I dressed promptly5, repacked my bag, and hurried downstairs for breakfast. The long table was nearly empty, but one or two men sitting at the other end eyed me curiously6. Through the window I could see my name in large, red letters, growing on the side of the van, as the Professor diligently7 wielded8 his brush. And when I had finished my coffee and beans and bacon I noticed with some amusement that the Professor had painted out the line about Shakespeare, Charles Lamb, and so on, and had substituted new lettering. The sign now read:
H. MCGILL'S
TRAVELLING PARNASSUS
GOOD BOOKS FOR SALE
INQUIRE WITHIN
Evidently he distrusted my familiarity with the classics.
I paid my bill at the desk, and was careful also to pay the charge for putting up the horse and van overnight. Then I strolled into the stable yard, where I found Mr. Mifflin regarding his handiwork with satisfaction. He had freshened up all the red lettering, which shone brilliantly in the morning sunlight.
"Good-morning," I said.
He returned it.
"There!" he cried—"Parnassus is really yours! All the world lies before you! And I've got some more money for you. I sold some books last night. I persuaded the hotel keeper to buy several volumes of O. Henry for his smoking-room shelf, and I sold the 'Waldorf Cook Book' to the cook. My! wasn't her coffee awful? I hope the cook book will better it."
He handed me two limp bills and a handful of small change. I took it gravely and put it in my purse. This was really not bad—more than ten dollars in less than twenty-four hours.
"Parnassus seems to be a gold mine," I said.
"Which way do you think you'll go?" he asked.
"Well, as I know you want to get to Port Vigor11 I might just as well give you a lift that way," I answered.
"Good! I was hoping you'd say that. They tell me the stage for Port Vigor doesn't leave till noon, and I think it would kill me to hang around here all morning with no books to sell. Once I get on the train I'll be all right."
Bock was tied up in a corner of the yard, under the side door of the hotel. I went over to release him while the Professor was putting Peg12 into harness. As I stooped to unfasten the chain from his collar I heard some one talking through the telephone. The hotel lobby was just over my head, and the window was open.
"What did you say?"
"—— —— —— ——"
"McGill? Yes, sir, registered here last night. She's here now."
I didn't wait to hear more. Unfastening Bock, I hurried to tell Mifflin. His eyes sparkled.
"The Sage13 is evidently on our spoor," he chuckled14. "Well, let's be off. I don't see what he can do even if he overhauls15 us."
The clerk was calling me from the window: "Miss McGill, your brother's on the wire and asks to speak to you."
"Tell him I'm busy," I retorted, and climbed onto the seat. It was not a diplomatic reply, I'm afraid, but I was too exhilarated by the keen morning and the spirit of adventure to stop to think of a better answer. Mifflin clucked to Peg, and off we went.
The road from Shelby to Port Vigor runs across the broad hill slopes that trend toward the Sound; and below, on our left, the river lay glittering in the valley. It was a perfect landscape: the woods were all bronze and gold; the clouds were snowy white and seemed like heavenly washing hung out to air; the sun was warm and swam gloriously in an arch of superb blue. My heart was uplifted indeed. For the first time, I think, I knew how Andrew feels on those vagabond trips of his. Why had all this been hidden from me before? Why had the transcendent mystery of baking bread blinded me so long to the mysteries of sun and sky and wind in the trees? We passed a white farmhouse16 close to the road. By the gate sat the farmer on a log, whittling17 a stick and smoking his pipe. Through the kitchen window I could see a woman blacking the stove. I wanted to cry out: "Oh, silly woman! Leave your stove, your pots and pans and chores, even if only for one day! Come out and see the sun in the sky and the river in the distance!" The farmer looked blankly at Parnassus as we passed, and then I remembered my mission as a distributor of literature. Mifflin was sitting with one foot on his bulging18 portmanteau, watching the tree tops rocking in the cool wind. He seemed to be far away in a morning muse9. I threw down the reins19 and accosted20 the farmer.
"Good-morning, friend."
"Morning to you, ma'am," he said firmly.
"I'm selling books," I said. "I wonder if there isn't something you need?"
"Thanks, lady," he said, "but I bought a mort o' books last year an' I don't believe I'll ever read 'em this side Jordan. A whole set o' 'Funereal21 Orations22' what an agent left on me at a dollar a month. I could qualify as earnest mourner at any death-bed merrymakin' now, I reckon."
"You need some books to teach you how to live, not how to die," I said. "How about your wife—wouldn't she enjoy a good book? How about some fairy tales for the children?"
"Bless me," he said, "I ain't got a wife. I never was a daring man, and I guess I'll confine my melancholy23 pleasures to them funereal orators24 for some time yet."
"Well, now, hold on a minute!" I exclaimed. "I've got just the thing for you." I had been looking over the shelves with some care, and remembered seeing a copy of "Reveries of a Bachelor." I clambered down, raised the flap of the van (it gave me quite a thrill to do it myself for the first time), and hunted out the book. I looked inside the cover and saw the letters n m in Mifflin's neat hand.
"Here you are," I said. "I'll sell you that for thirty cents."
"Thank you kindly25, ma'am," he said courteously26. "But honestly I wouldn't know what to do with it. I am working through a government report on scabworm and fungus27, and I sandwich in a little of them funereal speeches with it, and honestly that's about all the readin' I figure on. That an' the Port Vigor Clarion28."
I saw that he really meant it, so I climbed back on the seat. I would have liked to talk to the woman in the kitchen who was peering out of the window in amazement29, but I decided30 it would be better to jog on and not waste time. The farmer and I exchanged friendly salutes31, and Parnassus rumbled32 on.
The morning was so lovely that I did not feel talkative, and as the Professor seemed pensive33 I said nothing. But as Peg plodded34 slowly up a gentle slope he suddenly pulled a book out of his pocket and began to read aloud. I was watching the river, and did not turn round, but listened carefully:
"Rolling cloud, volleying wind, and wheeling sun—the blue tabernacle of sky, the circle of the seasons, the sparkling multitude of the stars—all these are surely part of one rhythmic35, mystic whole. Everywhere, as we go about our small business, we must discern the fingerprints36 of the gigantic plan, the orderly and inexorable routine with neither beginning nor end, in which death is but a preface to another birth, and birth the certain forerunner37 of another death. We human beings are as powerless to conceive the motive38 or the moral of it all as the dog is powerless to understand the reasoning in his master's mind. He sees the master's acts, benevolent39 or malevolent40, and wags his tail. But the master's acts are always inscrutable to him. And so with us.
"And therefore, brethren, let us take the road with a light heart. Let us praise the bronze of the leaves and the crash of the surf while we have eyes to see and ears to hear. An honest amazement at the unspeakable beauties of the world is a comely41 posture42 for the scholar. Let us all be scholars under Mother Nature's eye.
"How do you like that?" he asked.
"A little heavy, but very good," I said. "There's nothing in it about the transcendent mystery of baking bread!"
He looked rather blank.
"Do you know who wrote it?" he asked.
"I give it up," I said feebly. "Is it Carlyle?"
"That is by Andrew McGill," he said. "One of his cosmic passages which are now beginning to be reprinted in schoolbooks. The blighter writes well."
I began to be uneasy lest I should be put through a literary catechism, so I said nothing, but roused Peg into an amble44. To tell the truth I was more curious to hear the Professor talk about his own book than about Andrew's. I had always carefully refrained from reading Andrew's stuff, as I thought it rather dull.
"As for me," said the Professor, "I have no facility at the grand style. I have always suffered from the feeling that it's better to read a good book than to write a poor one; and I've done so much mixed reading in my time that my mind is full of echoes and voices of better men. But this book I'm worrying about now really deserves to be written, I think, for it has a message of its own."
He gazed almost wistfully across the sunny valley. In the distance I caught a glint of the Sound. The Professor's faded tweed cap was slanted45 over one ear, and his stubby little beard shone bright red in the sun. I kept a sympathetic silence. He seemed pleased to have some one to talk to about his precious book.
"The world is full of great writers about literature," he said, "but they're all selfish and aristocratic. Addison, Lamb, Hazlitt, Emerson, Lowell—take any one you choose—they all conceive the love of books as a rare and perfect mystery for the few—a thing of the secluded46 study where they can sit alone at night with a candle, and a cigar, and a glass of port on the table and a spaniel on the hearthrug. What I say is, who has ever gone out into high roads and hedges to bring literature home to the plain man? To bring it home to his business and bosom47, as somebody says? The farther into the country you go, the fewer and worse books you find. I've spent several years joggling around with this citadel48 of crime, and by the bones of Ben Ezra I don't think I ever found a really good book (except the Bible) at a farmhouse yet, unless I put it there myself. The mandarins of culture—what do they do to teach the common folk to read? It's no good writing down lists of books for farmers and compiling five-foot shelves; you've got to go out and visit the people yourself—take the books to them, talk to the teachers and bully49 the editors of country newspapers and farm magazines and tell the children stories—and then little by little you begin to get good books circulating in the veins50 of the nation. It's a great work, mind you! It's like carrying the Holy Grail to some of these way-back farmhouses51. And I wish there were a thousand Parnassuses instead of this one. I'd never give it up if it weren't for my book: but I want to write about my ideas in the hope of stirring other folk up, too. I don't suppose there's a publisher in the country will take it!"
"Try Mr. Decameron," I said. "He's always been very nice to Andrew."
"Think what it would mean," he cried, waving an eloquent52 hand, "if some rich man would start a fund to equip a hundred or so wagons53 like this to go huckstering literature around through the rural districts. It would pay, too, once you got started. Yes, by the bones of Webster! I went to a meeting of booksellers once, at some hotel in New York, and told 'em about my scheme. They laughed at me. But I've had more fun toting books around in this Parnassus than I could have had in fifty years sitting in a bookstore, or teaching school, or preaching. Life's full of savour when you go creaking along the road like this. Look at today, with the sun and the air and the silver clouds. Best of all, though, I love the rainy days. I used to pull up alongside the road, throw a rubber blanket over Peg, and Bock and I would curl up in the bunk54 and smoke and read. I used to read aloud to Bock: we went through 'Midshipman Easy' together, and a good deal of Shakespeare. He's a very bookish dog. We've seen some queer experiences in this Parnassus."
The hill road from Shelby to Port Vigor is a lonely one, as most of the farmhouses lie down in the valley. If I had known better we might have taken the longer and more populous55 way, but as a matter of fact I was enjoying the wide view and the solitary56 road lying white in the sunshine. We jogged along very pleasantly. Once more we stopped at a house where Mifflin pleaded for a chance to exercise his art. I was much amused when he succeeded in selling a copy of "Grimm's Fairy Tales" to a shrewish spinster on the plea that she would enjoy reading the stories to her nephews and nieces who were coming to visit her.
"My!" he chuckled, as he gave me the dingy57 quarter he had extracted. "There's nothing in that book as grim as she is!"
A little farther on we halted by a roadside spring to give Peg a drink, and I suggested lunch. I had laid in some bread and cheese in Shelby, and with this and some jam we made excellent sandwiches. As we were sitting by the fence the motor stage trundled past on its way to Port Vigor. A little distance down the road it halted, and then went on again. I saw a familiar figure walking back toward us.
"Now I'm in for it," I said to the Professor. "Here's Andrew!"
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1
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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7
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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9
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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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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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
overhauls
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的第三人称单数 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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whittling
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的现在分词 ) | |
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18
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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19
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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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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21
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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orations
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| n.（正式仪式中的）演说，演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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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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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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30
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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31
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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32
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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33
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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34
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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fingerprints
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| n.指纹( fingerprint的名词复数 )v.指纹( fingerprint的第三人称单数 ) | |
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forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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38
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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39
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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40
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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41
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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42
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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43
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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44
amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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45
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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46
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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49
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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50
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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51
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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52
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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53
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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54
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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55
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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56
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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57
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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