I went on missing my father terribly, but in a child's inarticulate fashion, and it is only lately that I have realized how much of my life went at loose ends for the loss out of it of a man's point of view and the appreciable4 standards which grow out of his relation to the community. Ever since the Snockerty episode there had been glimmers5 on my horizon of the sort of rightness owing from a daughter of Henry Lattimore, but now that I had no longer the use of the personal instance, I lost all notion of what those things might be; for though I have often heard my mother spoken of as one of the best women in the world, she was the last to have provided me with a definite pattern of behaviour.
Pauline had struck out a sort of social balance for herself grounded on the fear of what was "common." Her mother had a day at home, from which seemed to flow an orderly perspective of social observances, for which my mother, never having arrived at the pitch of visiting cards, afforded me no criterion whatever.
She had been a farmer's daughter in another part of the state, and had done something for herself in the way of school teaching before she married my father. My grandparents I never saw, but I seem to recall at such public occasions as county fairs and soldiers' reunions, certain tall, farmer-looking men and their badly dressed wives, who called her cousin and were answered by their Christian6 names, whom I understand to be my mother's relatives without accepting them as mine. They were all soldiers though, the men of our family; you saw it at once in the odd stiffness sitting on their farmer carriage like the firm strokes of a master on a pupil's smudged drawing. I think I got my first notion of the quality of experience in the way they exalted7 themselves in the memories of marches and battles. There had been a station of the underground railway not ten miles from Taylorville, and there had gone out from the town at the first call, a volunteer company with so many Judds and Wilsons and Lattimores on the roster8 that it read like the record of a family Bible. They had gone out from, they had come back to, a life as little relieved by adventure as the flat horizon of their corn lands, but in the interim9 they had stretched themselves, endured, conquered. I have heard political economists10 of the cross roads account variously for the prosperity of Ohianna in the decade following the civil outbreak, but I have never heard it laid to the revitalizing of our common stock by the shock of its moral strenuosities.
To this day I question whether Cousin Judd got more out of his religion than out of this most unchristian experience, from which he had come back silver tipped as it were, from that emperym into which men pass when they are by great emotions a little removed from themselves, to kindle11 in my young mind a realization12 of the preciousness of passion over all human assets. It came to me, however, in the years between twelve and fifteen that my mother's relations did things with their knives and neglected others with their forks that were not done in circles that by virtue13 of just such observances, got themselves called Good Society. I was aware of a sort of gracelessness in their vital processes, in much the same way that I knew that the striped and flowered carpet in my mother's best room did not harmonize with the wall paper, and that the curtains went badly with them both. I have to go back to this, and to the fact that my clothes were chosen for wearing qualities rather than becomingness, to account for a behaviour that, as I began to emerge from the illumined mists of play, my mother complained of under the head of my "not taking an interest."
How else was I to protect myself from the thousand inharmonies that chafed14 against the budding instinct of beauty: the plum-coloured ribbons I was expected to wear with my brown dress, the mottled Japanese pattern upon the gilt15 ground of the wall paper, against which I had pushed out a kind of shell, hung within with the glittering stuff of dreams.
For just about the time I should have been absorbed in Cousin Lydia's beaded dolman and the turning of my mother's one silk, I was regularly victimized by the fits and starts of temperament16, instinctive17 efforts toward the rehearsal18 of greater passions than had appeared above my horizon, flashes of red and blue and gold thrown up on the plain Taylorville surface of my behaviour, with the result of putting me at odds19 with the Taylorvillians.
It was as if, being required to produce a character, I found myself with samples of a great many sorts on my hands which I kept offering, hopeful that they might be found to match with the acceptable article, which, I may say here, they never did. They were good samples too, considering how young I was, of the Magdas, Ophelias, Antigones I was yet to become, of the great lady, good comrade and lover, but the most I got by it was the suspicion of insincerity and affectation. I sensitively suffered the more from it as I was conscious of the veering20 of this inward direction, without being able to prove what I was sure of, its relevance21 to the Shining Destiny toward which I moved. If you ask how this assurance differed from the general human hope of a superior happiness, I can only say that the event has proved it, and as early as I was aware of it, moved me childishly to acts of propitiation. I wanted gratefully to be good, with a goodness acceptable to the Powers from which such assurance flowed, but it was a long time before I could separate my notion of this from my earliest ideal of what would have been suitable behaviour to my father, so that all the upward reach of adolescence22 was tinged23 by my sense of loss in him.
It was when I was about thirteen and had not yet forgotten how my father looked, that I made an important discovery; on the opposite side of the church, and close to the Amen corner, sat a man with something in the cut of his beard, in the swing of his shoulders, at which some dying nerve started suddenly athrob. I must have seen him there a great many times without noticing, and perhaps the likeness24 was not so much as I had thought, and I had had to wait until my recollection faded to its note of faint suggestion, but from that day I took to going out of my way to school to pass by Mr. Gower's place of business for the sake of the start of memory that for the moment brought my father near again. I even went so far as to mention to my mother that I liked sitting in church where I could look at Mr. Gower because he reminded me of somebody. We were on our way home on Sunday night—we were always taken to church twice on Sunday—Forester was on ahead with Effie, and just as we came along under the shadow of the spool25 factory, I had reached up to tuck my hand under my mother's arm and make my timid suggestion.
"Well, somebody who?" said my mother.
"Of my father——"
"Oh," said my mother, "that's just your fancy." But she did not shake off my hand from her arm as was her habit toward proffers26 of affection, and the moment passed for one of confidence between us. I was convinced that she must have taken notice of the likeness for herself. That was in the spring, and all that summer vacation I spent a great deal of time playing with Nettie Gower for the sake of seeing her father come at the gate about five in the afternoon the way mine had done.
Nettie was not an attractive child, and of an age better suited to Effie, who couldn't bear her; the relation, it seemed, wanted an explanation, but it never occurred to me that so long as I withheld27 my own, another would be found for it. Nettie's brother found it about the time that my friendship with his sister was at its most flourishing. He was no nicer than you would expect a brother of Nettie's to be, though he was good-looking in a red-cheeked way, with a flattened28 curl in the middle of his forehead, and of late he had taken to hanging about Nettie and me, looking at me with a curious sort of smirk29 that I was not quite arrived at knowing for the beginning gallantry. He knew perfectly30 well that I did not come to see Nettie because I was fond of her, but it was yet for me to discover that he thought it was because I was fond of him. I remember I was making a bower31 in the asparagus bed; I was too old to play in the asparagus bed, but I was making a point of being good enough to do it on Nettie's account, and I had asked Charlie for his knife to cut the stems.
"Come and get it." He was holding it out to me hollowed in his palm; and he would not let go my hand.
"You don't want no knife," he leered sickeningly. "I know what you want." Suddenly I caught sight of Nettie's face with its straight thick plaits of hair and near-sighted eyes narrowed at me behind her glasses, and it struck me all at once that she had never taken my interest in her seriously either.
"Well, what?" I began defensively.
"This!" He thrust out his face toward mine, but I was too quick for him. That was my first sex encounter, and it didn't somehow make it any the less exasperating32 to realize that what lay behind my sudden interest in Nettie couldn't now be brought forward in extenuation33, but I am always glad that I slapped Charlie Gower before the paralyzing sense of being trapped by my own behaviour overtook me. I hadn't found the words yet for the unimagined disgust of the boy's impertinence when, as I was helping34 to wipe the dishes that evening after supper, I tried to put it to my mother on a new basis which the incident seemed to have created, of our being somehow ranged together against such offences. It was the time for us to have emerged a little from the family relation to the freemasonry of sex, but my mother missed knowing it.
"I am not going to Nettie Gower's any more," I began.
"No?" said my mother; and of course I could not conceive that she had forgotten the confidence in which the connection with Nettie began.
"That Charlie ... I just hate him. You know, he thought I was coming to see Nettie because of him."
"Well," said my mother, turning out the dishwater, "perhaps you were."
And that, I think it safe to say, is as near as my family ever came to understanding the processes at work behind the incidents of my growing up. Yet I think my mother very often did know that the key to my behaviour did not lie in the obvious explanation of it; and a sort of aversion toward what was strange, which I have come to think of as growing out of her unsophistication, kept her from admitting it. It was less disconcerting to have my springs of action accounted for on the basis of what Mrs. Allingham would have called "common," than to have it arraigned35 by her own standard as "queer." There was always in Taylorville a certain caddishness toward innovations of conduct, which we youngsters railed at as countrified, which I now perceive to have been no worse than the instinctive movement to lessen36 by despising it, the terror, the deep, far-rooted terror of the unknown. The incident served, however, to supersede37 with resentment38 the sense of personal definite loss in which it had begun.
Before the year was out I had so far forgotten my father that I saw no resemblance to him in Mr. Gower and would not have recognized it had I met it anywhere, though the want of fathering had its share no doubt in landing me, as I cast about for an appreciable rule to live by, in what I have already described as a superior sort of Snockertism. The immediate39 step to it was my getting converted. That very winter all Taylorville and the six townships were caught up in one of those acute emotional crises called a Revival40. It had begun in the Methodist, and gradually involved the whole number of Protestant churches, and had overflowed41 into the Congregational building as affording the greatest seating room; by the middle of February it was possible to feel through the whole community the ground swell42 of its disturbances43. Night after night the people poured in to it to be flayed44 in spirit, striped, agonized45, exalted at the hands of a practised evangelist, which they liked; as it had the cachet of being supernaturally good for them, they liked it with a deeper, more soul-stretching enjoyment46 than the operas, theatres, social adventure of cities, supposing they had been at hand.
It hardly seems possible with all she had to do, and yet I think my mother could not have missed one of those meetings, going regularly with Cousin Judd, who drove in from the farm more times than you would have thought the farm could have spared him, or with Forester, who had been converted the winter before, though I think he must have regretted the smaller occasion. Left at home with Effie who was thought too young to be benefited by the preaching and too old to be laid by in an overcoat on the Sunday-school benches with dozens of others, heavy with sleep and the vitiated air, late, when I had finished my arithmetic and was afraid to go to bed in the empty house, I would open the window a crack toward the blur47 on the night from the tall, shutterless48 windows of the church, and catch the faint swell of the hymns49 and at times the hysteric shout of some sinner "coming through," and I was as drawn50 to it as any savage51 to the roll of the medicine drums.
The backwash of this excitement penetrated52 even to the schoolroom, as from time to time some awed53 whisper ran of this and that one of our classmates being converted, and walking apart from us with the other saved in a chastened mystery. And finally Pauline Allingham and I talked it over and decided54 to get converted too. Pauline, I remember, had not been allowed to attend the meetings and considered her spiritual welfare jeopardized55 in the prohibition56. We knew by this time perfectly well what we had to do, and had arranged to get excused from our respective rooms—Pauline was a grade behind me on account of diphtheria the previous winter—and to meet in the abandoned coal-hole between the boys' and girls' basement. Pauline, who had always an aptitude57 for proselyting, brought another girl from the sixth grade, who was also under conviction—we had the terms very pat—a thin, hatchet-faced girl who joined the Baptist Church and afterward58 married a minister, so that she might very easily have reckoned the incident at something like its supposititious value in her life. I remember that we knelt down in the dusty coal-hole where the little children used to play I-spy, and prayed by turns for light, aloud at first, and then, as we felt the approach of the compelling mood, silently, as we waited for the moment after which we might rather put it over our classmates on the strength of our salvation59.
It came, oh, it came! the sweep up and out, the dizzying lightness—not very different, in fact, from the breathless rush with which on a first night of Magda or Cleopatra I have felt my part meet me as I cross between the wings—the lift, the tremor60 of passion.
"Oh," I said, "I'm saved! I'm saved! I know it."
"So am I," said Flora61 Haines. "I was a long time ago, but I didn't like to say anything." And if I hadn't just been converted I should have thought it rather mean of her. In the dusk of the coal-hole we heard Pauline sniffling.
"I suppose it's because I'm so much worse a sinner," she admitted, "but I just can't feel it."
"You must give yourself into the Lord's hands, Pauline dear." Flora Haines had heard the evangelist. I began to offer myself passionately62 in prayer as a vicarious atonement for Pauline's shortcomings.
"Don't you feel anything?" Flora urged, "not the least thing?"
"Well ... sort of ... something," Pauline confessed.
"Well, of course, that's it."
"Yes, that's it," I insisted.
"Well, I suppose it is," Pauline gave in, mopping her eyes with her handkerchief, "but it isn't the least like what I expected."
We heard the school clock strike the quarter hour, and got up, brushing our knees rather guiltily. Flora Haines and I were kept in all that afternoon recess63 for exceeding our excuse, but Pauline saved herself by bursting into tears as soon as she reached her room, and being sent home with a headache.
That was on Thursday, and Saturday afternoon we were all to meet at our house and go together to a great children's meeting, where we were expected to announce that we were saved. Pauline was a little late. I was explaining to Flora Haines that I was to join our church on probation64 on Sunday, but Flora, being a Baptist, had been put off by her minister until the Revival should be over and he could attend to all the baptisms at once. We naturally expected something similar from Pauline.
"I hardly think," she said, stroking her muff and looking very ladylike, "that I shall take such an important step in life until I am older."
"But," I objected, "how can anything be more important?"
"It's your soul, Pauline!" Flora Haines was slightly scandalized.
"That's just the reason; it's so important my mother thinks I ought not to take any steps until I can give it my most mature judgment65."
Flora Haines and I looked at one another silently; we might have known Pauline's mother wouldn't let her do anything so common as get converted.
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1
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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3
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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5
glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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7
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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8
roster
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| n.值勤表，花名册 | |
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9
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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10
economists
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| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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11
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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12
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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13
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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14
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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15
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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16
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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17
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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18
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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19
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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20
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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21
relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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22
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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23
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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25
spool
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| n.（缠录音带等的）卷盘（轴）；v.把…绕在卷轴上 | |
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26
proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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28
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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29
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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30
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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31
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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32
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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33
extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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34
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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35
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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36
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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37
supersede
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| v.替代；充任 | |
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38
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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39
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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40
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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41
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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42
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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43
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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44
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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45
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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46
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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47
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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48
shutterless
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| 快门不 | |
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49
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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50
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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51
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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52
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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53
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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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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55
jeopardized
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| 危及，损害( jeopardize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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57
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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58
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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59
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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60
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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61
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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62
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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63
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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