Miggy is as thin as a bough8, and her rather large head is swept by an ungovernable lot of fine brown hair. Her face was turned from me, and she was wearing a high-necked gingham apron9 faded to varying values of brown and faint purple and violet of a quite surprising beauty. When the last stroke ceased, she turned to me as if I had been there all the time.
"I wish I could hear it do that again," she said, standing10 where she had stood, arms folded.
"You will, perhaps, to-morrow," I answered.
Truly, if it was to be Miggy, then she would hear the chimes to-morrow and to-morrow; and as she turned, my emotion of finality increased. I have never loved the tribe of the Headlongs, though I am very sorry for any one who has not had with them an occasional innocent tribal11 junket; but I hold that through our intuitions, we may become[Pg 35] a kind of apotheosis12 of the Headlongs. Who of us has not chosen a vase, a chair, a rug, by some motive13 transcending14 taste, by the bidding of a friendly-faithful monitor who, somewhere inside one, nodded a choice which we obeyed? And yet a vase is a dead thing with no little seeking tentacles15 that catch and cling, while in choosing the living it is that one's friendly-faithful monitor is simply recognizing the monitor of the other person. I, for one, am more and more willing to trust these two to avow16 their own. For I think that this monitor is, perhaps, that silent Custodian17 whom, if ever I can win through her elusiveness18, I shall know to be myself. As the years pass I trust her more and more. I find that we like the same people, she and I! And instantly we both liked Miggy.
Miggy stood regarding me intently.
"I saw you go past the Brevy's yesterday, where the crape is on the door," she observed; "I thought it was you."
I wonder at the precision with which very little people and very big people brush aside the minor19 conventions and do it in such ways that one nature is never mistaken for the other.
"The girl who died there was your friend, then?" I asked.
"No," Miggy said; "I just knew her to speak to. And she didn't always bother her head to[Pg 36] speak to me. I just went in there yesterday morning to get the feeling."
"I beg your pardon. To get—what?" I asked.
"Well," said Miggy, "you know when you look at a corpse20 you can always sense your own breath better—like it was something alive inside you. That's why I never miss seeing one if I can help. It's the only time I'm real glad I'm living."
As I motioned her to the chair and took my own, I felt a kind of weariness. The neurotics21, I do believe, are of us all the nearest to the truth about things, but as I grow older I find myself getting to take a surpassing comfort in the normal. Or rather, I am always willing to have the normal thrust upon me, but my neurotics I wish to select for myself.
"My neighbour tells me," I said merely, "that she thinks you should be my secretary." (It is a big word for the office, but a little hill is still a hill.)
"I think so, too," said Miggy, simply, "I was afraid you wouldn't."
"Have you ever been anybody's secretary?" I continued.
"Never," said Miggy. "I never saw anybody before that had a secretary."
"But something must have made her think you would do," I suggested. "And what made you think so?"
"Well," Miggy said, "she thinks so because she[Pg 37] wants me to get ahead. And I think so because I generally think I can do anything—except mathematics. Has Secretary got any mathematics about it?"
"Not my secretary work," I told her, reviewing these extraordinary qualifications for duty; "except counting the words on a page. You could do that?"
"Oh, that!" said Miggy. "But if you told me to multiply two fractions you'd never see me again, no matter how much I wanted to come back. Calliope Marsh22 says she's always expecting to find some folks' heads caved in on one side—same as red and blue balloons. If mine caved, it'd be on the mathematics corner."
I assured her that I never have a fraction in my house.
"Then I'll come," said Miggy, simply.
But immediately she leaned forward with a look of anxiety, and her face was pointed23 and big-eyed, so that distress24 became a part of it.
"Oh," she said, "I forgot. I meant to tell you first."
"What is it? Can you not come, after all?" I inquired gravely.
"I've got a drawback," said Miggy, soberly. "A man's in love with me."
She linked her arms before her, a hand on either[Pg 38] shoulder—arms whose slenderness amazes me, though at the wrist they taper25 and in their extreme littleness are yet round. Because of this frailty26 she has a kind of little girl look which at that moment curiously27 moved me.
"Who told you that?" I asked abruptly28.
"About it being a drawback? Everybody 'most," said Miggy. "They all laugh about us and act like it was a pity."
For a moment I felt a kind of anger as I felt it once when a woman said to me of a wife of many years whose first little child was coming, that she was "in trouble." I own that,—save with my neighbour, and Calliope, and a few more whom I love—here in the village I miss the simple good breeding of the perception that nothing is nobler than the emotions, and the simple good taste of taking seriously love among its young. Taking it seriously, I say. Not, heaven forbid, taking it for granted, as do the cities.
"Other things being equal, I prefer folk who are in love," I told Miggy. Though I observe that I instance a commercialization which I deplore29 by not insisting on this secretarial qualification to anything like the extent with which I insist on, say, spelling.
Miggy nodded—three little nods which seemed to settle everything.
"Then I'll come," she repeated. "Anyhow, it[Pg 39] isn't me that's in love at all. It's Peter. But of course I have to have some of the blame."
So! It was, then, not "all Peter with Miggy." Poor Peter. It must be a terrific problem to be a Peter to such a Miggy. I must have looked "Poor Peter," because the girl's face took on its first smile. Such a smile as it was, brilliant, sparkling, occupying her features instead of informing them.
"He won't interfere30 much," she observed. "He's in the cannery all day and then he practises violin and tinkers. I only see him one or two evenings a week; and I never think of him at all."
"As my secretary," said I, "you may make a mental note for me: remind me that I wish sometime to meet Peter."
"He'll be real pleased," said Miggy, "and real scared. Now about my being your secretary: do I have to take down everything you do?"
"My dear child!" I exclaimed.
"Don't I?" said Miggy. "Why, the Ladies' Aid has a secretary and she takes down every single thing the society does. I thought that was being one."
I told her, as well as might be, what I should require of her—not by now, I own, with any particularity of idea that I had a secretary, but rather that I had surprisingly acquired a Miggy, who might be of use in many a little mechanical task. She listened,[Pg 40] and, when I had made an end, gave her three little nods; but her face fell.
"It's just doing as you're told," she summed it up with a sigh. "Everything is, ain't it? I thought maybe Secretary was doing your best."
"But it is," I told her.
"No," she said positively31, "you can't do your best when you have to do just exactly what you're told. Your best tells you how to do itself."
At this na?ve putting of the personal equation which should play so powerful a part in the economics of toil32 I was minded to apologize for intending to interfere with set tasks in Miggy's possible duties with me. She had the truth, though: that the strong creative instinct is the chief endowment, primal33 as breath; for on it depend both life and the expression of life, the life of the race and the ultimate racial utterance34.
We talked on for a little, Miggy, I observed, having that royal indifference35 to time which, when it does not involve indifference to the time of other people, I delightedly commend. For myself, I can never understand why I should eat at one or sleep at eleven, if it is, as it often is, my one and my eleven and nobody else's. For, as between the clock and me alone, one and eleven and all other o'clocks are mine and I am not theirs. But I have known men and women living in hotels who would[Pg 41] interrupt a sunset to go to dine, or wave away the stars in their courses to go to sleep, merely because the hour had struck. It must be in their blood, poor things, as descendants from the cell, to which time and space were the only considerations.
When Miggy was leaving, she paused on the threshold with her first hint of shyness, a hint which I welcomed. I think that every one to whom I am permanently36 drawn37 must have in his nature a phase of shyness, even of unconquerable timidity.
"If I shouldn't do things," Miggy said, "like you're used to having them done—would you tell me? I know a few nice things to do and I do 'em. But I'm always waking up in the night and thinking what a lot there must be that I do wrong. So if I do 'em wrong would you mind not just squirming and keeping still about 'em—but tell me?"
"I'll tell you, child, if there is need," I promised her. And I caught her smile—that faint, swift, solemn minute which sometimes reveals on a face the childlike wistfulness of every one of us, under the mask, to come as near as may be to the others.
I own that when, just now, I turned from her leave-taking, I had that infrequent sense of emptiness-in-the-room which I have had usually only with those I love or with some rare being, all fire and spirit and idea, who has flamed in my presence[Pg 42] and died into departure. I cannot see why we do not feel this sense of emptiness whenever we leave one another. Would you not think that it would be so with us who live above the abyss and below the uttermost spaces? It is not so, and there are those from whose presence I long to be gone in a discomfort38 which is a kind of orison of my soul to my body to hurry away. It is so that I long to be gone from that little Mrs. Oliver Wheeler Johnson, and of this I am sorely ashamed. But I think that all such dissonance is merely a failure in method, and that the spirit of this business of being is that we long for one another to be near.
Yes, in "this world of visible images" and patterns and schedules and o'clocks, it is like stumbling on the true game to come on some one who is not on any dial. And I fancy that Miggy is no o'clock. She is not Dawn o'clock, because already she has lived so much; nor Noon o'clock, because she is far from her high moment; nor is she Dusk o'clock, because she is so poignantly39 alive. Rather, she is like the chimes of a clock—which do not tell the time, but which almost say something else.
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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4
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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6
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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7
overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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8
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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13
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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14
transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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15
tentacles
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| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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16
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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18
elusiveness
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| 狡诈 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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20
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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neurotics
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| n.神经官能症的( neurotic的名词复数 )；神经质的；神经过敏的；极为焦虑的 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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30
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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poignantly
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