Jonathan straightened up, but there was a trace of the apologetic in his tone as he said, "That'll do, won't it?"
"Why, yes," I replied cautiously, "it's a fire."
"Well, what's the matter with it?" he asked tolerantly.
"Since you press me, I should say that it lacks—style."
Jonathan leaned back, puffing9 comfortably—"Now, what in thunder do you mean by style?"[Pg 224]
But I was not to be enticed10 into an empty discussion of terms. "Well, then, say frowsy. Call it a frowsy fire. You know what frowsy means, I suppose. Of course, though, I don't mean to criticize, only you asked me." And I added, with perhaps unnecessary blandness11, "I'm warm enough."
Jonathan smoked a few moments more, possibly by way of establishing his independence, then slowly rose, remarking, "Oh, well, if you want a stylish12 fire—"
"I didn't say stylish, I said style—"
But he was gone. He must have journeyed out to the woodshed,—however, there was a moon,—for he returned bearing a huge backlog13. He had been magnanimous, indeed, for it was the sort that above all others delights my heart—a forked apple log with a big hollow heart. In a moment, I was on my knees clearing a place for it, and he swung it into position on the bed of embers, tucked in some white birch in front, and soon the flames were licking about the flaking14 gray apple bark and shooting up through the hollow fork in a fashion to charm the most fastidious.
People whose open fires are machine-fed—who[Pg 225] arrange for their wood as they do for their groceries, by telephone—know little of the real joys of a fire. It is laid by a servant,—unintelligently laid,—and upon such masses of newspaper and split kindling15 that it has no choice but to burn. The match is struck, the newspapers flare16 up, and soon there is a big, meaningless blaze. Handfuls of wood—just wood, any kind of wood—are thrown on from time to time, and perhaps a log or two—any log, taken at random17 from the wood-box. Truly, this is merest savagery18, untrained, undiscriminating; it is the Bushman's meal compared to the Frenchman's dinner. Not thus are real hearth19 fires laid. Not thus are they enjoyed. You should plan a fire as you do a dinner party, and your wood, like your people, should be selected and arranged with due regard to age, temperament20, and individual eccentricity21. A fire thus skillfully planned, with some good talkers among the logs, may be as well worth listening to as the conversation about your table—perhaps better.
To get the full flavor of a fire you must know your wood— I had almost said, you[Pg 226] must remember where the tree stood before it was cut—white birch in the dry, worn-out slopes, black birches from the edges of the pasture lots, chestnut22 from the ledges23, maple24 from the swamps, apple from the old orchard25, oak cut in sorrow when the fullness of time has come, and burned with the honor due to royalty26.
But though this may be a refinement27 of fancy, it is no fancy that one kind of wood differs from another in glory. There is the white birch, gay, light-hearted, volatile28, putting all its pretty self into a few flaring29 moments—a butterfly existence. There is black birch, reluctant but steady; there is chestnut, vivacious30, full of sudden enthusiasms; the apple, cheerful and willing; the maple and oak, sober and stanch31, good for the long pull. Every locality has its own sorts of wood, as its own sorts of people. Mine is a New England wood basket, and as I look at it I recognize all my old friends. Of them all I love the apple best, yet each is in its own way good. For a quick blaze, throw on the white birch; for a long evening of reading, when one does not want distraction32, pile on the oak and maple. They[Pg 227] will burn quietly, unobtrusively, importuning33 you neither for care nor appreciation34. But for a fire to sit before with friends, bring in the apple wood. Lay the great backlog, the more gnarled the better, and if there is a hole through which the flames may shoot up, that is best of all—such logs we hoard35 for special occasions. Then with careful touch arrange the wood in front, your bundles of twigs37, your pretty white birch sticks and your dry chestnut to start the fun, then the big apple forelog, the forestick and the backstick, not too much crowding or too much space. Ah, there is a seemly fire! There is a fire for friends!
For the renewal38 of old friendships, as for the perfecting of new ones, there is nothing like a fire. I met a friend after years of separation. We came together in a modern house, just modern enough to be full of steam pipes and registers and gas-logs, but not so modern as to have readopted open fireplaces. The room had no centre—there was no hearth to draw around, there was no reason for sitting in one place rather than another. We could not draw around the steam pipes or the register.[Pg 228] The gas-log was not turned on, it would have been too hot, and anyhow—a gas-log! We sat and talked for hours in an aimless, unsatisfactory sort of way. I felt as if we were, figuratively speaking, sitting on the edges of our chairs. It was better than nothing, but it was not a real meeting. The next year we were together again, but this time it was before our own blazing apple log. We did not talk so much as we had done before, but we were silent a great deal more, which was better. For in really intimate communion, silence is the last, best gift, but it cannot be forced, it cannot be snatched at. You may try it, but you grow restless, you begin to consider your expression, you wonder how long it will last, you fancy it may seem to mean too much, and at last you are hurried over into talk again. But before a fire all things are possible, even silence. Chance acquaintances and intimate friends fall alike under its spell, talk is absolutely spontaneous, it flows rapidly or slowly, or dies away altogether. What need for talk when the fire is saying it all—now flaring up in a blaze to interpret our rarest enthusiasms, now popping and snapping with wit or fury,[Pg 229] now burning with the even heat of steady, rational life, now settling into a contemplative glow of meditation39.
In the circle of the hearth everything is good, but reminiscences are best of all. I sometimes think all life is valuable merely as an opportunity to accumulate reminiscences, and I am sure that the precious horde40 can be seen to best advantage by firelight. Then is the time for the miser41 to spread out his treasure and admire it. I remember once Jonathan and I were on a bicycle trip. My chain had broken and we had trudged42 eight long, hot, dusty miles to the river that had to be crossed that night. It was dark when we reached it, and it had begun to rain, a warm, dreary43 drizzle44. As we stumbled over the railway track and felt our way past the little station toward the still smaller ferry-house, a voice from the darkness drawled, "Guess ye won't git the ferry to-night—last boat went half an hour ago."
It was the final blow. We leaned forlornly on our wheels and looked out upon the dark water, whose rain-quenched mirror dully reflected the lights of the opposite town. Finally[Pg 230] I said, "Well, Jonathan, anyhow, we're making reminiscences."
This remark was, I own, not highly practical, but I intended it to be comforting, and if it failed—as it clearly did—to cheer Jonathan, that was not because it lacked wisdom, but because men are so often devoid45 of imagination save as an adornment46 of their easy moments.
Finally the same impersonal47 voice out of the dark uttered another sentence: "Might row ye 'cross if ye've got to go to-night."
"How much?" said Jonathan.
"Guess it's wuth a dollar. Mean night to be out there."
We had, between us, forty-seven cents and three street-car tickets, good in the opposite town. All this we meekly48 offered him, and in the pause that followed I added desperately49, "And we can each take an oar36 and help."
"Wall— I'll take ye."
It seemed to me that the voice suggested an accompanying grin, but I had no proof.
And so we got across. We never saw the face of our boatman, but on the other side we[Pg 231] felt for his hand and emptied our pockets into it—nickels and dimes50 and pennies, and the three car tickets; but as we were turning to grope our way up the dock the voice said, "Here—ye'll need two of them tickets to git home with. I do' want 'um."
Now already it must be evident to any one that my remark to Jonathan, though perhaps ill-timed, embodied51 a profound and cheering truth. The more uncomfortable you are, the more desperate your situation, the better the reminiscences you are storing up to be enjoyed before the fire.
Yes, there is nothing like firelight for reminiscences. By the clear light of morning—say ten o'clock—I might be forced to admit that life has had its humdrum52 and unpleasant aspects, but in the evening, with the candles lighted and the fire glowing and flickering53, I will allow no such thing. The firelight somehow lights up all the lovely bits, and about the unlovely ones it throws a thick mantle54 of shadow, like the shadows in the corners of the room behind us. Nor does the firelight magic end here. Not only does it play about the fair hours of our past, making them fairer,[Pg 232] it also vaguely55 multiplies them, so that for one real occurrence we see many. It is like standing56 between opposing mirrors: looking into either, one sees a receding57 series of reflections, unending as Banquo's royal line.
Thus, once last winter Jonathan and I spent a long evening reading aloud a tale of the "Earthly Paradise." Once last summer we sat alone before the embers and quietly talked. Once and only once. Yet firelit memory is already laying her touch upon those hours. Already, though my diary tells me they stood alone, I am persuaded that they were many. I look back over a retrospect58 of many long winter evenings, in whose cozy59 light I see again the ringed smoke of Jonathan's pipe and hear again the lingering verse of the idle singer's tales; a retrospect of many long summer twilights, wherein the warmth of the settling embers mingles60 with the sharp coolness of a summer night, and pleasant talk gives place to pleasant silence.
The apple logs have burned through and rolled apart, the great backlog has settled deeper and deeper into the ashes. The fire whispers and murmurs61, it whistles soft, low[Pg 233] notes, it chuckles62 and sighs, finally it sinks into reverie, stirring now and then to whisper "sh-h-h-h" lest we break the spell. Only the old clock in the hall refuses to yield, and soberly persists in its "tick-tock," "tick-tock." Jonathan's pipe is smoked out, but he does not fill it, and we sit there, looking deep into the rosy glow, and dreaming, dreaming—
The End
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1
improvidently
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| adv.improvident（目光短浅的）的变形 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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3
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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4
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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6
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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7
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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8
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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9
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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10
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
blandness
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| n.温柔，爽快 | |
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12
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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13
backlog
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| n.积压未办之事 | |
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14
flaking
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| 刨成片，压成片； 盘网 | |
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15
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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16
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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17
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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18
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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19
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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21
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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22
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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23
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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26
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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27
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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28
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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29
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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30
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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31
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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32
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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33
importuning
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的现在分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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34
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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35
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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36
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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37
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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38
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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39
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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40
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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41
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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42
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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44
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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45
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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46
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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47
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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48
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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49
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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50
dimes
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| n.（美国、加拿大的）10分铸币( dime的名词复数 ) | |
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51
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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52
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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53
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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54
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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55
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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56
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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57
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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58
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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59
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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60
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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61
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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62
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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