ظهری در خانه سنگی
- زمان مطالعه 24 دقیقه
- سطح خیلی سخت
دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»
این فصل را میتوانید به بهترین شکل و با امکانات عالی در اپلیکیشن «زیبوک» بخوانید
متن انگلیسی فصل
XXVII - An Afternoon at the Stone House
“WHERE ARE YOU going, all dressed up, Anne?” Davy wanted to know. “You look bully in that dress.”
Anne had come down to dinner in a new dress of pale green muslin…the first color she had worn since Matthew’s death. It became her perfectly, bringing out all the delicate, flowerlike tints of her face and the gloss and burnish of her hair.
“Davy, how many times have I told you that you mustn’t use that word,” she rebuked. “I’m going to Echo Lodge.”
“Take me with you,” entreated Davy.
“I would if I were driving. But I’m going to walk and it’s too far for your eight-year-old legs. Besides, Paul is going with me and I fear you don’t enjoy yourself in his company.”
“Oh, I like Paul lots better’n I did,” said Davy, beginning to make fearful inroads into his pudding. “Since I’ve got pretty good myself I don’t mind his being gooder so much. If I can keep on I’ll catch up with him some day, both in legs and goodness. ’Sides, Paul’s real nice to us second primer boys in school. He won’t let the other big boys meddle with us and he shows us lots of games.”
“How came Paul to fall into the brook at noon hour yesterday?” asked Anne. “I met him on the playground, such a dripping figure that I sent him promptly home for clothes without waiting to find out what had happened.”
“Well, it was partly a zacksident,” explained Davy. “He stuck his head in on purpose but the rest of him fell in zacksidentally. We was all down at the brook and Prillie Rogerson got mad at Paul about something…she’s awful mean and horrid anyway, if she is pretty…and said that his grandmother put his hair up in curl rags every night. Paul wouldn’t have minded what she said, I guess, but Gracie Andrews laughed, and Paul got awful red, ’cause Gracie’s his girl, you know. He’s clean gone on her…brings her flowers and carries her books as far as the shore road. He got as red as a beet and said his grandmother didn’t do any-such thing and his hair was born curly. And then he laid down on the bank and stuck his head right into the spring to show them. Oh, it wasn’t the spring we drink out of…” seeing a horrified look on Marilla’s face…“it was the little one lower down. But the bank’s awful slippy and Paul went right in. I tell you he made a bully splash. Oh, Anne, Anne, I didn’t mean to say that…it just slipped out before I thought. He made a splendid splash. But he looked so funny when he crawled out, all wet and muddy. The girls laughed more’n ever, but Gracie didn’t laugh. She looked sorry. Gracie’s a nice girl but she’s got a snub nose. When I get big enough to have a girl I won’t have one with a snub nose…I’ll pick one with a pretty nose like yours, Anne.”
“A boy who makes such a mess of syrup all over his face when he is eating his pudding will never get a girl to look at him,” said Marilla severely.
“But I’ll wash my face before I go courting,” protested Davy, trying to improve matters by rubbing the back of his hand over the smears. “And I’ll wash behind my ears too, without being told. I remembered to this morning, Marilla. I don’t forget half as often as I did. But…” and Davy sighed…“there’s so many corners about a fellow that it’s awful hard to remember them all. Well, if I can’t go to Miss Lavendar’s I’ll go over and see Mrs. Harrison. Mrs. Harrison’s an awful nice woman, I tell you. She keeps a jar of cookies in her pantry a-purpose for little boys, and she always gives me the scrapings out of a pan she’s mixed up a plum cake in. A good many plums stick to the sides, you see. Mr. Harrison was always a nice man, but he’s twice as nice since he got married over again. I guess getting married makes folks nicer. Why don’t you get married, Marilla? I want to know.”
Marilla’s state of single blessedness had never been a sore point with her, so she answered amiably, with an exchange of significant looks with Anne, that she supposed it was because nobody would have her.
“But maybe you never asked anybody to have you,” protested Davy.
“Oh, Davy,” said Dora primly, shocked into speaking without being spoken to, “it’s the men that have to do the asking.”
“I don’t know why they have to do it always,” grumbled Davy. “Seems to me everything’s put on the men in this world. Can I have some more pudding, Marilla?”
“You’ve had as much as was good for you,” said Marilla; but she gave him a moderate second helping.
“I wish people could live on pudding. Why can’t they, Marilla? I want to know.”
“Because they’d soon get tired of it.”
“I’d like to try that for myself,” said skeptical Davy. “But I guess it’s better to have pudding only on fish and company days than none at all. They never have any at Milty Boulter’s. Milty says when company comes his mother gives them cheese and cuts it herself…one little bit apiece and one over for manners.”
“If Milty Boulter talks like that about his mother at least you needn’t repeat it,” said Marilla severely.
“Bless my soul”…Davy had picked this expression up from Mr. Harrison and used it with great gusto…“Milty meant it as a compelment. He’s awful proud of his mother ’cause folks say she could scratch a living on a rock.”
“I…I suppose them pesky hens are in my pansy bed again,” said Marilla, rising and going out hurriedly.
The slandered hens were nowhere near the pansy bed and Marilla did not even glance at it. Instead, she sat down on the cellar hatch and laughed until she was ashamed of herself.
When Anne and Paul reached the stone house that afternoon they found Miss Lavendar and Charlotta the Fourth in the garden, weeding, raking, clipping, and trimming as if for dear life. Miss Lavendar herself, all gay and sweet in the frills and laces she loved, dropped her shears and ran joyously to meet her guests, while Charlotta the Fourth grinned cheerfully.
“Welcome, Anne. I thought you’d come today. You belong to the afternoon so it brought you. Things that belong together are sure to come together. What a lot of trouble that would save some people if they only knew it. But they don’t…and so they waste beautiful energy moving heaven and earth to bring things together that don’t belong. And you, Paul…why, you’ve grown! You’re half a head taller than when you were here before.”
“Yes, I’ve begun to grow like pigweed in the night, as Mrs. Lynde says,” said Paul, in frank delight over the fact. “Grandma says it’s the porridge taking effect at last. Perhaps it is. Goodness knows…” Paul sighed deeply…“I’ve eaten enough to make anyone grow. I do hope, now that I’ve begun, I’ll keep on till I’m as tall as father. He is six feet, you know, Miss Lavendar.”
Yes, Miss Lavendar did know; the flush on her pretty cheeks deepened a little; she took Paul’s hand on one side and Anne’s on the other and walked to the house in silence.
“Is it a good day for the echoes, Miss Lavendar?” queried Paul anxiously. The day of his first visit had been too windy for echoes and Paul had been much disappointed.
“Yes, just the best kind of a day,” answered Miss Lavendar, rousing herself from her reverie. “But first we are all going to have something to eat. I know you two folks didn’t walk all the way back here through those beech woods without getting hungry, and Charlotta the Fourth and I can eat any hour of the day…we have such obliging appetites. So we’ll just make a raid on the pantry. Fortunately it’s lovely and full. I had a presentiment that I was going to have company today and Charlotta the Fourth and I prepared.”
“I think you are one of the people who always have nice things in their pantry,” declared Paul. “Grandma’s like that too but she doesn’t approve of snacks between meals. I wonder,” he added meditatively, “if I ought to eat them away from home when I know she doesn’t approve.”
“Oh, I don’t think she would disapprove after you have had a long walk. That makes a difference,” said Miss Lavendar, exchanging amused glances with Anne over Paul’s brown curls. “I suppose that snacks are extremely unwholesome. That is why we have them so often at Echo Lodge. We…Charlotta the Fourth and I…live in defiance of every known law of diet. We eat all sorts of indigestible things whenever we happen to think of it, by day or night; and we flourish like green bay trees. We are always intending to reform. When we read any article in a paper warning us against something we like we cut it out and pin it up on the kitchen wall so that we’ll remember it. But we never can somehow…until after we’ve gone and eaten that very thing. Nothing has ever killed us yet; but Charlotta the Fourth has been known to have bad dreams after we had eaten doughnuts and mince pie and fruitcake before we went to bed.”
“Grandma lets me have a glass of milk and a slice of bread and butter before I go to bed; and on Sunday nights she puts jam on the bread,” said Paul. “So I’m always glad when it’s Sunday night…for more reasons than one. Sunday is a very long day on the shore road. Grandma says it’s all too short for her and that father never found Sundays tiresome when he was a little boy. It wouldn’t seem so long if I could talk to my rock people, but I never do that because Grandma doesn’t approve of it on Sundays. I think a good deal; but I’m afraid my thoughts are worldly. Grandma says we should never think anything but religious thoughts on Sundays. But teacher here said once that every really beautiful thought was religious, no matter what it was about, or what day we thought it on. But I feel sure Grandma thinks that sermons and Sunday School lessons are the only things you can think truly religious thoughts about. And when it comes to a difference of opinion between Grandma and teacher I don’t know what to do. In my heart”…Paul laid his hand on his breast and raised very serious blue eyes to Miss Lavendar’s immediately sympathetic face…“I agree with teacher. But then, you see, Grandma has brought father up her way and made a brilliant success of him; and teacher has never brought anybody up yet, though she’s helping with Davy and Dora. But you can’t tell how they’ll turn out till they are grown up. So sometimes I feel as if it might be safer to go by Grandma’s opinions.”
“I think it would,” agreed Anne solemnly. “Anyway, I daresay that if your Grandma and I both got down to what we really do mean, under our different ways of expressing it, we’d find out we both meant much the same thing. You’d better go by her way of expressing it, since it’s been the result of experience. We’ll have to wait until we see how the twins do turn out before we can be sure that my way is equally good.” After lunch they went back to the garden, where Paul made the acquaintance of the echoes, to his wonder and delight, while Anne and Miss Lavendar sat on the stone bench under the poplar and talked.
“So you are going away in the fall?” said Miss Lavendar wistfully. “I ought to be glad for your sake, Anne…but I’m horribly, selfishly sorry. I shall miss you so much. Oh, sometimes, I think it is of no use to make friends. They only go out of your life after awhile and leave a hurt that is worse than the emptiness before they came.”
“That sounds like something Miss Eliza Andrews might say, but never Miss Lavendar,” said Anne. “Nothing is worse than emptiness…and I’m not going out of your life. There are such things as letters and vacations. Dearest, I’m afraid you’re looking a little pale and tired.”
“Oh…hoo…hoo…hoo,” went Paul on the dyke, where he had been making noises diligently…not all of them melodious in the making, but all coming back transmuted into the very gold and silver of sound by the fairy alchemists over the river. Miss Lavendar made an impatient movement with her pretty hands.
“I’m just tired of everything…even of the echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes…echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They’re beautiful and mocking. Oh Anne, it’s horrid of me to talk like this when I have company. It’s just that I’m getting old and it doesn’t agree with me. I know I’ll be fearfully cranky by the time I’m sixty. But perhaps all I need is a course of blue pills.”
At this moment Charlotta the Fourth, who had disappeared after lunch, returned, and announced that the northeast corner of Mr. John Kimball’s pasture was red with early strawberries, and wouldn’t Miss Shirley like to go and pick some.
“Early strawberries for tea!” exclaimed Miss Lavendar. “Oh, I’m not so old as I thought…and I don’t need a single blue pill! Girls, when you come back with your strawberries we’ll have tea out here under the silver poplar. I’ll have it all ready for you with homegrown cream.”
Anne and Charlotta the Fourth accordingly betook themselves back to Mr. Kimball’s pasture, a green remote place where the air was as soft as velvet, and fragrant as a bed of violets and golden as amber.
“Oh, isn’t it sweet and fresh back here?” breathed Anne. “I just feel as if I were drinking in the sunshine.”
“Yes, ma’am, so do I. That’s just exactly how I feel, too, ma’am,” agreed Charlotta the Fourth, who would have said precisely the same thing if Anne had remarked that she felt like a pelican of the wilderness. Always after Anne had visited Echo Lodge, Charlotta the Fourth mounted to her little room over the kitchen and tried before her looking glass to speak and look and move like Anne. Charlotta could never flatter herself that she quite succeeded; but practice makes perfect, as Charlotta had learned at school, and she fondly hoped that in time she might catch the trick of that dainty uplift of chin, that quick, starry outflashing of eyes, that fashion of walking as if you were a bough swaying in the wind. It seemed so easy when you watched Anne. Charlotta the Fourth admired Anne whole-heartedly. It was not that she thought her so very handsome. Diana Barry’s beauty of crimson cheek and black curls was much more to Charlotta the Fourth’s taste than Anne’s moonshine charm of luminous gray eyes and the pale, ever-changing roses of her cheeks.
“But I’d rather look like you than be pretty,” she told Anne sincerely.
Anne laughed, sipped the honey from the tribute, and cast away the sting. She was used to taking her compliments mixed. Public opinion never agreed on Anne’s looks. People who had heard her called handsome met her and were disappointed. People who had heard her called plain saw her and wondered where other people’s eyes were. Anne herself would never believe that she had any claim to beauty. When she looked in the glass all she saw was a little pale face with seven freckles on the nose thereof. Her mirror never revealed to her the elusive, ever-varying play of feeling that came and went over her features like a rosy illuminating flame, or the charm of dream and laughter alternating in her big eyes.
While Anne was not beautiful in any strictly defined sense of the word she possessed a certain evasive charm and distinction of appearance that left beholders with a pleasurable sense of satisfaction in that softly rounded girlhood of hers, with all its strongly felt potentialities. Those who knew Anne best felt, without realizing that they felt it, that her greatest attraction was the aura of possibility surrounding her…the power of future development that was in her. She seemed to walk in an atmosphere of things about to happen.
As they picked, Charlotte the Fourth confided to Anne her fears regarding Miss Lavendar. The warmhearted little handmaiden was honestly worried over her adored mistress’ condition.
“Miss Lavendar isn’t well, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I’m sure she isn’t, though she never complains. She hasn’t seemed like herself this long while, ma’am…not since that day you and Paul were here together before. I feel sure she caught cold that night, ma’am. After you and him had gone she went out and walked in the garden for long after dark with nothing but a little shawl on her. There was a lot of snow on the walks and I feel sure she got a chill, ma’am. Ever since then I’ve noticed her acting tired and lonesome like. She don’t seem to take an interest in anything, ma’am. She never pretends company’s coming, nor fixes up for it, nor nothing, ma’am. It’s only when you come she seems to chirk up a bit. And the worst sign of all, Miss Shirley, ma’am…” Charlotta the Fourth lowered her voice as if she were about to tell some exceedingly weird and awful symptom indeed…“is that she never gets cross now when I breaks things. Why, Miss Shirley, ma’am, yesterday I bruk her green and yaller bowl that’s always stood on the bookcase. Her grandmother brought it out from England and Miss Lavendar was awful choice of it. I was dusting it just as careful, Miss Shirley, ma’am, and it slipped out, so fashion, afore I could grab holt of it, and bruk into about forty millyun pieces. I tell you I was sorry and scared. I thought Miss Lavendar would scold me awful, ma’am; and I’d ruther she had than take it the way she did. She just come in and hardly looked at it and said, ‘It’s no matter, Charlotta. Take up the pieces and throw them away.’ Just like that, Miss Shirley, ma’am…‘take up the pieces and throw them away,’ as if it wasn’t her grandmother’s bowl from England. Oh, she isn’t well and I feel awful bad about it. She’s got nobody to look after her but me.”
Charlotta the Fourth’s eyes brimmed up with tears. Anne patted the little brown paw holding the cracked pink cup sympathetically.
“I think Miss Lavendar needs a change, Charlotta. She stays here alone too much. Can’t we induce her to go away for a little trip?”
Charlotta shook her head, with its rampant bows, disconsolately.
“I don’t think so, Miss Shirley, ma’am. Miss Lavendar hates visiting. She’s only got three relations she ever visits and she says she just goes to see them as a family duty. Last time when she come home she said she wasn’t going to visit for family duty no more. ‘I’ve come home in love with loneliness, Charlotta,’ she says to me, ‘and I never want to stray from my own vine and fig tree again. My relations try so hard to make an old lady of me and it has a bad effect on me.’ Just like that, Miss Shirley, ma’am. ‘It has a very bad effect on me.’ So I don’t think it would do any good to coax her to go visiting.”
“We must see what can be done,” said Anne decidedly, as she put the last possible berry in her pink cup. “Just as soon as I have my vacation I’ll come through and spend a whole week with you. We’ll have a picnic every day and pretend all sorts of interesting things, and see if we can’t cheer Miss Lavendar up.”
“That will be the very thing, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” exclaimed Charlotta the Fourth in rapture. She was glad for Miss Lavendar’s sake and for her own too. With a whole week in which to study Anne constantly she would surely be able to learn how to move and behave like her.
When the girls got back to Echo Lodge they found that Miss Lavendar and Paul had carried the little square table out of the kitchen to the garden and had everything ready for tea. Nothing ever tasted so delicious as those strawberries and cream, eaten under a great blue sky all curdled over with fluffy little white clouds, and in the long shadows of the wood with its lispings and its murmurings. After tea Anne helped Charlotta wash the dishes in the kitchen, while Miss Lavendar sat on the stone bench with Paul and heard all about his rock people. She was a good listener, this sweet Miss Lavendar, but just at the last it struck Paul that she had suddenly lost interest in the Twin Sailors.
“Miss Lavendar, why do you look at me like that?” he asked gravely.
“How do I look, Paul?”
“Just as if you were looking through me at somebody I put you in mind of,” said Paul, who had such occasional flashes of uncanny insight that it wasn’t quite safe to have secrets when he was about.
“You do put me in mind of somebody I knew long ago,” said Miss Lavendar dreamily.
“When you were young?”
“Yes, when I was young. Do I seem very old to you, Paul?”
“Do you know, I can’t make up my mind about that,” said Paul confidentially. “Your hair looks old…I never knew a young person with white hair. But your eyes are as young as my beautiful teacher’s when you laugh. I tell you what, Miss Lavendar”…Paul’s voice and face were as solemn as a judge’s…“I think you would make a splendid mother. You have just the right look in your eyes…the look my little mother always had. I think it’s a pity you haven’t any boys of your own.”
“I have a little dream-boy, Paul.”
“Oh, have you really? How old is he?”
“About your age I think. He ought to be older because I dreamed him long before you were born. But I’ll never let him get any older than eleven or twelve; because if I did some day he might grow up altogether and then I’d lose him.”
“I know,” nodded Paul. “That’s the beauty of dream-people…they stay any age you want them. You and my beautiful teacher and me myself are the only folks in the world that I know of that have dream-people. Isn’t it funny and nice we should all know each other? But I guess that kind of people always find each other out. Grandma never has dream-people and Mary Joe thinks I’m wrong in the upper story because I have them. But I think it’s splendid to have them. You know, Miss Lavendar. Tell me all about your little dream-boy.”
“He has blue eyes and curly hair. He steals in and wakens me with a kiss every morning. Then all day he plays here in the garden…and I play with him. Such games as we have. We run races and talk with the echoes; and I tell him stories. And when twilight comes…”
“I know,” interrupted Paul eagerly. “He comes and sits beside you…so…because of course at twelve he’d be too big to climb into your lap…and lays his head on your shoulder…so…and you put your arms about him and hold him tight, tight, and rest your cheek on his head…yes, that’s the very way. Oh, you do know, Miss Lavendar.”
Anne found the two of them there when she came out of the stone house, and something in Miss Lavendar’s face made her hate to disturb them.
“I’m afraid we must go, Paul, if we want to get home before dark. Miss Lavendar, I’m going to invite myself to Echo Lodge for a whole week pretty soon.”
“If you come for a week I’ll keep you for two,” threatened Miss Lavendar.
مشارکت کنندگان در این صفحه
تا کنون فردی در بازسازی این صفحه مشارکت نداشته است.
🖊 شما نیز میتوانید برای مشارکت در ترجمهی این صفحه یا اصلاح متن انگلیسی، به این لینک مراجعه بفرمایید.