"I didn't have anything good enough to wear," she said. "I haven't got any good dress this summer till I get it made myself. I got this out of the trunk. It was my mother's."
"It suits you very well, Miggy," I told her.
"I thought maybe she'd like my wearing it—here," said Miggy, shyly. "You've got things the way she always wanted 'em."
We went in my workroom and sat among my books and strewn papers. A lighted theatre with raised curtain and breathless audience, a room which[Pg 82] one wakens to find flooded by a gibbous moon, these have for me no greater sorcery than morning in a little book-filled room, with the day before me. Perhaps it is that I ought to be doing so many things that I take an idler's delight in merely attending to my own occupation.
While I wondered at what I should set Miggy, I looked for the spirit of the minute and tried not to see its skeleton. The skeleton was that I had here an inexperienced little girl who was of almost no use to me. The spirit was that whatever I chose to do, my work was delightful6 to me, and that to bring Miggy in contact with these things was a kind of adventure. It is, I find, seldom sufficient to think even of the body of one's work, which to-day proved to be in my case a search in certain old books and manuscripts for fond allusions7. If one can, so to say, think in and out till one comes to the spirit of a task, then there will be evident an indeterminate sense of wings. Without these wings there can be no expression and no creation. And in the true democracy no work will be wingless. It will still be, please God, laborious8, arduous9, even heart-breaking, but never body-fettered, never with its birdlike spirit quenched10. And in myself I would bring to pass, even now, this fair order of sweet and willing toil11 by taking to my hand no task without looking deep within for its essential life.
[Pg 83]
So it was with a sense not only of pleasure but of leisure that I established Miggy by the window with a manuscript of ancient romances and told her what to do: to look through them for a certain story, barely more than a reference, to the love of an Indian woman of this Middle West for her Indian husband, sold into slavery by the French Canadians. It is a simple story—you will find small mention made of it—but having once heard it the romance had haunted me, and I was fain to come on it again: the story of the wife of Kiala, fit to stand niched with the great loves of the world.
The morning sun—it was hardly more than eight o'clock—slanted across the carpet; some roses that Little Child had brought me before her breakfast were fresh on my table; and the whole time was like a quiet cup. In that still hour experience seemed drained of all but fellowship, the fellowship of Miggy and my books and the darling insistence12 of the near outdoors. Do you not think how much of life is so made up, free of rapture13 or anxiety, dedicated14, in task or in pastime, to serene15 companionship?
I have said that for me there are few greater sorceries than morning, with the day before me, in a small book-filled room. I wonder if this is not partly because of my anticipations16 of the parentheses17 I shall take? Not recesses18, but parentheses, which[Pg 84] can flavour a whole day. I remember a beloved house in which breakfast and luncheon19 were daily observations looked forward to not so much for themselves, as that they were occasions for the most delightful interruptions. Dinner was a ceremony which was allowed to proceed; but a breakfast or a luncheon was seldom got through without one or two of us leaving the table to look up a stanza20, or to settle if two words had the same derivation, or to find if some obsolete21 fashion in meanings could not yet be worn with impunity22. It grieved the dear housewife, I remember, and we tried to tell her how much more important these things were than that our new potatoes should be buttered while they were hot. But she never could see it, and potatoes made us think of Ireland, and in no time we were deep in the Celtic revival23 and racing24 off to find "The Love Talker." I remember but one dinner interruption, and that was when we all left in the midst of the fish to go in the study and determine if moonlight shining through stained glass does cast a coloured shadow, as it did on St. Agnes' eve.... I suppose, in those days, we must have eaten something, though, save a certain deep-dish cherry pie I cannot remember what we ate; but those interruptions are with me like so many gifts, and I maintain that these were the realities. Those days—and especially the morning when we read through the "Ancient[Pg 85] Mariner25" between pasting in two book plates!—taught me the precious lesson that the interruption and not the task may hold the angel. It was so that I felt that morning with Miggy; and I know that what we did with that forenoon will persist somewhere when all my envelopes of clippings are gone to dust.
After a time I became conscious that the faint rustling26 of the papers through which I was looking was absorbed by another sound, rhythmic27, stedfast. I looked out on my neighbour's lawn, and at that moment, crossing my line of vision through the window before which Miggy was seated, I saw Peter, cutting my neighbour's grass. I understood at once that he had chosen this morning for his service in order to be near Miggy. It all made a charming sight,—Peter, bareheaded, in an open-throated, neutral shirt, cutting the grass there beyond Miggy in her quaint28 dress, reading a romance. I forgot my work for a little, and watched for those moments of his passing. Miggy read on, absorbed. Then, for a little, I watched her, pleased at her absorption.
Sometimes, from my window, I have looked down on the river and the long yellow sand bar and the mystery of the opposite shore where I have never been, and I have felt a great pity that these things cannot know that they are these things. [Pg 86]Sometimes, in the middle of a summer night, when the moon is so bright that one can see well within one's own soul, I have fancied that I have detected an aroma29 of consciousness, of definite self-wonder, in the Out-of-doors. Fleetingly30 I have divined it in the surprise of Dawn, the laughter of a blue Forenoon, the girlish shyness of Twilight31. And this morning I wanted self-wonder for Miggy and Peter. What a pity that they could not see it all as I saw it: the Shelley-like boy cutting the grass and loving this girl, in her mother's gown. But you must not suppose, either, that I do not know how that vast unconsciousness of Nature and Love flows with a sovereign essence almost more precious than awareness32.
"Miggy," I said presently, "Peter is not at work to-day. That is he cutting grass."
She looked out briefly33.
"He's got two days off coming to him," she answered. "It's for overtime34. This must be one of 'em. Have you read these stories?"
"Yes," I said, "I have. Miggy, don't you want to go and ask Peter to have lunch with us at twelve?"
"Oh, no, thank you," she dismissed this. "This isn't the day I see him."
"But wouldn't you like it?" I pressed the matter curiously35. "Just we three at luncheon alone?"
[Pg 87]
She was turning the leaves of the manuscript and she looked up to set me right.
"Oh, you know," she said, "I don't know Peter that way at all. I just know him to have him walk home with me, or call, or go walking. Peter never eats with me."
Poor Peter, indeed, to be denied the simple intimacy36 of sometimes breaking bread with Miggy. I understood that to invite a man to "noon lunch" in the village was almost unheard of, but,
"I think he would eat this noon if he never ate before," said I. To which Miggy made answer:—
"If you have read all these stories will you—wouldn't you—tell me some, please? I can't bear to think of having to wait to read 'em before I know 'em!"
She shut the book and leaned her chin in her hand and looked at me. And the idea of having Peter with us for lunch drifted out of the room, unattended.
I maintain that one who loves the craft of letters for its own sake, one who loves both those who have followed it and the records that they have left, and one who is striving to make letters his way of service, must all have acted in the same way; and that was the way that I took. In these days when Helen and Juliet are read aloud to children while they work buttonholes in domestic science class, think of the[Pg 88] pure self-indulgence of coming on a living spirit—I say a living spirit—who had never heard of the beloved women of the world. I wonder if we could not find such spirits oftener if we looked with care? When I see certain women shopping, marketing37, jolting38 about in busses, I am sometimes moved to wonder if they know anything about Nicolete and, if they were to be told, whether it would not rest them.
I love it, I love this going back into old time and bringing out its sweet elements. I have said that there is a certain conservatism in which, if I let my taste have its way with me, I would luxuriate, as I might then indulge my love of the semi-precious stones, or of old tiling, or of lilies-of-the-valley, all day long. And it is so that my self-indulgence would lead me to spend my days idling over these shadowy figures in the old romances and the old biographies. The joy of it never leaves me. Always from these books drifts out to me the smoke of some hidden incense39 that makes the world other. Not that I want the world to be that way, but I like to pretend. I know now that in a world where one must give of one's utmost, spend and be spent if one is even to pay for one's keep, these incense hours must be occasional, not to say stolen. So that to find a Miggy to whom to play preceptor of romance was like digging a moonstone out of the river bank.
What did I tell her? Not of Helen or Cleopatra[Pg 89] or Isolde or Heloise or Guinevere, because—why, I think that you would not have told her of these, either. Of Beatrice and Brunhilde and Elaine and Enid I told her, for, though these are so sad, there beat the mighty40 motives41, seeds of the living heart. Last I told her, of Nicolete and of Griselda and of Psyche42 and of the great sun of these loves that broke from cloud. She listened, wrapt as I was wrapt in the telling. Was it strange that the room, which had been like a quiet cup for serene companionship, should abruptly43 be throbbing44 with the potent45 principles of the human heart? I think that it was not strange, for assuredly these are nearer to us than breathing, instant to leap from us, the lightning of the soul, electric with life or with death. We are never very far from strong emotion. Even while I recounted these things to Miggy, there, without my window, was Peter, cutting the grass.
When I had done, "Is there more like that in books?" asked Miggy.
Oh, yes; thank heaven and the people who wrote them down, there are in books many more like these.
"I s'pose lots didn't get into the books at all," said Miggy, thoughtfully.
It is seldom that one finds and mourns a bird that is dead. But think of the choir46 of little bright breasts whose raptures47 nobody hears, nobody misses,[Pg 90] nobody remembers. How like them we are, we of the loving hearts.
"I wouldn't wonder if there's lots of folks being that way right, right now," concluded Miggy.
Who am I that I should doubt this?
"A tournament," said Miggy, dreamily; "I s'pose that was something like the Java entertainment is going to be."
She slipped to one side of the big chair and laid both hands on its arm.
"Listen," she said. "Would this be one? You know Delly Watson that's crazy? She was in love with Jem Pitlaw, a school teacher that used to be here, an' that died, an' that wasn't in love with her even if he had stayed living, and it did that to her. You know ... she talks about things that nobody ever heard of, and listens, and laughs at what she thinks she hears. Ain't that like Elaine?"
Yes, if poor Delly Watson of the village had had a barge48 and a dwarf49 and a river winding50 from towered city to towered city, she would not have been unlike Elaine.
"And Jerry, that sets up folks's stoves and is so in love with the music teacher that he joined the chorus and paid his dues and set in the bass51 corner all winter to watch her and he can't sing a note. And she don't even see him when she passes him. Ain't that like Beatrice and the Pale Man?"
[Pg 91]
Jerry is so true and patient, and our young music teacher is so fair, that no one could find it sacrilege to note this sad likeness52.
"And Mis' Uppers that her husband went out West and she didn't get any word, and he don't come, and he don't come, and she's selling tickets on the parlour clock, and she cries when anybody even whistles his tunes—isn't that some like Brunhilde, that you said about, waiting all alone on top of the mountain? I guess Brunhilde had money, but I don't think Mis' Uppers' principal trouble is that she ain't. With both of 'em the worst of it must 'a' been the waiting."
And I am in no wise sure that that slow-walking woman in the pointed53 gray shawl may not have a heart which aches and burns and passions like a valkyr's.
"And Mame Wallace, that her beau died and all she's got is to keep house for the family, and keep house, and keep house. It seems as if she's sort of like Psyche, that had such an awful lot of things to do—and her life all mussed up."
Perhaps it is so that in that gaunt Mame Wallace, whose homing passion has turned into the colourless, tidy keeping of her house, there is something shining, like the spirit of Psyche, that would win back her own by the tasks of her hand.
"And then there's Threat Hubbelthwait," said[Pg 92] Miggy, "that gets drunk and sets in his hotel bar fiddling54, and Mis' Hubbelthwait shoves him his meals in on to the cigar show-case and runs before he throws his bow at her—she's just exactly like those two——"
"Enid or Griselda?" I recognized them, and Miggy nodded. Poor Mis' Hubbelthwait! Was she not indeed an Enid, lacking her beauty, and a Griselda, with no hope of a sweet surprise of a love that but tested her? Truly, it was as Miggy said: in some form they were all there in the village, minus the bower55 and the silken kirtle, but with the same living hearts.
And these were not all.
"Miggy," I said, "what about Liva Vesey and Timothy? Did you count them?" For Aucassin and Nicolete were happy and so are Liva and Timothy, and I think that they have all understood meadows.
Miggy looked startled. One's own generation never seems so typical of anything as did a generation or two past.
"Could they be?" she asked. "They got engaged the night of the circus Liva told me—everybody knows. Could they be counted in?"
Oh, yes, I assured her. They might be counted. So, I fancy, might all love-in-the-village, if we knew its authentic56 essence.
[Pg 93]
"Goodness," said Miggy, meditatively57, "then there's Christopha and Allen last winter, that I was their bridesmaid, and that rode off in the hills that way on their wedding night. I s'pose that was like something, if we only knew?"
I could well believe that that first adventure of the young husband and wife, of whom I shall tell you, was like something sweet and bright and long ago.
"And what," I said to Miggy abruptly, "about Peter?"
"Peter?" repeated Miggy.
Why not Peter?
She looked out the window at him.
"Why," she said, "but he's now. Peter's now. And he wears black clothes. And he's cutting grass...."
True for Peter, to all these impeachments58. I told her that, in his day, Aucassin was now, too; and that he wore the clothes of his times, and that if he did not do the tasks nearest his hand, then Nicolete should not have loved him.
"And," said I, "unless I'm very much mistaken, in the same way that all the ancient lovers loved their ladies, Peter loves you."
"That way?" said Miggy, laying her hand on the manuscript.
"That way," said I. And a very good way it was, too.
[Pg 94]
Miggy put up both hands with a manner of pointing at herself.
"Oh, no," she said, "not me." Then her little shoulders went up and she caught her breath like a child. "Honest?" she said.
I said no more, but sat silent for a little, watching her across the fallen manuscript of ancient romances. Presently I picked up the sheets, and by chance my look fell on the very thing for which we had been searching: the story of the wife of Kiala, a Wisconsin Indian chief who was sold into slavery and carried to Martinique. And alone, across those hundreds of miles of pathless snow and sea, the wife of Kiala somehow followed him to the door of his West Indian owner. And to him she gave herself into slavery so that she might be with her husband.
I read the story to Miggy. And because the story is true, and because it happened so near and because of this universe in general, I was not able to read it quite so tranquilly59 as I should have wished.
"Oh," Miggy said, "is it like that?"
Yes, please God; if the heart is big enough to hold it, it is like that.
Miggy put her hand down quickly on the blue muslin dress she wore.
"My mother knew!" she said.
And that is the most wonderful thing of all: one's mother knew.
[Pg 95]
Miggy turned once more and looked out the window at Peter. Bless Peter! I think that he must have been over that grass with the mower60 quite twice—perhaps twice and a half. Almost immediately Miggy looked away from Peter, and I thought—though perhaps after all it was merely the faint colour that often hovers61 in her cheek. I felt, however, that if I had again suggested to Miggy that we ask Peter to lunch, Peter might possibly have lunched with us. But now I did not suggest it. No, if ever it gets to be "all Peter with Miggy," it must be so by divine non-interference.
My little voice-friend up there on the shelf, the Westminster chimes, struck twelve, in its manner of sweet apology for being to blame for things ending. In the village we lunch at twelve, and so my forenoon was done and even the simple tasks I had set were not all finished. I wonder, though, if deep within this fond forenoon we have not found something—wings, or a light, or a singing—that was of the spirit of the tasks? I wish that I thought so with reasons which I could give to a scientist.
At all events I am richly content. And over our luncheon Miggy has just flattered me unconscionably.
"My!" she said, "I should think everybody would want to be Secretary."
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1
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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10
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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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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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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parentheses
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲（ parenthesis的名词复数 ） | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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fleetingly
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| adv.飞快地，疾驰地 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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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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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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40
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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44
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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46
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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47
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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49
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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50
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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51
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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52
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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53
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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54
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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55
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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56
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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57
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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58
impeachments
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| n.控告( impeachment的名词复数 )；检举；弹劾；怀疑 | |
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59
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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60
mower
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| n.割草机 | |
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61
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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