"Well!" I said. "You are a cool hand! It's a good job for you that you didn't stay a schoolmaster. You might have taught your pupils some fine deviltries! And at your age, too!"
I'm afraid my raillery goes a little too far sometimes. He flushed a bit at my reference to his age, and puffed7 sharply at his pipe.
"I say," he rejoined, "how old do you think I am, anyway? Only forty-one, by the bones of Byron! Henry VIII was only forty-one when he married Anne Boleyn. There are many consolations8 in history for people over forty! Remember that when you get there.
"Shakespeare wrote 'King Lear' at forty-one," he added, more humorously; and then burst out laughing. "I'd like to edit a series of 'Chloroform Classics,' to include only books written after forty. Who was that doctor man who recommended anaesthetics for us at that age? Now isn't that just like a medico? Nurse us through the diseases of childhood, and as soon as we settle down into permanent good health and worldly wisdom, and freedom from doctors' fees, why he loses interest in us! Jove! I must note that down and bring it into my book."
"Well," I said (I felt a little contrite11, as I was sincerely sorry to have offended him), "I've passed forty myself in some measurements, so youth no longer has any terrors for me."
He looked at me rather comically.
"My dear madam," he said, "your age is precisely12 eighteen. I think that if we escape the clutches of the Sage13 of Redfield you may really begin to live."
"Oh, Andrew's not a bad sort," I said. "He's absentminded, and hot tempered, and a little selfish. The publishers have done their best to spoil him, but for a literary man I guess he's quite human. He rescued me from being a governess, and that's to his credit. If only he didn't take his meals quite so much as a matter of course...."
"The preposterous14 thing about him is that he really can write," said Mifflin. "I envy him that. Don't let him know I said so, but as a matter of fact his prose is almost as good as Thoreau. He approaches facts as daintily as a cat crossing a wet road."
"You should see him at dinner," I thought; or rather I meant to think it, but the words slipped out. I found myself thinking aloud in a rather disconcerting way while sitting with this strange little person.
He looked at me. I noticed for the first time that his eyes were slate15 blue, with funny birds' foot wrinkles at the corners.
"That's so," he said. "I never thought of that. A fine prose style certainly presupposes sound nourishment16. Excellent point that... And yet Thoreau did his own cooking. A sort of Boy Scout17 I guess, with a badge as kitchen master. Perhaps he took Beechnut bacon with him into the woods. I wonder who cooked for Stevenson—Cummy? The 'Child's Garden of Verses' was really a kind of kitchen garden, wasn't it? I'm afraid the commissariat problem has weighed rather heavily on you. I'm glad you've got away from it."
All this was getting rather intricate for me. I set it down as I remember it, inaccurately18 perhaps. My governess days are pretty far astern now, and my line is common sense rather than literary allusions19. I said something of the sort.
"Common sense?" he repeated. "Good Lord, ma'am, sense is the most uncommon20 thing in the world. I haven't got it. I don't believe your brother has, from what you say. Bock here has it. See how he trots21 along the road, keeps an eye on the scenery, and minds his own business. I never saw him get into a fight yet. Wish I could say the same of myself. I named him after Boccaccio, to remind me to read the 'Decameron' some day."
"Judging by the way you talk," I said, "you ought to be quite a writer yourself."
"Talkers never write. They go on talking."
There was a considerable silence. Mifflin relit his pipe and watched the landscape with a shrewd eye. I held the reins22 loosely, and Peg23 ambled24 along with a steady clop-clop. Parnassus creaked musically, and the mid-afternoon sun lay rich across the road. We passed another farm, but I did not suggest stopping as I felt we ought to push on. Mifflin seemed lost in meditation25, and I began to wonder, a little uneasily, how the adventure would turn out. This quaintly26 masterful little man was a trifle disconcerting. Across the next ridge27 I could see the Greenbriar church spire28 shining white.
"Do you know this part of the country?" I asked finally.
"Not this exact section. I've been in Port Vigor29 often, but then I was on the road that runs along the Sound. I suppose this village ahead is Greenbriar?"
"Yes," I said. "It's about thirteen miles from there to Port Vigor. How do you expect to get back to Brooklyn?"
"Oh, Brooklyn?" he said vaguely30. "Yes, I'd forgotten about Brooklyn for the minute. I was thinking of my book. Why, I guess I'll take the train from Port Vigor. The trouble is, you can never get to Brooklyn without going through New York. It's symbolic31, I suppose."
Again there was a silence. Finally he said, "Is there another town between Greenbriar and Port Vigor?"
"Yes, Shelby," I said. "About five miles from Greenbriar."
"That'll be as far as you'll get to-night," he said. "I'll see you safe to Shelby, and then make tracks for Port Vigor. I hope there's a decent inn at Shelby where you can stop overnight."
I hoped so, too, but I wasn't going to let him see that with the waning32 afternoon my enthusiasm was a little less robust33. I was wondering what Andrew was thinking, and whether Mrs. McNally had left things in good order. Like most Swedes she had to be watched or she left her work only three quarters done. And I didn't depend any too much on her daughter Rosie to do the housework efficiently34. I wondered what kind of meals Andrew would get. And probably he would go right on wearing his summer underclothes, although I had already reminded him about changing. Then there were the chickens...
Well, the Rubicon was crossed now, and there was nothing to be done.
To my surprise, little Redbeard had divined my anxiety. "Now don't you worry about the Sage," he said kindly35. "A man that draws his royalties36 isn't going to starve. By the bones of John Murray, his publishers can send him a cook if necessary! This is a holiday for you, and don't you forget it."
I am about as hardy38 as most folks, I think, but I confess I balked39 a little at the idea of facing the various people I know in Greenbriar as the owner of a bookvan and the companion of a literary huckster. Also I recollected40 that if Andrew should try to trace us it would be as well for me to keep out of sight. So after telling Mr. Mifflin how I felt about matters I dived into the Parnassus and lay down most comfortably on the bunk41. Bock the terrier joined me, and I rested there in great comfort of mind and body as we ambled down the grade. The sun shone through the little skylight gilding42 a tin pan that hung over the cook stove. Tacked43 here and there were portraits of authors, and I noticed a faded newspaper cutting pinned up. The headlines ran: "Literary Pedlar Lectures on Poetry." I read it through. Apparently the Professor (so I had begun to call him, as the aptness of the nickname stuck in my mind) had given a lecture in Camden, N.J., where he had asserted that Tennyson was a greater poet than Walt Whitman; and the boosters of the Camden poet had enlivened the evening with missiles. It seems that the chief Whitman disciple44 in Camden is Mr. Traubel; and Mr. Mifflin had started the rumpus by asserting that Tennyson, too, had "Traubels of his own." What an absurd creature the Professor was, I thought, as I lay comfortably lulled45 by the rolling wheels.
Greenbriar is a straggling little town, built around a large common meadow. Mifflin's general plan in towns, he had told me, was to halt Parnassus in front of the principal store or hotel, and when a little throng46 had gathered he would put up the flaps of the van, distribute his cards, and deliver a harangue47 on the value of good books. I lay concealed48 inside, but I gathered from the sounds that this was what was happening. We came to a stop; I heard a growing murmur49 of voices and laughter outside, and then the click of the raised sides of the wagon50. I heard Mifflin's shrill51, slightly nasal voice making facetious52 remarks as he passed out the cards. Evidently Bock was quite accustomed to the routine, for though his tail wagged gently when the Professor began to talk, he lay quite peaceably dozing53 at my feet.
"My friends," said Mr. Mifflin. "You remember Abe Lincoln's joke about the dog? If you call a tail a leg, said Abe, how many legs has a dog? Five, you answer. No, says Abe; because calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg. Well, there are lots of us in the same case as that dog's tail. Calling us men doesn't make us men. No creature on earth has a right to think himself a human being if he doesn't know at least one good book. The man that spends every evening chewing Piper Heidsieck at the store is unworthy to catch the intimations of a benevolent54 Creator. The man that's got a few good books on his shelf is making his wife happy, giving his children a square deal, and he's likely to be a better citizen himself. How about that, parson?"
I heard the deep voice of Reverend Kane, the Methodist minister: "You're dead right, Professor!" he shouted. "Tell us some more about books. I'm right with you!" Evidently Mr. Kane had been attracted by the sight of Parnassus, and I could hear him muttering to himself as he pulled one or two books from the shelves. How surprised he would have been if he had known I was inside the van! I took the precaution of slipping the bolt of the door at the back, and drew the curtains. Then I crept back into the bunk. I began to imagine what an absurd situation there would be if Andrew should arrive on the scene.
"You are all used to hucksters and pedlars and fellows selling every kind of junk from brooms to bananas," said the Professor's voice. "But how often does any one come round here to sell you books? You've got your town library, I dare say; but there are some books that folks ought to own. I've got 'em all here from Bibles to cook books. They'll speak for themselves. Step up to the shelves, friends, and pick and choose."
I heard the parson asking the price of something he had found on the shelves, and I believe he bought it; but the hum of voices around the flanks of Parnassus was very soothing55, and in spite of my interest in what was going on I'm afraid I fell asleep. I must have been pretty tired; anyway I never felt the van start again. The Professor says he looked in through the little window from the driver's seat, and saw me sound asleep. And the next thing I knew I woke up with a start to find myself rolling leisurely56 in the dark. Bock was still lying over my feet, and there was a faint, musical clang from the bucket under the van which struck against something now and then. The Professor was sitting in front, with a lighted lantern hanging from the peak of the van roof. He was humming some outlandish song to himself, with a queer, monotonous57 refrain:
Shipwrecked was I off Soft Perowse
And right along the shore,
And so I did resolve to roam
The country to explore.
Tommy rip fal lal and a balum tip
Tommy rip fal lal I dee;
And so I did resolve to roam
The country for to see!
I jumped out of the bunk, cracked my shins against something, and uttered a rousing halloo. Parnassus stopped, and the Professor pushed back the sliding window behind the driver's seat.
"Heavens!" I said. "Father Time, what o'clock is it?"
"Pretty near supper time, I reckon. You must have fallen asleep while I was taking money from the Philistines58. I made nearly three dollars for you. Let's pull up along the road and have a bite to eat."
He guided Pegasus to one side of the road, and then showed me how to light the swinging lamp that hung under the skylight. "No use to light the stove on a lovely evening like this," he said. "I'll collect some sticks and we can cook outside. You get out your basket of grub and I'll make a fire." He unhitched Pegasus, tied her to a tree, and gave her a nose bag of oats. Then he rooted around for some twigs60 and had a fire going in a jiffy. In five minutes I had bacon and scrambled61 eggs sizzling in a frying pan, and he had brought out a pail of water from the cooler under the bunk, and was making tea.
I never enjoyed a picnic so much! It was a perfect autumn evening, windless and frosty, with a dead black sky and a tiny rim62 of new moon like a thumb-nail paring. We had our eggs and bacon, washed down with tea and condensed milk, and followed by bread and jam. The little fire burned blue and cozy63, and we sat on each side of it while Bock scoured64 the pan and ate the crusts.
"This your own bread, Miss McGill?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I was calculating the other day that I've baked more than 400 loaves a year for the last fifteen years. That's more than 6,000 loaves of bread. They can put that on my tombstone."
"The art of baking bread is as transcendent a mystery as the art of making sonnets," said Redbeard. "And then your hot biscuits—they might be counted as shorter lyrics65, I suppose—triolets perhaps. That makes quite an anthology, or a doxology, if you prefer it."
"Yeast66 is yeast, and West is West," I said, and was quite surprised at my own cleverness. I hadn't made a remark like that to Andrew in five years.
"I see you are acquainted with Kipling," he said.
"Oh, yes, every governess is."
"Where and whom did you govern?"
"I was in New York, with the family of a wealthy stockbroker67. There were three children. I used to take them walking in Central Park."
"Never," I replied.
"Ah!" he said. "That's just the trouble. New York is Babylon; Brooklyn is the true Holy City. New York is the city of envy, office work, and hustle69; Brooklyn is the region of homes and happiness. It is extraordinary: poor, harassed70 New Yorkers presume to look down on low-lying, home-loving Brooklyn, when as a matter of fact it is the precious jewel their souls are thirsting for and they never know it. Broadway: think how symbolic the name is. Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction! But in Brooklyn the ways are narrow, and they lead to the Heavenly City of content. Central Park: there you are—the centre of things, hemmed71 in by walls of pride. Now how much better is Prospect72 Park, giving a fair view over the hills of humility73! There is no hope for New Yorkers, for they glory in their skyscraping sins; but in Brooklyn there is the wisdom of the lowly."
"So you think that if I had been a governess in Brooklyn I should have been so contented74 that I would never have come with Andrew and compiled my anthology of 6,000 loaves of bread and the lesser75 lyrics?"
But the volatile76 Professor had already soared to other points of view, and was not to be thwarted77 by argument.
"Of course Brooklyn is a dingy78 place, really," he admitted. "But to me it symbolizes79 a state of mind, whereas New York is only a state of pocket. You see I was a boy in Brooklyn: it still trails clouds of glory for me. When I get back there and start work on my book I shall be as happy as Nebuchadnezzar when he left off grass and returned to tea and crumpets. 'Literature Among the Farmers' I'm going to call it, but that's a poor title. I'd like to read you some of my notes for it."
I'm afraid I poorly concealed a yawn. As a matter of fact I was sleepy, and it was growing chilly80.
"Tell me first," I said, "where in the world are we, and what time is it?"
He pulled out a turnip81 watch. "It's nine o'clock," he said, "and we're about two miles from Shelby, I should reckon. Perhaps we'd better get along. They told me in Greenbriar that the Grand Central Hotel in Shelby is a good place to stop at. That's why I wasn't anxious to get there. It sounds so darned like New York."
He bundled the cooking utensils82 back into Parnassus, hitched59 Peg up again, and tied Bock to the stern of the van. Then he insisted on giving me the two dollars and eighty cents he had collected in Greenbriar. I was really too sleepy to protest, and of course it was mine anyway. We creaked off along the dark and silent road between the pine woods. I think he talked fluently about his pilgrim's progress among the farmers of a dozen states, but (to be honest) I fell asleep in my corner of the seat. I woke up when we halted before the one hotel in Shelby—a plain, unimposing country inn, despite its absurd name. I left him to put Parnassus and the animals away for the night, while I engaged a room. Just as I got my key from the clerk he came into the dingy lobby.
"Well, Mr. Mifflin," I said. "Shall I see you in the morning?"
"I had intended to push on to Port Vigor to-night," he said, "but as it's fully83 eight miles (they tell me), I guess I'll bivouac here. I think I'll go into the smoking-room and put them wise to some good books. We won't say good-bye till to-morrow."
My room was pleasant and clean (fairly so). I took my suit case up with me and had a hot bath. As I fell asleep I heard a shrill voice ascending84 from below, punctuated85 with masculine laughter. The Pilgrim was making more converts!
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1
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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inaccurately
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| 不精密地，不准确地 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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trots
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| 小跑，急走( trot的名词复数 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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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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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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44
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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45
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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50
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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51
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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52
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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53
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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54
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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55
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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philistines
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| n.市侩，庸人( philistine的名词复数 )；庸夫俗子 | |
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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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60
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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66
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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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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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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symbolizes
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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85
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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