“Poor Marjorie!” murmured Mrs. Waring. “We’ve all coaxed2 her to play, but she won’t budge3. By the way, that’s one of the saddest cases we’ve had; it’s heartbreaking, discouraging. Little waifs like Marjorie, whose fathers[4] and mothers can’t hit it off, don’t have a fair chance,—they are handicapped from the start.—Oh, I thought you knew; that’s the Redfields’ little girl.”
The Poet gazed with a new intentness at the dark-haired child of five who stood rigidly5 at the end of the pergola with her hands clasped behind her back. The Poet All the People Loved was a philosopher also, but his philosophy was not quite equal to forecasting the destiny of little Marjorie.
“Children,” he observed, “should not be left on the temple steps when the pillars of society crack and rock; the good fairies ought to carry them out of harm’s way. Little Marjorie looks as though she had never smiled.” And then he murmured with characteristic self-mockery,—
“Oh, little child that never smiled—
Somebody might build a poem around that line, but I hope nobody ever will! If that child[5] doesn’t stop looking that way, I shall have to cry or crawl over there on my knees and ride her pickaback.”
Mrs. Waring’s two daughters had been leading the children in a march and dance that now broke up in a romp7; and the garden echoed with gleeful laughter. The spell of restraint was broken, and the children began initiating8 games of their own choosing; but Marjorie stood stolidly9 gazing at them as though they were of another species. Her nurse, having failed to interest her sad-eyed charge in the games that were delighting the other children, had withdrawn10, leaving Marjorie to her own devices.
“She’s always like that,” the girl explained with resignation, “and you can’t do anything with her.”
A tall, fair girl appeared suddenly at the garden entrance. The abrupt11 manner of her coming, the alert poise12 of her figure, as though[6] she had been arrested in flight and had paused only for breath before winging farther, interested the Poet at once.
She stood there as unconscious as though she were the first woman, and against the white gate of the garden was imaginably of kin4 to the bright goddesses of legend. She was hatless, and the Poet was grateful for this, for a hat, he reflected, should never weigh upon a head so charming, so lifted as though with courage and hope, and faith in the promise of life. A tennis racket held in the hollow of her arm explained her glowing color. Essentially13 American, he reflected, this young woman, and worthy14 to stand as a type in his thronging16 gallery. She so satisfied the eye in that hesitating moment that the Poet shrugged17 his shoulders impatiently when she threw aside the racket and bounded across the lawn, darting18 in and out among the children, laughingly eluding19 small hands thrust out to catch her,[7] and then dropped on her knees before Marjorie. She caught the child’s hands, laughed into the sad little face, holding herself away so that the homesick, bewildered heart might have time to adjust itself, and then Marjorie’s arms clasped her neck tightly, and the dark head lay close to the golden one.
There was a moment’s parley20, begun in tears and ending in laughter; and then Marian tripped away with Marjorie, and joined with her in the mazes21 of a dance that enmeshed the whole company of children in bright ribbons and then freed them again. The Poet, beating time to the music with his hat, wished that Herrick might have been there; it was his habit to think, when something pleased him particularly, that “Keats would have liked that!”—“Shelley would have made a golden line of this!” He felt songs beating with eager wings at the door of his own heart as his glance followed the fair girl who had so easily[8] turned a child’s tears to laughter. For Marjorie was laughing with the rest now; in ten minutes she was one of them—had found friends and seemed not to mind at all when her good angel dropped out to become a spectator of her happiness.
“I have saved my trousers,” remarked the Poet to Mrs. Waring, who had watched the transformation22 in silence; “but that girl has spoiled her frock kneeling to Marjorie. I suppose I couldn’t with delicacy23 offer to reimburse24 her for the damage. If there were any sort of gallantry in me I would have sacrificed myself, and probably have scared Marjorie to death. If a child should put its arms around me that way and cry on my shoulder and then run off and play, I should be glad to endow laundries to the limit of my bank account. If the Diana who rescued Marjorie has another name—”
“I thought you knew! That’s Marian Agnew, Marjorie’s aunt.”
[9]“I’ve read of her in many books,” said the Poet musingly25, “but she’s an elusive26 person. I might have known that if I would sit in a pleasant garden like this in June and watch children at play, something beautiful would pass this way.”
Mrs. Waring glanced at him quickly, as people usually did to make sure he was not trifling27 with them.
“You really seem interested in the way she hypnotized Marjorie! Well, to be quite honest, I sent for her to come! She was playing tennis a little farther up the street, but she came running when I sent word that Marjorie was here and that we had all given her up in despair.”
“My first impression was that she had dropped down from heaven or had run away from Olympus. Please don’t ask me to say which I think likelier!”
“I’m sorry to spoil an illusion, but after all Marian is one of the daughters of men; though[10] I remember that when she was ten she told me in solemn confidence that she believed in fairies, because she had seen them—an excellent reason! She graduated from Vassar last year, and I have an idea that college may have shaken her faith in fairies. She’s going to begin teaching school next fall,—she has to do something, you know. She’s an eminently28 practical person, blessed with a sound appetite, and she can climb a rope, and swim and play tennis all day.”
“The Olympians ate three meals a day, I imagine; and we shouldn’t begrudge29 this fair-haired Marian her daily bread and butter. Let me see; she’s Marjorie’s aunt; and Marjorie’s father is Miles Redfield. I know Redfield well; his wife was Elizabeth Agnew. I saw a good deal of them in their early married days. They’ve agreed to quit—is that the way of it?”
“How fortunate you are that people don’t[11] tell you gossip! I suppose it’s one of the rewards of being a poet! The whole town has been upset by the Redfields’ troubles;—they have separated. I’ve sent Elizabeth up to Waupegan to open my house—made an excuse to get her away. Marjorie’s with her grandmother, waiting for the courts to do something about it;—as though courts could do anything about such cases!” she ended with feeling.
“You are a poet,” Mrs. Waring resumed tauntingly30, with the privilege of old friendship, “and have a reputation for knowing the human heart. Why can’t you do something about the Redfields’ troubles?—there’s a fine chance for you! It begins to look as though sentiment, romance, love—all those things you poets have been writing about for thousands of years—have gone out with the old-fashioned[12] roses. I confess that it’s because I’m afraid that’s true that I’m clinging to all the flowers my grandmother used to love—and I’m nearly seventy and a grandmother myself.”
She was still a handsome woman, and the Poet’s eyes followed her admiringly as she crossed the lawn, leaving him to find an answer to her question. In the days of his beginnings she had been his steadfast31 friend, and he was fond of telling her that he had learned the kindliness32 and cheer he put into his poems from her.
She and her assistants were marshaling the children for refreshments33 under a canopy34 at the farther corner of the garden, and the animated35 scene delighted and charmed him. He liked thus to sit apart and observe phases of life,—and best of all he loved scenes like this that were brightened by the presence of children. He was a bachelor, but the world’s children were his; and he studied them, loved them,[13] wrote for them and of them. He was quite alone, as he liked to be often, pondering the misfortunes of the Redfields as lightly limned36 by Mrs. Waring. Little Marjorie, as she had stood forlornly against the pergola, haunted him still in spite of her capitulation to the charms of her Aunt Marian. He knew perfectly37 well that Mrs. Waring hadn’t meant what she said in her fling about the passing of poetry and romance; she was the last woman in the world to utter such sentiments seriously; but he was aware that many people believed them to be true.
Every day the postman brought him letters in dismaying numbers from people of all sorts and conditions who testified to the validity of his message. The most modest of men, he found it difficult to understand how he reached so many hearts; he refused to believe himself, what some essayist had called him, “a lone1 piper in the twilight38 of the poets.” With maturity[14] his attitude toward his own genius had changed; and under his joy in the song for the song’s sake was a deep, serious feeling of responsibility. It was a high privilege to comfort and uplift so many; and if he were, indeed, one of the apostolic line of poets, he must have a care to keep his altar clean and bright for those who should come after him.
He was so deep in thought that he failed to observe Marian advancing toward him.
“If you please, I have brought you an ice, and there will be cake and bonbons39,” said the girl. “And Mrs. Waring said if you didn’t mind I might sit and talk to you.”
“You should be careful,” said the Poet, taking the plate, “about frightening timid men to death. I was thinking about you so hard that my watch and my heart both stopped when you spoke40 to me.”
“And this,” exclaimed the girl, “from the poet of gracious words! I’ve been told that[15] I’m rather unexpected and generally annoying, but I didn’t know I was so bad as that!”
“Then let us begin all over again,” said the Poet. “Mrs. Waring told me your name and gave you a high reputation as an athlete, and spoke feelingly of your appetite. It’s only fair to give you a chance to speak for yourself. So kindly41 begin by telling me about Marjorie and why she’s so forlorn, and just what you said to her a while ago!”
The color deepened in the girl’s face. It was disconcerting to be sitting beside the Poet All the People Loved and to be talking to him for the first time in her life; but to have him ask a question of so many obscure connotations, touching42 upon so many matters that were best left to whispering gossips, quite took her breath away.
“Not a word that I can remember,” she answered; “but Marjorie said, ‘Take me[16] home!’—and after she had cried a little she felt better and was glad to play.”
“Of course that’s only the most superficial and modest account of the incident,” the Poet replied; “but I can’t blame you for not telling. If I knew how to do what you did, I should very likely keep the secret. Another case of the flower in the crannied wall,—
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is!”
“You give me far too much credit,” the girl responded gravely. “It was merely a matter of my knowing Marjorie better than any one else at the party; I hadn’t known she was coming or I should have brought her myself.”
“I thought you would say something like that,” the Poet observed, “and that is why I liked you before you said it.”
She looked at him with the frank curiosity[17] aroused by her nearness to a celebrity43. Now that the first little heartache over the mention of Marjorie had passed, she found herself quite at ease with him.
“My feelings have been hurt,” he was saying. “Oh, nobody has told me—at least not to-day—that I am growing old, or that it’s silly to carry an umbrella on bright days! It’s much worse than that.”
“Oh, no! That would be a very serious mistake! The person who hurt my feelings is the nicest possible person and one of my best friends. So many people are saying the same thing that we needn’t ascribe it to any individual. Let us assume that I’ve been hurt by many people, who say that romance and old-fashioned roses are not what they were; that[18] such poetry as we have nowadays isn’t of any use, and that we are all left floundering here
As on a darkling plain,
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
I want you to tell me, honestly and truly, whether you really believe that.”
He was more eager for her reply than she knew; and when it was not immediately forthcoming a troubled look stole into his face. The readiness of the poetic46 temperament47 to idealize had betrayed him for once, at least, and he felt his disappointments deeply. The laughter of the children floated fitfully from the corner of the garden where they were arraying themselves in the tissue caps that had been hidden in their bonbons. A robin48, wondering at all the merriment, piped cheerily from a tall maple49, and a jay, braving the perils50 of urban life, winged over the garden with a flash of[19] blue. The gleeful echoes from the bright canopy, the bird calls, the tender green of the foliage51, the scents52 and sounds of early summer all spoke for happiness; and yet Marian Agnew withheld53 the reply on which he had counted. She still delayed as though waiting for the robin to cease; and when a flutter of wings announced his departure, she began irresolutely:—
“I wish I could say no, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am to disappoint you—you, of all men! I know you wouldn’t want me to be dishonest—to make the answer you expected merely to please you. Please forgive me! but I’m not sure I think as you do about life. If I had never known trouble—if I didn’t know that faith and love can die, then I shouldn’t hesitate. But I’m one of the doubting ones.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Poet; “but we may as well assume that we are old friends and be frank. Please believe that I’m not bothering you in this way without a purpose. I think I[20] know what has obscured the light for you. You are thinking of your sister’s troubles; and when I asked you what sorcery you had exercised upon little Marjorie, you knew her mother had been in my mind. That isn’t, of course, any of my affair, in one sense; but in another sense it is. For one thing, I knew your sister when she was a girl—which wasn’t very long ago. And I know the man she married; and there was never any marriage that promised so well as that! And for another thing, I don’t like to think that we’ve cut all the old moorings; that the anchorages of life, that were safe enough in old times, snap nowadays in any passing gust54. The very thought of it makes me uncomfortable! You are not fair to yourself when you allow other people’s troubles to darken your own outlook. When you stood over there at the gate, I called the roll of all the divinities of light and sweetness and charm to find a name for you; when you ran to Marjorie[21] and won her back to happiness so quickly, I was glad that these are not the old times of fauns and dryads, but that you are very real, and a healthy-minded American girl, seeing life quite steadily55 and whole.”
“Oh, but I don’t; I can’t!” she faltered56; “and doesn’t—doesn’t the mistake you made about me prove that what poets see and feel isn’t reality, isn’t life as it really is?”
“I object,” said the Poet with a humorous twinkle, “to any such sacrifice of yourself to support the wail57 of the pessimists58. I positively59 refuse to sanction anything so sacrilegious!”
“I’m not terribly old,” she went on, ignoring his effort to give a lighter60 tone to the talk; “and I don’t pretend to be wise; but life can’t be just dreams and flowers: I see that! I wish it were that way, for everything would be so simple and easy and every one would live happy ever after.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t quite true,” said the[22] Poet. “I can’t think of anything more disagreeable than half an hour spent in a big hothouse full of roses. I’ve made the experiment occasionally; and if all creation lived in such an atmosphere, we should be a pale, stifled61, anæmic race. And think of the stone-throwing there would be if we all lived in glass houses!”
She smiled at this; and their eyes met in a look that marked the beginnings of a friendship.
“There’s Marjorie, and I must go!” she cried suddenly. “Isn’t she quite the prettiest of them all in her paper cap! We haven’t really decided62 anything, have we?” she asked, lingering a moment. “And I haven’t even fed you very well, for which Mrs. Waring will scold me. But I hope you’re going to like me a little bit—even if I am a heathen!”
“We were old friends when the stars first sang together! Something tells me that I shall see you soon again—very soon; but you have[23] not got rid of me yet; I crave63 the honor of an introduction to Marjorie.”
In a moment the Poet stood with Marjorie close at his side, her hand thrust warmly and contentedly64 into his, while all the other children pressed close about. He was telling them one of the stories in rhyme for which he was famous, and telling it with an art that was not less a gift from Heaven than the genius that had put the words into his ink-pot. Thousands of children had heard that poem at their mothers’ knees, but to-day it seemed new, even to those of the attentive65 young auditors66 whose lips moved with his, repeating the quaint67, whimsical phrases and musical lines that seem, indeed, to be the spontaneous creation of any child who lisps them.
And when he began to retreat, followed by the clamorous68 company with demands for more, he slipped away through the low garden gate, leaned upon it and looked down upon[24] them with feigned69 surprise as though he had never seen them before“How remarkable70!” he exclaimed, lingering to parley with them. “Tell you another story! Who has been telling stories! I just stopped to look at the garden and all the flowers jumped up and became children—children calling for stories! How very remarkable! And all the brown-eyed children are pansies and all the blue-eyed ones are roses,—really this is the most remarkable thing I ever heard of!”
They drew closer as he whispered:—
“You must do just what I tell you—will you promise, every single boy and girl?”
They pressed nearer, presenting a compact semicircle of awed71 faces, and nodded eagerly. An older boy giggled72 in excess of joy and in anticipation73 of what was to come, and his neighbors rebuked74 him with frowns.
“Now, when I say ‘one,’ begin to count, and count ten slowly—oh, very slowly; and then,[25] when everybody has counted, everybody stand on one foot with eyes shut tight and hop6 around real quick and look at the back wall of the garden—there’s a robin sitting there at this very minute;—but don’t look. Nobody must look—yet! And when you open your eyes there will be a fairy in a linen75 duster and a cocked hat; that is, maybe you’ll see him! Now shut your eyes and count—one!”
When they swung round to take him to task for this duplicity, he had reached the street and was waving his hand to them.
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收听单词发音
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1
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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3
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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6
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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7
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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8
initiating
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| v.开始( initiate的现在分词 )；传授；发起；接纳新成员 | |
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9
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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10
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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12
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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13
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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14
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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15
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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19
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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22
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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reimburse
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| v.补偿，付还 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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31
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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33
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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limned
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| v.画( limn的过去式和过去分词 )；勾画；描写；描述 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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39
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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40
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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41
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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42
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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43
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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44
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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45
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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46
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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47
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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48
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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49
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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50
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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51
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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52
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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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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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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61
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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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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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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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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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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