There was a letter for the artist. It contained a check from the Frenchman. He had bought three of the pictures—the one of Uncle William’s house and the two of the old Bodet place.
“Did you know it?” demanded the artist. He was facing Uncle William in the boat as they rowed home.
“I didn’t know it,” said Uncle William, with a long, easy pull, “but I reckoned suthin’ ’d be along putty soon. If it hadn’t come to-day, I was goin’ to make Andy give us enough to begin on.”
“He wouldn’t have done it.”
“Oh, yes, he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ squirmed and twisted some, but he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ had to!”
The artist laughed out happily. “Well, now you can do as you like. We’ll have the best boat there is going.”
Uncle William nodded. “I knew you’d want to. I’ve been kind o’ plannin’ for it. We’ll go down to-morrow or next day and see about it.”
Uncle William returned the look, smiling broadly. “It’ll seem putty good to feel my own boards under me again,” he said cheerfully.
“But you didn’t care when you didn’t have them,” said the artist. “You just toted those infernal kittens—”
Uncle William’s chuckle2 was genial3. “Kittens ain’t everything,” he said mildly. “But I’ve seen the time when kittens wa’n’t to be despised. You jest set that way a little mite4, Mr. Woodworth, and I’ll beach her even.”
“One thing I’m glad of,” said the artist, as the boat grated along the pebbles5. “You can pay Andy.”
“Andy’ll be glad,” responded Uncle William, “but it’ll be quite a spell before he has a chance to.” He waved his arm toward the bay. “He’s off for the day.”
The artist scanned the horizon with disappointed face. “He’ll be back by noon, perhaps?”
Uncle William shook his head. “Not afore night. I can tell by the way he’s movin’. We’ll come up and hev dinner and then we can plan her out.”
They sat on the rocks all the afternoon, looking at the dancing waves and planning for the new Jennie. Uncle William drew models on the back of an old envelope and explained figures. The artist followed him with eager eyes. Now and then his chest expanded and he drew a deep breath of satisfaction.
“Feel’s good, don’t it?” said Uncle William. “I ust to feel that way when I’d been in debt a good while and made a big ketch. Seemed ’s if the whole world slid off my shoulders.” He shook his head. “But it was kind o’ foolishness.”
“Wouldn’t you feel that way now?” demanded the artist.
“I don’t believe I would,” said Uncle William, slowly. “It’s a kind o’ wicked feelin’—when the sun’s a-shinin’ jest the same, and the water’s movin’ up and down,—” he motioned toward the harbor,—“and the boats are comin’ in at night, settlin’ down like birds, and the lights.” He looked affectionately at the water. “It’s all there jest the same whether I owe anybody or not. And the rocks don’t budge7 much—” He laid his big brown hand on the warm surface beside him, smoothing it in slow content.
The artist looked at him, smiling a little wistfully. “It sounds all very well to talk about,” he said, “but the world would go to rack and ruin if everybody felt that way.”
“I ust to think so,” said Uncle William, placidly8. “I ust to lie awake nights worryin’ about it. But late years I’ve give it up. Seems to jog along jest about the same as when I was worryin’—and I take a heap sight more comfort. Seems kind o’ ridiculous, don’t it, when the Lord’s made a world as good as this one, not to enjoy it some?”
“Don’t you feel any responsibility toward society?” asked the artist, curiously.
Uncle William shook his head with a slow smile. “I don’t believe I do. I ust to. Lord, yes! I ust to think about folks that was hungry till my stummick clean caved in. I ust to eat my dinner like it was sawdust, for fear I’d get a little comfort out of it, while somebody somewheres was starvin’—little childern, like enough. That was al’ays the hardest part of it—little childern. I ust to think some of foundin’ a’sylum up here on the rocks—sailin’ round the world and pickin’ up a boat-load and then bringin’ ’em up here and turnin’ ’em loose on the rocks, givin’ ’em all they could stuff to eat. And then one night, when I was cal’atin’ and figgerin’ on it, I saw that I couldn’t get half of ’em into my boat, nor a quarter, nor a tenth—jest a little corner of ’em. And then it come over me, all of a sudden, what a big job I’d tackled, and I jest turned it over to the Lord, then an there. And all the next day I kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ about it out here on the rocks—how he’d took a thousand year—mebbe ’t was more; a good long spell, they say—to get the rocks ready for folks to live on—jest the rocks! And like enough he knew what he was plannin’ to do, and didn’t expect me to finish it all up for him in fo’-five years. Since then I’ve been leavin’ it to him more—takin’ a hand when I could, but payin’ more attention to livin’. I sort o’ reckon that’s what he made us for—to live. The’ ’s a good deal o’ fin10 in it if you go at it right.”
“That’s a great idea, Uncle William,” said the artist.
“It’s comf’tabul,” assented11 Uncle William. “You get your livin’ as you go along, and a little suthin’ over. Seems ’s if some folks didn’t even get a livin’ they’re so busy doing things.”
He was silent for a while, his blue eyes following the light on the water. “The’ was a man I sailed with once,—a cur’us sort o’ chap,—and when he wa’n’t sober he could tell you interestin’ things. He hadn’t been a sailor al’ays—took to it ’cause he liked it, he said. And he tol’ me a good deal about the goings-on of the earth. Like enough ’t wa’n’t so—some on it—but it was interestin’. He told me ’t the earth was all red-hot once, and cooled off quicker on the outside—like a hot pertater, I s’pose. You’ve heard about it?” He looked inquiringly at the artist.
The artist nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ve thought about that a good many times when I’ve been sailin’. I could see it all, jest the way he put it, the earth a-whirlin’ and twirlin’, and the fire and flames a-shootin’ up to the sky, and rocks and stones and stuff a’b’ilin’ and flyin’—” Uncle William’s eye dwelt lovingly on the picture. “I’d seem to see it all jest the way he tol’ it, and then I’d put my hand out over the side of the boat and trail it along in the water to cool off a little.” Uncle William chuckled12. “Sometimes it seems ’s if you’d come a million miles all in a minute—rocks all along the shore, good hard rocks ’t you could set on, and the hill up to the sky with grass on it, green and soft, and the water all round. It a’most takes your breath away to come back like that from that red-hot ball he talked about and see it all lyin’ there, so cool and still, and the sun shinin’ on it. I got to thinkin’ ’bout it, days when I was sailin’, and wondering if mebbe the Lord wa’n’t gettin’ folks ready jest the way he did the rocks—rollin’ ’em over and havin’ ’em pound each other and claw and fight and cool off, slow-like, till byme-by they’d be good sweet earth and grass and little flowers—comf’tabul to live with.”
The artist sat up. “Do you mean to say you wouldn’t stop folks fighting if you could?”
Uncle William eyed the proposition. “Well I dunno’s I’d say jest that. I’ve thought about it a good many times. Men al’ays hev fit and I reckon they will—quite a spell yet. There’s Russia and Japan now: you couldn’t ’a’ stopped them fightin’ no more’n two boys that had got at it. All them Russians and them little Japs—we couldn’t ’a’ stopped ’em fightin’—the whole of us couldn’t hev stopped ’em—not unless we’d ’a’ took ’em by the scruff o’ the neck and thrown ’em down and set on ’em—one apiece. And I dunno’s that’d be much better’n fightin’—settin’ on ’em one apiece.”
The artist laughed out.
Uncle William beamed on him. “You see, this is the way I figger it: Russia and Japan wa’n’t fightin’ so much for anything they reely wanted to git. It was suthin’ in ’em that made ’em go for each other, tooth and nail, and pommel so—a kind o’ pizen bubbling and sizzling inside ’em; we’ve all got a little of it.” He smiled genially13. “It has to work out slow-like. Some does it by fightin’ and some does it by prayin’; and I reckon the Lord’s in the fightin’, same as in the prayin’.”
The artist looked at him curiously. “Some people call that the devil, you know.”
Uncle William cleared his throat. He picked up a little stone and balanced it thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. Then he looked up with a slow smile. “I ain’t so well acquainted with the devil as I ust to be,” he said. “I ust to know him reel well; ust to think about him when I was out sailin’—figger how to get ahead of him. But late years I’d kind o’ forgot—He’s livin’ still, is he?”
The artist laughed quietly. “They say so—some of them.”
Uncle William’s smile grew wider and sweeter. “Well, let him live. Poor old thing! ’T won’t hurt none, and he is a kind o’ comfort to lay things on when you’ve been, more’n usual, cussed. That’s the Andrew Halloran over there to the left.” He pointed6 to a dusky boat that was coming in slowly. “That’s his last tack9, if he makes it, and I reckon he will. Now, if you’ll go in and start the chowder, I’ll see if he want’s any help about makin’ fast.”
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1
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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2
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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3
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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4
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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5
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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6
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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7
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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8
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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9
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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10
fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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11
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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