My neighbour and Elfa and Miggy and Little Child and I have all been busy preparing for her. Elfa has an almost pathetic fondness for "company,"—I think it is that she leads such a lonely life in the little kitchen-prison that she welcomes even the companionship of more-voices-in-the-next-room. I have tried to do what I can for Elfa, but you never help people very much when you only try to do what you can. It must lie nearer the heart than that. And I perfectly1 understand that the[Pg 177] magazines and trifles of finery which I give to her, and the flowers I set on the kitchen clock shelf, and the talks which, since my neighbour's unconscious rebuke2, I have contrived3 with her, are about as effectual as any merely ameliorative means of dealing4 with a social malady5. For Elfa is suffering from a distinct form of the social malady, and not being able to fathom6 it, she knows merely that she is lonely. So she has borrowed fellowship from her anticipation8 of my guest and of those who next week will come down from the town; and I know, though she does not know, that her jars of fresh-fried cakes and cookies, her fine brown bread and her bowl of salad-dressing, are her utmost expression of longing9 to adjust the social balance and give to herself companionship, even a kind of household.
Little Child to-day came, bringing me a few first sweet peas and Bless-your-Heart, Bless-your-Heart being her kitten, and as nearly pink as a cat can be and be still a cat.
"To lay in the New Lady's room," she remarked, bestowing10 these things impartially11 upon me.
Later, my neighbour came across the lawns with a plate of currant tarts12 and a quarter of a jelly cake.
"Here," she said, "I don't know whether you like tarts or not. They're more for children, I always think. I always bake 'em, and the little round child fried cakes, too, and I put frosting faces[Pg 178] on the cookies, and such things. It makes my husband and I seem more like a family," she explained, "and that's why I always set the dining-room table. As long as we ain't any little folks running around, I always tell him that him and I would be eating meat and potatoes on the kitchen drop-leaf like savages13 if I didn't pretend there was more of us, and bake up for 'em."
Miggy alone does not take wholly kindly14 to the New Lady idea, though I assure her that our mornings are to remain undisturbed.
"Of course," she observed, while in the New Lady's honour she gathered up strewn papers, "I know I'll like her because she's your friend. But I don't know what folks want to visit for. Don't you s'pose that's why the angels don't come back—because they know everything, and they know what a lot of extra work they'd make us?"
In Miggy the tribal15 sense seems to have run itself out. Of the sanctity of the individual she discerns much; but of the wider sanctities she has no clear knowledge. Most relationships she seems to regard, like the love of Peter, as "drawbacks," save only her indefinite consciousness of that one who is "not quite her sister"—the little vague Margaret. And this, I think, will be the leaven16. Perhaps it is the universal leaven, this consciousness.
I was glad that the New Lady was to arrive in[Pg 179] the afternoon. Sometimes I think that the village afternoon is the best time of all. It is no wonder that they used to call that time "undern." If they had not done so, the word must have grown of its own will—perhaps it did come to life with no past, an immaculate thing, so like its meaning that it could not help being here among us. I know very well that Sir John Mandeville and others used "undern" to mean the third hour, or about nine in the morning, but that may have been because at first not every one recognized the word. Many a fairy thing wanders for a long time on earth, patiently putting up with other connotations than its own. Opportunism, the subconscious17 mind, personality, evolution itself,—all these are still seeking their full incarnations in idea. No wonder "undern" was forced for a long while to mean morning. But nine o'clock in the morning! How, after all, was that possible? You have only to say it over—undern, undern, undern,—to be heavenly drowsy19 with summer afternoon. The north of England recognized this at last and put the word where it belongs; and I have, too, the authority of the lady of Golden Wing:—
"Undern cometh after noon,
Golden Wings will be here soon...."
One can hardly stop saying that, once one is started. I should like to go on with it all down the page.
[Pg 180]
I was thinking of these things as I drove to the station alone to meet the New Lady. The time had taken on for me that pleasant, unlike-itself aspect which time bears in any mild excitement, so that if in the moment of reading a particularly charming letter one can remember to glance up and look the room in the face, one may catch its other expression, the expression which it has when one is not looking. So now I caught this look in the village and an air of Something-different-is-going-to-happen, such as we experience on holidays. Next week, when the New Lady's friends come down to us for two days, I dare say, if I can remember to look for it, that the village will have another expression still. Yet there will be the same quiet undern—though for me it is never a commonplace time. Indeed, usually I am in the most delighted embarrassment20 how to spend it. In the mornings now—Miggy being willing—I work, morning in the true democracy being the work time; afternoon the time for recreation and the more specialized21 forms of service and a little rest; the evening for delight, including the delight of others. Not every one in the village accepts my afternoon and evening classifications. I am constantly coming on people making preserves after mid-day, and if I see a light in a kitchen window after nine at night I know that somebody is ironing in the cool of the day. But[Pg 181] usually my division of time is the general division, save that—as in the true democracy—service is not always recognized as service. Our afternoons may be spent in cutting carpet rags, or in hemming22 linen23, or sewing articles for an imminent24 bazaar25, and this is likely to be denominated "gettin' through little odd jobs," and accounted in a measure a self-indulgence. And if evening delight takes the form of gardening and later a flame of nasturtiums or dahlias is carried to a friend, nobody dreams that this is not a pleasant self-indulgence too, and it is so regarded. With these things true is it not as if a certain hope abroad in the world gave news of itself?
Near the Pump pasture I came on Nicholas Moor26—who rings the Catholic bell and is interested in celluloid—and who my neighbour had told me would doubtless come to me, bringing his little sheaf of "writin's." I had not yet met him, though I had seen in the daily paper a vagrant27 poem or two over his name—I remember a helpless lyric28 which made me think of a gorgeous green and gold beetle29 lying on its back, unable to recover its legs, but for all that flashing certain isolated30 iridescent31 colours. My heart ached for Nicholas, and when I saw him now going across the pasture his loneliness was like a gap in things, one of the places where two world-edges do not quite meet. There are so many pleasant ways to do and the boy seemed[Pg 182] to know how to do none of them. How can he be lonely in the village? For myself, if I decide of an afternoon to take my work and pay a visit, I am in a pleasant quandary32 as to which way to turn. If I go to the west end of Daphne Street, there are at least five families among whom to choose, the other four of whom will wonder why I did not come to them. Think of knowing five families in two blocks who would welcome one's coming and even feel a little flattering bitterness if one chose the other four! If I take a cross street, I am in the same difficulty. And if I wish to go to the house of one of my neighbours, my motives34 clash so seriously that I often sit on my porch and call to whoever chances to be in sight to come to me. Do you wonder that, in town, the moment I open my address book I feel smothered35? I recover and enjoy town as much as anybody, but sometimes in a stuffy36 coupé, hurrying to get a half-dozen of the pleasantest calls "done," I surprise a companion by saying: would now that it were undern on Daphne Street!
I told this to the New Lady as we drove from the station. The New Lady is an exquisite37 little Someone, so little that it is as if she had been drawn38 quickly, in a single delicate curving line, and then left, lest another stroke should change her. She understands the things that I say in the way that I mean them; she is the way that you always think[Pg 183] the people whom you meet are going to be, though they so seldom are; like May, she is expectation come alive. What she says fits in all the crannies of what you did not say and have always known, or else have never thought of before and now never can forget. She laughs when she should laugh, and never, never when somebody else should laugh alone. When you tell her that you have walked eight miles and back, she says "And back!" with just the proper intonation39 of homage40. She never tells a story upon the heels of your own little jest so swiftly that it cannot triumphantly41 escape. When you try to tell her something that you have not quite worked out, she nods a little and you see that she meant it before you did. She enters every moment by its gate and not over its wall, though she frequently wings her way in instead of walking. Also, she is good to look at and her gowns are as meet as the clouds to the sky—and no less distracting than the clouds are at their very best. There is no possible excuse for my saying so much about her, but I like to talk of her. And I like to talk to her as I did when we left the station and I was rambling42 on about undern.
The New Lady looked about with a breath of content.
"No wonder," she said, "you like to pretend Birthday, in New York."
[Pg 184]
It is true that when I am there where, next to the village, I like best to live, I am fond of this pretence43. It is like the children's game of "Choosing" before shop windows, only it is extensive and not, as cream puffs44 and dolls and crumpets in the windows dictate45 to the children, purely46 intensive. Seeing this man and that woman in the subway or the tea-room or the café or the car, I find myself wondering if it is by any chance their birthdays; and if it is, I am always wishing to deal out poor little gifts at which I fancy they would hardly look. To the lithe47 idle blond woman, elbows on table; to the heavy-lidded, engagement-burdened gentlewoman; to the busy, high-eyebrowed man in a cab; to the tired, slow-winking gentleman in his motor; to the thick-handed labourer hanging to his strap48, I find myself longing to distribute these gifts: a breakfast on our screened-in porch in the village, with morning-glories on the table; a full-throated call of my oriole—a June call, not the isolated reminiscent call of August; an hour of watering the lawn while robins49 try to bathe in the spray; a morning of pouring melted paraffin on the crimson50 tops of moulds of currant jelly; a yellow afternoon of going with me to "take my work and stay for supper." I dare say that none of my chosen beneficiaries would accept; but if I could pop from a magic purse a crop of caps and fit folk, willy nilly, I wonder if afterward51, even if[Pg 185] they remembered nothing of what had occurred, they might not find life a little different.
"If it was my birthday," said the New Lady, "I would choose to be driven straight away through that meadow, as if I had on wings."
That is the way she is, the New Lady. Lacking wings of her own she gives them to many a situation. Straightway I drove down into the Pump pasture and across it, springy soil and circus-trodden turf and mullein stalks and ten-inch high oak trees.
"Let's let down the bars," said the New Lady, "and drive into that next meadow. If it is a sea, as it looks, it will be glad of your company."
It was not a sea, for as we drove through the lush grass the yellow and purple people of the meadow came marching to meet us, as dignified52 as garden flowers, save that you knew, all the time, that wild hearts were beating beneath the rainbow tassels53. It was a meadow with things to say, but with finger on lip—as a meadow should be and as a spirit must be. The meadow seemed to wish to say: "It is all very pleasant for you there in the village to admire one another's wings, but the real romance is in the flight." I wondered if it were not so that it had happened—that one day a part of the village had got tired waiting, and had broken off and become something free, of which the meadow was the body and its secret was the spirit. But[Pg 186] then the presence of the New Lady always sets me wondering things like this.
"Why," I said to her suddenly, "spring has gone! I wonder how that happened. I have been waiting really to get hold of spring, and here it is June."
"June-and-a-half," assented54 the New Lady, and touched the lines so that we came to a standstill in the shade of a cottonwood.
"This way," she said—and added softly, as one who would not revive a sadness, her own idea of the matter.
"Where did Spring die? I did not hear her go
Down the soft lane she painted. All flower still
She moved among her emblems55 on the hill
Touching56 away their burden of old snow.
Was it on some great down where long winds flow
That the wild spirit of Spring went out to fill
The eyes of Summer? Did a daffodil
Lift the pale urn33 remote where she lies low?
"Oh, not as other moments did she die,
That woman-season, outlined like a rose.
Before the banner of Autumn's scarlet57 bough58
The Summer fell; and Winter, with a cry,
Wed7 with March wind. Spring did not die like those;
But vaguely59, as if Love had prompted, 'Now.'"
The New Lady's theory does not agree with that of Little Child. I am in doubt which to accept. But I like to think about both.
[Pg 187]
And when the New Lady had said the faint requiem60, we drove on again and the next moment had almost run down Nicholas Moor, lying face downward in the lush grass.
I recognized him at once, but of course the New Lady did not do so, and she leaned from the cart, thoroughly61 alarmed at the boy's posture62 and, as he looked up, at his pallor.
"Oh, what is the matter?" she cried, and her voice was so heavenly pitying that one would have been willing to have most things the matter only to hear her.
Nicholas Moor scrambled63 awkwardly to his feet, and stood abashed64, looking as strangely detached from the moment as if he had fallen from a frame and left the rest of the picture behind.
"Nothing. I just like to be here," he was surprised into saying.
The New Lady sat down and smiled. And her smile was even more captivating than had been her late alarm.
"So do I," she told him heartily65. "So do I. What do you like about it, best?"
I do not think that any one had ever before spoken to Nicholas so simply, and he answered, chord for chord.
"I guess—I guess I like it just on account of its being the way it is," he said.
[Pg 188]
"That is a very, very nice reason," the New Lady commented. "Again, so do I."
We left him, I remember, looking about as if he were seeing it all for the first time.
As we drove away I told my New Lady about Nicholas, and she looked along her own thought and shook her head.
"There must be hundreds of them," she said, "and some are poets. But most of them are only lonesome. I wonder which Nicholas is?"
We lingered out-of-doors as long as we might, because the touch of the outdoors was so companioning that to go indoors was a distinct good-by. Is it so with you that some Days, be they never so sunny, yet walk with you in a definite reserve and seem to be looking somewhere else; while other Days come to you like another way of being yourself and will not let you go? I know that some will put it down to mood and not to the Day at all; but, do what I will, I cannot credit this.
It was after five o'clock when we drove into the village, and all Daphne Street was watering its lawns. Of those who were watering some pretended not to see us, but I understood that this they accounted the etiquette66 due to a new arrival. Some bowed with an excess of cordiality, and this I understood to be the pleasant thought that they would show my guest how friendly we all are. And some laid down[Pg 189] the hose and came to the sidewalk's edge to meet the New Lady then and there.
Of these were Mis' Postmaster Sykes an' Mis' Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss and my neighbour.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," Mis' Postmaster Sykes said graciously to the New Lady. "I must say it seems good to see a strange face now an' then. I s'pose you feel all travel dust an' mussed up?"
And at Mis' Holcomb's hitching67 post:—
"Pleased to meet you," said Mis' Holcomb. "I was saying to Eppleby that I wondered if you'd come. Eppleby says, 'I donno, but like enough they've went for a ride somewheres.' Lovely day, ain't it? Been to the cemetery68?"
I said that we had not been there yet, and,
"Since it's kept up it makes a real nice thing to show folks," Mis' Holcomb said. "I s'pose you wouldn't come inside for a bite of supper, would you?"
My neighbour—bless her!—had on a black wool dress to do honour to my guest.
"It's nice for the neighbours to see company comin' and goin'," she said cordially, "though of course we don't have any of the extra work. But I guess everybody likes extra work of this kind."
And as we drove away:—
[Pg 190]
"Good-by," she cried, "I hope you'll have a good night's rest and a good breakfast."
When I looked at the New Lady I saw her eyes ever so slightly misted.
"Spring didn't die," she said—as Little Child had said. "Spring knew how to keep alive. It got down in these people's hearts."
Yes, the New Lady is a wholly satisfactory guest. She even pretended not to notice Peter's father who, as we alighted, came singing by, and bowed to us, his barren old face lighted with a smile, as a vacant room is lighted, revealing the waste. If I had some one staying with me who had smiled at Peter's father or—at any one, or who did not see the village as it is, I think I should be tempted69 to do as my neighbour did to me that morning: pick three carnation18 pinks for her and watch her go away.
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1
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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15
tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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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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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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vagrant
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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motives
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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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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；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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54
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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58
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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59
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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60
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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61
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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62
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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63
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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64
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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65
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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66
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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67
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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68
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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69
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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