"I don't know," said Mrs. Douglas, "when I first realised what was expected of me as a minister's wife. I suppose I just grew to it. At first I visited the people and tried to take an interest in them, because I felt it to be my duty, and then I found that it had ceased to be merely duty, and that one couldn't live among people and not go shares with them. It was the long anxiety about Mark that really drew us together and made us friends in a way that years of prosperity would never have done. There was hardly a soul in the congregation who didn't try to do us some little kindness in those dark days. Fife people are suspicious of strangers and rather aloof1 in their manner, but once you are their friend you are a friend for life. Ours was a working-class congregation (with a sprinkling of well-to-do people to help us along)—miners, and workers in the linoleum2 factories—decent, thrifty3 folk. Trade was dull all the time we were in Kirkcaple, and wages were low—ridiculously low when you think of the present-day standard, and it was a hard struggle for the mothers with big young families. Of course, food was cheap—half a loaf and a biscuit for twopence—and 'penny haddies,' and eggs at ninepence a dozen—and people hadn't the exalted4 ideas they have now."
"Well," said Ann, who was busy filling her fountain-pen, "I seem to remember rather luxurious5 living about the Mid6 Street, and the Nether7 Street, and the Watery8 Wynd. Don't you remember I made friends with some girls playing 'the pal-lals' in the street, and fetched them home with me, and when upbraided9 for so doing by Ellie Robbie in the nursery, I said, 'But they're gentry10; they get kippers to their tea.' My 'bare-footed gentry' became a family jest."
Mrs. Douglas laughed, "I remember. To save your face we let them stay to tea, but you were told 'Never again.'"
"It was a way I had," said Ann. "I was full of hospitable11 instincts, and liked to invite people; but as I had seldom the moral courage to confess what I had done, the results were disastrous12. Once I invited eight genteel young friends who, thinking it was a pukka invitation, arrived washed and brushed and dressed for a party, only to find us tearing about the garden in our old Saturday clothes. Ellie Robbie was justly incensed14, as she hadn't even a sugar-biscuit to give an air of festivity to the nursery tea, and you were out. In private she addressed me as 'ye little dirt'; but she didn't give me away in public. And the dreadful thing was that I repudiated15 my guests, and looked as if I wondered what they were doing there."
"Poor Ellie Robbie!" Mrs. Douglas said. "She was an anxious pilgrim, and you children worried her horribly. She came when she was sixteen to be nursemaid to Mark, and she stayed on till we left Kirkcaple, when she married the joiner. Do you remember her much?"
"I remember one evening in the Den13. We were getting fern-roots, and Ellie Robbie and Marget were both with us, and Marget said to Ellie, 'My, how neat your dress kicks out at the back when you walk!' Isn't memory an extraordinary thing? I've forgotten most of the things I ought to have remembered, but I can recall every detail of that scene—the earthy smell of the fern-roots, the trowel sticking out of Mark's pocket, the sunlight falling through the trees, the pleased smirk16 on Ellie Robbie's face. I suppose I would be about five. At that time I was completely lost about my age. When people asked me how old I was, I kept on saying, 'Five past,' but to myself I said, 'I must be far more, but no one has ever told me.' ... What was Ellie Robbie's real name?"
"Ellen Robinson. Her father's name was Jack17, and he was supposed by you children to be the original of the saying, 'Before you can say Jack Robinson.' Marget and Ellie got on very well together, although they were as the poles asunder—Ellie so small and neat and gentle, Marget rather like a benevolent18 elephant. She is a much better-looking old woman than she was a young one."
"Did Marget come when Maggie Ann married?"
"Yes. No—there was one between—Katie Herd20. She stayed a month and was doing very well, but she suddenly announced that she was going home. When we asked her why, she replied with great candour, 'I dinna like it verra weel,' and off she went. Marget was a success from the first. We knew it was all right as soon as she began to talk of 'oor bairns.' When the work was over she liked to go to the nursery, and you children welcomed her with enthusiasm, and at once called on her to say her poem. Then she would stand up and shuffle21 her feet, and say:
'Marget Meikle is ma name,
Scotland is ma nation,
A pleasant habitation.'
You delighted in her witticisms23. 'Ca' me names, ca' me onything, but dinna ca' me ower,' was one that had a great success. Both she and Ellie were ideal servants for a minister's house; they were both so discreet24. No tales were ever carried by them to or from the Manse. There was one noted25 gossip in the congregation who was a terror to Ellie. Her husband had a shop, and of course we dealt at it—he was an elder in the church—and Ellie dreaded26 going in, for she knew that if Mrs. Beaton happened to be there she would be subjected to a fire of questions. Marget enjoyed an encounter, and liked to think out ways of defeating Mrs. Beaton's curiosity. Not that there was any harm in Mrs. Beaton and her desire to know all our doings. I dare say it was only kindly28 interest. I got to like her very much; she was a racy talker and full of whinstone common sense. I was sorry for her, too, for no woman ever worked harder, both in the shop and in the house, and her husband and family took it all for granted. She did kind things in an ungracious way, and was vexed29 when people failed to appreciate her kindness. Across the road from Mrs. Beaton lived another elder's wife, Mrs. Lister, who, Mrs. Beaton thought, got from life the very things she had missed.
"'Never toil30 yourself to death,' she used to tell me, 'for your man and your bairns; they'll no thank you for it. Look at the Listers over there. Willie Lister goes about with holes like half-crowns in his heels, but he thinks the world of his Aggie19.' And it was quite true. I knew that gentle little Mrs. Lister was everybody's favourite, for she contradicted no one, ruffled31 no one's feelings, while rough-tongued, honest, impudent32 Mrs. Beaton was both feared and disliked. And yet there was no doubt which of the two women one would have chosen to ride the ford33 with. Had a tea-meeting to be arranged, a sale of work to be organised, or a Christmas-tree to be provided for Sunday school, Mrs. Beaton was in it—purse and person.
"Mrs. Lister always took 'the bile' when anything was expected of her. Once a year we were invited to tea at the Listers' house, and as sure as we found ourselves seated before a table groaning34 with bake-meats and were being pressed by Mr. Lister to partake of them because they were all baked by 'Mamaw,' Mrs. Lister would say, 'Ay, and I had a job baking them—for I was bad with "the bile" all morning.' As Marget says, 'The mistress is awfu' easy scunnered,' and after hearing that my tea was a pretence35. It was worse when Agatha was there, for then we were apt to wait for the announcement, and when it came give way to painful, secret laughter. Agatha always laughed, too, when Mrs. Lister capped her husband's sayings with 'Ay, that's it, Paw.' She was a most agreeable wife, but she was a mother before everything. She would have talked all day about her children, bursting out with odd little disjointed confidences about them in the middle of a conversation about something else. 'He's an awful nice boy, Johnnie; he's got a fine voice,' would occur in a conversation about the Sustentation Fund, and in the middle of a discussion about a series of lectures she would whisper, 'He's a queer laddie, our Tommy. When Nettie was born he put his head round my bedroom door and said, "Is she a richt ane, Maw?" He meant not deaf or dumb or anything, you know.' She sometimes irritated her husband by her overanxiety about the health of her children. If one coughed in the night she always heard and, fearful of waking Mr. Lister, she would creep out of bed and jump from mat to mat (I can see her doing it—a sort of anxious little antelope), and listen to their breathing, and hap27 them up with extra bedclothes. Nettie was the youngest, and the delicate one, and had to be tempted36 to eat. 'Oh, ma Nettie,' she would say, 'could you take a taste of haddie to your tea or a new-laid egg?'
"She was afraid of nearly everything—mice, and wind, and thunder, and she hated the sea. One morning I met her almost distraught because her boys had all gone out in a boat. 'Is their father with them?' I asked. 'No, no,' she said, 'I didna let him go; it was just the more to drown.' Poor, anxious little body! God took her first, and she never had the anguish37 of parting with her children.... What an opportunity ministers and ministers' wives have of getting to know people as they are—their very hearts!"
"Yes," said Ann; "but it isn't every minister or every minister's wife who can make anything of the opportunity. Just think of some we know—sticks. Can you think of any poor stricken soul going to them to be comforted 'as one whom his mother comforteth'? What would they say? 'Oh, indeed! How sad!' or 'Really! I'm very sorry.' Some little stilted39 sentence that would freeze the very fount of tears. You, Mother, I don't think you would say anything. To speak to those who weep is no use; you must be able in all sincerity40 to weep with them. As for Father, his voice was enough. Isn't it in one of the Elizabeth books that someone talking of the futility41 of long, dull sermons, says, 'If only a man with a voice of gold would stand up and say, "Children, Christ died for you," I would lay down my head and cry and cry...' Oh, it's a great life if a minister and his wife are any good at their job, and, above all, if they have a sense of humour!"
"Well, I don't know about the sense of humour," Mrs. Douglas said doubtfully. "I have often envied the people who never seem overcome by the ludicrous side of things, who don't even seem aware that it is there. Do you remember Mrs. Daw? I dare say not. My first meeting with her was in the Path on a hot summer's day. I saw an enormously stout42 woman toiling43 in front of me with a heavy basket, and as I passed her she laid down her load, and turning to me a red, perspiring44, but surprisingly bland45 countenance46, said, 'Hech! but it's a sair world for stout folk.' There was something so Falstaffian and jocund47 about the great figure, and the way she took me into her confidence, that I simply stood still and laughed, and she laughed with me. We shared the basket between us the rest of the way, and after that I often visited her. But I could never let your father come with me; Mrs. Daw was too much for us together. Only once we tried it, and she told us that the doctor had advised her to take 'sheriff-wine and Van Houtong's cocoah,' and her genteel pronunciation was too much for us. She was never at her best when your father was there; she didn't care for the clergy48.
"'A lazy lot,' she called them. 'No wan49 o' them does a decent day's work. If it was me I wad mak' a' the ministers pollismen as weel, and that wad save some o' the country's siller.' She condescended50 to say that she rather liked your father's preaching, though her reason for liking51 it was not very flattering. 'I like him because he's no what ye ca' a scholarly preacher. I dinna like thae scholars, they're michty dull. I like the kind o' minister that misca's the deevil for aboot twenty meenits and then stops.'
"Mrs. Daw had me bogged52 at once when we started on theological discussions. She would ask questions and answer them herself as she knelt before the kitchen fire, engaged in what she called 'ringein' the ribs53.'
"'Ay,' she would say, 'I'm verra fond o' a clear fire. Mercy me, it'll be an awfu' want in heaven—a guid fire. Ye read aboot golden streets and pearly gates, but it's cauld comfort to an auld54 body wha likes her ain fireside. Of coorse we'll a' be speerits.' (It needed a tremendous effort of imagination to picture Mrs. Daw as a spirit!) 'Wull speerit ken38 speerit?' and then, as if in scorn at her own question, 'I daur say no! It wad be little use if they did. I could get sma' enjoyment55 frae crackin' wi' a neebor, if a' the time I was lookin' through her, and her through me. An' what wad we crack aboot? Nae couthy bits o' gossip up there—juist harps56 an' angels fleein' aboot....'
"I would suggest diffidently that when we had gone on to another and higher life we wouldn't feel the want of the homely57 things so necessary to us here, and Mrs. Daw, shaking her head, would say, 'I dinna ken,' and then with her great laugh (your father used to quote something about a thousand beeves at pasture when he heard it) she would finish the profitless discussion with 'Weel, sit ye doun by ma guid fire and I'll mak' ye a cup o' tea in ma granny's cheeny teapot. We'll tak' our comforts so long as we hae them, for think as ye like the next warld's a queer turn-up onyway....'"
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1
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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13
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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aggie
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| n.农校，农科大学生 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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hap
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| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
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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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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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30
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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40
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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41
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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43
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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44
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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46
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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48
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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49
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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50
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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51
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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52
bogged
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| adj.陷于泥沼的v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的过去式和过去分词 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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53
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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54
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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56
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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57
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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