Pelleas and I were wont2 to talk of him before our drawing-room fire. Hobart Eddy, we were agreed, was one of the men who look like a young husband. By that I cannot in the least explain what I mean, but he was wont to bend above a book or lean toward a picture exactly as another man would say: “And how are you to-day, dear?” If he were to have entered a coach in which I was traveling I think that I should involuntarily have looked about for some girlish face to be lighting3 at his coming. Therefore we two had been wont to amuse ourselves by picturing, but without much hope, his possible wife; she must be so many things to him that we found it difficult to select any one in whom to rest our expectation, faint yet persistent4. Though I knew no one save Pelleas himself who would have been as a lover so adorable, as a husband so tender, the problem was not quite so simple; for Hobart Eddy was a king of the social hour and a ruler of many.
“The allegro5, quite the allegro of my dinner symphony,” Miss Willie Lillieblade had once thankfully flattered him. “Ah, you were more. You were the absolute conductor. You were the salvation6 of our tempo7 during the entrée. The dear Bishop8, who thought he was the religious theme for the trombones, how you quieted his ecclesiastical chantings. How you modulated10 the sputterings of that French horn of a count. And ah, my dear Hobart, how you obeyed my anxious sforzando over my mute little guest of honour. I’ve no beaux yeux to look you thanks, but I appreciated every breath of your baton11.”
Thus, with his own charm, Hobart Eddy was one whom it was a simple thing to adore; and as Pelleas said with twinkling cruelty débutantes are dear, simple things. But among them all season after season Hobart moved, boyishly interested, urbanely13 ready as we thought to do the homage14 of the devotee and, one might have said, urbanely unable. And season after season we had failed to plan for him a concrete romance. For we thought that his wife should be no less than he a social ruler of many, yet she must have his own detached heart of youth. Moreover, we wished her to be clever, but not to every one; and wise, though with a pretty unreason; and girlishly unconscious, or if she was conscious then just conscious enough; and very willing to be ordered about a bit, though losing none of her pretty imperiousness—ah well, no wonder the case of Hobart Eddy baffled us. No wonder that I believed him hopeless as I had believed Nichola, who loves no one. We should long ago have laid the matter by if only there had not persisted about him that Devoted15 Young Husband look.
It was in the week made memorable16 both by our Easter day experience and by the moral of my matinée that our thought momentarily took up the case of Hobart Eddy in earnest. Indeed, our Easter day and my matinée did much to shape our Summer. For on a sudden it seemed so easy to make happiness in the world as well as to look close and read the fine print of romance that we found ourselves with almost no leisure. And in that very week Viola unexpectedly came home from school.
Viola is a niece of my dear Madame Sally Chartres and the previous Spring she had nominally17 spent a week with Pelleas and me. I say nominally because in reality she had spent it before the telephone on our landing.
“Viola, who,” Pelleas had been wont to say, “sounds like a Greek maiden18 captive in an Illyrian household and beloved of a Greek youth, Telephone, in four syllables19.”
He was a young bank clerk in Broad street and he seemed to have a theory that whenever any one else had used the telephone Viola was no longer at the other end, and he was obliged to make sure. “Miss Viola, the telephone wants to talk to you,” Nichola had announced all day long. And though Pelleas and I are the first to love a lover, some way the case failed to impress us to partisanship—just as we lose sympathy with the influenza21 of a man who is perpetually shutting the car door.
“If I were a telephone,” Pelleas would say, “intended by Science for uses of medicine, bonds and the like I should get out of order if they tried to make me a courtier.”
“Pelleas,” I had justly protested, “you would be the first to be delighted.”
“Ah, yes,” he admitted, “I dare say I should, but then you see I know so little about science.”
When that Summer it was decided22 that Viola should complete her school in Switzerland, Pelleas and I understood that the Chartres family sympathized with our own impression about our telephone. But before the end of the year Viola unexpectedly returned from Lausanne. And the April day on which we learned of this from Hobart Eddy was further memorable to us: For it was on that very morning that the first rose-breasted grosbeaks appeared in the park.
West of the walk leading from the south to the Reservoir Castle in the park there is a little brick path, steep and uneven23 and running crookedly24 downward like a mere25 mood of the sober walk itself. The path is railed in from the crowding green things on either side, but the rail hardly thwarts26 a magnificent Forsythia which tosses its sprays to curve high over the way like the curve of wings in flight. It was a habit of ours to seek out this path once or twice every Spring and to stand beneath these branches. Some way when we did that we were sure that it was Spring, for we seemed to catch its high moment; as for another a bell might strike somewhere with “One, two, three: Now it is the crest27 of May. Four, five, six: Now this apple-tree is at the very height of its bloom. This is the moment of this rose.” We called this path the path of In-the-Spring. We always went there in the mornings, for in Spring we think that it seems to be more Spring in the morning than in the afternoon. And it was here of an April Nine-o’clock that we saw our first pair of grosbeaks of the year.
They alighted quite close to us as if for them we were not there. They were on some pleasant business of testing the flavour of buds and the proud, rose-throated male, vibrating his wings the while, gave us his note as if he were the key to the whole matter. And I think that he was .. .—.....⌒⌒.—.—? he imparted, and it was like revelation and prophecy and belief; so that for a moment we were near knowing what he meant and what he is and what we and the Forsythia are. But the information escaped us and the grosbeaks flew away. However, they left us their blessing28. For there was a little glow in our hearts at having been so near.
“Now,” Pelleas said as we mounted the steep path back to the real walk (so innocently absorbed the real walk looked and as if it knew nothing at all about its gay little aberration29 of a path!). “Now, that must mean something.”
“Of course it must,” said I contentedly30. “What must, Pelleas?”
He answered solemnly: That when a bird or a child or a wood-creature shows you confidence it always indicates that something pleasant is about to happen. I detected his mood of improvisation31; but who am I to dissent32 from an improvisation so satisfying?
We sat on the first bench and Pelleas drew out our March-April record. In a little town of the West which we know and love there is kept each Spring on the bulletin board of the public library a list of dates of the return of the migratory33 birds with the names of those who first saw and reported them; and there is the pleasantest rivalry34 among the citizens to determine who shall announce the earliest appearances. From time to time through the Spring this list is printed in the daily newspaper. Since we knew of this beautiful custom Pelleas and I have always made a list, for Spring. That day our record read:—
March 10th Bluebird, Etarre.
March 12th Phœbe, Etarre.
Note.—Earliest we have seen in five years.
March 16th Geese (flying), Pelleas.
March 21st Song Sparrow, Pelleas.
Note.—Did not see it. Heard it.
Note.—May have been a pigeon hawk.
April 29th Rose-breasted grosbeaks (pair), Etarre and Pelleas.
“It sounds like a programme of music,” I said.
“All lists are wonderful things,” said Pelleas, folding ours away in his portmonnaie; “one ought to ‘keep’ a great many.”
I did not at once agree. To be sure I believe passionately41 in lists of birds; but in the main I profess42 for lists a profound indifference43. As for “keeping a diary” I would as soon describe a walk in the woods by telling the number of steps I had taken.
“One cannot make a list of the glory of a thing,” I ventured at last.
“Well, no,” Pelleas admitted. “If only one could what a talisman44 it would be to take out and read, on one’s worst days.”
It would indeed. But I suppose that one’s list of Spring birds would help one on such a day if one would, so to speak, read deep down into the page.
“We might make a ‘Bird List: Part Two,’” Pelleas suggested, “for that kind of thing.”
“But how could one?” I objected; “for example: ‘April 29th—Rose-breasted grosbeak day. A momentary45 knowledge that there is more about a bird and about what he is and about what we are than one commonly supposes.’ You see, Pelleas, how absurd that would be.”
“Ah, well,” he protested stoutly46, “one needn’t try to write it out in words. One could merely indicate it. Just that would help one to keep alive the thrill of a thing. Such a device would be very dear to every one.”
That is true. To keep alive the thrill of a thing, of revelation, of prophecy, of belief—we all go asking how to do that.
“I dare say though,” Pelleas said, “that one could keep it alive by merely passing it on. The point is to keep such moments alive. Not necessarily to keep them for one’s own.”
To keep alive the thrill of that moment when we had seen the grosbeaks, the high moment of a Spring morning; not to know these little ecstasies47 briefly48, but to abide49 in their essential peace; is this not as if one were arbiter50 of certain modes of immortality51?
“Surely that would make one a ‘restorer of paths to dwell in,’” he added.
“A restorer of the path of In-the-Spring,” I said.
Pelleas turned the glasses on the magnolias. “On my soul,” he exclaimed, “I thought I saw a tanager!” And when we had stood for a moment to watch hopefully and had been disappointed (“Why shouldn’t an early tanager come, to help us to believe?” he wondered), he gave a vital spark to what I had said about the path:—
“I suppose that that little path really has no ending,” he said; “you cannot end direction. Yes, the path of In-the-Spring must run right away to the end of the world.”
We walked on happily, counting the robins52, listening to a near phœbe call to a far phœbe, watching two wrens53 pull slivers54 from a post for a nest they knew. Across the green, but too far away for certainty, we thought we saw a cherry bough55 in flower. .. .— ..... .⌒⌒ .—? we heard the grosbeak once again from somewhere invisible. The mornings on which we walk in the park seem to us almost like youth.
The augury56 that something pleasant was about to happen was further fulfilled when we came in sight of our house and saw Hobart Eddy’s great appalling57 French touring car like an elephant kneeling at our curb58. Hobart was waiting for us in the drawing-room and he stood before us looking down from his splendid height and getting his own way from the first.
“Come, Aunt Etarre,” he said, “there is no car like her. I want you both to run over to Inglese to see Viola. You knew that she has come home?”
“Viola—has she really?” I cried; and, “Have you seen her?” asked Pelleas; and, “How does she look?” we demanded together.
“No,” Hobart said, “I’ve not seen her. I had a charming little note from her, full of nods. Now that I think of it,” he went on leisurely59, “Viola’s charming little letters are always very like a bow from her. She never even waves her hand in them. She merely bows, in ink. I think I shall point out to her that if ever she is too busy to write letters she might send about her handkerchiefs, instead. One would tell quite as much as the other, and both suggest orris....”
“Hobart Eddy,” I begged impatiently, “where is Viola?”
“She is in Inglese-in-the-valley, with the Chartres,” he told me. “Get your bonnet60, dear, and a tremendous veil and come. I’ll run like a tortoise-shell and you shall toot the horn.”
I turned tremblingly to Pelleas for I had never been in a motor car. Lumbering61 electric hansoms and victorias had borne me, but the kneeling elephant was another matter. But Pelleas, being a man, is no more in awe62 of machinery63 than I am of chiffons; or than he is of chiffons; and he assented64 to Inglese quite simply.
“Very well, Hobart Eddy,” I said, “I will go. You are charming to want us. But bear in mind that I reserve the right to insist that you are running too fast, block by block. And if anything goes wrong very likely I shall catch at the brake.”
Presently we were free of the avenue, skimming the park, threading our way among an hundred excitements, en route to Inglese. Hobart Eddy was driving the machine himself and as I looked at his shoulders I found to my amazement66 that I was feeling a certain confidence. Hobart Eddy was one of the men whose shoulders—ah, well, it is among the hardships of life that one’s best reasons are never communicable. But I was feeling a certain confidence. And though a little alarm remained to prove me conservative I found myself also diverted. I remember trying when I was a child to determine at night in a thunder-storm which of me was frightened and which was sleepy and deciding that some of me was sleepy but all of me was frightened. And now, having come to a time of life when some terror should be a diversion, all of me was diverted though some of me was terrified. Hobart was running very slowly and glancing back at me now and then to nod reassuringly68. The very sun was reassuring67. The river and the Long Island ferry were reassuring. On such a day certainty is as easy as song. And by the time that we had reached the hills about Inglese I could have found it in my heart to telephone to Pelleas if he had been a block away: What a day. I love you.
Instead I sat quietly in the tonneau when, on the outskirts69 of the village, Hobart drew the car to the green crest of a little height. I found that the tonneau was geometrically in the one precise spot from which through pine- and fir-trees a look of the sea unrolled. Hobart is a perfect host and is always constructing these little altars to the inessential. On a journey Pelleas and he would remember to look out for the “view” as another man would think of trunk checks. But Pelleas and Hobart would remember trunk checks too and it is this combination which holds a woman captive.
“And down there,” said Hobart, looking the other way, “will be Viola of Inglese-in-the-valley. It sounds like an aria71.”
“I wonder,” Pelleas observed on this, “whether Viola is still in love with our telephone. If I thought she was I should certainly take it out. I have never,” Pelleas added conscientiously72, “taken one out. But I think I could. I’ve often thought I could. And that should do for him—that young Greek youth Telephone.”
“Her little nod of a letter,” said Hobart, “seemed very content. So content that either she must have forgotten all about your telephone or else she had him at her elbow. They say there are those two routes to content.”
Had Hobart himself found that first route, I wondered. For some years now we had seen him merely sitting out operas, handing tea, leading cotillons, and returning fans—urbane, complaisant73, perfectly the social automaton74. But always we had patiently hoped for him something gracious. Instead, had he merely found the content of some Forgetting? And if this was so he was in case still more sad than if he were unhappy. Either possibility grieved me. I am not unskillful with my needle and I found myself oddly longing75 to bring to bear my embroidery77 silks and cottons upon Hobart Eddy’s life. If only I might have embroidered78 on it a pattern of rosemary or heart’s-ease—ay, or even the rue12.
And suddenly I grasped the real situation. Here was Hobart for whom we longed to plan a concrete romance. And over there, in Inglese, was Viola come home again, grown wiser, more beautiful, and I had no doubt remaining as wholly lovable as before. And did I not know how willingly Madame Sally Chartres would have trusted the future of her little grandniece to Hobart Eddy? Was I not, in fact, in the secret of certain perfectly permissible79 ideas of Madame Sally’s on the subject? Not plans, but ideas. Moreover, now that Viola was back in America there was once more the peril80 of that young Telephone. And if Pelleas and I had devised the matter we could have thought of no lady lovelier than Viola. I turned to telegraph to Pelleas and I found him in the midst of the merest glance at me. It was one of the glances which need no spelling. And it was in that moment as if between us there had been spoken our universal and unqualified, Why not?
“Hobart,” said I, “you are very brave to go to Inglese. I have always thought that any man could fall in love with a woman named Viola.”
“I don’t know,” he said reflectively, “Viola begins with a V. I’m a bit afraid of V. V—‘the viol, the violet, and the vine.’ V sounds,” he continued, as if he enjoyed it, “such an impractical84 letter—a kind of apotheosis85 of B. Wouldn’t one say that V is a sort of poet to the alphabet? None of the sturdiness of G—or the tranquillity86 of M—or the piquancy87 of K—or the all-round usefulness of E. I don’t know, really, whether a woman who begins with V could be taken seriously. I think I should feel as if I were married to a wreath, or a lyre.”
Any one save Pelleas and me would have been discouraged, but we are more than seventy years old and we understand the value of the quality of a man’s indifference. Moreover, we believed that Hobart had a heart both cold and hot but that the cold side is always turned toward the sun.
“Ah,” said I, “but Viola Chartres is another matter. She makes one wish to fall in love with a wreath, or a lyre.”
“A man always ought,” Hobart impersonally88 continued, “to marry a woman named Elizabeth Strong Davis or the like. Something that sounds primal—and finished. A sort of ballast-and-anchor name that one might say over in exigencies89, like a golden text.”
“Ah, well, now, I don’t know,” Pelleas submitted mildly, “‘Etarre’ sounds like Camelot and Astolat and Avalon and so on to any number of unrealities. But it seems like a golden text to me.”
I wonder that I could pursue my fixed90 purpose, that was so charming to hear. Perhaps it is that I have partly learned to keep a purpose through charming things as well as through difficulties, though this is twofold as hard to do.
“Women’s names are wonderful things,” Hobart Eddy was going tranquilly91 on. “They seem to be alive—to have life on their own account. I can say over a name—or I think I could say over a name,” he corrected it, “to myself, and aloud, until it seemed Somebody there with me.”
I looked at him swiftly. Did he mean that there was for him some such name? Or did he merely mean that he might mean something, other things being equal?
“That would be a good test,” he added, “for one who couldn’t make up his mind whether he was in love. And it would be a new and decorative92 branch of phonology. Why doesn’t phonology,” he inquired reasonably, “take up some of these wonderful things instead of harking back to beginnings?”
“Precisely,” said I tenaciously93, “and Viola—”
“‘Who is Viola? What is she
That all our swains commend her?’”
he adapted, smiling.
“I’ve wondered,” said I gravely, “that you haven’t asked that of yourself before.”
But having now effectually introduced the matter I looked about me helplessly. What were we to say to Hobart Eddy? To have embroidered a message with silks and cottons would have been a simple matter; but it is difficult to speak heart’s-ease and rue. Moreover, it is absurd to impart one’s theory of life without an invitation. Sometimes even by invitation it is absurd. If only one might embroider76 it, now! Or if one might merely indicate it, as Pelleas had said of the “Bird Book: Part Two,” for keeping alive the thrill of a thing....
At that our morning was back upon me, with its moment that was like revelation and prophecy and belief. Yet how to give to Hobart Eddy in effect: A momentary knowledge that there is more about a bird and about what he is and about what we are than one commonly supposes. How to tell him that some gracious purpose—like winning the love of Viola—would teach the secret? I longed unspeakably, and so, I know, did Pelleas, to be to him a “restorer of paths to dwell in”—a restorer of the path of In-the-Spring which we feared that he had long lost. Though, indeed, how should one ever lose that path which runs to the end of the world? I looked at Pelleas and surprised him in the midst of the merest glance at me. And when he spoke81 I knew that he understood.
“Hobart,” said he, “the grosbeaks are here. We saw them this morning.”
Hobart Eddy nodded with an air of polite concern. “The Grosbeaks?” he said over, uncertainly. “Do—do I know them? I am so deuced forgetful.”
“Ah, well, now,” said Pelleas, “I don’t know that they are on your list. But you are on theirs, if you care to be. I suggest that you make their acquaintance. They’re birds.”
Hobart looked startled. But Pelleas enjoys as much as any one being momentarily misunderstood and he smiled back at Hobart as if he were proud of his idiom.
“I must get you to present me,” Hobart seriously murmured.
“Do,” Pelleas said with enjoyment94. “Come over in the park with us any day now—though May and June are rather better. I never knew them come up from the South so early. Splendid family and all that,” Pelleas added; “Zamelodia Ludoviciana, you know. Charming connections.”
“O, I say,” said Hobart, “what a jolly idiot I am! I thought you were in earnest, you know.”
“I never was more in earnest in my life,” Pelleas protested. “You really must see them. Little brown lady-bird with her gold under her wings. Male with a glorious rose all over his breast and a song—Hobart, you should hear his song. It’s a little like a robin’s song, but all trilled out and tucked in and done in doubles and triplets and burrs—and a question at the end. You never heard one sing at night? You never went over in the park or out in the country to hear them sing at night? Etarre—do show him how it goes.”
I have a fancy for singing the bird notes that we love and Pelleas, who could as easily hem9 a thing as to sing it, will in Spring keep me all hours at this pastime. Once he woke me in the night to reclaim95 the song of the orchard96 oriole—and next morning Nichola sorely discomfited97 me by observing that long after midnight she had heard owls98 in the chimney. But we persist in the delight and so now I sang for Hobart the song of the grosbeak:—
“it goes,” said I, “but the next one you hear may be quite—quite different! There is no tune99 to the song, ever—but exquisite100 rhythm. O, and such arch anxiety he is in, Hobart; you cannot think. And when he is done you’ve got to believe the way he does because of his little question which is never ‘Do you think?’ but always ‘Don’t you think?’ Fancy your never having heard him.”
“O you would—you would,” I agreed, and could say no more. In Spring my heart is always aching for the busy and the self-absorbed who do not seize opera glasses and post away to some place of trees.
“Look here,” he said beaming; “this is the list of the birds that we have seen this Spring. And we have not once stepped outside town, either.”
Hobart took our list and knitted his brows over it.
“I know robins and bluebirds,” he claimed proudly.
Pelleas nodded. “They are very nearly our dearest,” he said, “like daisies and buttercups. But we love the others, too—the rose and orchid103 and gardenia104 birds, Hobart. The grosbeaks and orioles and tanagers. You can’t think what a pleasure it is to see them come back one after another, as true to their dates as the stars—only now and then a bit earlier, for spice. The society columns in November are nothing in comparison—though of course they do very well. Yes, it’s quite like seeing the stars come back every year. Etarre and I go to the park after breakfast for the birds and to the roof of the house after dinner for the stars. March and April are wonderful months for the constellations105.”
“O yes,” said Hobart Eddy, “yes. The Great Dipper and the North star and the Pleiades. I always know those.”
He was still holding the list, and Pelleas leaned forward and tapped on it, his face sparkling.
“Hobart,” he said, “give us a day next week. Let us leave home at six in the morning and get out in the real country and walk in the fields. We’ll undertake to show you the birds of this entire list! The hermit107 thrushes should be here by then—and I don’t know but the wood pewees and the orioles, the season is so early. And of course no end of the warbler family. We will all take glasses and Etarre shall give us the bird songs and I dare say we’ll see some nests. In the middle of the day we’ll hunt flowers—I could have been certain that I saw violet columbine a bit back on this road. And by next week we won’t be able to step for the rue anemone108 and the hepatica. You wouldn’t mind not picking them, Hobart?” asked Pelleas, anxiously. “We’re rather extreme when it comes to that, and we don’t pick them, you know. You wouldn’t mind that, I dare say?”
Hobart Eddy said: No. That he should not mind that.
“And then after dark we’ll start home,” Pelleas went on, “but long enough after dark so that we can walk on some open road and see the stars. Orion will be done for by then,” he recalled frowning. “Orion and Jupiter are about below the west by dark even now. But Leo is overhead—and the Dragon and Cassiopeia in the north—and Spica and Vega and Arcturus in the east. O, we shall have friends enough. It is now,” said Pelleas, “forty-nine years that Etarre and I have watched for them every year. We began to study them the Summer that we were married. Forty-nine years and they have never failed us once. What do you think of that?”
Hobart folded our list and handed it back.
“Do you know,” he said solemnly, “that I wouldn’t know whether Hepatica was a bird or a constellation106? Jove,” he added, “what a lot of worlds.”
As for me I sat nodding with all my might. Yes, what a lot of worlds.
“Will you give us a day, Hobart?” Pelleas repeated.
“With all my heart,” Hobart Eddy said simply.
“She does?” exclaimed Hobart. “At her age? I believe they have actually begun to educate people for living,” he observed, “instead of for earning a living. I dare say lots of people know this kind of thing—people in cafés and cars and around, whom one never suspects of knowing,” he added thoughtfully.
Pelleas and I have sometimes said that of the most unpromising people: Perhaps after all they know the birds and wait for the stars to come back. Not that this would prove them good citizens. But neither do the most utilitarian110 faculties111 prove them so.
“I could fall in love with any woman who was so accomplished,” said Pelleas, looking at Hobart and pretending to mean me.
“By Jove, so could I!” said Hobart, looking at me openly.
“Why, then,” said I at this, meeting his eyes fairly, “I think that we may as well hurry on to Inglese.”
He understood, and smiled at us.
“You dear fairy god-people,” he said.
But I hugged our hope as we rolled away; and so, I know, did Pelleas.
No one was on the veranda112 at the Chartres villa70, and we had seen no one in the grounds save a man or two working miracles by unwrapping rose-trees. Madame Sally Chartres, the servant told us, was gone in the town, and Miss Viola was walking by the lake. We would not have her summoned and Hobart, Pelleas, and I went down the slope of early green to the lake walk.
The day was mounting to noon. A Summer day will miss its high-tide expression because peace falls on it at noon; but the high noon of Spring is the very keystone of the bow from sun to sun. I remember once dreaming of music which grew more beautiful and came nearer, until I knew as I woke that I could bear it no longer and that another moment would have freed me. And,
“Pelleas and Hobart,” I said now, “if to-day gets any lovelier, I think that none of us can bear it and that the bubble will burst and we shall be let out.”
“On a day like this,” said Pelleas, “one hardly knows whether one is living it or reading it.”
“If we are reading it,” said I, seeming to glance at Hobart Eddy, “I hope that it will turn out to be a love story.”
And it did—it did. We followed the curve of the walk past some flowering bushes and came on a bench, the kind of bench that rises from the ground at the mere footfall of two lovers. And there sat Viola, quite twice as lovely as when she had spent that week before our telephone on the landing, and beside her a Boy whose rôle no one who saw his face could doubt.
She was very lovely as she rose to greet us—indeed, Viola was one of those who prove the procession of the wild things and the stars to be an integral part of life. But now for her a new star had risen whose magnitude was unquestionable.
“Aunt Etarre!” cried Viola. “O, I am so glad to have you and Uncle Pelleas and Hobart know—first.”
And when she had presented her fine young lover and I had taken her in my arms, “You know,” she murmured, “he is your telephone, dear. Do you remember Uncle Pelleas calling him Telephone?”
Indeed, I do not think that we caught his real name that morning at all. And as for Pelleas and me, who are the first to love a lover, we found ourselves instant partisans20 of that fine young telephone of ours, so to speak, now that we finally saw him face to face. And I remember noting with a reminiscent thrill that the flowering shrub114 beneath which we were standing115 was Forsythia; and so did Pelleas, who is delighted with coincidences and hears in them the motifs116 of the commonplace.
“I told you this morning, Etarre, that something pleasant was about to happen,” he said with satisfaction.
“And so it has,” said I happily—and met Hobart Eddy’s eyes, fixed on mine and quite uncontrollably dancing.
On which I fell guiltily silent, and so did Pelleas. It is one of the hardships of life that it is impossible to grieve with the loser and rejoice with the winner of the same cause.
When, some time after we five had lunched alone on the veranda, Viola and Our Telephone waved our car down the drive, Pelleas and I were not less disposed to silence. Running slowly through the grounds Hobart Eddy glanced back at us, and,
“Well?” he asked gravely.
Pelleas and I looked away over the lawns and said nothing.
“You’ve still got me on your hands, fairy god-people,” said Hobart, and smiled angelically and quite without a shadow in his eyes.
Suddenly, with a great wrench119, Hobart brought the car to a standstill. “Look! Look there! By Jove, there it is! Look at it go!” he cried like a boy. “What is it—O, I say, do you know what it is?”
We, too, had seen it—the joyous120 rise and curve of the wing of a scarlet121 tanager, flashing into flight, skimming a lawn, burning from the bough of a far sycamore.
“A tanager!” cried Pelleas and I together, and caught a moment of its song—its open, double-toned, two-note and three-note song, a serene82 cradle melody borrowed from May.
“O, Jove!” said Hobart Eddy. “Hear him.”
In the reeds by the lake the song sparrows were singing—we heard these too. But I think that Pelleas and I heard chiefly another voice which for the first time Hobart Eddy was hearing.
“What day next week could we go in the country, do you think?” Hobart asked as he started the car.
He had out his portmonnaie and the bird list and I saw what he wrote:—
April 29: Scarlet tanager. Etarre and Hobart and Pelleas.
And across the page:—
Part Two: Scarlet Tanager day: Spent all day in the path of In-the-Spring.
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1
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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3
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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allegro
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| adj. 快速而活泼的；n.快板；adv.活泼地 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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12
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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13
urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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14
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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15
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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17
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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19
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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20
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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21
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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22
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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23
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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24
crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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25
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
thwarts
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| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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27
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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28
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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29
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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30
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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31
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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32
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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33
migratory
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| n.候鸟，迁移 | |
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34
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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35
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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36
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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38
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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39
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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40
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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41
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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42
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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43
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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44
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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45
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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46
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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47
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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49
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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50
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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51
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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52
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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53
wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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54
slivers
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| （切割或断裂下来的）薄长条，碎片( sliver的名词复数 ) | |
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55
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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56
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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57
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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58
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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59
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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60
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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61
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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62
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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64
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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67
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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68
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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69
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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70
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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71
aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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72
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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73
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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74
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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75
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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76
embroider
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| v.刺绣于(布)上；给…添枝加叶，润饰 | |
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77
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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79
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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80
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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81
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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82
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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83
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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84
impractical
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| adj.不现实的，不实用的，不切实际的 | |
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85
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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86
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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87
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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88
impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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89
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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92
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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93
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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94
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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95
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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96
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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97
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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98
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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99
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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100
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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101
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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102
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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103
orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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104
gardenia
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| n.栀子花 | |
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105
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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106
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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107
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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108
anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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109
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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111
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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112
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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113
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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114
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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115
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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116
motifs
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| n. （文艺作品等的）主题( motif的名词复数 )；中心思想；基本模式；基本图案 | |
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117
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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118
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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119
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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120
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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121
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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122
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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