Then she looked at me, her rare and somewhat abashed2 smile on her face.
“Birds and stars and children and God in the world,” she said, “and hark at me talking like that. Honest, I don’t care where you seat ’em.”
That is like Calliope. And that is like the village. Blunt and sometimes bitter speech there is, and now and again what we gently call “words”; but the faith of my experience is that these are facile, and need never trouble one. These are born of circumscription3, of little areas, of teasing tasks, of lack of exercise, of that curious mingling4 which we call social life; but any one who takes seriously our faint feuds5 or even our narrow judgments6 does not know and love the Middle Western villages, nor understand that seeds and buds are not the norm of bloom. Instance, if you will, this case and that to show the contrary. But the days of pioneering, when folk drew together in defense7, left us a heritage which no isolated8 instances can nullify. On the whole, we are all friends.
There could be no better basis for the changes that are upon us. The new ideals of the great world are here, in our little world. Though there is an impression to the contrary, the Zeitgeist is not attracted exclusively to cities. From design in our County Fair fancy work to our attitude toward the home, new things are come upon us. To be sure, we do not trust our power. We cling to our “Well, you can’t change human nature” as to a recipe, though it does change before our eyes. If it were only that impossible plaques9 and pillows have given place to hammered brass10 and copper11, our disregard might be warrantable. But now when one praises home life, home cooking, home training, home influence, we are beginning to say: “Whose home?” And the sentimentalities do not give place to reason without healthful cause. And when of late, from the barber’s children’s lunch basket, the young professor of our village took out the heavy, sunken biscuits of the barber’s new wife and threw them in the ash box, even the barber’s wrathful imprecations could not draw our sympathy to the side of the hearth12, where once it would have stood upholding domestic unsanctities.
To be sure, in the village the old confusion between motherhood and domestic service still maintains. But both in cities and in villages perhaps it is to-morrow rather than to-day that we shall see women free from kitchen drudgery13, and home economics a paid profession, such as nursing has lately become. Though when one of us said this, at a meeting of the Friendship Village Married Ladies’ Cemetery14 Improvement Sodality, one of us rejoined:
“What! Do you mean that a womanly woman wants any occupation besides housekeeping? Why, I love my dishpan!”
And the burst of merriment which followed was almost a surprise to those who laughed, and to whom this extreme statement had unwittingly revealed the whole absurdity15.
Already in the village it is almost impossible to get maids, even though many have entirely16 ceased to say “hired girl.” Night after night we scan the Friendship Village Daily Paper (who shall read that name and not admit that we live close to the essentials?) and see the same half dozen “Wanted ... for General Housework” appeals drearily17 repeated. And while some of us merely wonder how “Mis’ Whatever is getting along, and the weather what it is, and her baby not through the second summer,” there are those of us who feel secret thanksgiving in the fact that we, too, are painfully playing our part in forcing the recognition of domestic service as an eight-hour-a-day profession. And “But who would answer the bell evenings?” and “Why, none of us could afford to keep help then!” sound as unreasoning as they did when apprentices18 first changed to clerks.
Even the village theology broadens before our eyes. Few can be found who do not admit the anomaly of denominationalism, even while they cling to it. And it is no longer considered reprehensible19 to state openly, as well as to believe secretly, that the truth about living which Jesus taught has been told in certain forms whose ancient interpretation20 no thinking person holds. Something of the glory of the God-ward striving of all religions is felt, here and there, in the village, and now and then, in a village sitting-room21, you come on some one who is cherishing a vision like that of John on Patmos, and saying nothing.
To be sure, one village theologian was heard to cry:
“Empty or full, I tell you them churches are all necessary, every one of ’em. And if we had more kinds of ’em, then they’d be necessary too.”
But there seemed to be something the matter with this. And on the whole there is more food for thought in another observation from among us:
“We always used to think Drug-store Curtsie was an infidel. And, land, there he is making the best State Senator we ever had. I guess we exaggerated it some, maybe.”
We are beginning to be ashamed of charity and to see that our half dozen dependent families need not have been dependent, if their own gifts had been developed and their industry had not been ill-directed or exploited. And if that is true of the Rickers and the Hennings and the Hasketts and the Bettses and the Doles22, we begin to suspect that it may be true of all poverty. We are beginning to be ashamed of many another inefficiency23 and folly24 which anciently we took for granted as necessary evils. Of his own product the village brewer25 says openly: “The time is coming when they won’t let us make it. And I don’t care how soon it comes.” And this in the village, where we used to laugh at Keddie Bingy, drunken and singing on Daphne Street, and whose wife we censured26 for leaving him to shift for himself!
We are coming to applaud divorce when shame or faithlessness or disease or needless invalidism27 have attended marriage, and for a village woman to continue to earn her livelihood28 by marriage under these circumstances is now to her a disgrace hardly less evident than that of her city sister. We continue to cover up far too much, just as in the cities they cover too much. But we do mention openly things which in the old days we whispered or guessed at or whose peril29 we never knew at all. And when, by a visiting lecturer, more is admitted than we would ourselves admit, we are splendidly, if softly, triumphant30 with: “That couldn’t have been done here twenty years ago.”
To be sure, with some of the new terminology31, we have had desperate battle.
”I don’t like them eugenics,” one of us said, “I know two of ’em that’s separated.”
Yet on the whole we tell one another that our new state law is “going to be” a good thing.
Inevitably32, then, romance among us is becoming something else. The village girl no longer waits at the gate in a blue sash. There are no gates. She is wearing belts. And I heard one of the girls of the village say:
“A girl used to act so silly about being happy. What did she mean by that—being made love to forever by somebody forever in love with her? Well, I want something more than that in mine.”
And there, in her vague, slang speech lay the outline of the shadow that is pointing women to share in the joys of the race and the delight of a chosen occupation. And though not many of us here in the village will say as much as that, yet genetically33 the thing goes on: Women choose occupations, develop gifts, sail for Europe, refuse “good offers” even if these do hold out “support,” or come out with fine, open hatred34 of the menial tasks which their “womanliness” once forbade them to disavow. And beyond, in all relevancy, there opens the knowledge that motherhood is a thing to be trained for, as much as stenography35!
Yet meadows sweet with hay, and twilights, and firelight, and the home (around the evening lamp) have not passed; but they lie close to a Romance of Life now coming fast upon us, away here in the village—a Romance of Life as much finer than sentimentality as modern romance is saner36 than chivalry37.
In spite of our Armory38 and our strong young guard, we are quite simply for peace, and believe that it will come. And because we have among us a few of other races whom we understand, race prejudice is a thing which never troubles us; and I think that we could slip into the broadened race concept without realizing that anything had happened. The only thunder of change which does not echo here is the thunder of the industrial conflict. But although most of the village takes sides quite na?vely with the newspaper headlines, yet that is chiefly because the thing lies beyond our experience, and because—like the dwellers39 in cities—we lack imagination to visualize40 what is occurring. As far as our experience goes, the most of us are democratic. But when there arises an issue transcending41 our experience, our tendency is to uncompromising conservatism. And there is hope in the fact that politically many of us are free and think for ourselves, and smile at the abuse that is heaped upon great leaders, and understand with thanksgiving—away here in the village—how often the demagogues of to-day are the demi-gods of to-morrow.
We well know that with all this changing attitude, we are losing a certain homely42 flavor. Old possibilities, especially of humor, no longer have incidence. Our sophistication somehow includes our laughter. In these days, in what village could it happen, at the funeral of a well-beloved townsman, with the church filled to do him honor, that the minister should open his eyes at the close of the prayer, and absently say:
“The contribution will now be received.”
Yet that and the consequent agonized43 signaling of one of the elders are within my memory, and are indelibly there because they occurred at the first funeral in my experience, and I could not account for the elder’s perturbation.
Or, where among us now is the village dignitary who would take the platform to speak at the obsequies of a friend and would begin his eulogy44 with:
“I have always had a great respect for the deceased, for—[pointing with his thumb downward at the coffin] for that gentleman down there.”
Or, when a deacon with squeaking45 shoes is passing the plate, in what modern village church is to be found the clergyman who will call out:
“Brother, you’ll find my rubbers there in the lecture room. You best slip ’em on.”
Or the deacon who would instantly reply, overshoulder:
“I’ve got a pair of me own,” and so go serenely46 on, squeaking, to the last pew.
Yet these happened, not long ago, and we smile at the remembrance, knowing that just those things could not take place among us now. New absurdities47 occur. But there is a different humor, even of misadventure and the maladroit48. Instead of deploring49 the old days, however, I think that nearly all of us say what I have heard a woman of ninety saying—not, “Things are not what they used to be in the old days,” but:
“Well, I’m thankful that I’ve lived to see so many things different.”
That is the way in which we grow old in the little towns of the Middle West. We are not afraid to know that old ways of laughter and old flavors of incident depart, with the old ills. Since disease and marching armies and the like are to leave us, humor and sentimentalism of a sort and gold lace of many sorts must likewise be foregone. We say: “The day is dead. Long be the day.” May we not boast of it? For such adaptation would not be wonderful in a city, where impressions crowd and are cut off. But it stands for a special and precious form of vitality50, in little towns.
It is for this acceptance of growth that our days of pioneering together and our slow drawing together of later years form a solid basis. For we are knit, and now the fabric51 is beginning to be woven into a garment. Some are alarmed at the lack of seams, some anxiously question the color, some shake their heads and say that it will never fit. But there are those of us here in the village who think that we understand.
And now we are beginning to suspect that there is more to understand than we have guessed. For there was some one “From Away” who came to us and said:
“Your little town is a piece of to-morrow. Once a village was a source of quiet and content and prettiness. Once a village was withdrawn52 from what is going forward in the world. But now the village is the very source of our salvation53, social and artistic54. It is not that we are finding humanity at its best in the villages, but that there humanity is at the point where it is most in type. And in this lie the hidings of our power.”
We listened, not all of us believing. We were used to being praised for our cedar55 fenceposts, our mossy roofs, our bothersome, low-hanging elm boughs56, even, of late, for our irregular streets and our creamy brick. But in our hearts we had been feeling apologetic that we had not more two-storey shops, not more folk who go away in Summer, and not even one limousine57. And now we were hearing that we are playing a part social, artistic, which no city can play!
It is true that from the days of those old happenings which I have been recounting, down to now, the form of our self-expression has changed somewhat, its quality, never. Always we have been ourselves, simply and unreservedly. Not boldly ourselves, for we do not know that there is anything to be bold about. But in the small things, quite simply ourselves. And once I would have called that a negative quality....
But what of this salvation, social and artistic, and how are these to be fostered by our one characteristic? And with that, the cries of the world, from art, from life, are in one’s ears: Against imitation, against artificiality, against seeing the thing as a thousand others have seen it and saying it as a thousand others have said it, against moving in a mass which has won the right to no social adhesion, but instead stupidly coheres58, and does its thinking by bad proxies59. And we—who do already let ourselves be ourselves—who knows what contribution we may be bringing, now that there have come upon us these new reactions to convention, these slow new freedoms of belief?
There in the cities, humanity is in the melting pot, we say; and the figure is that of countless60 specializations dissolved in one general mass. We revert61 to type individually, but we advance to type collectively. Unquestionably this collective advance is a part of experience. But it is not an ultimate of experience. Somewhere there beyond, shining, is a new individualism, whose incarnations shall flow to no melting pot, but instead shall cling together, valued for their differentiation62, and like a certain precious form of life, low in the scale, shall put out a thousand filaments63, and presently move away together, a unit.
Already the individual experiences this progression—that is, he does if he does!—and, through his own unique value, wins back in later life to that simplicity64 which is every one’s birthright. It is Nietzsche’s threefold metamorphosis of the spirit: First the camel, then the lion, last the child. What if, standing65 in that simplicity, at the point where humanity is most in type, the village does open the social and artistic outlook of To-morrow?
Some of us believe. Some of us say: “What if the federation66 of the world is to begin in the little towns? What if it is beginning there now....”
“A village is nothing but a little something broke off from a city,” says Calliope Marsh, “only it never started in hitched67 to the city in the first place. And that makes all the difference.”
It is Calliope Marsh who tells, in her own speech, these Neighborhood Stories. And if she were given to selecting texts, I think that she would have selected one which says that life is something other than that which we believe it to be.
Portage, Wisconsin,
August, 1914.
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1
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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circumscription
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| n.界限；限界 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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plaques
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| （纪念性的）匾牌( plaque的名词复数 )； 纪念匾； 牙斑； 空斑 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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doles
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| 救济物( dole的名词复数 )； 失业救济金 | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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invalidism
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| 病弱，病身； 伤残 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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terminology
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| n.术语；专有名词 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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genetically
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| adv.遗传上 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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stenography
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| n.速记，速记法 | |
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saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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armory
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| n.纹章，兵工厂，军械库 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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42
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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44
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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45
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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46
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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48
maladroit
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| adj.笨拙的 | |
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49
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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50
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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51
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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52
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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53
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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coheres
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| v.黏合( cohere的第三人称单数 )；联合；结合；（指看法、推理等）前后一致 | |
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proxies
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| n.代表权( proxy的名词复数 )；（测算用的）代替物；（对代理人的）委托书；（英国国教教区献给主教等的）巡游费 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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