Читать книгу The Pinafore Picture Book; The Story of HMS Pinafore - W.S. Gilbert - Страница 5

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 and very good coffee,

“Soft Tommy” and nice mutton chops,

I’ve chickens and conies and dainty polonies

And excellent peppermint drops.

Then buy of your Buttercup—dear Little Buttercup,

Sailors should never be shy—

So, buy of your Buttercup—poor Little Buttercup—

Come, of your Buttercup buy!

“Thank goodness, that’s over!” whispered the sailors to each other with an air of relief. You see, Little Buttercup always sang that song whenever she came on board, and after a few months people got tired of it. Besides not being really popular on account of her aggravating tongue, she sold for the most part things that the liberal Captain provided freely for his crew out of his own pocket-money. They had soup, fish, an entrée, a joint, an apple pudding, or a jam tart every day, besides eggs and ham for breakfast, muffins for tea, and as many scissors, pocket-knives, and cigars as they chose to ask for. So Little Buttercup was not even useful to them, and they only tolerated her because they were gallant British Tars who couldn’t be rude to a lady if they tried. In point of fact they had tried on several occasions to say rude and unpleasant things to ladies, but as they had invariably failed in the attempt they at last gave it up as hopeless, and determined to be quietly polite under all possible circumstances. So they asked her to sit down, and take a strawberry ice and a wafer, which she did rather sulkily as no one seemed to want any of the things she had to sell.

“Tell us a story, Little Buttercup,” said Bill Bobstay. Bill was a boatswain’s mate, who, besides being busily occupied in embroidering his name in red worsted on a canvas “nighty case,” generally took the lead in all the amusements of the dog-watch. “You can if you try, I’m sure, Miss.”

“You’re quite right,” said Little Buttercup; “I could tell you stories about yourselves which would make you all wish you had never been born. I know who takes sugar-plums to bed with him” (looking at one), “and who doesn’t say his prayers” (looking at another), “and who sucks his thumb in his hammock” (looking at the third), “and who makes ugly faces at his Captain when his back’s turned” (looking at a fourth), “and who does his front hair with patent curlers” (looking at a fifth), “and who puts raspberry jam into his messmates’ boots” (looking at a sixth).

All the sailors referred to looked very hot and uncomfortable, for their consciences told them that Little Buttercup had hit off their various weaknesses with surprising accuracy.

“Let’s change the subject,” said Bill Bobstay (he was the one who ate sugar-plums in bed), “we all have our faults. But, after all, we’re not so bad as poor Dick Deadeye—that’s one comfort!”

“I KNOW WHO TAKES SUGAR-PLUMS TO BED WITH HIM”

Now this was very unjust on the part of Mr. Bobstay. Dick Deadeye, who sat apart from the others, busy manicuring his nails, was one of the ugliest persons who ever entered the Navy. His face had been so knocked about and burnt and scarred in various battles and from falling down from aloft, that not one feature was in its proper place. The wags among the crew pretended that his two eyes, his nose, and his mouth, had been playing “Puss in the Corner,” and that his left eye, having been unable to find a corner that was unoccupied, was consequently left in the middle. Of course this was only their nonsense, but it shows what a very plain man he must have been. He was hump-backed, and bandy-legged, and round-shouldered, and hollow-chested, and severely pitted with small-pox marks. He had broken both his arms, both his legs, his two collar-bones, and all his ribs, and looked just as if he had been crumpled up in the hand of some enormous giant. He ought properly to have been made a Greenwich Pensioner long ago, but Captain Corcoran was too kind-hearted to hint that Dick Deadeye was deformed, and so he was allowed to continue to serve his country as a man-o’-war’s man as best he could. Now Dick Deadeye was generally disliked because he was so unpleasant to look at, but he was really one of the best and kindest and most sensible men on board the Pinafore, and this shows how wrong and unjust it is to judge unfavourably of a man because he is ugly and deformed. I myself am one of the plainest men I have ever met, and at the same time I don’t know a more agreeable old gentleman. But so strong was the prejudice against poor Dick Deadeye, that nothing he could say or do appeared to be right. The worst construction was placed upon his most innocent remarks, and his noblest sentiments were always attributed to some unworthy motive. They had no idea what the motive was, but they felt sure there was a motive, and that he ought to be ashamed of it.

Dick Deadeye sighed sadly when Mr. Bobstay spoke so disparagingly of him. He wiped a tear from his eye (as soon as he had found that organ), and then continued to manicure his poor old cracked and broken nails in silence.

“What’s the matter with the man?” said Little Buttercup; “isn’t he well?”

“Aye, aye, lady,” said Dick, “I’m as well as ever I shall be. But I am ugly, ain’t I?”

“Well,” said little Buttercup, “you are certainly plain.”

“And I’m three-cornered, ain’t I?” said he.

“You are rather triangular.”

“Ha! ha!” said Dick, laughing bitterly. “That’s it. I’m ugly, and they hate me for it!”

Bill Bobstay was sorry he had spoken so unkindly.

“Well, Dick,” said he, putting down his embroidery, “we wouldn’t go to hurt any fellow creature’s feelings, but, setting personal appearance on one side, you can’t expect a person with such a name as ‘Dick Deadeye’ to be a popular character—now, can you?”

“No,” said Dick, sadly, “it’s asking too much. It’s human nature, and I don’t complain!”

At this moment, a beautiful tenor voice was heard singing up in the rigging:

The Nightingale

Loved the pale moon’s bright ray

And told his tale

In his own melodious way,

He sang, “Ah, Well-a-day!”

The lowly vale

For the mountain vainly sighed;

To his humble wail

The echoing hills replied,

They sang, “Ah, Well-a-day!”

“Who is the silly cuckoo who is tweetling up aloft?” asked Little Buttercup, rather rudely, as she scooped up the last drops of her ice.

“That?” said Bobstay, “Why, that’s only poor Ralph Rackstraw who’s in love with Miss Josephine.”

“Ralph Rackstraw!” exclaimed little Buttercup, “Ha! I could tell you a good deal about him if I chose. But I won’t—not yet!”

At this point Ralph descended the rigging and joined his messmates on deck.

“Ah, my lad,” said one of them, “you’re quite right to come down—for you’ve climbed too high. Our worthy Captain’s child won’t have nothing to say to a poor chap like you.”

All the sailors said “Hear, hear,” and nodded their heads simultaneously, like so many china mandarins in a tea-shop.

“No, no,” said Dick Deadeye, “Captains’ daughters don’t marry common sailors.”

Now this was a very sensible remark, but coming from ugly Dick Deadeye it was considered to be in the worst possible taste. All the sailors muttered, “Shame, shame!”

“Dick Deadeye,” said Bobstay, “those sentiments of yours are a disgrace to our common nature.”

Dick shrugged his left eyebrow. He would have shrugged his shoulders if he could, but they wouldn’t work that way; so, always anxious to please, he did the best he could with his left eyebrow, but even that didn’t succeed in conciliating his messmates.

“It’s very strange,” said Ralph, “that the daughter of a man who hails from the quarterdeck may not love another who lays out on the fore-yard arm. For a man is but a man, whether he hoists his flag at the main-truck, or his slacks on the main deck.”

This speech of Ralph’s calls for a little explanation, for he expressed himself in terms which an ordinary landsman would not understand. The quarterdeck is the part of the ship reserved for officers, and the fore-yard arm is a horizontal spar with a sail attached to it, and which crosses the front mast of a ship, and sailors are said to “lay out” on it when they get on to it for the purpose of increasing or reducing sail. Then again, the main-truck is the very highest point of the middle mast, and it is from that point that the Captain flies his flag, while a sailor is said to “hoist his slacks” when he hitches up the waist-band of his trousers to keep them in their proper place. Now you know all about that.

“Ah,” said Dick Deadeye, “it’s a queer world!” “Dick Deadeye,” said Mr. Bobstay, “I have no desire to press hardly on any human being, but such a wicked sentiment is enough to make an honest sailor shudder.”

And all his messmates began to shudder violently to show what honest sailors they were and how truly Bobstay had spoken; but at that moment the ship’s bell sounding four strokes gave them notice that the dog-watch had come to an end. So the crew put away their manicure boxes and embroidered “nighty cases” and dispersed to their several duties.