After weeks of the din1 of Strauss and Gungl, the soothing2 strains of the Pastoral Symphony. Now no more the kettle-drum and the ceaseless promenade3 in showy corridors, but the oaten pipe under the spreading maples4, the sheep feeding on the gentle hills of Otsego, the carnival5 of the hop6-pickers. It is time to be rural, to adore the country, to speak about the dew on the upland pasture, and the exquisite7 view from Sunset Hill. It is quite English, is it not? this passion for quiet, refined country life, which attacks all the summer revelers at certain periods in the season, and sends them in troops to Richfield or Lenox or some other peaceful retreat, with their simple apparel bestowed8 in modest fourstory trunks. Come, gentle shepherdesses, come, sweet youths in white flannel9, let us tread a measure on the greensward, let us wander down the lane, let us pass under the festoons of the hop-vines, let us saunter in the paths of sentiment, that lead to love in a cottage and a house in town.
Every watering-place has a character of its own, and those who have given little thought to this are surprised at the endless variety in the American resorts. But what is even more surprising is the influence that these places have upon the people that frequent them, who appear to change their characters with their surroundings. One woman in her season plays many parts, dashing in one place, reserved in another, now gay and active, now listless and sentimental10, not at all the same woman at Newport that she is in the Adirondack camps, one thing at Bar Harbor and quite another at Saratoga or at Richfield. Different tastes, to be sure, are suited at different resorts, but fashion sends a steady procession of the same people on the round of all.
The charm of Richfield Springs is in the character of the landscape. It is a limestone11 region of gentle slopes and fine lines; and although it is elevated, the general character is refined rather than bold, the fertile valleys in pleasing irregularity falling away from rounded wooded hills in a manner to produce the impression of peace and repose12. The lay of the land is such that an elevation13 of a few hundred feet gives a most extensive prospect14, a view of meadows and upland pastures, of lakes and ponds, of forests hanging in dark masses on the limestone summits, of fields of wheat and hops15, and of distant mountain ranges. It is scenery that one grows to love, and that responds to one's every mood in variety and beauty. In a whole summer the pedestrian will not exhaust the inspiring views, and the drives through the gracious land, over hills, round the lakes, by woods and farms, increase in interest as one knows them better. The habitues of the place, year after year, are at a loss for words to convey their peaceful satisfaction.
In this smiling country lies the pretty village of Richfield, the rural character of which is not entirely16 lost by reason of the hotels, cottages, and boardinghouses which line the broad principal street. The centre of the town is the old Spring House and grounds. When our travelers alighted in the evening at this mansion17, they were reminded of an English inn, though it is not at all like an inn in England except in its atmosphere of comfort. The building has rather a colonial character, with its long corridors and pillared piazzas19; built at different times, and without any particular plans except to remain old-fashioned, it is now a big, rambling20 white mass of buildings in the midst of maple-trees, with so many stairs and passages on different levels, and so many nooks and corners, that the stranger is always getting lost in it--turning up in the luxurious21 smoking-room when he wants to dine, and opening a door that lets him out into the park when he is trying to go to bed. But there are few hotels in the country where the guests are so well taken care of.
This was the unbought testimony22 of Miss Lamont, who, with her uncle, had been there long enough to acquire the common anxiety of sojourners that the newcomers should be pleased, and who superfluously23 explained the attractions of the place to the artist, as if in his eyes, that rested on her, more than one attraction was needed. It was very pleasant to see the good comradeship that existed between these two, and the frank expression of their delight in meeting again. Here was a friendship without any reserve, or any rueful misunderstandings, or necessity for explanations. Irene's eyes followed them with a wistful look as they went off together round the piazza18 and through the parlors24, the girl playing the part of the hostess, and inducting him into the mild gayeties of the place.
The height of the season was over, she said; there had been tableaux25 and charades26, and broom-drills, and readings and charity concerts. Now the season was on the sentimental wane27; every night the rooms were full of whist-players, and the days were occupied in quiet strolling over the hills, and excursions to Cooperstown and Cherry Valley and "points of view," and visits to the fields to see the hop-pickers at work. If there were a little larking28 about the piazzas in the evening, and a group here and there pretending to be merry over tall glasses with ice and straws in them, and lingering good-nights at the stairways, why should the aged29 and rheumatic make a note of it? Did they not also once prefer the dance to hobbling to the spring, and the taste of ginger30 to sulphur?
Of course the raison d'etre of being here is the sulphur spring. There is no doubt of its efficacy. I suppose it is as unpleasant as any in the country. Everybody smells it, and a great many drink it. The artist said that after using it a week the blind walk, the lame31 see, and the dumb swear. It renews youth, and although the analyzer does not say that it is a "love philter," the statistics kept by the colored autocrat32 who ladles out the fluid show that there are made as many engagements at Richfield as at any other summer fair in the country.
There is not much to chronicle in the peaceful flow of domestic life, and, truth to say, the charm of Richfield is largely in its restfulness. Those who go there year after year converse33 a great deal about their liking34 for it, and think the time well spent in persuading new arrivals to take certain walks and drives. It was impressed upon King that he must upon no account omit a visit to Rum Hill, from the summit of which is had a noble prospect, including the Adirondack Mountains. He tried this with a walking party, was driven back when near the summit by a thunder, storm, which offered a series of grand pictures in the sky and on the hills, and took refuge in a farmhouse35 which was occupied by a band of hop-pickers. These adventurers are mostly young girls and young men from the cities and factory villages, to whom this is the only holiday of the year. Many of the pickers, however, are veterans. At this season one meets them on all the roads, driving from farm to farm in lumber36 wagons37, carrying into the dull rural life their slang, and "Captain Jinks" songs, and shocking free manners. At the great hop fields they lodge38 all together in big barracks, and they make lively for the time whatever farmhouse they occupy. They are a "rough lot," and need very much the attention of the poet and the novelist, who might (if they shut their eyes) make this season as romantic as vintage-time on the Rhine, or "moonshining" on the Southern mountains. The hop field itself, with its tall poles draped in graceful39 vines which reach from pole to pole, and hang their yellowing fruit in pretty festoons and arbors, is much more picturesque40 than the vine-clad hills.
Mrs. Bartlett Glow found many acquaintances here from New York and Philadelphia and Newport, and, to do her justice, she introduced Irene to them and presently involved her in so many pleasure parties and excursions that she and King were scarcely ever alone together. When opportunity offered for a stroll a deux, the girl's manner was so constrained41 that King was compelled to ask the reason of it. He got very little satisfaction, and the puzzle of her conduct was increased by her confession42 that she loved him just the same, and always should.
"But something has come between us," he said. "I think I have the right to be treated with perfect frankness."
"So you have," she replied. "There is nothing--nothing at least that changes my feeling towards you."
"But you think that mine is changed for you?"
"No, not that, either, never that;" and her voice showed excitement as she turned away her head. "But don't you know, Stanhope, you have not known me very long, and perhaps you have been a little hasty, and--how shall I say it?--if you had more time to reflect, when you go back to your associates and your active life, it might somehow look differently to you, and your prospects43--"
"Why, Irene, I have no prospects without you. I love you; you are my life. I don't understand. I am just yours, and nothing you can do will ever make it any different for me; but if you want to be free--"
"No, no," cried the girl, trying in vain to restrain her agitation44 and her tears, "not that. I don't want to be free. But you will not understand. Circumstances are so cruel, and if, Stanhope, you ever should regret when it is too late! It would kill me. I want you to be happy. And, Stanhope, promise me that, whatever happens, you will not think ill of me."
Of course he promised, he declared that nothing could happen, he vowed45, and he protested against this ridiculous phantom46 in her mind. To a man, used to straightforward47 cuts in love as in any other object of his desire, this feminine exaggeration of conscientiousness48 is wholly incomprehensible. How under heavens a woman could get a kink of duty in her mind which involved the sacrifice of herself and her lover was past his fathoming49.
The morning after this conversation, the most of which the reader has been spared, there was an excursion to Cooperstown. The early start of the tally-ho coaches for this trip is one of the chief sensations of the quiet village. The bustle50 to collect the laggards51, the importance of the conductors and drivers, the scramble52 up the ladders, the ruses53 to get congenial seat-neighbors, the fine spirits of everybody evoked55 by the fresh morning air, and the elevation on top of the coaches, give the start an air of jolly adventure. Away they go, the big red-and-yellow arks, swinging over the hills and along the well-watered valleys, past the twin lakes to Otsego, over which hangs the romance of Cooper's tales, where a steamer waits. This is one of the most charming of the little lakes that dot the interior of New York; without bold shores or anything sensational56 in its scenery, it is a poetic57 element in a refined and lovely landscape. There are a few fishing-lodges and summer cottages on its banks (one of them distinguished58 as "Sinners' Rest"), and a hotel or two famous for dinners; but the traveler would be repaid if there were nothing except the lovely village of Cooperstown embowered in maples at the foot. The town rises gently from the lake, and is very picturesque with its church spires59 and trees and handsome mansions60; and nothing could be prettier than the foreground, the gardens, the allees of willows61, the long boat wharves62 with hundreds of rowboats and sail-boats, and the exit of the Susquehanna River, which here swirls63 away under drooping64 foliage65, and begins its long journey to the sea. The whole village has an air of leisure and refinement66. For our tourists the place was pervaded67 by the spirit of the necromancer68 who has woven about it a spell of romance; but to the ordinary inhabitants the long residence of the novelist here was not half so important as that of the very distinguished citizen who had made a great fortune out of some patent, built here a fine house, and adorned69 his native town. It is not so very many years since Cooper died, and yet the boatmen and loungers about the lake had only the faintest impression of the man-there was a writer by that name, one of them said, and some of his family lived near the house of the great man already referred to. The magician who created Cooperstown sleeps in the old English-looking church-yard of the Episcopal church, in the midst of the graves of his relations, and there is a well-worn path to his head-stone. Whatever the common people of the town may think, it is that grave that draws most pilgrims to the village. Where the hillside cemetery70 now is, on the bank of the lake, was his farm, which he visited always once and sometimes twice a day. He commonly wrote only from ten to twelve in the morning, giving the rest of the time to his farm and the society of his family. During the period of his libel suits, when the newspapers represented him as morose71 and sullen72 in his retirement73, he was, on the contrary, in the highest spirits and the most genial54 mood. "Deer-slayer" was written while this contest was at its height. Driving one day from his farm with his daughter, he stopped and looked long over his favorite prospect on the lake, and said, "I must write one more story, dear, about our little lake." At that moment the "Deerslayer" was born. He was silent the rest of the way home, and went immediately to his library and began the story.
The party returned in a moralizing vein74. How vague already in the village which his genius has made known over the civilized75 world is the fame of Cooper! To our tourists the place was saturated76 with his presence, but the new generation cares more for its smart prosperity than for all his romance. Many of the passengers on the boat had stopped at a lakeside tavern77 to dine, preferring a good dinner to the associations which drew our sentimentalists to the spots that were hallowed by the necromancer's imagination. And why not? One cannot live in the past forever. The people on the boat who dwelt in Cooperstown were not talking about Cooper, perhaps had not thought of him for a year. The ladies, seated in the bow of the boat, were comparing notes about their rheumatism78 and the measles79 of their children; one of them had been to the funeral of a young girl who was to have been married in the autumn, poor thing, and she told her companion who were at the funeral, and how they were dressed, and how little feeling Nancy seemed to show, and how shiftless it was not to have more flowers, and how the bridegroom bore up-well, perhaps it's an escape, she was so weakly.
The day lent a certain pensiveness80 to all this; the season was visibly waning81; the soft maples showed color, the orchards82 were heavy with fruit, the mountain-ash hung out its red signals, the hop-vines were yellowing, and in all the fence corners the golden-rod flamed and made the meanest high-road a way of glory. On Irene fell a spell of sadness that affected83 her lover. Even Mrs. Bartlett-Glow seemed touched by some regret for the fleeting84 of the gay season, and the top of the coach would have been melancholy85 enough but for the high spirits of Marion and the artist, whose gayety expanded in the abundance of the harvest season. Happy natures, unrestrained by the subtle melancholy of a decaying year!
The summer was really going. On Sunday the weather broke in a violent storm of wind and rain, and at sunset, when it abated86, there were portentous87 gleams on the hills, and threatening clouds lurking88 about the sky. It was time to go. Few people have the courage to abide89 the breaking of the serenity90 of summer, and remain in the country for the more glorious autumn days that are to follow. The Glows must hurry back to Newport. The Bensons would not be persuaded out of their fixed91 plan to "take in," as Mr. Benson expressed it, the White Mountains. The others were going to Niagara and the Thousand Islands; and when King told Irene that he would much rather change his route and accompany her, he saw by the girl's manner that it was best not to press the subject. He dreaded92 to push an explanation, and, foolish as lovers are, he was wise for once in trusting to time. But he had a miserable93 evening. He let himself be irritated by the lightheartedness of Forbes. He objected to the latter's whistling as he went about his room packing up his traps. He hated a fellow that was always in high spirits. "Why, what has come over you, old man?" queried94 the artist, stopping to take a critical look at his comrade. "Do you want to get out of it? It's my impression that you haven't taken sulphur water enough."
On Monday morning there was a general clearing out. The platform at the station was crowded. The palace-cars for New York, for Niagara, for Albany, for the West, were overflowing95. There was a pile of trunks as big as a city dwelling-house. Baby-carriages cumbered the way; dogs were under foot, yelping96 and rending97 the tender hearts of their owners; the porters staggered about under their loads, and shouted till they were hoarse98; farewells were said; rendezvous99 made--alas! how many half-fledged hopes came to an end on that platform! The artist thought he had never seen so many pretty girls together in his life before, and each one had in her belt a bunch of goldenrod. Summer was over, sure enough.
At Utica the train was broken up, and its cars despatched in various directions. King remembered that it was at Utica that the younger Cato sacrificed himself. In the presence of all the world Irene bade him good-by. "It will not be for long," said King, with an attempt at gayety. "Nothing is for long," she said with the same manner. And then added in a low tone, as she slipped a note into his hand, "Do not think ill of me."
King opened the note as soon as he found his seat in the car, and this was what he read as the train rushed westward100 towards the Great Fall:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--How can I ever say it? It is best that we separate. I have thought and thought; I have struggled with myself. I think that I know it is best for you. I have been happy--ah me! Dear, we must look at the world as it is. We cannot change it--if we break our hearts, we cannot. Don't blame your cousin. It is nothing that she has done. She has been as sweet and kind to me as possible, but I have seen through her what I feared, just how it is. Don't reproach me. It is hard now. I know it. But I believe that you will come to see it as I do. If it was any sacrifice that I could make, that would be easy. But to think that I had sacrificed you, and that you should some day become aware of it! You are free. I am not silly. It is the future I am thinking of. You must take your place in the world where your lot is cast. Don't think I have a foolish pride. Perhaps it is pride that tells me not to put myself in a false position; perhaps it is something else. Never think it is want of heart in.
"Good-by.
"IRENE"
As King finished this he looked out of the window.
The landscape was black.
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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limestone
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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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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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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piazzas
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| n.广场，市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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superfluously
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| 过分地； 过剩地 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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tableaux
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charades
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wane
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larking
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| v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的现在分词 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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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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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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fathoming
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| 测量 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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laggards
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| n.落后者( laggard的名词复数 ) | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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ruses
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| n.诡计，计策( ruse的名词复数 ) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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swirls
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| n.旋转( swirl的名词复数 )；卷状物；漩涡；尘旋v.旋转，打旋( swirl的第三人称单数 ) | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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66
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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necromancer
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| n. 巫师 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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80
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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81
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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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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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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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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88
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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99
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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