She had, just then, no one to play with. Perry, Ilse and Teddy had all come down with measles5 the same day. Mrs. Kent at first declared bitterly that Teddy had caught them at New Moon, but all three had contracted them at a Sunday School picnic where Derry Pond children had been. That picnic infected all Blair Water. There was a perfect orgy of measles. Teddy and Ilse were only moderately ill, but Perry, who had insisted on going home to Aunt Tom at the first symptoms, nearly died. Emily was not allowed to know his danger until it had passed, lest it worry her too much. Even Aunt Elizabeth worried over it. She was surprised to discover how much they missed Perry round the place.
It was fortunate for Emily that Dean Priest was in Blair Water during this forlorn time. His companionship was just what she needed and helped her wonderfully on the road to complete recovery. They
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went for long walks together all over Blair Water, with Tweed woofing around them, and explored places and roads Emily had never seen before. They watched a young moon grow old, night by night; they talked in dim scented6 chambers7 of twilight8 over long red roads of mystery; they followed the lure9 of hill winds; they saw the stars rise and Dean told her all about them—the great constellations10 of the old myths. It was a wonderful month; but on the first day of Teddy’s convalescence Emily was off to the Tansy Patch for the afternoon and Jarback Priest walked—if he walked at all—alone.
Aunt Elizabeth was extremely polite to him, though she did not like the Priests of Priest Pond overmuch, and never felt quite comfortable under the mocking gleam of “Jarback’s” green eyes and the faint derision of his smile, which seemed to make Murray pride and Murray traditions seem much less important than they really were.
“He has the Priest flavour,” she told Laura, “though it isn’t as strong in him as in most of them. And he’s certainly helping11 Emily—she has begun to spunk12 up since he came.”
Emily continued to “spunk up” and by September, when the measles epidemic13 was spent and Dean Priest had gone on one of his sudden swoops14 over to Europe for the autumn, she was ready for school again—a little taller, a little thinner, a little less childlike, with great grey shadowy eyes that had looked into death and read the riddle16 of a buried thing, and henceforth would hold in them some haunting, elusive17 remembrance of that world behind the veil. Dean Priest had seen it—Mr. Carpenter saw it when she smiled at him across her desk at school.
“She’s left the childhood of her soul behind, though she is still a child in body,” he muttered.
One afternoon amid the golden days and hazes18 of
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October he asked her gruffly to let him see some of her verses.
“I never meant to encourage you in it,” he said. “I don’t mean it now. Probably you can’t write a line of real poetry and never will. But let me see your stuff. If it’s hopelessly bad I’ll tell you so. I won’t have you wasting years striving for the unattainable—at least I won’t have it on my conscience if you do. If there’s any promise in it, I’ll tell you so just as honestly. And bring some of your stories, too—they’re trash yet, that’s certain, but I’ll see if they show just and sufficient cause for going on.”
Emily spent a very solemn hour that evening, weighing, choosing, rejecting. To the little bundle of verse she added one of her Jimmy-books which contained, as she thought, her best stories. She went to school next day, so secret and mysterious that Ilse took offense19, started in to call her names—and then stopped. Ilse had promised her father that she would try to break herself of the habit of calling names. She was making fairly good headway and her conversation, if less vivid, was beginning to approximate to New Moon standards.
Emily made a sad mess of her lessons that day. She was nervous and frightened. She had a tremendous respect for Mr. Carpenter’s opinion. Father Cassidy had told her to keep on—Dean Priest had told her that some day she might really write—but perhaps they were only trying to be encouraging because they liked her and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Emily knew Mr. Carpenter would not do this. No matter if he did like her he would nip her aspirations20 mercilessly if he thought the root of the matter was not in her. If, on the contrary, he bade her God-speed, she would rest content with that against the world and never lose heart in the face of any future criticism. No wonder the day seemed fraught21 with tremendous issues to Emily.
When school was out Mr. Carpenter asked her to remain.
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She was so white and tense that the other pupils thought she must have been found out by Mr. Carpenter in some especially dreadful behaviour and knew she was going to “catch it.” Rhoda Stuart flung her a significantly malicious22 smile from the porch—which Emily never even saw. She was, indeed, at a momentous23 bar, with Mr. Carpenter as supreme24 judge, and her whole future career—so she believed—hanging on his verdict.
The pupils disappeared and a mellow25 sunshiny stillness settled over the old schoolroom. Mr. Carpenter took the little packet she had given him in the morning out of his desk, came down the aisle26 and sat in the seat before her, facing her. Very deliberately27 he settled his glasses astride his hooked nose, took out her manuscripts and began to read—or rather to glance over them, flinging scraps28 of comments, mingled29 with grunts30, sniffs31 and hoots32, at her as he glanced. Emily folded her cold hands on her desk and braced33 her feet against the legs of it to keep her knees from trembling. This was a very terrible experience. She wished she had never given her verses to Mr. Carpenter. They were no good—of course they were no good. Remember the editor of the Enterprise.
“Humph!” said Mr. Carpenter. “Sunset—Lord, how many poems have been written on ‘Sunset’—
‘The clouds are massed in splendid state
At heaven’s unbarred western gate
Where troops of star-eyed spirits wait’—
By gad34, what does that mean?”
“I—I—don’t know,” faltered35 startled Emily, whose wits had been scattered36 by the sudden swoop15 of his spiked37 glance.
Mr. Carpenter snorted.
“For heaven’s sake, girl, don’t write what you can’t understand yourself. And this—To Life—‘Life, as thy gift I ask no rainbow joy’—is that sincere? Is it, girl. Stop and think. Do you ask ‘no rainbow joy’ of life?”
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He transfixed her with another glare. But Emily was beginning to pick herself up a bit. Nevertheless, she suddenly felt oddly ashamed of the very elevated and unselfish desires expressed in that sonnet38.
“No—o,” she answered reluctantly. “I do want rainbow joy—lots of it.”
“Of course you do. We all do. We don’t get it—you won’t get it—but don’t be hypocrite enough to pretend you don’t want it, even in a sonnet. Lines to a Mountain Cascade39— ‘On its dark rocks like the whiteness of a veil around a bride’—Where did you see a mountain cascade in Prince Edward Island?”
“Nowhere—there’s a picture of one in Dr. Burnley’s library.”
“A Wood Stream—
‘The threading sunbeams quiver,
The bending bushes shiver,
O’er the little shadowy river’—
There’s only one more rhyme that occurs to me and that’s ‘liver.’ Why did you leave it out?”
Emily writhed40.
“Wind Song—
‘I have shaken the dew in the meadows
From the clover’s creamy gown’—
Pretty, but weak. June—June, for heaven’s sake, girl, don’t write poetry on June. It’s the sickliest subject in the world. It’s been written to death.”
“No, June is immortal,” cried Emily suddenly, a mutinous41 sparkle replacing the strained look in her eyes. She was not going to let Mr. Carpenter have it all his own way.
But Mr. Carpenter had tossed June aside without reading a line of it.
“‘I weary of the hungry world’—what do you know
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of the hungry world?—you in your New Moon seclusion42 of old trees and old maids—but it is hungry. Ode to Winter—the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems—ha! ‘Spring will not forget’—that’s a good line—the only good line in it. H’m’m—Wanderings—
‘I’ve learned the secret of the rune
That the somber43 pines on the hillside croon’—
Have you—have you learned that secret?”
“I think I’ve always known it,” said Emily dreamily. That flash of unimaginable sweetness that sometimes surprised her had just come and gone.
“Aim and Endeavour—too didactic—too didactic. You’ve no right to try to teach until you’re old—and then you won’t want to—
‘Her face was like a star all pale and fair’—
Were you looking in the glass when you composed that line?”
“No—” indignantly.
“‘When the morning light is shaken like a banner on the hill’—a good line—a good line—
‘Oh, on such a golden morning
To be living is delight’—
Too much like a faint echo of Wordsworth. The Sea in September—‘blue and austerely44 bright’—‘austerely bright’—child, how can you marry the right adjectives like that? Morning—‘all the secret fears that haunt the night’—what do you know of the fears that haunt the night?”
“I know something,” said Emily decidedly, remembering her first night at Wyther Grange.
“To a Dead Day—
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‘With the chilly45 calm on her brow
That only the dead may wear’—
Have you ever seen the chilly calm on the brow of the dead, Emily?”
“Yes,” said Emily softly, recalling that grey dawn in the old house in the hollow.
“I thought so—otherwise you couldn’t have written that—and even as it is—how old are you, jade46?”
“Thirteen, last May.”
“Humph! Lines to Mrs. George Irving’s Infant Son—you should study the art of titles, Emily—there’s a fashion in them as in everything else. Your titles are as out of date as the candles of New Moon—
‘Soundly he sleeps with his red lips pressed
Like a beautiful blossom close to her breast’—
The rest isn’t worth reading. September—is there a month you’ve missed?—‘Windy meadows harvest-deep’—good line. Blair Water by Moonlight—gossamer47, Emily, nothing but gossamer. The Garden of New Moon—
‘Beguiling laughter and old song
Of merry maids and men’—
Good line—I suppose New Moon is full of ghosts. ‘Death’s fell minion48 well fulfilled its part’—that might have passed in Addison’s day but not now—not now, Emily—
‘Your azure49 dimples are the graves
Where million buried sunbeams play’—
Atrocious, girl—atrocious. Graves aren’t playgrounds. How much would you play if you were buried?”
Emily writhed and blushed again. Why couldn’t she have seen that herself? Any goose could have seen it.
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“‘Sail onward50, ships—white wings, sail on,
Till past the horizon’s purple bar
You drift from sight.—In flush of dawn
Sail on, and ’neath the evening star’—
Trash—trash—and yet there’s a picture in it—
‘Lap softly, purple waves. I dream,
And dreams are sweet—I’ll wake no more’—
Ah, but you’ll have to wake if you want to accomplish anything. Girl, you’ve used purple twice in the same poem.
‘Buttercups in a golden frenzy’—
‘a golden frenzy’—girl, I see the wind shaking the buttercups.
‘From the purple gates of the west I come’—
You’re too fond of purple, Emily.”
“It’s such a lovely word,” said Emily.
“‘Dreams that seem too bright to die’—
Seem but never are, Emily—
‘The luring51 voice of the echo, fame’—
So you’ve heard it, too? It is a lure and for most of us only an echo. And that’s the last of the lot.”
Mr. Carpenter swept the little sheets aside, folded his arms on the desk, and looked over his glasses at Emily.
Emily looked back at him mutely, nervelessly. All the life seemed to have been drained out of her body and concentrated in her eyes.
“Ten good lines out of four hundred, Emily—comparatively good, that is—and all the rest balderdash—balderdash, Emily.”
“I—suppose so,” said Emily faintly.
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Her eyes brimmed with tears—her lips quivered. She could not help it. Pride was hopelessly submerged in the bitterness of her disappointment. She felt exactly like a candle that somebody had blown out.
“What are you crying for?” demanded Mr. Carpenter.
Emily blinked away the tears and tried to laugh.
“I—I’m sorry—you think it’s no good—” she said.
Mr. Carpenter gave the desk a mighty52 thump53.
“No good! Didn’t I tell you there were ten good lines? Jade, for ten righteous men Sodom had been spared.”
“Do you mean—that—after all—” The candle was being relighted again.
“Of course, I mean. If at thirteen you can write ten good lines, at twenty you’ll write ten times ten—if the gods are kind. Stop messing over months, though—and don’t imagine you’re a genius either, if you have written ten decent lines. I think there’s something trying to speak through you—but you’ll have to make yourself a fit instrument for it. You’ve got to work hard and sacrifice—by gad, girl, you’ve chosen a jealous goddess. And she never lets her votaries54 go—not even when she shuts her ears forever to their plea. What have you there?”
Emily, her heart thrilling, handed him her Jimmy-book. She was so happy that it shone through her whole being with a positive radiance. She saw her future, wonderful, brilliant—oh, her goddess would listen to her—“Emily B. Starr, the distinguished55 poet”—“E. Byrd Starr, the rising young novelist”—
She was recalled from her enchanting56 reverie by a chuckle57 from Mr. Carpenter. Emily wondered a little uneasily what he was laughing at. She didn’t think there was anything funny in that book. It contained only three or four of her latest stories—The Butterfly Queen, a little fairy tale; The Disappointed House, wherein she had woven a pretty dream of hopes come true after long years; The Secret of the Glen, which, in spite of its title, was a fanciful little dialogue between the Spirit of the
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Snow, the Spirit of the Grey Rain, the Spirit of Mist, and the Spirit of Moonshine.
“So you think I am not beautiful when I say my prayers?” said Mr. Carpenter.
Emily gasped—realized what had happened—made a frantic58 grab at her Jimmy-book—missed it. Mr. Carpenter held it up beyond her reach and mocked at her.
She had given him the wrong Jimmy-book! And this one, oh, horrors, what was in it? Or rather, what wasn’t in it? Sketches59 of everyone in Blair Water—and a full—a very full—description of Mr. Carpenter himself. Intent on describing him exactly, she had been as mercilessly lucid61 as she always was, especially in regard to the odd faces he made on mornings when he opened the school day with a prayer. Thanks to her dramatic knack62 of word painting, Mr. Carpenter lived in that sketch60. Emily did not know it, but he did—he saw himself as in a glass and the artistry of it pleased him so that he cared for nothing else. Besides, she had drawn63 his good points quite as clearly as his bad ones. And there were some sentences in it—“He looks as if he knew a great deal that can never be any use to him”—“I think he wears the black coat Mondays because it makes him feel that he hasn’t been drunk at all.” Who or what had taught the little jade these things? Oh, her goddess would not pass Emily by!
“I’m—sorry,” said Emily, crimson64 with shame all over her dainty paleness.
“Why, I wouldn’t have missed this for all the poetry you’ve written or ever will write! By gad, it’s literature—literature—and you’re only thirteen. But you don’t know what’s ahead of you—the stony65 hills—the steep ascents—the buffets—the discouragements. Stay in the valley if you’re wise. Emily, why do you want to write? Give me your reason.”
“I want to be famous and rich,” said Emily coolly.
“Everybody does. Is that all?”
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“No. I just love to write.”
“A better reason—but not enough—not enough. Tell me this—if you knew you would be poor as a church mouse all your life—if you knew you’d never have a line published—would you still go on writing—would you?”
“Of course I would,” said Emily disdainfully. “Why, I have to write—I can’t help it by times—I’ve just got to.”
“Oh—then I’d waste my breath giving advice at all. If it’s in you to climb you must—there are those who must lift their eyes to the hills—they can’t breathe properly in the valleys. God help them if there’s some weakness in them that prevents their climbing. You don’t understand a word I’m saying—yet. But go on—climb! There, take your book and go home. Thirty years from now I will have a claim to distinction in the fact that Emily Byrd Starr was once a pupil of mine. Go—go—before I remember what a disrespectful baggage you are to write such stuff about me and be properly enraged66.”
Emily went, still a bit scared but oddly exultant67 behind her fright. She was so happy that her happiness seemed to irradiate the world with its own splendour. All the sweet sounds of nature around her seemed like the broken words of her own delight. Mr. Carpenter watched her out of sight from the old worn threshold.
“Wind—and flame—and sea!” he muttered. “Nature is always taking us by surprise. This child has—what I have never had and would have made any sacrifice to have. But ‘the gods don’t allow us to be in their debt’—she will pay for it—she will pay.”
At sunset Emily sat in the lookout68 room. It was flooded with soft splendour. Outside, in sky and trees, were delicate tintings and aerial sounds. Down in the garden Daffy was chasing dead leaves along the red walks. The sight of his sleek69, striped sides, the grace of his movements, gave her pleasure—as did the beautiful,
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even, glossy70 furrows71 of the ploughed fields beyond the lane, and the first faint white star in the crystal-green sky.
The wind of the autumn night was blowing trumpets72 of fairyland on the hills; and over in Lofty John’s bush was laughter—like the laughter of fauns. Ilse and Perry and Teddy were waiting there for her—they had made a tryst73 for a twilight romp74. She would go to them—presently—not yet. She was so full of rapture75 that she must write it out before she went back from her world of dreams to the world of reality. Once she would have poured it into a letter to her father. She could no longer do that. But on the table before her lay a brand-new Jimmy-book. She pulled it towards her, took up her pen, and on its first virgin76 page she wrote.
New Moon,
Blair Water,
P. E. Island.
October 8th.
I am going to write a diary, that it may be published when I die.
THE END
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1
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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hazes
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| n.（烟尘等的）雾霭( haze的名词复数 )；迷蒙；迷糊；（尤指热天引起的）薄雾v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的第三人称单数 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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fraught
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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momentous
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；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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hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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gad
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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53
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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54
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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55
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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57
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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58
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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59
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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60
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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61
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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67
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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69
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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71
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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74
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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75
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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76
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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