The Atherley's flame-flower, I am glad to inform you, is dead.
. . . . . . .
We started the work five years ago. I was young and ignorant then—I did not understand. One day they led me to an old apple tree and showed me, fenced in at its foot, two twigs3 and a hint of leaf. "The flame-flower!" they said, with awe4 in their voices. I was very young; I said that I didn't think much of it. It was from that moment that my education began….
Everybody who came to see us had to be shown the flame-flower. Visitors were conducted to the apple tree in solemn procession, and presented. They peered over the fence and said, "A-ah!" just as if they knew all about it. Perhaps some of them did. Perhaps some of them had tried to grow it in their own gardens.
As November came on and the air grew cold, the question whether the flame-flower should winter abroad became insistent5. After much thought it was moved to the shrubbery on the southern side of the house, where it leant against a laburnum until April. With the spring it returned home, seemingly stronger for the change; but the thought of winter was too much for it, and in October it was ordered south again.
For the next three years it was constantly trying different climates and testing various diets. Though it was touch and go with it all this time our faith was strong, our courage unshaken. June, 1908, found it in the gravel-pit. It seemed our only hope….
And in the August of that year I went and stayed with the Atherleys.
. . . . . .
"Not directly after," said Mrs Atherley, "it's so bad for you.
Besides, we must just plant our flame-flower first."
I dropped my knife and fork and gazed at her open-mouthed.
"Plant your—WHAT?" I managed to say at last.
"Flame-flower. Do you know it? John brought one down last night—it looks so pretty growing up anything."
"It won't take a moment," said Miss Atherley, "and then I'll beat you."
"But—but you mustn't—you—you mustn't talk like THAT about it," I stammered7." Th-that's not the way to talk about a flame-flower."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"You're just going to plant it! Before you play tennis! It isn't a—a BUTTERCUP! You can't do it like that."
"Oh, but do give us any hints—we shall be only too grateful."
"Hints! Just going to plant it!" I repeated, getting more and more indignant. "I—I suppose Sir Christopher Wren9 s-said to his wife at breakfast one morning, 'I've just got to design St Paul's Cathedral, dear, and then I'll come and play tennis with you. If you can give me any hints—'"
"Is it really so difficult?" asked Mrs Atherley. "We've seen lots of it in Scotland."
"In Scotland, yes. Not in the South of England." I paused, and then added, "WE have one."
"What soil is yours? Do you plant it very deep? Do they like a lot of water?" These and other technical points were put to me at once.
"Those are mere8 details of horticulture," I said. "What I am protesting against is the whole spirit in which you approach the business—the light-hearted way in which you assume that you can support a flame-flower. You have to be a very superior family indeed to have a flame-flower growing in your garden."
They laughed. They thought I was joking.
"Well, we're going to plant it now, anyhow," said Miss Atherley.
"Come along and help us."
We went out, six of us, Mrs Atherley carrying the precious thing; and we gathered round an old tree trunk in front of the house.
"It would look rather pretty here," said Mrs Atherley. "Don't you think?"
"You—you—you're all wrong again," I said in despair. "You don't put a flame-flower in a place where you think it will look pretty; you try in all humility11 to find a favoured spot where it will be pleased to grow. There may be such a spot in your garden or there may not. Until I know you better I cannot say. But it is extremely unlikely to be here, right in front of the window."
They laughed again, and began to dig up the ground. I turned my back in horror; I could not watch. And at the last moment some qualms12 of doubt seized even them. They spoke13 to me almost humbly14.
"How would YOU plant it?" they asked.
It was my last chance of making them realize their responsibility.
"I cannot say at this moment," I began, "exactly how the ceremony should be performed, but I should endeavour to think of something in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion. It may be that Mrs Atherley and I would take the flower and march in procession round the fountain, singing a suitable chant, while Bob and Archie with shaven heads prostrated15 themselves before the sundial. Miss Atherley might possibly dance the Fire-dance upon the east lawn, while Mr Atherley stood upon one foot in the middle of the herbaceous border and played upon her with the garden hose. These or other symbolic16 rites17 we should perform, before we planted it in a place chosen by Chance. Then leaving a saucer of new milk for it lest it should thirst in the night we would go away, and spend the rest of the week in meditation18."
I paused for breath.
"That might do it," I added, "or it might not. But at least that is the sort of spirit that you want to show."
Once more they laughed … and then they planted it.
. . . . . . . .
These have been two difficult years for me. There have been times when I have almost lost faith, and not even the glories of our own flame-flower could cheer me. But at last the news came. I was at home for the week-end and, after rather a tiring day showing visitors the north-east end of the pergola, I went indoors for a rest. On the table there was a letter for me. It was from Mrs Atherley.
"BY THE WAY," she wrote, "THE FLAME-FLOWER IS DEAD."
"By the way"!
But even if they had taken the business seriously, even if they had understood fully19 what a great thing it was they were attempting—even then I think they would have failed.
For, though I like the Atherleys very much, though I think them all extremely jolly … yet—I doubt, you know, if they are QUITE the family to have a flame-flower growing in their garden.
THE LUCKY MONTH
"KNOW thyself," said the old Greek motto. (In Greek—but this is an English book.) So I bought a little red volume called, tersely20 enough, WERE YOU BORN IN JANUARY? I was; and, reassured21 on this point, the author told me all about myself.
For the most part he told me nothing new. "You are," he said in effect, "good-tempered, courageous22, ambitious, loyal, quick to resent wrong, an excellent raconteur23, and a leader of men." True. "Generous to a fault"—(Yes, I was overdoing24 that rather)—"you have a ready sympathy with the distressed25. People born in this month will always keep their promises." And so on. There was no doubt that the author had the idea all right. Even when he went on to warn me of my weaknesses he maintained the correct note. "People born in January," he said, "must be on their guard against working too strenuously26. Their extraordinarily27 active brains—" Well, you see what he means. It IS a fault perhaps, and I shall be more careful in future. Mind, I do not take offence with him for calling my attention to it. In fact, my only objection to the book is its surface application to ALL the people who were born in January. There should have been more distinction made between me and the rabble28.
I have said that he told me little that was new. In one matter, however, he did open my eyes. He introduced me to an aspect of myself entirely29 unsuspected.
"They," he said-meaning me, "have unusual business capacity, and are destined30 to be leaders in great commerical enterprises."
One gets at times these flashes of self-revelation. In an instant I realized how wasted my life had been; in an instant I resolved that here and now I would put my great gifts to their proper uses. I would be a leader in an immense commercial enterprise.
One cannot start commercial enterprises without capital. The first thing was to determine the exact nature of my balance at the bank. This was a matter for the bank to arrange, and I drove there rapidly.
"Good-morning," I said to the cashier, "I am in rather a hurry. May
I have my pass-book?"
He assented31 and retired32. After an interminable wait, during which many psychological moments for commercial enterprise must have lapsed33, he returned.
"I think YOU have it," he said shortly.
"Thank you," I replied, and drove rapidly home again.
A lengthy34 search followed; but after an hour of it one of those white-hot flashes of thought, such as only occur to the natural business genius, seared my mind and sent me post-haste to the bank again.
"After all," I said to the cashier, "I only want to know my balance.
What is it?"
He withdrew and gave himself up to calculation. I paced the floor impatiently. Opportunities were slipping by. At last he pushed a slip of paper across at me. My balance!
It was in four figures. Unfortunately two of them were shillings and pence. Still, there was a matter of fifty pounds odd as well, and fortunes have been built up on less.
Out in the street I had a moment's pause. Hitherto I had regarded my commercial enterprise in the bulk, as a finished monument of industry; the little niggling preliminary details had not come up for consideration. Just for a second I wondered how to begin.
Only for a second. An unsuspected talent which has long lain dormant35 needs, when waked, a second or so to turn round in. At the end of that time I had made up my mind. I knew exactly what I would do. I would ring up my solicitor36.
"Hallo, is that you? Yes, this is me. What? Yes, awfully37, thanks. How are you? Good. Look here, come and lunch with me. What? No, at once. Good-bye."
Business, particularly that sort of commercial enterprise to which I had now decided38 to lend my genius, can only be discussed properly over a cigar. During the meal itself my solicitor and I indulged in the ordinary small-talk of the pleasure-loving world.
"You're looking very fit," said my solicitor. "No, not fat, FIT."
"You don't think I'm looking thin?" I asked anxiously. "People are warning me that I may be overdoing it rather. They tell me that I must be seriously on my guard against brain strain."
"I suppose they think you oughtn't to strain it too suddenly," said my solicitor. Though he is now a solicitor he was once just an ordinary boy like the rest of us, and it was in those days that he acquired the habit of being rude to me, a habit he has never quite forgotten.
"What is an onyx?" I said, changing the conversation.
"Well, I was practically certain that I had seen one in the Zoo, in the reptile40 house, but I have just learnt that it is my lucky month stone. Naturally I want to get one."
The coffee came and we settled down to commerce.
"I was just going to ask you," said my solicitor—"have you any money lying idle at the bank? Because if so—"
"Whatever else it is doing, it isn't lying idle," I protested. "I was at the bank to-day, and there were men chivying it about with shovels41 all the time."
"Well, how much have you got?"
"About fifty pounds."
"It ought to be more than that."
"That's what I say, but you know what banks are. Actual merit counts for nothing with them."
"Well, what did you want to do with it?"
"Exactly. That was why I rang you up. I—er—" This was really my moment, but somehow I was not quite ready to seize it. My vast commercial enterprise still lacked a few trifling42 details. "Er—I—well, it's like that."
"I might get you a few ground rents."
"Don't. I shouldn't know where to put them."
"But if you really have fifty pounds simply lying idle I wish you'd lend it to me for a bit. I'm confoundedly hard up."
("GENEROUS TO A FAULT, YOU HAVE A READY SYMPATHY WITH THE
DISTRESSED." Dash it, what could I do?)
"Is it quite etiquette43 for clients to lend solicitors44 money?" I asked. "I thought it was always solicitors who had to lend it to clients. If I must, I'd rather lend it to you—I mean, I'd dislike it less—as to the old friend of my childhood."
"Yes, that's how I wanted to pay it back."
"Bother. Then I'll send you a cheque to-night," I sighed.
And that's where we are at the moment. "PEOPLE BORN IN THIS MONTH ALWAYS KEEP THEIR PROMISES." The money has got to go to-night. If I hadn't been born in January I shouldn't be sending it; I certainly shouldn't have promised it; I shouldn't even have known that I had it. Sometimes I almost wish that I had been born in one of the decent months. March, say.
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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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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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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raconteur
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| n.善讲故事者 | |
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overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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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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30
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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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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32
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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37
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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40
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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41
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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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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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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