Just in that same way I remember coming to live with Uncle Frank Randolph, who is my mother’s brother. And all I remember about that is whiskers (they were miles long, I was sure!) and the fact that it was raining. And now--somehow--when I think of home and saying good-bye to it, all I can see is swirling1 yellow leaves and the dust and peanut shells and bags that were flying in the wind around the station.
But I must start this story properly. It really all began the day I rode a bicycle down the Court-house steps on a bet. At that time I saw nothing wrong in doing this, and to be frank I was quite proud that I could do it, for there are fifteen of those steps, and they’re quite steep. After I did it I went over to the drug store with Willy Jepson and had a soda2, and then we rode down to the ball field, and I pitched nine innings for the Red Socks, after which I thought I’d go home. I usually went home, when I had a funny hollow feel under my belt. And Uncle Frank didn’t mind my not being on time for meals, so it didn’t matter. But when I got in that night I knew something had happened.
In the first place, Uncle Frank wasn’t reading any of his bug3 books (Uncle Frank is very famous for his bug knowledge, as you probably know--some people even calling him the “Second Fabre”), nor did he have on two pairs of glasses. In fact, he was acting4 entirely5 unnatural6 and quite as people of his age do when they are preparing to be disagreeable.
“Ho hum! Where have you been?” he asked, as I sat down at the table.
“Down at the flats,” I answered. “Pitched nine innings against Corkey McGowan’s Gang, and we licked ’em.” And then, feeling some pride, I reached for the spiced peaches and chocolate cake and began to satisfy my craving8 for food.
“Don’t you”--he began, hesitated, fumbled9 for words, and then went on--“ah--like the--ah--gentler pursuit of maidens10?”
I said I didn’t.
“How old are you?” he asked next.
I told him I was sixteen (I do every two or three days), and then I asked him to pass the strawberry preserve, because I found that I was still hungry. He did, and then he asked me whether I had eaten any meat. I had always depended upon his absent-mindedness, and I was surprised to see him so obviously upset and, truth to be told, also a little annoyed; for I knew that my life would be one series of explanations, if he began to notice.
I told him that I hadn’t felt the need for anything but chocolate cake and preserves, but he wagged his head again and then he drew forth12 a letter, and I knew by the shade and the address which was engraved13 on the envelope that it was from Aunt Penelope Randolph James, who lives in New York.
“Penelope,” said Uncle Frank, “intimated as much--where is it?--ho hum--oh, here we are,” and then he read aloud this:
“?‘With your erratic14 habits, my dear, she is probably growing up like a young Indian, and I dare say she eats whatever she pleases, and does whatever she likes.’?”
I said: “Why shouldn’t I?” And then, “Will you please pass the cake?” for I realized that Uncle Frank was absorbed. He passed it to me as he turned the page, and went on with: “?‘Obviously, she must have two or three years in a good school, and one here, after her coming out. I think she will be happy with Evelyn and Amy, and we will love having her. I want to know her, to have a few years of her, and a chance to do whatsoever15 I can--because of Nelly.’?”
And after that Uncle Frank stooped and stared down at the letter. “Nelly” was the name of my mother, and everyone who knew her loved her a great deal; so much, in fact, that they can’t speak of her easily. I always wish, and so much, that it was hard for me to speak of her. But, as I said before, I can only remember the big four-posted bed and the crying people. And I never did think that was quite fair, for as I look on girls with mothers I realize I have missed a great deal. I do think that I at least might have been allowed to have a few years of mine. But--that attitude doesn’t help me. In this world you have to make up your mind to lots that isn’t happy. For, if it IS, all your complaints won’t change it.
But--to get on. I was not impressed with my aunt’s letter. I knew I wouldn’t have a good time with my cousin Evelyn, because I wear her old clothes sometimes, and by their architecture I realize that our tastes are not in common. They are very flossy. Usually she chooses the kind of colour that soils when you shin up a tree, and they have lots of buttons on them that sort of catch when you take any mild exercise, such as sliding down a barn roof on your stomach (there are some ideal barns for that in this section), and once, when I went down the spouting16 from the Jepsons’ third floor (we were playing hide-and-seek), I got hung up by a button three feet from the ground and had to scream for someone to loosen me, and was consequently “It;” beside which I might have been killed if it had been higher and the button had not held. This is all mixed, but English is not my strong point. I like gym. work best of any study, and do best in it.
Then, beside that, I have a photograph of Evelyn, and I realized from it that we wouldn’t mean much to one another; also I have never got along very well with girls.
So I said: “But I feel that my education is finished.”
My uncle didn’t think so, and he tried not to smile, which I think is a very impolite habit of older people. I’d rather they would really smile at you any time.
I went on. I said, and heatedly, I must admit: “I can say the multiplication17 table up to the twelves, and what more can you ask?” And just to prove it I did, up to “twelve times twelve is one hundred and fifty-nine;” but even then he didn’t look convinced.
“There are other things,” he said. I asked what, but he wasn’t concrete.
“I love life as it is,” I said, and none too steadily18. I couldn’t bear to think of leaving Queensburg and Virginia! But uncle had got up and was puttering around near the bay window, where a bookcase stands, and so I knew he didn’t hear me. I tried once more to attract his attention, but he was looking at a lot of coloured plates of the antenn? of some sort of rare beetle19, and I had to give up. But after I had eaten another piece of cake and a little more preserve, I got up. I picked up the dishes and went to the kitchen with them, for I always clear the table for Mrs. Bradly, who is Uncle Frank’s housekeeper20.
“Bradly-dear,” I said, “do you know about this letter?”
“Set,” she said, and waved toward a stool which stood before the back window. I settled on it and looked out in the garden, which is a shabby but dear place. The hollyhocks were beginning to sag7, I remember, and sprawled22 every way; and the zinnias positively23 blazed colour in the first taupe shadows of the dusk. . . . It was pretty, and it made you feel still, as if you wanted to close your eyes halfway24 and smile just a little; but it made you feel sad. . . . I don’t understand that feeling, but sometimes I have it. . . . Mrs. Bradly never had it, for I asked her. But I think my mother would have understood it. . . . Pretty things make it, and some kinds of music, and I don’t know whether anything else does or not, but those are the only things that have made me have it. . . . I don’t imagine uncle ever felt it. One day I asked him.
“Uncle Frank,” I said, “do you ever feel sort of sad, and awfully25 happy, when it’s just hazy26, soft-dark outdoors and the crickets squeak27 and everything seems cosy28 and yet sort of lonesome, and you feel sort of contented29 and yet--miserable30, the way you do after you’ve eaten a big Thanksgiving dinner----”
“Crickets?” he said, looking over his glasses. “Dinner? . . . Ho hum!” And then he went and got some engravings that he bought in France, of some sort of cricket who was eating her husband! They do it, quite a lot of them. And although that does seem cruel, they are very bright and intelligent in more ways than just that. Their husbands weren’t useful and so they ate them, which is more than some women do. This is mixed, but as I said, gym. work is where I star.
But of course I knew from that that he had never felt that poetic31 longing32, or whatever it is, that I felt that night when Mrs. Bradly was washing lettuce and I asked her about the letter.
“High time,” she said, after I spoke33, “that you was sent off! I can’t do a thing with yuh! . . . Playin’ ball, a great girl like you!”
“Well, I’ll stop!” I said, after a deep drawn36 breath. I sighed, because playing ball means a great deal in my life.
“I didn’t play at Parsons,” I went on. She didn’t reply.
“I wanted to frightfully,” I said. “It is quite an honour, Bradly-dear, to pitch on a business men’s team. And they had to let Mr. Horner do it, and he has a glass eye and let three men sneak39 in to third, because he couldn’t see out of the glass one.”
I had wanted to play ball in Parsons. It is a town some ten miles’ distance where all the trains stop. They claim that it has ten thousand inhabitants, which, of course, makes it a city. . . . The reason I didn’t play was because the minister, Mr. Diggs, called and asked uncle not to let me. I don’t know why religious people are so often disagreeable. Bradly-dear spoke again, and witheringly.
“Fine life for the daughter of Nelly Randolph,” she said, “to set here and rot! . . . The place is all right for your uncle--laws, he could mash40 his bugs41 and put ’em on paper anywhere--but for a girl----” Again she sniffed.
“But I love it,” I protested. “This sort of a life is all I want----”
“Your mother,” she went on, “spoke French and was a lady. She could enter a room and talk high-falutin and entertain anybody. She could wave a fan--and you”--she faced me and waved the lettuce quite as if that were an ostrich42 plumed43 fan and she a court lady--“and you,” she repeated, “you can wave a baseball bat, but enter a room? Why, you slide your feet under every rug that isn’t glued down, and you tangle44 up in all the cheers, and you say ‘Hello’ when you should say ‘Howdy,’ and--well, it ain’t no ways fittin’ or proper that you should stay here and act like you was training for to be Ringling’s star performer!”
I didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything to say. For all that Bradly-dear had said was true. I am very awkward--but--I like being so.
“Your mother,” she said, slowly and solemnly, “would ‘a’ wanted you to be learned right and proper manners----”
I stood up.
“All right, Bradly-dear,” I said, “if you really think she would--and Uncle Frank thinks I should----” And then I stopped speaking. I had never felt so miserable.
I went out in the garden, and Willy Jepson yelled over from the kitchen roof where he was mending a fish line.
“Come over and play catch,” he howled.
“Don’t believe I can,” I said, sort of stiffly, I guess.
“Why not?” he yelled.
“I’m not going to tell the whole town!” I answered, and after that he slid down, by way of a grape arbour, and came over to stand near the fence.
“Why not?” he repeated.
“My last game of ball is played,” I said. “It seems--I am too old for it, or something. They--they don’t want me to. At least not in big games, and I couldn’t indulge as an amateur.”
“My gosh,” he said, “that’s fierce!”
I nodded. I almost never cry--in fact, I don’t cry any oftener than Willy Jepson does, but I was near it then, so I looked down at the hedge and broke twigs45.
“Why,” he went on, “it’s fierce! You have the making of a big leaguer--that is, if you’d been a man--I say, it’s fierce. Your drop curves----” He paused, and that pause meant a lot.
“Just because you’re a girl?” he asked. I admitted it. I had to.
“That’s fierce!” he said again. His kindness helped me a great deal. And his commendation was not a light thing, for Willy does the best spit balls in our county. They are really dreams of poetic beauty and almost never fail him. I looked up and said: “Thank you.”
And again he said: “My gosh, Nat, that’s fierce!” And I did feel cheered up. Then I heard uncle’s voice--calling me--and I went in. I found him mounting a black beetle.
“No more----” he began, and then looked perplexed. He scratched his head and dislocated one pair of his glasses, and I supplied, “ball.”
“Why, yes,” he said, “that was it.” And then: “You are to go to your aunt’s the last of this month. . . . Mrs. Bradly thinks she can get your clothes ready by that time. . . . We will miss you, my child. . . . Let me see. . . . Ho hum! Long feelers and hard back--page nine hundred and twenty-seven.” I left him to his bugs.
I went to the kitchen, but I only stood in the door for a moment, and then I backed away, for Mrs. Bradly was crying--awfully hard--her face buried in the roller towel. And I knew it was because I was going away. . . . I felt that way too, but I never cry, so I went up to my room and got out my fishing tackle and tried to make a fly for a shallow, shady stream out of some gray and green silk and a grasshopper46 wing. . . . But it didn’t divert me much. . . . I didn’t think I could exist very long in real civilization. I knew I didn’t want to. All the loveliness that I felt earlier in the evening was gone, and all that was left was an ache, a dull, sodden47, gray, growing-larger-all-the-time ache. . . . You see, I cared awfully for outdoors and the sports that keep you there. They were all I really knew of life. . . . And my New York relatives live in an apartment.
“I will be bored,” I thought, “and miserably48, horribly unhappy!” But--whatever else I was--I was not bored! Oh, my soul, no! Not for one instant! Sometimes it was almost ghastly, that mystery which gripped and held us all, and even now I tremble to think of phases of it; but it gave more in the end than it took, which is the curious way of much pain and discomfort49. When I think that--but I mustn’t begin now. For that part comes much later.
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1
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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whatsoever
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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steadily
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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sprawled
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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longing
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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soften
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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38
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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41
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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48
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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