“Yes, that alone would prove that we are seventy,” I said sadly as I stood at the window watching him drive away.
Yet if ever a good fairy grants you one wish I advise your wishing that when you are seventy your heart and some one else’s heart will be as heavy at a separation as are ours.
“Pelleas,” I had said to him that morning, “I wish that every one in the world could love some one as much as I love you.”
And Pelleas had answered seriously:—
“Remember, Etarre, that every one in the world who is worth anything either loves as we do or expects to do so, or else is unhappy because he doesn’t.”
“Not every one?” I remonstrated2.
“Every one,” Pelleas repeated firmly.
I wondered about that after he went away. Not every one, surely. There was, for exception, dear Hobart Eddy3 who walked the world alone, loving every one exactly alike; and there was, for the other extreme, Nichola, our old servant. She was worth a very great deal but she loved nobody, not even us; and I was sure that she prided herself on it. I could not argue with Pelleas on the eve of a journey but I harboured the matter against his return.
I was lonely when Pelleas was gone. I was sitting by the fire with Semiramis on my knee—an Angora cannot wholly sympathize with you but her aloofness4 can persuade you into peace of mind—when the telephone bell rang. We are so seldom wanted that the mere5 ringing of the bell is an event even, as usually happens, if we are called in mistake. This time, however, old Nichola, whose tone over the telephone is like that of all three voices of Cerberus saying “No admission,” came in to announce that I was wanted by Miss Wilhelmina Lillieblade. I hurried excitedly out, for when Miss “Willie” Lillieblade telephones she has usually either heard some interesting news or longs to invent some. She is almost seventy as well as I. As a girl she was not very interesting, but I sometimes think that like many other inanimate objects she has improved with age until now she is delightful6 and reminds me of spiced cordials. I never see a stupid young person without applying the inanimate object rule and longing7 to comfort him with it.
“Etarre,” Miss Willie said, “you and Pelleas come over for tea this afternoon. I am alone and I have a lame8 shoulder.”
“I’ll come with pleasure,” said I readily, “but Pelleas is away.”
“O,” Miss Willie said without proper regret, “Pelleas is away.”
For a moment she thought.
“Etarre,” she said, “let’s lunch downtown together and go to a matinée.”
I could hardly believe my old ears.
“W—we two?” I quavered.
“Certainly!” she confirmed it, “I’ll come in the coupé at noon.”
I made a faint show of resistance. “What about your lame shoulder?” I wanted to know.
“Pooh!” said Miss Willie, “that will be dead in a minute and then I won’t know whether it’s lame or not.”
The next moment she had left the telephone and I had promised!
I went upstairs in a delicious flutter of excitement. When our niece Lisa is with us I watch her go breezily off to matinées with her young friends, but “matinée” is to me one of the words that one says often though they mean very little to one, like “ant-arctic.” I protest that I felt myself to be as intimate with the appearance of the New Hebrides as with the ways of a matinée. I fancy that it was twenty years since I had seen one. Say what you will, evening theater-going is far more commonplace; for in the evening one is frivolous9 by profession but afternoon frivolity10 is stolen fruit. And being a very frivolous old woman I find that a nibble11 or so of stolen fruit leavens12 the toast and tea. Innocent stolen fruit, mind you, for heaven forbid that I should prescribe a diet of dust and ashes.
I had taken from its tissues my lace waist and was making it splendid with a scrap13 of lavender velvet14 when our old servant brought in fresh candles. She looked with suspicion on the garment.
“Nichola,” I said guiltily, “I’m going to a matinée. And you’ll need get no luncheon15,” I hastened to add, “because I’m lunching with Miss Lillieblade.”
“Yah!” said Nichola, “going to a matinée?”
Nichola says “matiknee,” and she regards a theater box as among all self-indulgences the unpardonable sin.
“You’ll have no luncheon to get, Nichola,” I persuasively16 reminded her.
Old Nichola clicked the wax candles.
“Me, I’d rather get up lunch for a fambly o’ shepherds,” she grimly assured me, “than to hev you lose your immortal17 soul at this late day.”
She went back to the kitchen and I was minded to take off the lavender velvet; but I did not do so, my religion being independent of the spectrum18.
At noon Nichola was in the drawing-room fastening my gaiters when Miss Lillieblade came in, erect19 as a little brown and white toy with a chocolate cloak and a frosting hood20.
“We are going to see ‘The End of the World,’” said Miss Willie blithely,—“I knew you haven’t seen it, Etarre.”
Old Nichola, who is so privileged that she will expect polite attention even on her death-bed, listened eagerly.
“Is it somethin’ of a religious play, mem?” she hopefully inquired.
“I dare say, Nichola,” replied Miss Willie kindly21; and afterward22, to me: “But I hope not. Religious plays are so ungodly.”
Her footman helped us down the steps, not by any means that we required it but for what does one pay a footman I would like to ask? And we drove away to a little place which I cannot call a café. I would as readily lunch at a ribbon-counter as in a café. But this was a little place where Pelleas and I often had our tea, a place that was all of old rugs and old brasses23 in front, and in secret was set with tête-à-tête tables having each one rose and one shaded candle. The linen24 was what a café would call lace and the china may have been china or it may have been garlands and love-knots. From where I sat I could see shelves filled with home-made jam, labeled, like library-books, and looking far more attractive than some peoples’ libraries. We ordered tea and chicken-broth and toast and a salad and, because we had both been forbidden, a sweet. I am bound to say that neither of us ate the sweet but we pretended not to notice.
We talked about the old days—this is no sign of old age but rather of a good memory; and presently I was reminded of what Pelleas had assured me that morning about love.
“Where did you go to school?” Miss Willie had been asking me.
“At Miss Mink25’s and Miss Burdick’s,” I answered, “and I was counting up the other day that if either of them is alive now she is about one hundred and five years old and in the newspapers on her birthday.”
“Miss Mink and Miss Burdick alive now,” Miss Willie repeated. “No, indeed. They would rather die than be alive now. They would call it proof of ill-breeding not to die at threescore and ten each according to rule. I went to Miss Trelawney’s. I had an old aunt who had brought me up to say ‘Ma’am?’ when I failed to understand; but if I said ‘Ma’am?’ in school, Miss Trelawney made me learn twenty lines of Dante; and if I didn’t say it at home I was not allowed to have dessert. Between the two I loved poetry and had a good digestion26 and my education extended no farther.”
“That is quite far enough,” I said. “I don’t know a better preparation for life than love of poetry and a good digestion.”
If I could have but one—and yet why should I take sides and prejudice anybody? Still, Pelleas had a frightful27 dyspepsia one winter and it would have taken forty poets armed to the teeth—but I really refuse to prejudice anybody.
Then I told Miss Willie how at Miss Mink’s and Miss Burdick’s I had had my first note from a boy; I slept with it under my pillow and I forgot it and the maid carried it to Miss Mink, and I blush to recall that I appeared before that lady with the defense28 that according to poetry my note was worth more than her entire curriculum, and triumphantly29 referred her to “Summum Bonum.” She sent me home, I recall. And then Miss Willie told how having successfully evaded30 chapel31 one winter evening at Miss Trelawney’s she had waked in the night with the certainty that she had lost her soul in consequence and, unable to rid herself of the conviction, she had risen and gone barefoot through the icy halls to the chapel and there had been horrified32 to find old Miss Trelawney kneeling with a man’s photograph in her hands.
“Isn’t it strange, Etarre,” said Miss Willie, “how the little mysteries and surprises of loving some one are everywhere, from one’s first note from a boy to the Miss Trelawneys whom every one knows?”
Sometimes I think that it is almost impudent33 to wonder about one’s friends when one is certain beyond wondering that they all have secret places in their hearts filled with delight and tears. But remembering what Pelleas had said that morning I did wonder about Miss Willie, since I knew that for all her air of spiced cordial she was lonely; and yet mentally I placed Miss Willie beside old Nichola and Hobart Eddy, intending to use all three as instances to crush the argument of Pelleas. Surely of all the world, I decided34, those three loved nobody.
At last we left the pleasant table, nodding good-afternoon to the Cap and Ribbons who had been cut from a coloured print to serve us. We lingered among the brasses and the casts, feeling very humble35 before the proprietor36 who looked like a duchess cut from another coloured print. I envied her that library of jelly.
On the street Miss Willie bought us each a rose for company and then bade the coachman drive slowly so that we entered the theater with the orchestra, which is the only proper moment. If one is earlier one feels as if one looked ridiculously expectant; if one is later one misses the pleasure of being expectant at all. We were in a lower stage box and all the other boxes were filled with bouquets37 of young people, with a dry stalk or two magnificently bonneted39 set stiffly among them. I hope that we did not seem too absurd, Miss Willie and I with our bobbing white curls all alone in that plump crimson40 box.
“The End of the World” proved to be a fresh, happy play, fragrant41 of lavender and sweet air. The play was about a man and a woman who loved each other very much with no analyses or confessions42 to disturb any one. The blinds were open and the sun streamed in through four acts of pleasant humour and quick action among well-bred people who manifestly had been brought up to marry and give in marriage without trying to compete with a state where neither is done. In the fourth act the moon shone on a little châlet in the leaves and one saw that there are love and sacrifice and good will enough to carry on the world in spite of its other connections. It was a play which made me thankful that Pelleas and I have clung to each other through society and poverty and dyspepsia and never have allied43 ourselves with the other side. And if any one thinks that there is a middle ground I, who am seventy, know far better.
Now in the third act it chanced that the mother of the play, so to speak, at the height of her ambition that her daughter marry a fortune as she herself had done, opened an old desk and came upon a photograph of the love of her own youth, whom she had not married. That was a sufficiently44 hackneyed situation, and the question that smote45 the mother must be one that is beating in very many hearts that give no sign; for she had truly loved this boy and he had died constant to her. And the woman prayed that when she died she might “go back and be with him.” Personally, being a very hard and unforgiving old woman, I had little patience with her; and besides I think better of heaven than to believe in any such necessity. Still this may be because Pelleas and I are certain that we will belong to each other when we die. Perhaps if I had not married him—but then I did.
Hardly had the curtain fallen when to my amazement46 Miss Willie Lillieblade leaned forward with this:—
“Etarre, do you believe that those who truly love each other here are going to know each other when they die?”
“No matter how long after ...” she said wistfully.
“Not a bit of difference,” I returned positively49.
“You and Pelleas can be surer than most,” Miss Willie said reflectively, “but suppose one of you had died fifty years ago. Would you be so sure?”
“Why, of course,” I replied, “Pelleas was always Pelleas.”
“Etarre, I mean this,” she said, speaking rapidly and not meeting my eyes. “When I was twenty I met a boy a little older than I, and I had known him only a few months when he went abroad to join his father. Before he went—he told me that he loved me—” it was like seeing jonquils bloom in snow to hear Miss Willie say this—“and I know that I loved him. But I did not go with him—he wanted me to go and I did not go with him—for stupid reasons. He was killed on a mountain in Switzerland. And I wonder and wonder—you see that was fifty years ago,” said Miss Willie, “but I wonder....”
I sat up very straight, hardly daring to look at her. All you young people who talk with such pretty concern of love, do you know what it will be when you are seventy to come suddenly on one of these flowers, still fresh, which you toss about you now?
“Since he died loving you and you have loved him all these years,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “never tell me that you will not be each other’s—afterward.”
“But where—where?” cried Miss Willie, poor little Miss Willie, echoing the cry of every one in the world. It was very strange to see this little vial of spiced cordial wondering about the immortality52 of love.
“I don’t know where or how,” I said, “but believe it and you’ll see.”
Ah, how I reproached myself later to think that I could have said no more than that. Many a fine response that I might have made I compounded afterward, all about love that is infinite and eternal so that it fills the universe and one cannot get beyond it, and so on, in long phrases; but there in that box not one other word could I say. And yet when one thinks of it what is there to say when one is asked about this save simply: “I don’t know how or where, but believe it and you’ll see.”
We said little else, and I sat there with all that company of blue and pink waists dancing about me through a mist in a fashion that would have astonished them. So much for Miss Willie as an instance in my forthcoming argument with Pelleas about every one in the world loving some one. Miss Willie had gone over to his side of the case outright53. I began to doubt that there would be an argument. Still, there would always be Hobart Eddy, inalienably on my side and serenely54 loving every one alike. And there would always be Nichola, loving nobody. If all the world fell in love and went quite mad, there would yet be Nichola fluting55 her “Yah!” to any such fancy.
I dare say that neither Miss Willie nor I heard very much of that last act in spite of its moonlit châlet among the leaves. But one picture I carried away with me and the sound of one voice. They were those of a girl, a very happy girl, waiting at the door of the châlet.
“Dear,” she said to her sweetheart, “if we had never met, if we had never seen each other, it seems as if my love for you would have followed you without my knowing. Maybe some day you would have heard it knocking at your heart, and you would have called it a wish or a dream.”
We were almost the last to leave the theater. I like that final glimpse of a place where happy people have just been. We found the coupé and a frantic57 carriageman put us in, very gently, though he banged the door in that fashion which seems to be the only outlet58 to a carriageman’s emotions.
“Good-night,” said Miss Willie Lillieblade at my door, and gave my hand an unwonted lingering touch. I knew why. Dear, starved heart, she must have longed for years to talk about that boy. I watched her coupé roll toward the great lonely house. Never tell me that the boy who died in Switzerland was not beside her hearth60 waiting her coming.
Our drawing-room was dimly lighted. I took off my bonnet38 there and found myself longing for my tea. I am wont59 to ring for Nichola only upon stately occasions and certainly not at times when in her eyes I tremble on the brink61 of “losing my immortal soul at this late day.” Accordingly I went down to the kitchen.
I cautiously pushed open the door, for I am frankly62 afraid of Nichola who is in everything a frightful non-conformist. There was no fire on the hearth, but the bracket lamp was lighted and on a chair lay Nichola’s best shawl. Nichola, in her best black frock and wearing her best bonnet, was just arranging the tea-things on a tray.
“I’m glad that you’ve been out, Nichola,” said I gently—as gently as a truant63 child, I fancy!—“It is such a beautiful day.”
“Who,” Nichola said grimly without looking at me, “said I’d been out?”
“Why, I saw you—” I began.
“I saw you with your bonnet on,” said I, and added with dignity, “You may bring the tea up at once, and mind that there is plenty of hot water.”
Then I scurried65 upstairs, my heart beating at my daring. I had actually ordered Nichola about. I half expected that in consequence she would bring me cold water, but she came up quietly enough with some delicious tea and sandwiches. At the door, with unwonted meekness66, she asked me if everything was right; and I, not abating67 one jot68 of my majesty69, told her that there might be a bit more cream. She even brought that and left me marveling. I could as easily imagine the kitchen range with an emotion as Nichola with a guilty conscience, and yet sometimes I have a guilty conscience myself and I always act first very self-sufficient and then very humble, just like Nichola.
When she was handing the dessert that night at my solitary70 dinner, she spoke71; and if the kitchen range had kissed a hand at me I should not have been more amazed.
“Every one took their parts very well this afternoon, I thought,” she stiffly volunteered.
I looked at her blankly. Then slowly it dawned for me: The best shawl, the guilty conscience—Nichola had been to the matinée!
“Nichola!” I said unguardedly. “Were you—”
“Did—did you like it, Nichola?” I asked doubtfully, a little unaware74 how to treat a discussion of original sin like this.
“Yes, I did,” she replied unexpectedly. “But—do you believe all of it?”
“Believe that it really happened?” I asked in bewilderment.
“No,” said Nichola, catching75 up a corner of the table-cloth in her brown fingers; “believe what she said—in the door there?”
It came to me then dimly, but before I could tell or remember....
“That about ‘If we hadn’t never met,’” Nichola quoted; “‘it sorter seems as though my love would ’a’ followed you up even if I didn’t know about it an’ mebbe you’d ’a’ heard it somewheres an’ ’a’ thought you was a-wishin’ or a-dreamin’—’ that part,” said Nichola.
And then I understood—I understood.
“Nichola,” I said, “yes. I believe it with all my heart. I know it is so!”
Nichola looked at me wistfully.
“But wishin’ may be just wishin’,” she said, “an’ dreamin’ nights may be just dreamin’ nights—”
“Never,” I cried positively. “Most of the time these are voices of the people who would have loved us if we had ever met.”
Old Nichola’s face, with its little unremembering eyes beneath her gray moss76 hair, seldom changes expression save to look angry. I think that Nichola, like the carriageman slamming the doors, relieves all emotion by anger. When I die I expect that in proof of her grief she will drive every one out of the house with the broom. Therefore I was not surprised to see her look at me now with a sudden frown and flush that should have terrorized me.
“Heaven over us!” she said, turning abruptly77. “The silly folks that dream. I never dreamed a thing in my life. Do you want more pudding-sauce?”
“No,” I said gently, “no, Nichola.”
I was not deceived. Nichola knew it, and went in the pantry, muttering. But I was not deceived. I knew what she had meant. Nichola, that old woman whose life had some way been cast up on this barren coast near the citadel78 of the love of Pelleas and me; Nichola, who had lived lonely in the grim company of the duties of a household not her own; Nichola, at more than sixty, was welcoming the belief that the love which she never had inspired was some way about her all the time.
Where was my side of the argument to be held with Pelleas? Where, indeed? But I was glad to see it go. And I serenely put away until another time the case of Hobart Eddy.
All the evening I sat quietly before the hearth. There was no need for books. The drawing-room was warm and bright; supper for Pelleas was drawn79 to the open fire and my rose was on the tray. When I heard him close the front door it seemed to me that I must welcome him for us three, for Miss Willie and Nichola and me.
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1
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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nibble
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leavens
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| v.使（面团）发酵( leaven的第三人称单数 )；在…中掺入改变的因素 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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spectrum
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| n.谱，光谱，频谱；范围，幅度，系列 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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hood
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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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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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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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mink
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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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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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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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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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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proprietor
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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bonneted
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| 发动机前置的 | |
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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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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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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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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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52
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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53
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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55
fluting
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| 有沟槽的衣料； 吹笛子； 笛声； 刻凹槽 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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59
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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63
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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67
abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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68
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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69
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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70
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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71
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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72
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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73
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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75
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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76
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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77
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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78
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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