be it understood, I command a right good crew,

he assures them.

Tho' related to a peer, I can hand, reef and steer, Or ship a selvagee; I'm never known to quail At the fury of a gale,-- And I'm never, never sick at sea!

But this is altogether too much. The crew haven't summered and wintered with this gallant Captain for nothing.

"What, never?" they admonish him.

"No,--never."

"What!--NEVER?" and there is no mistaking their emphasis.

"Oh, well--hardly ever!" he admits, trimming his statement a little: and thus harmony is restored. Now when he has thus agreeably said good morning to his crew, they leave him to meditate alone, and no one but Little Buttercup remains. For some reason she perceives that the Captain is sad. He doesn't look it, but the most comic moments in comic opera are likely enough to be the saddest. Hence Little Buttercup reminds him that she is a mother (she doesn't look it) and therefore to be confided in.

"If you must know, Little Buttercup, my daughter Josephine! the fairest flower that ever blossomed on ancestral timber"--which is very neat indeed--"has received an offer of marriage from Sir Joseph Porter. It is a great honour, Little Buttercup, but I am sorry to say my daughter doesn't seem to take kindly to it."

"Ah, poor Sir Joseph, I know perfectly what it means to love not wisely but too well," she remarks, sighing tenderly and looking most sentimentally at the Captain. She does this so capably that as she goes off the deck the Captain looks after her and remarks abstractedly:

"A plump and pleasing person!" At this blessed minute the daughter Josephine, who does not love in the right place, and who is beloved from all quarters at once, wanders upon the deck with a basket of flowers in her hand. Then she begins to sing very distractedly about loving the wrong man, and that "hope is dead," and several other pitiable things, which are very funny. The Captain, her father, is watching her, and presently he admonishes her to look her best, and to stop sighing all over the ship--at least till her high-born suitor, Sir Joseph Porter, shall have made his expected visit.

"You must look your best to-day, Josephine, because the Admiral is coming on board to ask your hand in marriage." At this Josephine nearly drops into the sea.

"Father, I esteem, I reverence Sir Joseph but alas I do not love him. I have the bad taste instead to love a lowly sailor on board your own ship. But I shall stifle my love. He shall never know it though I carry it to the tomb."

"That is precisely the spirit I should expect to behold in my daughter, my dear, and now take Sir Joseph's picture and study it well. I see his barge approaching. If you gaze upon the pictured noble brow of the Admiral, I think it quite likely that you will have time to fall madly in love with him before he can throw a leg over the rail, my darling. Anyway, do your best at it."

"My own, thoughtful father," Josephine murmurs while a song of Sir Joseph's sailors is heard approaching nearer and nearer. Then the crew of H.M.S. _Pinafore_ take up the shout, and sing a rousing welcome to Sir Joseph and all his party. Almost immediately Sir Joseph and his numerous company of sisters and cousins and aunts prance upon the shining deck. They have a gorgeous time of it.

"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" the Captain and his crew cry, and then Sir Joseph informs everybody of his greatness in this song:

[Music:

I am the monarch of the sea, The ruler of the Queen's Navee, Whose praise Great Britain loudly chants;

COUSIN HEBE.

And we are his Sisters and his Cousins and his Aunts; His Sisters and his Cousins and his Aunts!]

When at anchor here I ride, My bosom swells with pride, And I snap my fingers at the foeman's taunts--

The chorus assures everybody that

So do his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.

In short, while we learn from Sir Joseph that he is a tremendous fellow, we also learn, from his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, that they are whatever he is. Among other things he tells precisely how he came to be so great, and gives what is presumably a recipe for similar greatness:

When I was a lad I served a term As office boy to an attorney's firm. I cleaned the window and I swept the floor, And I polished up the handle of the big front door.

I polished up the handle so carefullee, That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

As office boy I made such a mark That they gave me the post of a junior clerk. I served the wits with a smile so bland, And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.

I copied all the letters in a hand so free, That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

In serving writs I made such a name That an articled clerk I soon became. I wore clean collars and a brand new suit For the pass examination at the Institute.

And that pass examination did so well for me That now I am the ruler of the Queen's Navee.

This was only a part of the recipe, but the rest of it was just as profound. After he is through exploiting himself, he bullies the Captain a little, and then his eye alights on Ralph Rackstraw.

"You are a remarkably fine fellow, my lad," he says to Ralph quite patronizingly.

"I am the very finest fellow in the navy," Ralph returns, honouring the spirit of the day by showing how entirely satisfied with himself he is.

"How does your Captain behave himself?" Sir Joseph asks.

"Very well, indeed, thank you. I am willing to commend him," Ralph returns.

"Ah--that is delightful--and so, with your permission, Captain, I will have a word with you in private on a very sentimental subject--in short, upon an affair of the heart."

"With joy, Sir Joseph--and, Boatswain, in honour of this occasion, see that extra grog is served to the crew at seven bells."

"I will condescend to do so," the Boatswain assures the Captain, whereupon the Captain, Sir Joseph, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts leave the deck.

"You all seem to think a deal on yourselves," Dick Deadeye growls, as he watches these performances.

"We do, we do--aren't we British sailors? Doesn't the entire universe depend on us for its existence? We are fine fellows--Sir Joseph has just told us so."

"Yes--we may aspire to anything--" Ralph interpolates excitedly. He had begun to think that Josephine may not be so unattainable after all.

"The devil you can," responds Dick. "Only I wouldn't let myself get a-going if I were you. What if ye got going and couldn't stop?" the one-eyed gentleman inquires solicitously.

"Oh, stow it!" the crew shouts. "If we hadn't more self-respect 'n you've got, we'd put out both our eyes," the estimable crew declares, and then retires to compliment itself,--that is, all but Ralph. He leans upon the bulwark and looks pensive; and at intervals he sighs. While he is sighing his very loudest, Josephine enters. Sir Joseph has been making love to her, and she is telling herself and everybody who happens to be leaning against the bulwark sighing pensively, that the Admiral's attentions oppress her. This is Ralph's opportunity. He immediately tells her that he loves her, and she tells him to "refrain, audacious tar," but he does not refrain in the least. In short he decides upon the spot to blow out his brains. He pipes all hands on deck to see him do it, and they come gladly.

Now Ralph gets out his pistol, he sings a beautiful farewell, the Chorus turns away weeping--the sailors have just cleaned up and they cannot bear the sight of the deck all spoiled with a British sailor's brains so soon after scrubbing! Ralph lifts the pistol, takes aim--and Josephine rushes on.

"Oh, stay your hand--I love you," she cries, and in less than a minute everybody is dancing a hornpipe, except Deadeye. Deadeye is no socialist. He really thinks this equality business which makes it possible for a common sailor to marry the Captain's daughter is most reprehensible. But nobody notices Dick. Everybody is quite happy and satisfied now, and they plan for the wedding. Dick plans for revenge.

He goes apart to think matters over. The situation quite shocks his sense of propriety.

Meantime the crew and Ralph and Josephine decide that:

This very night, With bated breath And muffled oar, Without a light, As still as death, We'll steal ashore. A clergyman Shall make us one At half-past ten, And then we can Return, for none Can part us then.

Thus the matter is disposed of.