Philip was always welcome at his uncle's house in Rivervale. It was, of course, his home during his college life, and since then he was always expected for his yearly holiday. The women of the house made much of him, waited on him, deferred1 to him, petted him, with a flattering mingling2 of tenderness to a little boy and the respect due to a man who had gone into the world. Even Mr. Maitland condescended3 to a sort of equality in engaging Philip in conversation about the state of the country and the prospects5 of business in New York.
It was July. When Philip went to sleep at night--he was in the front chamber6 reserved for guests--the loud murmur7 of the Deerfield was in his ears, like a current bearing him away into sweet sleep and dreams in a land of pleasant adventures. Only in youth come such dreams. Later on the sophisticated mind, left to its own guidance in the night, wanders amid the complexities8 of life, calling up in confusion scenes long forgotten or repented9 of, images only registered by a sub-conscious process, dreams to perplex, irritate, and excite.
In the morning the same continuous murmur seemed to awake him into a peaceful world. Through the open window came in the scents10 of summer, the freshness of a new day. How sweet and light was the air! It was indeed the height of summer. The corn, not yet tasseled11, stood in green flexible ranks, moved by the early breeze. In the river-meadows haying had just begun. Fields of timothy and clover, yellowing to ripeness, took on a fresh bloom from the dew, and there was an odor of new-mown grass from the sections where the scythes13 had been. He heard the call of the crow from the hill, the melody of the bobolink along the meadow-brook; indeed, the birds of all sorts were astir, skimming along the ground or rising to the sky, keeping watch especially over the garden and the fruit-trees, carrying food to their nests, or teaching their young broods to fly and to chirp14 the songs of summer. And from the woodshed the shrill15 note of the scythe12 under the action of the grindstone. No such vivid realization16 of summer as that.
Philip stole out the unused front door without disturbing the family. Whither? Where would a boy be likely to go the first thing? To the barn, the great cavernous barn, its huge doors now wide open, the stalls vacant, the mows17 empty, the sunlight sifting18 in through the high shadowy spaces. How much his life had been in that barn! How he had stifled19 and scrambled20 mowing21 hay in those lofts22! On the floor he had hulled23 heaps of corn, thrashed oats with a flail--a noble occupation--and many a rainy day had played there with girls and boys who could not now exactly describe the games or well recall what exciting fun they were. There were the racks where he put the fodder24 for cattle and horses, and there was the cutting-machine for the hay and straw and for slicing the frozen turnips25 on cold winter mornings.
In the barn-yard were the hens, just as usual, walking with measured step, scratching and picking in the muck, darting26 suddenly to one side with an elevated wing, clucking, chattering27, jabbering28 endlessly about nothing. They did not seem to mind him as he stood in the open door. But the rooster, in his oriental iridescent29 plumage, jumped upon a fence-post and crowed defiantly30, in warning that this was his preserve. They seemed like the same hens, yet Philip knew they were all strangers; all the hens and flaunting31 roosters he knew had long ago gone to Thanksgiving. The hen is, or should be, an annual. It is never made a pet. It forms no attachments32. Man is no better acquainted with the hen, as a being, than he was when the first chicken was hatched. Its business is to live a brief chicken life, lay, and be eaten. And this reminded Philip that his real occupation was hunting hens' eggs. And this he did, in the mows, in the stalls, under the floor-planks, in every hidden nook. The hen's instinct is to be orderly, and have a secluded33 nest of her own, and bring up a family. But in such a communistic body it is a wise hen who knows her own chicken. Nobody denies to the hen maternal34 instincts or domestic proclivities35, but what an ill example is a hen community!
And then Philip climbed up the hill, through the old grass-plot and the orchard36, to the rocks and the forest edge, and the great view. It had more meaning to him than when he was a boy, and it was more beautiful. In a certain peaceful charm, he had seen nothing anywhere in the world like it. Partly this was because his boyish impressions, the first fresh impressions of the visible world, came back to him; but surely it was very beautiful. More experienced travelers than Philip felt its unique charm.
When he descended4, Alice was waiting to breakfast with him. Mrs. Maitland declared, with an approving smile on her placid37, aging face, that he was the same good-for-nothing boy. But Alice said, as she sat down to the little table with Philip, "It is different, mother, with us city folks." They were in the middle room, and the windows opened to the west upon the river-meadows and the wooded hills beyond, and through one a tall rose-bush was trying to thrust its fragrant38 bloom.
What a dainty breakfast! Alice flushed with pleasure. It was so good of him to come to them. Had he slept well? Did it seem like home at all? Philip's face showed that it was home without the need of saying so. Such coffee-yes, a real aroma39 of the berry! Just a little more, would he have? And as Alice raised the silver pitcher40, there was a deep dimple in her sweet cheek. How happy she was! And then the butter, so fresh and cool, and the delicious eggs--by the way, he had left a hatful in the kitchen as he came in. Alice explained that she did not make the eggs. And then there was the journey, the heat in the city, the grateful sight of the Deerfield, the splendid morning, the old barn, the watering-trough, the view from the hill everything just as it used to be.
"Dear Phil, it is so nice to have you here," and there were tears in Alice's eyes, she was so happy.
After breakfast Philip strolled down the country road through the village. How familiar was every step of the way!--the old houses jutting41 out at the turns in the road; the glimpse of the river beyond the little meadow where Captain Rice was killed; the spring under the ledge42 over which the snap-dragon grew; the dilapidated ranks of fence smothered43 in vines and fireweeds; the cottages, with flower-pots in front; the stores, with low verandas44 ornamented45 with boxes and barrels; the academy in its green on the hill; the old bridge over which the circus elephant dared not walk; the new and the old churches, with rival steeples; and, not familiar, the new inn.
And he knew everybody, young and old, at doorways46, in the fields or gardens, and had for every one a hail and a greeting. How he enjoyed it all, and his self-consciousness added to his pleasure, as he swung along in his well-fitting city clothes, broad-shouldered and erect--it is astonishing how much a tailor can do for a man who responds to his efforts. It is a pleasure to come across such a hero as this in real life, and not have to invent him, as the saying is, out of the whole cloth. Philip enjoyed the world, and he enjoyed himself, because it was not quite his old self, the farmer's boy going on an errand. There must be knowledge all along the street that he was in the great law office of Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle. And, besides, Philip's name must be known to all the readers of magazines in the town as a writer, a name in more than one list of "contributors." That was fame. Translated, however, into country comprehension it was something like this, if he could have heard the comments after he had passed by:
"Yes, that's Phil Burnett, sure enough; but I'd hardly know him; spruced up mightily47. I wonder what he's at?"
"I heard he was down in New York trying to law it. I heard he's been writin' some for newspapers. Accordin' to his looks, must pay a durn sight better'n farmin'."
"Well, I always said that boy wa'n't no skeezics."
Almost the first question Philip asked Alice on his return was about the new inn, the Peacock Inn.
"There seemed a good deal of stir about it as I passed."
"Why, I forgot to tell you about it. It's the great excitement. Rivervale is getting known. The Mavicks are there. I hear they've taken pretty much the whole of it."
"The Mavicks?
"Yes, the New York Mavicks, that you wrote us about, that were in the paper."
"How long have they been there?"
"A week. There is Mrs. Mavick and her daughter, and the governess, and two maids, and a young fellow in uniform--yes, livery--and a coachman in the same, and a stableful of horses and carriages. It upset the village like a circus. And they say there's a French chef in white cap and apron48, who comes to the side-door and jabbers49 to the small boys like fireworks."
"How did it come about?"
"Naturally, I guess; a city family wanting a quiet place for summer in the country. But you will laugh. Patience first discovered it. One day, sitting at the window, she saw a two-horse buggy driven by the landlord of the Peacock, and a gentleman by his side. 'Well, I wonder who that is-city man certainly. And wherever is he going? May be a railroad man. But there is nothing the matter with the railroad. Shouldn't wonder if he is going to see the tunnel. If it was just that, the landlord wouldn't drive him; he'd send a man. And they keep stopping and pointing and looking round. No, it isn't the railroad, it's scenery. And what can a man like that want with scenery?
"He does look like a railroad man. It may be tunnel, but it isn't all tunnel. When the team came back in the afternoon, Patience was again at the window; she had heard meantime from Jabez that a city man was stopping at the Peacock. There he goes, and looking round more than ever. They've stopped by the bridge and the landlord is pointing out. It's not tunnel, it's scenery. I tell you, he is a city boarder. Not that he cares about scenery; it's for his family. City families are always trying to find a grand new place, and he has heard of Rivervale and the Peacock Inn. Maybe the tunnel had something to do with it."
"Why, it's like second sight."
"No, Patience says it's just judgment50. And she generally hits it. At any rate, the family is here."
The explanation of their being there--it seemed to Philip providential--was very simple. Mr. Mavick had plans about the Hoosac Tunnel that required him to look at it. Mrs. Mavick took advantage of this to commission him to look at a little inn in a retired51 village of which she had heard, and to report on scenery and climate. Warm days and cool nights and simplicity52 was her idea. Mavick reported that the place seemed made for the family.
Evelyn was not yet out, but she was very nearly out, and after the late notoriety Mrs. Mavick dreaded53 the regular Newport season. And, in the mood of the moment, she was tired of the Newport palace. She always said that she liked simplicity--a common failing among people who are not compelled to observe it. Perhaps she thought she was really fond of rural life and country ways. As she herself said,
"If you have a summer cottage at Newport or Lenox, it is necessary to go off somewhere and rest." And then it would be good for Evelyn to live out-of-doors and see the real country, and, as for herself, as she looked in the mirror, "I shall drink milk and go to bed early. Henderson used to say that a month in New Hampshire made another woman of me."
Oh, to find a spot where we could be undisturbed, alone and unknown. That was the program. But Carmen simply could not be anywhere content if she were unnoticed. It was not so easy to give up daily luxury, and habits of ease at the expense of attendants, or the ostentation54 which had become a second nature. Therefore the "establishment" went along with her to Rivervale, and the shy, modest little woman, who had dropped down into the country simplicity that she so dearly loved, greatly enjoyed the sensation that her coming produced. It needed no effort on her part to produce the sensation. The carriage, and coachman and footman in livery, would have been sufficient; and then the idea of one family being rich enough to take the whole hotel!
The liveries, the foreign cook in his queer cap and apron, and all the goings-on at the Peacock were the inexhaustible topic of talk in every farmhouse55 for ten miles around. Rivervale was a self-respecting town, and principled against luxury and self-indulgence, and judged with a just and severe judgment the world of fashion and of the grasping, wicked millionaires. And now this world with all its vain show had plumped down in the midst of them. Those who had traveled and seen the ostentation of cities smiled a superior smile at the curiosity and wonder exhibited, but even those who had never seen the like were cautious about letting their surprise appear. Especially in the presence of fashion and wealth would the independent American citizen straighten his backbone56, reassuring57 himself that he was as good as anybody. To be sure, people flew to windows when the elegant equipage dashed by, and everybody found frequent occasion to drive or walk past the Peacock Inn. It was only the novelty of it, in a place that rather lacked novelties.
And yet there prevailed in the community a vague sense that millions were there, and a curious expectation of some individual benefit from them. All the young berry-pickers were unusually active, and poured berries into the kitchen door of the inn. There was not a housewife who was not a little more anxious about the product of her churning; not a farmer who did not think that perhaps cord-wood would rise, that there would be a better demand for garden "sass," and more market for chickens, and who did not regard with more interest his promising58 colt. When he drove to the village his rig was less shabby and slovenly59 in appearance. The young fellows who prided themselves upon a neat buggy and a fast horse made their turnouts shine, and dashed past the inn with a self-conscious air. Even the stores began to "slick up" and arrange their miscellaneous notions more attractively, and one of them boldly put in a window a placard, "Latest New York Style." When the family went to the Congregational church on Sunday not the slightest notice was taken of them--though every woman could have told to the last detail what the ladies wore--but some of the worshipers were for the first time a little nervous about the performance of the choir60, and the deacons heard the sermon chiefly with reference to what a city visitor would think of it.
Mrs. Mavick was quite equal to the situation. In the church she was devout61, in the village she was affable and friendly. She made acquaintances right and left, and took a simple interest in everybody and everything. She was on easy terms with the landlord, who declared, "There is a woman with no nonsense in her." She chatted with the farmers who stopped at the inn door, she bought things at the stores that she did not want, and she speedily discovered Aunt Hepsy, and loved to sit with her in the little shop and pick up the traditions and the gossip of the neighborhood. And she did not confine her angelic visits to the village. On one pretense62 and another she made her way into every farmhouse that took her fancy, penetrated63 the kitchens and dairies, and got, as she told McDonald, into the inner life of the people.
She must see the grave of Captain Moses Rice. And on this legitimate64 errand she one day carried her fluttering attractiveness and patchouly into the Maitland house. Mrs. Maitland was civil, but no more. Alice was civil but reserved--a great many people, she said, came to see the graves in the old orchard. But Mrs. Mavick was not a bit abashed65. She expressed herself delighted with everything. It was such a rest, such a perfectly66 lovely country, and everybody was so hospitable67! And Aunt Hepsy had so interested her in the history of the region! But it was difficult to get her talk responded to.
However, when Miss Patience came in she made better headway. She had heard so much of Miss Maitland's apartments. She herself was interested in decorations. She had tried to do something in her New York home. But there were so many ideas and theories, and it was so hard to be natural and artificial at the same time. She had no doubt she could get some new ideas from Miss Maitland. Would it be asking too much to see her apartments? She really felt like a stranger nowhere in Rivervale. Patience was only too delighted, and took her into her museum of natural history, art, religion, and vegetation.
"She might have gone to the grave-yard without coming into the house," Alice remarked.
"Oh, well," said her mother, "I think she is very amusing. You shouldn't be so exclusive, Alice."
"Mother, I do believe she paints."
With Patience, Mrs. Mavick felt on surer ground.
"How curious, how very curious and delightful68 it is! Such knowledge of nature, such art in arrangement."
"Oh, I just put them up," said Patience, "as I thought they ought by rights to be put up."
"That's it. And you have combined everything here. You have given me an idea. In our house we have a Japan room, and an Indian room, and a Chinese room, and an Otaheite, and I don't know what--Egyptian, Greek, and not one American, not a really American. That is, according to American ideas, for you have everything in these two rooms. I shall write to Mr. Mavick." (Mr. Mavick never received the letter.)
When she came away it was with a profusion69 of thanks, and repeated invitations to drop in at the inn. Alice accompanied her to the first stone that marked the threshold of the side door, and was bowing her away, when Mr. Philip swung over the fence by the wood-shed, with a shot-gun on his shoulder, and swinging in his left hand a gray squirrel by its bushy tail, and was immediately in front of the group.
"Ah!" involuntarily from Mrs. Mavick. An introduction was inevitable70.
"My cousin, Mr. Burnett, Mrs. Mavick." Philip raised his cap and bowed.
"A hunter, I see."
"Hardly, madam. In vacations I like to walk in the woods with a gun."
"Then you are not--"
"No," said Philip, smiling, "unfortunately I cannot do this all the time."
"You are of the city, then?"
"With the firm of Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle."
"Ah, my husband knows them, I believe."
"I have seen Mr. Mavick," and Philip bowed again.
"How lucky!"
Mrs. Mavick had an eye for a fine young fellow--she never denied that--and Philip's manly71 figure and easy air were not lost on her. Presently she said:
"We are here for a good part of the summer. Mr. Mavick's business keeps him in the city and we have to poke72 about a good deal alone. Now, Miss Alice, I am so glad I have met your cousin. Perhaps he will show us some of the interesting places and the beauties of the country he knows so well." And she looked sideways at Philip.
"Yes, he knows the country," said Alice, without committing herself.
"I am sure I shall be delighted to do what I can for you whenever you need my services," said Philip, who had reasons for wishing to know the Mavicks which Alice did not share.
"That's so good of you! Excursions, picnics oh, we will arrange. You must come and help me arrange. And I hope," with a smile to Alice, "you can persuade your cousin to join us sometimes."
Alice bowed, they all bowed, and Mrs. Mavick said au revoir, and went swinging her parasol down the driveway. Then she turned and called back, "This is the first long walk I have taken." And then she said to herself, "Rather stiff, except the young man and the queer old maid. But what a pretty girl the younger must have been ten years ago! These country flowers!"
收听单词发音 |
1
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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tasseled
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| v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的过去式和过去分词 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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scythes
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| n.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的名词复数 )v.（长柄）大镰刀( scythe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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mows
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| v.刈，割( mow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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lofts
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| 阁楼( loft的名词复数 )； （由工厂等改建的）套房； 上层楼面； 房间的越层 | |
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hulled
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| 有壳的，有船身的 | |
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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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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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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43
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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verandas
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| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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jabbers
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的第三人称单数 )；急促兴奋地说话 | |
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50
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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54
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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56
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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57
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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59
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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71
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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