Part 7

“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.”

(_Telka_) “See, Franco, I be yet neck ahead, for I do spat upon the flame and lo, thy bush be naught!”

(_Franco_) “Aye, ’tis so, but there be ahid a place thou ne’er hast seen. Therein I put what be mine own—the love for them. Thou art a butterfly, Telka, abeating o’ thy wing upon a thistle-leaf. Do hover ’bout the blooms thou knowest best and leave dream-bush and thistle-leaf.”

It is a remarkable story. Many lines are gems of wit or wisdom or beauty, and it contains some exquisite poetry. There are many characters in it, all of them lovable but Telka, and she becomes so ere the end.

A curious and interesting fact in this connection is that after beginning this story Patience used its peculiar form of speech in her conversation and in her poems. Previously, as I have pointed out, there was a natural and consistent difference between her speech and her writings, and it would seem that in this change she would show that she is not subject to any rules, nor limited to the dialect of any period or any locality. Scattered through this present volume are poems, prose pieces and bits of her conversation, in which the curious and frequent use of the prefix a-, the abbreviation of the word “of” and the strange twists of phrase of the Telka story are noticeable. All of these were received after this story was begun.

* * * * *

But there is another form of prose composition that Patience has given to us. While she is writing a story she does not confine herself to that work, but precedes or follows it with a bit of gossip, a personal message, a poem or something else. Sometimes she stops in the midst of her story to deliver something entirely foreign to it that comes into her mind. During one week, while “Telka” was being received, she presented three parables, all in the peculiar language of that story. I reproduce them here and leave it to the reader to ponder o’er their meaning.

“Long, yea, long agone, aside a wall atilt who joined unto a brother-wall and made atween a gap apoint abacked, there did upon the every day, across-leged, sit a bartmaker, amid his sacks aheaped. And ne’er a buy did tribesmen make. Nay, but ’twere the babes who sought the bartman, and lo, he shutteth both his eyes and babes do pilfer from the sacks and feed thereon, till sacks asink. And still at crosslegs doth he sit.

“Yea, and days do follow days till Winter setteleth ’pon his locks its snow. Aye, and lo, at rise o’ sun ’pon such an day as had followed day since first he sat, they did see that he had ashrunked and they did wag that ’twere the wasting o’ his days at sitting at crossleg.

“And yet the babes did fetch for feast and wert fed. Till last a day did dawn and gap ashowed it empty and no man woed; but babes did sorry ’bout the spot ’till tribesmen marveled and fetched alongside and coaxed with sweets their word. But no man found answer in their prate. And they did ope remaining sacks and lo, there be anaught save dry fruit, and babes did reach forth for it and wert fed, and more, it did nurture them, and they went forth alater to the fields o’ earth astrengthened and fed ’pon—what, Brother? List ye. ’Pon truth.”

* * * * *

“There be aside the market’s place a merchant and a brother merchant. Aye, and one did put price ahigh, and gold aclinketh and copper groweth mold atween where he did store. And his brother giveth measure full and more, for the pence o’ him who offereth but pence, at measure that runneth o’er to full o’ gold’s price.

“And lo, they do each to buy o’ herds, and he who hath full price buyeth but the shrunk o’ herd, and he who hath little, buyeth the full o’ herd. And time maketh full the sacks o’ him who hoardeth gold, and layeth at aflat the sacks o’ him who maketh poor price. And lo, he who hath plenty hoardeth more, and he who had little buyed o’ seed and sowed and reaped therefrom. And famine crept it nearer and fringed ’pon the land and smote the land o’ him who asacketh o’ gold and crept it ’pon the land o’ him o’ pence.

“And herds did low o’ hunger and he who hath but gold hath naught to feed thereon. For sacks achoked ’pon gold. And he who had but pence did sack but grain and grass and fed the herd. And lo, they fattened and did fill the emptied sacks with gold, while he who hath naught but gold did sick, and famine wasted o’ his herd and famine’s sun did rise to shine ’pon him astricken ’pon gold asacked.”

* * * * *

“There wert a man and his brother and they wrought them unalike. Yea, and one did fashion from wood, and ply till wonderwork astood, a temple o’ wood. And his brother fashioneth o’ reeds and worketh wonder baskets. And he who wrought o’ wood scoffeth. And the tribesmen make buy o’ baskets and wag that ’tis a-sorry wrought the temple, and spake them that the Lord would smite, and lay it low. For he who wrought did think him o’ naught save the high and wide o’ it, and looked not at its strength or yet its stand ’pon earth. And they did turn the baskets ’bout and put to strain, and lo, they did hold. And it were the tribesmen, who shook their heads and murmured, ‘Yea, yea, they be a goodly.’

“So ’tis; he who doth fashion from wood o’ size doth prosper not, and he who doth fashion o’ reed and small, doth thrive verily.”

These are all somewhat cryptic, although their interpretation is not difficult, but that which follows on the magic of a laugh needs no explanation. “I do fashion out a tale for babes,” said Patience, when she presented this parable of the fairy’s wand, and in it she gives expression to another one of her characteristics, one that is intensely human, the love of laughter, which she seems to like to hear and often to provoke.

“Lo, at a time thou knowest not, aye, I, thy handmaid, knowest not, there wert born unto the earth a babe. And lo, the dame o’ this babe wert but a field’s woman. And lo, days and days did pass until the fullness of the babe’s days, and it stood in beauty past word o’me.

“Yea, and there wert a noble, and he did pass, and lo, his brow was darked, and smile had forsook his lips. And he came unto the cot and there stood the babe, who wert now a maid o’ lovely. And he spaked unto her and said:

“‘Come thou, and unto the lands of me shall we make way. Thou art not o’ the fields, but for the nobles.’

“And she spake not unto his word. And lo, the mother of the babe came forth and this man told unto her of this thing, that her babe wert not of the field but for the nobled. And, at the bidding of the noble, she spake, yea, the maid should go unto his lands.

“And time and time after the going, lo, no word came unto the mother. And within the lands of the noble the maid lived, and lo, the days wert sorry, and the paths held but shadows, and nay smiles shed gold unto the hours. And she smiled that this noble did offer unto her much of royal stores. Yea, gems, and gold, and all a maid might wish, and she looked in pity unto the noble and spake:

“‘What hast thou? Lo, thou hast brought forth of thy store and given unto me, and what doth it buy? Thy lips are ever sorry and thy hours dark. Then take thou these gifts and keep within such an day as thine, for, hark ye, my dame, the field’s woman, hath given unto me that which setteth at a naught thy gifts; for hark ye: mid thy dark o’ sorry I shall spill a laugh, and it be a fairies’ wand, and turneth dust to gold.’

“And she fled unto the sun’s paths of the fields.

“Verily do I to say unto thee, this, the power of the fairies’ wand, is thine, thy gift of thy field-mother, Earth. Then cast out that which earth-lands do offer unto thee and flee with thy gift.”

It is somewhat difficult to select an ending for this chapter on the prose of Patience: the material for it is so abundant and so varied, but this “Parable of the Cloak” may perhaps form a fitting finish:

“There wert a man, and lo, he did to seek and quest o’ sage, that which he did mouth o’ermuch. And lo, he did to weave o’ such an robe, and did to clothe himself therein. And lo, ’twer sun ashut away, and cool and heat and bright and shade.

“And lo, still did he to draw ’bout him the cloak, and ’twer o’ the mouthings o’ the sage. And lo, at a day ’twer sent abroad that Truth should stalk ’pon Earth, and man, were he to look him close, shouldst see.

“And lo, the man did draw ’bout him the cloak, and did to wag him ‘Nay’ and ‘Nay, ’twer truth the sages did to mouth and I did weave athin the cloak o’ me.’