For ten days, however, the journeys made by him were fruitless, and he began to cast about despairingly in his mind for the memory of anything in his own letter that could have offended. But he found nothing. His writing, during these days, did not progress. He was too restless, too anxious, to work quietly. Sometimes he sat at his cottage door and piped. Occasionally a small crowd of children would gather outside the hedge, drawn1 by the magic of the music. The ceasing of the pipe, or any movement on his part, however, was the signal for them to scatter2 like a flock of frightened sparrows, and he would find the lane deserted3.
At last, one evening, his journey to the market-town proved fruitful. A letter awaited him there, also a box bearing the name of a London tailor.
Peter returned across the fields at a fine pace, the letter in his breast pocket, the box under his arm. Arriving at his cottage, he unknotted the string that tied it.
Some twenty minutes later, Peter, in well-cut evening clothes and with a gleaming expanse of white shirt-front, broke the seal of the letter.
You perceive he was a host, receiving in spirit the woman who had deigned4 to consider him worthy5 of notice. And now he held the letter in his hand and saw once more the delicate, firm writing.
“London,
“May 27th.
“First I must thank you that you have not misunderstood me. And now that the understanding between us is complete, I can write more freely, more fully6.
“So you are a recluse7. Perhaps you are to be envied. I have been, and am, in the midst of [Pg 81]that mumming-show society, where we all wear gaily-coloured masks and jest with those around us. We speak little as we feel, but largely as we are expected to speak. Is it part of your compensation that you need not speak at all? For me, I am somewhat weary of the show. It is very gaudy8, and the music, I think, too loud. You may ask why I attend it, and to that I have no answer, except that custom demands it of me as a right. How many people, I wonder, act not according to their own individuality, but rather as usage and those around them expect them to act?
“Is it possible, I wonder, to free oneself from tradition, that closely fitting garment placed upon us by our ancestors at birth, which becomes, to the majority, as much part and parcel of ourselves as our skin? Clothed in it, I attend dances, dinners, bridge parties, and theatres, from which I am at the moment recoiling9 with a kind of mental nausea10. Should I strip myself of the garment, shall I not feel cold and shivery—in short, to use a common phrase, feel ‘out of things’? And once the garment is definitely discarded it may not be so easily donned again; at all events, it might not [Pg 82]fit so well. You, a writer, who in your solitude11 think many thoughts, give me your opinion.
“Mercifully, custom has at least decreed that I should spend some months in the country. In a few days’ time I go down to it. There my individuality resumes what I believe to be its rightful sway. I have a garden. It is, as the poet sings, a thing of beauty, and is to me a joy for ever.
“A summer evening in a flower-scented garden! Can you—you writer of poetic13 prose—conceive anything more full of charm and delight? I have a bed of night-stocks—poor, dilapidated, withered14 things in the daytime, and the despair of my gardener. But in the evening on the terrace the odour is entrancing—divine. My thoughts are ‘carried on the wings of perfume into high places.’ You see, I can quote from your book and from memory.
“No; the cry beneath its strength and sunshine was faint, barely discernible. I confess that at the first reading, which I took at a draught15, I did not observe it. It was when I returned, as I did, to sip16 the wine of its poetic fancy that I detected the slightly bitter taste. [Pg 83]Yet bitter is not a fair word to use. Bittersweet would be better, though that barely fits the flavour. The exact word—if one exists—has escaped me.
“You quote from Emerson, and also speak of compensation. Of course, you know this:
“‘We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that they go out only that archangels may come in.... The compensations of calamity17 are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals18 of time.... It permits or constrains19 the formation of new acquaintances and the reception of new influences, that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighbourhoods of men.’
“Your quotation20 made me look up my Emerson. I found your sentence, and went on to read ‘Compensation,’ whence I have copied the above.
“Would your writing have been as human were it not for the hidden wound you bear? Is it some compensation to know that to one soul at least your words have brought refreshment21? What are you writing now?
Peter read the letter through twice then put it on the table while he prepared his supper. He laid two places to-night, laughing at himself for the fancy. His Unknown Lady was very present with him, you perceive.
He pretended—and loved the pretence—that she was dining with him. He let himself imagine that a woman, clad in chiffon and lace, and fragrant23 with that delicate scent12 of lavender, sat in the chair opposite to him; that the candle-light was playing on her warm hair, finding reflection in her luminous24 eyes. No palace contained a more courteous25 host that night than did that little cottage; no royal guest received a greater welcome than did Peter’s Dream Lady.
It was a strange, fantastic little scene. Had any one peered through the cottage window, they would have seen a barely furnished room, a meagre supper-table lit by a couple of candles, [Pg 85]and, seated at the table, a man in well-cut evening clothes—a man groomed26 with the fresh cleanness of a well-bred Englishman. They would have seen a second place laid at the table, and in the second place, between the knife and fork, a bluish letter lying. They would have seen both glasses filled with red wine.
Mad? Not a bit of it! Peter was entirely27 sane28, and very refreshingly29 healthy. But—and herein lay the difference between him and many of his countrymen—he was possessed30 of a fine imagination.
And when Peter had drunk the health of his Dream Lady, he began to talk to her; and for this purpose pen, ink, and paper came once more into requisition.
“May 29th.
“Your first letter was welcome; your second is ten thousand times more so. The first was the mere31 fluttering of a signal, waved at a distance. This evening you are near, and I can speak more easily.
“As for the garment of tradition, I fancy it may at times be discarded by ourselves and [Pg 86]gently, and again donned without fear of it fitting less well. In fact, may it not gain greater value in our own eyes and in the eyes of others by its temporary disuse? It is when fate strips it from us, tearing it to ribbons in the process, that it cannot again be worn, or worn merely as a sorry, ragged32 semblance33 of what it once has been. It is then, to use your own parlance34, that one feels ‘out of things.’ I, who write to you, speak from experience. Fate tore my garment from me, and in so doing made the wound you have detected. But enough of that. The touch of your hand upon it has eased its smart, though possibly—nay probably—the scar will remain throughout my life.
“Thank you for your quotation. Yes; I know it. I am glad the shade of my banian-tree—a very small one—has reached you, and its fruit brought you refreshment. The ‘ever-onward’ note of Emerson is exhilarating. There is no repining, no sitting down with folded hands under grief, but an ever pushing forward to the light, as a green shoot pushes aside earth and stones in its journey upward through the soil to the sun.
“Yes, I am writing again; but the last few days I have done little. I could not tear myself away from the thought of the next letter I should receive from you. Sometimes I feared that none would come, that you might have regretted your offer. It was an unworthy thought; forgive me. Now, I shall write again quietly.
“You ask what it is that I am writing. It is the story of a man, a wayfarer35. I do not think there is much plot in the story. Probably all the plot lies in the past which he has thrown behind him. Fate has made of him a wanderer, as she has made a recluse of me. During his wanderings he thinks much. I am endeavouring to record those thoughts as he traverses the fields and lanes. If the gods are good to me, perhaps one day the thoughts may reach you in book form. Then you will give me your opinion on them.
“Soon you will be among your night-stocks in your garden. Their perfume will be more fragrant than the scent of ballrooms36 and theatres.
“Good-night.
“Robin Adair.
“Have I thanked you for your letter? I do thank you from my heart.”
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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3
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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4
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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6
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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7
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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9
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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10
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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11
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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12
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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13
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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14
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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15
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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16
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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17
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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18
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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constrains
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| 强迫( constrain的第三人称单数 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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21
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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22
pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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24
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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26
groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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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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28
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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29
refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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30
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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31
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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32
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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33
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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34
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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35
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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ballrooms
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| n.舞厅( ballroom的名词复数 ) | |
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