I would have expected it to be impossible to come to the fourth chapter and to have said nothing of the river. But the reason is quite clear: for the setting of the stories of the village as I know them is pre?minently rambling1 streets and trim dooryards, and neat interiors with tidy centre-tables. Nature is merely the necessary opera-house, not the intimate setting. Nature's speech through the trees is most curiously3 taken for granted as being trees alone, and she is, as I have shown, sometimes cut off quite rudely in the midst of an elm or linden sentence and curtly4 interrupted by a sidewalk. If a grove5 of trees is allowed to remain in a north dooryard it is almost certainly because the trees break the wind. Likewise, Nature's unfoldings in our turf and clover we incline to regard as merely lawns, the results of seeds and autumn fertilizing6. Our vines[Pg 44] are for purposes of shade, cheaper and prettier than awnings7 or porch rollers. With our gardens, where our "table vegetables" are grown, Nature is, I think, considered to have little or nothing to do; and we openly pride ourselves on our early this and our prodigious8 that, quite as when we cut a dress or build a lean-to. We admit the rain or the sunny slope into partnership9, but what we recognize is weather rather than the mighty10 spirit of motherhood in Nature. Indeed, our flower gardens, where are wrought11 such miracles of poppies and pinks, are perhaps the only threshold on which we stand abashed12, as at the sound of a singing voice, a voice that sings believing itself to be alone.
These things being so, it is no wonder that the river has been for so long no integral part of village life. The river is accounted a place to fish, a place to bathe, a thing to cross to get to the other side, an objective point—including the new iron bridge—to which to take guests. But of the everyday life it is no proper part. On the contrary, the other little river, which strikes out silverly for itself to eastward13, is quite a personality in the village, for on it is a fine fleet of little launches with which folk take delight. But this river of mine to the west is a thing of whims14 and eddies15 and shifting sand bars, and here not many boats adventure. So the river is accepted as a kind of pleasant hermit16 living on the[Pg 45] edge of the village. It draws few of us as Nature can draw to herself. We know the water as a taste only and not yet as an emotion. We say that we should enjoy going there if we had the time. I know, I know. You see that we do not yet live the river, as an ancient people would live their moor17. But in our launches, our camping parties, our flights to a little near lake for dinner, in a tent here and a swing there, set to face riverward, there lies the thrill of process, and by these things Nature is wooing us surely to her heart. Already the Pump pasture has for us the quality of individuality, and we have picnics there and speak of the pasture almost as of a host. Presently we shall be companioned by all our calm stretches of meadow, our brown sand bars, our Caledonia hills, our quiet lakes, our unnavigable river, as the Northmen were fellowed of the sea.
Little Child has at once a wilder and a tamer instinct. She has this fellowship and the fellowship of more.
"Where shall we go to-day?" I ask her, and she always says, "Far away for a party"—in a combination, it would seem, of the blood of shepherd kings with certain corpuscles of modernity. And when we are in the woods she instances the same dual18 quality by, "Now let's sit down in a roll and wait for a fairy, and be a society."
[Pg 46]
We always go along the levee, Little Child and I, and I watch the hour have its way with her, and I do not deny that occasionally I try to improve on the hour by a tale of magic or by the pastime of teaching her a lyric19. I love to hear her pretty treble in "Who is Sylvia? What is she?" and "She dwelt among th' untrodden ways," and "April, April, laugh thy girlish laughter," and in Pippa's song. Last night, to be sure, the lyrics20 rather gave way to some talk about the circus to be to-day, an unwonted benison21 on the village. But even the reality of the circus could not long keep Little Child from certain sweet vagaries22, and I love best to hear her in these fancyings.
"Here," she said to me last night, "is her sponge."
I had no need to ask whose sponge. We are always finding the fairy's cast-off ornaments23 and articles of toilet. On occasion we have found her crown, her comb, her scarf, her powder-puff, her cup, her plumed24 fan, her parasol—a skirtful of fancies which next day Little Child has brought to me in a shoe box for safe keeping so that "They" would not throw the things away: that threatening "They" which overhangs childhood, casting away its treasures, despoiling25 its fastnesses, laying a ladder straight through a distinct and recognizable fairy ring in the back yard. I can visualize26 that "They" as I[Pg 47] believe it seems to some children, something dark and beetling27 and menacing and imminent28, less like the Family than like Fate. Is it not sad that this precious idea of the Family, to conserve29 which is one of our chief hopes, should so often be made to appear to its youngest member in the general semblance31 of a phalanx?
We sat down for a little at the south terminal of the bridge, where a steep bank and a few desperately32 clinging trees have arranged a little shrine33 to the sunset. It was sunset then. All the way across the bridge I had been watching against the gold the majestic34 or apathetic35 or sodden36 profiles of the farmers jogging homeward on empty carts, not one face, it had chanced, turned to the west even to utilize37 it to forecast the weather. Such a procession I want to see painted upon a sovereign sky and called "The Sunset." I want to have painted a giant carpenter of the village as I once saw him, his great bare arms upholding a huge white pillar, while blue figures hung above and set the acanthus capital. And there is a picture, too, in the dull red of the butcher's cart halted in snow while a tawny-jerseyed boy lifts high his yellow light to find a parcel. Some day we shall see these things in their own surprising values and fresco38 our village libraries with them—yes, and our drug stores, too.
The story that I told Little Child while we rested[Pg 48] had the symbolism which I often choose for her: that of a girl keeping a garden for the coming of a child. All her life she has been making ready and nothing has been badly done. In one green room of the garden she has put fair thoughts, in another fair words, and in the innermost fastnesses of the garden fair deeds. Here she has laid colour, there sweet sound, there something magic which is a special kind of seeing. When the child comes, these things will be first toys, then tools, then weapons. Sometimes the old witch of the wood tries to blow into the garden a thistle of discord39 or bubbles of delight to be followed, and these must be warded40 away. All day the spirit of the child to come wanders through the garden, telling the girl what to do here or here, keeping her from guile41 or from idleness-without-dreams. She knows its presence and I think that she has even named it. If it shall be a little girl, then it is to be Dagmar, Mother of Day, or Dawn; but if a little boy, then it shall be called for one whom she has not yet seen. Meanwhile, outside the door of the garden many would speak with the girl. On these she looks, sometimes she even leans from her casement42, and once, it may be, she reaches out her hand, ever so swiftly, and some one without there touches it. But at that she snatches back her hand and bars the garden, and for a time the spirit of the little child does not[Pg 49] come very near. So she goes serenely43 on toward the day when a far horn sounds and somebody comes down the air from heaven, as it has occurred to nobody else to do. And they hear the voice of the little child, singing in the garden.
"The girl is me," says little Little Child, as she always says when I have finished this story.
"Yes," I tell her.
"I'd like to see that garden," she says thoughtfully.
Then I show her the village in the trees of the other shore, roof upon roof pricked45 by a slim steeple; for that is the garden.
"I don't care about just bein' good," she says, "but I'd like to housekeep46 that garden."
"For a sometime-little-child of your own," I tell her.
"Yes," she assents47, "an' make dresses for."
I cannot understand how mothers let them grow up not knowing, these little mothers-to-be who so often never guess their vocation48. It is a reason for everything commonly urged on the ground of conduct, a ground so lifeless to youth. But quicken every desert space with "It must be done so for the sake of the little child you will have some day," and there rises a living spirit. Morals, civics, town and home economics, learning—there is the concrete reason for them all; and the abstract understanding[Pg 50] of these things for their own sakes will follow, flower-wise, fruit-wise, for the healing of the times.
I had told to that old Aunt Effie who keeps house for Miggy and Little Child something of what I thought to do—breaking in upon the old woman's talk of linoleum49 and beans and other things having, so to say, one foot in the universe.
"Goodness," that old woman had answered, with her worried turn of head, "I'm real glad you're going to be here. I dread50 saying anything."
Here too we must look to the larger day when the state shall train for parenthood and for citizenship51, when the schools and the universities shall speak for the state the cosmic truths, and when by comparison botany and differential calculus52 shall be regarded as somewhat less vital in ushering53 in the kingdom of God.
The water reservoir rose slim against the woods to the north; to the south was a crouching54 hop30 house covered with old vines. I said to Little Child:—
"Look everywhere and tell me where you think a princess would live if she lived here."
She looked everywhere and answered:—
"In the water tower in those woods."
"And where would the old witch live?" I asked her.
"In the Barden's hop house," she answered.
[Pg 51]
"And where would the spirit of the little child be?" I tested her.
She looked long out across the water.
"I think in the sunset," she said at last. And then of her own will she said over the Sunset Spell I have taught her:—
"I love to stand in this great air
And see the sun go down.
It shows me a bright veil to wear
And such a pretty gown.
Oh, I can see a playmate there
Far up in Splendour Town."
I could hardly bear to let her go home, but eight o'clock is very properly Little Child's bedtime, and so I sent her across the bridge waving her hand every little way in that fashion of children who, I think, are hoping thus to save the moment that has just died. I have known times when I, too, have wanted to wave my hand at a moment and keep it looking at me as long as possible. But presently the moment almost always turned away.
Last night I half thought that the sunset itself would like to have stayed. It went so delicately about its departure, taking to itself first a shawl of soft dyes, then a painted scarf, then frail55 iris56 wings. It mounted far up the heavens, testing its strength for flight and shaking brightness from its garments. And it slipped lingeringly away as if the riot of[Pg 52] colour were after all the casual part, and the real business of the moment were to stay on with everybody. In the tenuity of the old anthropomorphisms I marvel57 that they did not find the sunset a living thing, tender of mortals, forever loth to step from out one moment into the cherishing arms of the next. Think! The sunset that the Greeks knew has been flaming round the world, dying from moment to moment and from mile to mile, with no more of pause than the human heart, since sunset flamed for Hero and Helen and Ariadne.
If the sunset was made for lovers, and in our midland summers lingers on their account, then last night it was lingering partly for Miggy and Peter. At the end of the bridge I came on them together.
Miggy did not flush when she saw me, and though I would not have expected that she would flush I was yet disappointed. I take an old-fashioned delight in women whose high spirit is compatible with a sensibility which causes them the little agonizings proper to this moment, and to that.
But Miggy introduced Peter with all composure.
"This," she said, "is Peter. His last name is Cary."
"How do you do, Peter?" I said very heartily58.
I thought that Peter did something the rationale of which might have been envied of courts. He turned to Miggy and said "Thank you." Secretly[Pg 53] I congratulated him on his embarrassment59. In a certain milieu60 social shyness is as authentic61 a patent of perception as in another milieu is taste.
"Come home with me," I besought62 them. "We can find cake. We can make lemonade. We can do some reading aloud." For I will not ask the mere2 cake and lemonade folk to my house. They must be, in addition, good or wise or not averse63 to becoming either.
I conceived Peter's evident agony to rise from his need to reply. Instead, it rose from his need to refuse.
"I take my violin lesson," he explained miserably64.
"He takes his violin lesson," Miggy added, with a pretty, somewhat maternal65 manner of translating. I took note of this faint manner of proprietorship66, for it is my belief that when a woman assumes it she means more than she knows that she means.
"I'm awful sorry," said Peter, from his heart; "I was just having to go back this minute."
"To-morrow's his regular lesson day," Miggy explained, "but to-morrow he's going to take me to the circus, so he has his lesson to-night. Go on," she added, "you'll be late and you'll have to pay just the same anyway." I took note of this frank fashion of protection of interests, for it is my belief that matters are advancing when the lady practises economics in courtship. But I saw that[Pg 54] Miggy was manifesting no symptoms of accompanying Peter, and I begged them not to let me spoil their walk.
"It's all right," Miggy said; "he'll have to hurry and I don't want to go in yet anyway. I'll walk back with you." And of this I took note with less satisfaction. It was as if Miggy had not come alive.
Peter smiled at us, caught off his hat, and went away with it in his hand, and the moment that he left my presence he became another being. I could see by his back that he was himself, free again, under no bondage67 of manner. It is a terrific problem, this enslavement of speech and trivial conduct which to some of us provides a pleasant medium and for some of us furnishes fetters68. When will they manage a wireless69 society? I am tired waiting. For be it a pleasant medium or be it fetters, the present communication keeps us all apart. "I hope," I said once at dinner, "that I shall be living when they think they get the first sign from Mars." "I hope," said my companion, "that I shall be living when I think I get the first sign from you—and you—and you, about this table." If this young Shelley could really have made some sign, what might it not have been?
"Everybody's out walking to-night," Miggy observed. "There's Liva Vesey and Timothy Toplady ahead of us."
[Pg 55]
"They are going to be married, are they not?" I asked.
Miggy looked as if I had said something indelicate.
"Well," she answered, "not out loud yet."
Then, fearing that she had rebuked70 me, "He's going to take her to the circus to-morrow in their new buckboard," she volunteered. And I find in Friendship that the circus is accounted a kind of official trysting-place for all sweethearts.
We kept a little way back of the lovers, the sun making Liva Vesey's pink frock like a vase-shaped lamp of rose. Timothy was looking down at her and straightway looking away again when Liva had summoned her courage to look up. They were extremely pleasant to watch, but this Miggy did not know and she was intent upon me. She had met Little Child running home.
"She's nice to take a walk with," Miggy said; "but I like to walk around by myself too. Only to-night Peter came."
"Miggy," said I, "I want to congratulate you that Peter is in love with you."
She looked up with puzzled eyes.
"Why, that was nothing," she said; "he seemed to do it real easy."
"But it is not easy," I assured her, "to find many such fine young fellows as Peter seems to be. I hope you will be very happy together."
[Pg 56]
"I'm not engaged," said Miggy, earnestly; "I'm only invited."
"Ah, well," I said, "if I may be allowed—I hope you are not sending regrets."
Miggy laughed out suddenly.
"Married isn't like a party," she said; "I know that much about society. Party you either accept or regret. Married you do both."
I could have been no more amazed if the rosewood clock had said it.
"Who has been talking to you, child?" I asked in distress71.
"I got it out of living," said Miggy, solemnly. "You live along and you live along and you find out 'most everything."
I looked away across the Pump pasture where the railway tracks cut the Plank72 Road, that comes on and on until it is modified into Daphne Street. I remembered a morning of mist and dogwood when I had walked that road through the gateway73 into an earthly paradise. Have I not said that since that time we two have been, as it were, set to music and sung; so that the silences of separation are difficult to beguile74 save by the companionship of the village—the village that has somehow taught Miggy its bourgeoise lesson of doubt?
My silence laid on her some vague burden of proof.
[Pg 57]
"Besides," she said, "I'm not like the women who marry people. Most of 'em that's married ain't all married, anyway."
"What do you mean, child?" I demanded.
"They're not," protested Miggy. "They marry like they pick out a way to have a dress made when they don't admire any of the styles very much, and they've wore out everything else. Women like some things about somebody, and that much they marry. Then the rest of him never is married at all, and by and by that rest starts to get lonesome."
"But Miggy," I said to all this, "I should think you might like Peter entirely75."
She surprised me by her seriousness.
"Anyhow, I've got my little sister to bring up," she said; "Aunt Effie hasn't anything. And I couldn't put two on him to support."
I wondered why not, but I said nothing.
"And besides," Miggy said after a pause, "there's Peter's father. You know about him?"
I did know—who in the village did not know? Since my neighbour had told me of him I had myself seen him singing through the village streets, shouting out and disturbing the serene44 evenings, drunken, piteous....
"Peter has him all the time," I suggested.
She must have found a hint of resistance in my voice, for her look questioned me.
[Pg 58]
"I never could stand it to have anybody like that in the house," she said defensively. "I've told Peter. I've told him both reasons...." Miggy threw out her arms and stood still, facing the sunset. "Anyway, I want to keep on feeling all free and liberty-like!" she said.
This intense individualism of youth, passioning only for far spaces, taking no account of the common lot nor as yet urgent to share it is, like the panther grace in the tread of the cat, a survival of the ancient immunity76 from accountabilities. To note it is to range down the evolution of ages. To tame it—there is a task for all the servants of the new order.
Miggy was like some little bright creature caught unaware77 in the net of living and still remembering the colonnades78 of otherwhere, renowned79 for their shining. She was looking within the sunset, where it was a thing of wings and doors ajar and fair corridors. I saw the great freedoms of sunset in her face—the sunset where Little Child and I had agreed that a certain spirit lived.... Perhaps it was that that little vagrant80 spirit signalled to me—and the Custodian81 understood it. Perhaps it was that I saw, beneath the freedoms, the woman-tenderness in the girl's face. In any case I spoke82 abruptly83 and half without intention.
"But you don't want to be free from Little Child.[Pg 59] It is almost as if she were your little girl, is it not?" I said.
Miggy's eyes did not leave the sunset. It was rather as if she saw some answer there.
"Well, I like to pretend she is," she said simply.
"That," I said quietly, "is pleasant to pretend."
And now her mood had changed as if some one had come to take her place.
"But if she was—that," she said, "her name, then, would most likely be Margaret, like mine, wouldn't it?"
"It would be very well to have it Margaret," I agreed.
Her step was quickened as by sudden shyness.
"It's funny to think about," she said. "Sometimes I most think of—her, till she seems in the room. Not quite my sister. I mean Margaret."
It made my heart beat somewhat. I wondered if anything of my story to Little Child was left in my mind, and if subconsciously84 Miggy was reading it. This has sometimes happened to me with a definiteness which would be surprising if the supernatural were to me less natural. But I think that it was merely because Miggy had no idea of the sanctity of what she felt that she was speaking of it.
"How does she look?" I asked.
"Like me," said Miggy, readily; "I don't want her to either. I want her to be pretty and I'm[Pg 60] not. But when I think of her running 'round in the house or on the street, I always make her look like me. Only little."
"Running 'round in the house." That was the way my neighbour had put it. Perhaps it is the way that every woman puts it.
"Does she seem like you, too?" I tempted85 her on.
"Oh, better," Miggy said confidently; "learning to play on the piano and not much afraid of folks and real happy."
"Don't you ever pretend about a boy?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"No," she said; "if I do—I never can think him out real plain. Margaret I can most see."
And this, too, was like the girl in the garden and the spirit of that one to be called by a name of one whom she had not seen.
I think that I have never hoped so much that I might know the right thing to say. And when most I wish this I do as I did then: I keep my impulse silent and I see if that vague Custodian within, somewhere between the seeing and the knowing, will not speak for me. I wonder if she did? At all events, what either she or I said was:—
"Miggy! Look everywhere and tell me the most beautiful thing you can see."
She was not an instant in deciding.
[Pg 61]
"Why, sunset," she said.
"Promise me," said I—said we!—"that you will remember Now. And that after to-night, when you see a sunset—always, always, till she comes—you will think about her. About Margaret."
Because this caught her fancy she promised readily enough. And then we lingered a little, while the moment gave up its full argosy. I have a fancy for these times when I say "I will remember," and I am always selecting them and knowing, as if I had tied a knot in them, that I will remember. These times become the moments at which I keep waving my hand in the hope that they will never turn away. And it was this significance which I wished the hour to have for Miggy, so that for her the sunset should forever hold, as Little Child had said that it holds, that tiny, wandering spirit....
Liva Vesey and Timothy had lingered, too, and we passed them on the bridge, he still trying to win her eyes, and his own eyes fleeing precipitantly whenever she looked up. The two seemed leaning upon the winged light, the calm stretches of the Pump pasture, the brown sand bar, the Caledonia hills. And the lovers and the quiet river and the village, roof upon roof, in the trees of the other shore, and most of all Miggy and her shadowy Margaret seemed to me like the words of some mighty cosmic utterance86, with the country evening for its tranquil87 voice.
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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curtly
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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fertilizing
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| v.施肥( fertilize的现在分词 ) | |
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awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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mighty
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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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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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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moor
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dual
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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lyrics
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benison
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vagaries
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ornaments
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plumed
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despoiling
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visualize
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beetling
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imminent
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conserve
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hop
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semblance
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desperately
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shrine
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majestic
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apathetic
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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housekeep
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| vi.自立门户，主持家务 | |
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assents
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| 同意，赞同( assent的名词复数 ) | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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49
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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calculus
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| n.微积分；结石 | |
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ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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milieu
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| n.环境；出身背景；(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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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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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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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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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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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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82
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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83
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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84
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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85
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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86
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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87
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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