Mrs. Douglas and her daughter Ann sat together in their living-room one November night.
It was a wonderfully comfortable room, brightly yet softly lit, and warmed by a noble fire. There was a pleasant space and emptiness about it, an absence of ornaments1 and irrelevant2 photographs; each piece of furniture, each of the few pictures, was of value.
Mrs. Douglas had a book in her lap and in her hand a half-finished stocking, for she considered that she was wasting time if she did not knit while reading.
Ann sat on a stool by the fire, poring over a seedsman's catalogue, a puzzled frown on her brow.
"I wish," she said, without looking up, "I do wish I knew more about gardening. I can't make out from this what will grow best with us.... Don't you think, Mother, it is almost lèse-majesté to call a rose Queen Mary, and describe it as 'a gross feeder? Oh, and this! Mr. Asquith, 'very compact in form, rosy3 in colour.' What humourists the compilers of seedsmen's catalogues are! And what poets! Where was it we read that article about catalogues? It said that the very names were like a procession of princes—'amber and carmine4 Queens, and Princes' Feathers, and Cloth of Gold.' The names tempt5 one simply by the glory of the sound. 'Love-in-a-Mist ... Love-Fire, a rich cream with a faint suggestion of apricot primrose6 in petal'—and with a drop one learns that this beauty can be bought for the sum of tuppence! ... Delphiniums we must have—dozens of them. I can picture us next summer lying on the lawn in deck-chairs on hot, sunny days, looking between tall, blue delphiniums to green hilltops. Won't it be lovely, Mother?"
"H'm," said her mother in a dry voice, "at present you have only the hilltops. I haven't imagination enough to picture the hot sun and the lawn and the blue delphiniums."
"Mother!" said Ann, wheeling round on her stool and facing her parent, who was knitting with provoking calm, "there's nothing sporting about you at all. It always rains in November, but that's nobody's fault, and you might at least try to look as if you didn't mind. Nobody ever said a glen was a cheery place in winter, but, myself, I like it frightfully. When Uncle Bob left me the Green Glen for my very own I determined7 that somehow or other I would manage to build a house in it—a little white-faced house among the heather. Not big, but big enough to hold us all—six good bedrooms, one big living-room, a hall we could sit in, a smaller room to feed in. You all made objections—all except Charlotte, who encouraged me. You pointed8 out all the disadvantages: six miles from a station, a steep hill road, carting difficult! You told me that building in these days was only the pastime of a millionaire, but—the house is built and, because the architect was a man of sense and listened to what I wanted, it is exactly the house I meant it to be in my dreams, so 'Dreams' it will be called."
"I thought you hated new houses?"
"So I do, except when it is my own house in my own Green Glen. And you will admit that it is comfortable."
"It's very bare," Mrs. Douglas said.
"Well, I like it bare. And your own room is far from bare. It is more like a museum than anything else, with so many mementoes of other days hung on the walls, and photographs of us all at every age and in every attitude, and shelves and shelves of devotional books, not to speak of all the little stucco figures you have cherished for years. Their heads have been gummed on so often they fall off if you look at them. Davie was always being entreated9 by you to mend them, and he found, finally, that Moses' head (or was it Eli?) would only remain on if turned the wrong way about—so his beard was down his back! ... To return to 'Dreams,' I admit the garden is still unmade, and the road a mere10 track, but wait and you will see it blossom like the rose. We shan't have any fences—there is no need for them among the hills, and the heather will grow to the edges of our shaven lawns, and we'll have herbaceous borders as gay as a carnation11 ribbon, and beds of mignonette..."
Mrs. Douglas laid down her stocking and looked at her daughter. "No fences? And rabbits nibbling12 the mignonette—it's a thing they have a particular fancy for; and sheep eating the vegetables..."
"Go on with your stocking, Motherkin, and don't try to be crushing. We'll have fences then, and wire to keep out the rabbits, and we'll cover the fences with rambler roses—the bright red single kind; I don't like Dorothy Perkins. And there's simply no end to what we can do with the burn; it would make any garden fairyland, with those shining brown pools fringed with heather. What luck to have a burn! Before the house we are going to have a paved bit, so that you can go out and take the air without getting your feet wet. There will be no 'gravel13 sweep,' and no one will be able to come to our door except on their own feet, for the road will stop a long way from the house."
"I remember," she went on, "hearing as a child some one praise a neighbourhood with the phrase, 'It is full of carriage people.' I wondered at the time what kind of people they were, and if they perhaps had their abode16 in a carriage, like a snail17 in its shell! When 'motor people' come to Dreams they will have to leave their motors and walk. We shall say to them, like True Thomas, 'Light down, light down from your horse o' pride.' ... But, Mother, is this really going to bore you terribly? Do you miss so badly the giddy round of Priorsford? The pavements? The shops? The tea-parties?"
Mrs. Douglas gave a long sigh. "I don't want to grumble18, but, you know, I always did say it was rash to attempt to stay a winter in the Green Glen. It's well enough in the summer (though even then I would prefer to be nearer civilisation), and fine for the children, but in November, with the fields like sponges, and the road a mere Slough19 of Despond, and the hills covered with mist most of the time, and the wind coming down the glen howling like an evil spirit, and the station six miles away, and only a pony20 trap between us and complete burial; Mark and Charlotte in India, and Jim in South Africa, and the children in Oxfordshire with their other grandmother, I feel like a pelican21 in the wilderness22. I told you I would, and I do."
"Poor dear, but..."
"Through the day it isn't so bad. I admit the mornings are rather beautiful, and when it happens to be fine I can potter about outside, and Marget is always a divert. In the afternoon when it rains (and it has rained practically every day for three weeks) I sew and write letters and read, and there is always tea to look forward to. But in the evenings—and the curtains have to be drawn23 now about four o'clock—when there is no chance of a ring at the bell, no postman, no telephone-call, no stray callers, and the owls24 hoot25, and my eyes get tired with reading, and one can't knit for ever even with four wild grandchildren to knit for, well——"
"But, my dear," said her daughter, "just think how you will appreciate Priorsford when you get back. We are very much alone just now—it was an odd chance that sent Mark and Charlotte to India and Jim to South Africa the same winter—but don't let's have to remember it as the winter of our discontent.... We must face facts. Neighbours we have almost none. Mr. Sharp, at the Manse, is practically the only one, and he is so shy that speaking to him is like trying to carry on a conversation with a very young rabbit in a trap. The Scotts aren't so very far away as the crow flies, only over the other side of the hill, but it is five miles round by the road. It's an unpeopled world, but the great thing to remember is that any moment you please you can have a case packed, order the pony trap, drive to the station, buy a ticket, and in about two hours you would be in Glasgow, in the Central Station Hotel, among all the city gentlemen, feasting your eyes on people, forgetting the owls in listening to the Glasgow accent, eating large meals, frequenting picture houses...."
Mrs. Douglas dropped both her book and stocking in her indignation.
"Ann, you know I never enter a picture house, and I haven't the least desire to go to Glasgow in the meantime."
"I tell you what," Ann cried, "go in for a course of reading and improve your mind. It's an opportunity that may not occur again."
"I'm too old to improve my mind; besides, it isn't very nice of you to suggest that it needs improving."
Ann studied her mother with her head on one side. "You're sixty, aren't you? Sixty's nothing. The late Mr. Gladstone learned Arabic when he was eighty. Besides, you are the most absurd person for sixty I ever saw. Your hair is as soft and brown as it was when you were thirty, and you have a complexion26 that is the envy of less fortunate women. And the odd thing is, I believe you hate to be told so. I believe you want to look old."
"Last summer," said Mrs. Douglas, "I overheard Rory say to Alison, 'Alis, Gran is nearly sixty; I heard her say so,' and Alis, with a depth of pity in her voice, replied, 'Oh, poor Gran!' But when I think I'm only sixty I feel like pitying myself. In the Times last night there were six people among the 'Deaths' who were over ninety. It frightens me to think that I may live to a great age, and, perhaps, see you all go before me—and I get so wearied sometimes for your father and the boys...."
Ann laid her hand on her mother's. "I know," she said, "I know. But, Mother, are those who are gone so much more dear to you than we who are left? As Pharaoh said to Hadad: 'What hast thou lacked with us, that, behold27, thou seekest to go to thine own country?'"
"Ah, my dear, nothing, but..."
"The old answer," said Ann. "Nothing, nothing—'howbeit let me go in any wise.' ... Well, we have wandered from our subject. What do you say, Mums, to reading Robert Louis right through? We have the Edinburgh edition here. He will teach you to love the moorlands."
"Oh no! No. No. The very name of R.L.S. makes me think of the eternal crying of whaups, and we are fairly beset29 with the creatures here. Really to appreciate Robert Louis you must read him immersed in a town with no hope of a holiday, or on the burning, shining plains of India, or on the South African veldt. To read there of 'a great, rooty sweetness of bogs30' and 'the infinite, melancholy31 piping of hill-birds,' and 'winds austere32 and pure' is like water in a thirsty land. But when one is seated in the bogs, and deaved by the hill-birds it's only an irritation33. I'd rather read Ethel M. Dell, and warm myself with the thought of heroes whose eyes are like slumbering34 volcanoes, and heroines who generally manage to get a flogging from some one before they win through to happiness."
Ann laughed. "It's quite true. Here we must read books hot with life, full of intrigues35 and sensational36 developments. We have all the simplicity37 we want in the Green Glen."
Her mother sighed. "I'm not really discontented, Ann, though I'm afraid I sound so. But I seem to lead such a useless life here. A few letters to sick and sad people is all I accomplish. If there were some people about the doors whom I could visit and, perhaps, help a little. Once a minister's wife always a minister's wife. I can't get out of the habit of trying to help. But there's only old Geordie's cottage, and he hasn't even a wife, and he wouldn't thank me for a visit."
"No," laughed Ann. "He is very proud of being able to fend38 for himself, and hopes to die without being beholden to any woman. He was telling me a sad tale the other day about an old friend of his who lived alone until he was eighty, and then fell ill and had to have the district nurse, who insisted on his remaining in bed. 'To think,' said Geordie, 'that a man should live to be aichty and be overpowered by a wumman in the end.' But I can quite see that the lack of people to comfort and help is a great lack to you—born minister's wife that you are."
"Ah, well, I made many mistakes, but my heart was in my job. It was a real pleasure to me to know every soul in the church, and to listen to all they cared to tell me of their trials and their troubles, and to be asked to share in their merrymakings; to have the right to laugh and cry with them. The wives used to say when your father intimated visiting, 'I wish the mistress wad come wi' the minister, she's a graund cracker39.' Your father was sometimes ill-off knowing what to talk about in the different houses; he wasn't one of those glib40 men with a fund of easy phrases, but when they got to know him they liked him the better for his quietness, and valued his few words more than other people's eloquence41. How he would have enjoyed this, Ann! He loved the Green Glen, and the burn, and the whaups crying."
There was a silence, and Mrs. Douglas sat looking into the fire. She was far away from the little house among the hills. She was young again, and the husband of her youth was once more at her side. Pictures, softened42 and beautified by time, unrolled themselves before her eyes. Children played in a garden among flowers, their laughter and shouting came to her ears, she could see their faces lifted to hers; but no beckoning43 could bring them to her, for long ago they had grown up and gone away; they were but dream children who played in that garden.
Ann watched her mother with a soft look in her grey eyes. "I've been thinking, Mums, you ought to write your Life."
Mrs. Douglas came back to the present with an effort. "Write my life? But I did—don't you remember? On that yachting cruise we went, when the sea never stayed calm except for a few hours. There was nothing much to do, so I wrote my life in a twopenny pass-book, with a pencil, and none of you were at all encouraging about it. I read it aloud to you somewhere about the Azores, when you were lying seasick44 in your berth45, and you said it made you feel worse; and Charlotte cried from the next cabin, 'Ann, what is wrong with Gran that she is making that curious, whining46 sound?' and Mark printed on the cover, 'The Life of auld47 Mistress Douglas written by herself,' and then it got lost."
"I remember," said Ann. "But this time it must be done properly. You'll tell it to me and I'll write it down, and we'll have it typed and perhaps printed, so that the children when they grow up will know what a queer little grandmother was theirs. Let me see—we'll be here alone until the Moncrieffs come about the middle of December; that will give us a month to work at it. Two hours every night, perhaps more. Does that please you, Motherkin?"
"Ann, you are trying to humour an old woman. I don't suppose the children would ever trouble to read my Life, except perhaps Alison—that child has a strong sense of duty; but I must say I would enjoy remembering it all.... Here are Marget and Mysie."
The two servants came into the room accompanied by a large Persian cat, grey, the colour of a November sky. This beautiful creature had been named by Ann the "Tatler," because his genius for falling into photographic attitudes reminded her, she said, of those ladies, fair and fashionable, whose pictures adorn48 the weekly pages of that popular journal.
Marget seated herself majestically49. She was a tall woman, with a broad, honest face, and hair pulled straight back and covered by a cap—not the flippant scrap50 of muslin with a bow generally worn, but an erection of coffee-coloured lace, with touches of crimson51 velvet52, which she alluded53 to as a "kep," and which gave her almost a regal air.
Marget had been thirty-five years with the Douglas family, and was so thoroughly54 a Douglas that there was never any thought of keeping her in her "place." Mysie, who was her niece, she kept under iron control, but she allowed herself much latitude55. No one knew Marget's age. It was a subject on which she had always been excessively touchy56. When the Census57 came round she had said, "I'll no' pit it doon till a' the bairns are oot, an' naebody but the maister'll ken58, an' he'll no' tell."
She met all questions with "I'm as auld as ma little finger an' I'm aulder than ma teeth." In revenge the Douglases had intimated to their friends that they had inside knowledge that Marget was at least eighty.
After prayers Mysie left the room, but Marget generally remained for a "crack," delighting to bandy words with "Miss Ann"—a diversion which to-night ended in Ann being called "a daft lassie."
"Lassie!" cried Ann.
"Ye'll aye be a lassie to me," Marget told her; "but," turning to her mistress, "is it true, Mem, that she's gaun to write yer Life? I never ken when Miss Ann's speakin' the truth and when she's juist haverin'.... It wad be rale interestin'. Ye wad need to pit in aboot thon daft man wha cam' to see the maister and the pollis efter him, an' that awfu' fricht we got wi' the big fire in the linoleum59 factory, and aboot the man wha drooned hissel in the Panny Pond and floatit...."
"Yes, Marget," said Ann, "we'll need your help to decide what is to be put in. One thing, of course, must go in—your age."
Marget rose from her chair with a we-are-not-amused look, put the Bibles back in their proper places, dropped her delightful60, old-fashioned curtsey, walked to the door, and said before she closed it behind her:
"Ye wadna daur. An', what's mair, ye dinna ken it."
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1
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat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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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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12
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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14
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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18
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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pelican
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| n.鹈鹕，伽蓝鸟 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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32
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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34
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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41
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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42
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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43
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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44
seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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46
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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47
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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48
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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50
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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51
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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52
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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53
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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55
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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56
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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57
census
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| n.(官方的)人口调查，人口普查 | |
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58
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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59
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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60
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
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