Mrs. Burke seemed incapable1 of sitting still, with folded hands, for any length of time; and when the stress of her attention to household work, and her devotion to neighborly good deeds relaxed, she turned to knitting wash-rags as a sportsman turns to his gun, or a toper to his cups. She seemed to find more stimulus2 for thought and more helpful diversion in the production of one wash-rag than most persons find in a trip abroad.
One day, not very long after the eventful missionary3 tea, she was sitting in her garden, and knitting more rapidly than usual, as she said to Maxwell:
"What's been the matter with you these last few weeks? You've been lookin' altogether too sober, and you don't eat nothin' to speak of. It must be either liver, or conscience, or heart."
Secretly, she strongly suspected a cardiac affection, of the romantic variety. She intended to investigate.
Donald laughed as he replied:
"Perhaps it's all three together; but I'm all right. There's nothing the matter with me. Every man has his blue days, you know."
"Yes, but the last month you've had too many; and there must be some reason for it. There's nothin' so refreshin' as gettin' away from your best friends, once in a while. I guess you need a change--pinin' for the city, maybe. Sakes alive! I can't see how folks can live that way--all crowded up together, like a lot of prisons."
"You don't care to visit in the city, then?"
"Not on your life!"
"But a change is good for everyone. Don't you ever get away from Durford for a few weeks?"
"Not very often. What with decidin' where to go, and fussin' to get ready, and shuttin' up the house, it's more trouble than its worth. Then there's so many things to 'tend to when you get home."
"But don't you ever visit relatives?"
"Not on your life, unless I'm subpoena-ed by the coroner: though of course we do get together to celebrate a family funeral or a wedding now and then. Visitin' is no joke, I tell you. No sir, I'm old enough to know when I'm well off, and home's the best place for me. I want my own table, and my own bed when it comes night." She paused, and then remarked meditatively4:
"I went down to visit in New York once."
"Didn't you enjoy your visit?" Maxwell inquired. "New York's my home-city."
"Can't say I did, awful much. You see, I was visitin' Sally Ramsdale--Sally Greenway that was. They were livin' in an apartment, ninth floor up. In the first place, I didn't like goin' up stairs in the elevator. I was so scared, I felt as if the end had come, and I was bein' jerked to my reward in an iron birdcage with a small kid dressed in brass5 buttons. When I got into the hall it was about two feet wide and darker than Pharaoh's conscience. It had a string of cells along the side, and one opened into a chimney, and the rest into nothin' in particular. The middle cell was a dinin' room where we ate when we could find the way to our mouths. Near as I can recollect6, you got into the parlor7 through the pantry, back of the servant's room, by jumpin' over five trunks. You ought to have seen my room. It looked just like a parlor when you first went in. There was somethin' lookin' like a cross between an upright piano and writin' desk. Sally gave it a twist, and it tumbled out into a folding bed. The first night, I laid awake with my eyes on the foot of that bed expectin' it to rise and stand me on my head; but it didn't. You took the book of poems off the center table, gave it a flop8, and it was a washstand. Everything seemed to shut up into something else it hadn't ought to. It was a 'now you see it, and now you don't see it,' kind of a room; and I seemed to be foldin' and unfoldin' most of the time. Then the ceilin' was so low that you could hardly get the cover off the soap dish. I felt all the while as if I should smother9. My! but I was glad to get home and get a breath of real air."
"Yes," Maxwell replied, "people live more natural and healthful lives in the country. The advantages of the city aren't an unmixed blessing10."
"That's true enough. That's no way to live. Just think of havin' no yard but a window box and a fire escape! I'd smother!
"We folks out here in the country 'aint enjoyin' a lot of the refinements11 of city life; anyhow we get along, and the funny part about it is,--it 'aint hard to do, either. In the first place we 'aint so particular, which helps a lot, and besides, as Jonathan Jackson used to say,--there's compensations. I had one look at Fifth Avenue and I'm not sayin' it wasn't all I had heard it was; but if I had to look at it three hundred and sixty-five days a year I wouldn't trade it for this.
"Why, some days it rains up here, but I can sit at my window and look down the valley, to where the creek12 runs through, and 'way up into the timber, and the sight of all those green things, livin' and noddin' in the rain is a long ways from being disheartenin',--and when the sun shines I can sit out here, in my garden, with my flowers, and watch the boys playin' down in the meadow, Bascom's Holsteins grazin' over there on the hill, and the air full of the perfume of growin' things,--they 'aint got anything like that, in New York."
For a time Mrs. Burke relapsed into silence, while Maxwell smoked his briar pipe as he lay on the grass near by. She realized that the parson had cleverly side-tracked her original subject of conversation, and as she glanced down at him she shook her head with droll13 deprecation of his guile14.
When she first accused him of the blues15, it was true that Maxwell's look had expressed glum16 depression. Now, he was smiling, and, balked17 of her prey18, Mrs. Burke knitted briskly, contemplating19 other means drawing him from his covert20. Her strategy had been too subtle: she would try a frontal attack.
"Ever think of gettin' married, Mr. Maxwell?" she inquired abruptly21.
For an instant Maxwell colored; but he blew two or three rings of smoke in the air, and then replied carelessly, as he plucked at the grass by his side:
"Oh, yes: every fellow of my age has fancied himself in love some time or other, I suppose."
"Yes, it's like measles22, or whoopin'-cough; every man has to have it sometime; but you haven't answered my question."
"Well, suppose I was in love; a man must be pretty conceited23 to imagine that he could make up to a girl for the sacrifice of bringing her to live in a place like Durford. That sounds horribly rude to Durford, but you won't misunderstand me."
"No; I know exactly how you feel; but the average girl is just dyin' to make a great sacrifice for some good-lookin' young fellow, all the same."
"Ah yes; the average girl; but----"
Maxwell's voice trailed off into silence, while he affected24 to gaze stonily25 into the blue deeps of the sky overhead.
Hepsey had thought herself a pretty clever fisherman, in her day; evidently, she decided26, this particular fish was not going to be easy to land.
"Don't you think a clergyman is better off married?" she asked, presently.
Donald knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his pocket, clasped his hands across his knees, and smiled thoughtfully for a moment. There was a light in his eyes which was good to see, and a slight trembling of his lips before he ventured to speak. Then he sighed heavily.
"Yes, I do, on many accounts. But I think that any parson in a place like this ought to know and face all the difficulties of the situation before he comes to a definite decision and marries. Isn't that your own view? You've had experience of married parsons here: what do you think?"
"Well, you see the matter is just like this: Every parish wants an unmarried parson; the vestry 'cause he's cheap, every unmarried woman 'cause he may be a possible suitor; and it's easier to run him than it is a married man. He may be decent, well-bred and educated. And he comes to a parcel of ignoramuses who think they know ten times as much as he does. If he can't earn enough to marry on, and has the good sense to keep out of matrimony, the people talk about his bein' a selfish old bachelor who neglects his duty to society. He can't afford to run a tumble-down rectory like ours. If in the face of all this he marries, he has to scrimp and stint27 until it is a question of buyin' one egg or two, and lettin' his wife worry and work until she's fit for a lunatic asylum28. No business corporation, not even a milk-peddlin' trust, would treat its men so or expect good work from 'em. Then the average layman29 seldom thinks how he can help the parson. His one idea is to be a kicker as long as he can think of anything to kick about. The only man in this parish who never kicks is paralyzed in both legs. Yes sir; the parson of the country parish is the parish goat, as the sayin' is."
Mrs. Burke ceased her tirade30, and after a while Maxwell remarked quietly:
"Mrs. Burke, I'm afraid you are a pessimist31."
"I'm no such thing," she retorted hotly. "A pessimist's a man that sees nothin' but the bad, and says there's no help for it and won't raise a hand: he's a proper sour-belly. An optimist's a man that sees nothin' but the good, and says everything's all right; let's have a good time. Poor fool! The practical man--anyway, the practical woman--sees both the bad and the good, and says we can make things a whole lot better if we try; let's take off our coats and hustle32 to beat the cars, and see what happens. The real pessimists33 are your Bascoms, and that kind: and I guess I pity him more than blame him: he seems as lonesome as a tooth-pick in a cider-barrel."
"But I thought that Bascom was a wealthy man. He ought to be able to help out, and raise money enough so that the town could keep a parson and his wife comfortably."
"Sure thing! But the church isn't supported by tight-fisted wealthy people. It's the hard-workin' middle class who are willin' to turn in and spend their last cent for the church. And don't you get me started on Bascom as you value your life. Maybe I'll swear a blue streak34 before I get through: not but what I suppose that even Bascom has his good points--like a porcupine35. But a little emery paper on Bascom's good points wouldn't hurt 'em very much. They're awful rusty36."
"Oh well! Money isn't all there is in life," soothed37 Maxwell, smiling.
"No, not quite; but it's a mighty38 good thing to have in the house. You'd think so if you had to wear the same hat three summers. I've got to that time in my life where I can get along very well without most of the necessities; but I must have a few luxuries to keep me goin'."
"Then you think that a clergyman ought not to marry and bring his wife to a place like Durford?"
"I didn't say anything of the sort. If you was to get married I'd see you through, if it broke my neck or Bascom's."
"Do you know, you seem to me a bit illogical?" remarked Maxwell mildly.
"Don't talk to me about logic39! The strongest argument is often the biggest lie. There are times in your life when you have to take your fate in both hands and shut your eyes, and jump in the dark. Maybe you'll land on your feet, and maybe you--won't. But you have got to jump just the same. That's matrimony--common sense, idiocy40, or whatever you choose to call it.... I never could tell which. It's the only thing to do; and any man with a backbone41 and a fist won't hesitate very long. If you marry, I'll see you through; though of course you won't stay here long, anyhow."
"You're awfully42 kind, Mrs. Burke," Maxwell replied, "and I sha'n't forget your promise--when the time comes for me to take the momentous43 step. But I think it would be the wisest thing for me to keep my heart free for a while; or at any rate, not to get married."
Mrs. Burke looked down at her rector, and smiled broadly at his clever evasion44 of the bait she had dangled45 before him so persistently46.
"Well, do as you like; but that reminds me that when next you go to town you'll need to get a new glass for that miniature of your sister. You must have dozed47 off with it in your hands last night and dropped it. I found it this morning on the floor alongside of your chair, with the glass broken."
She rose triumphantly48, as she knitted the last stitch of the wash-rag. "Excuse me--I must go and peel the potatoes for dinner."
"I'd offer to contribute to the menu, by catching49 some fish for you; but I don't think it's a very good day for fishing, is it, Mrs. Burke?" asked Maxwell innocently.
收听单词发音 |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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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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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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41
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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45
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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47
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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49
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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