Margaret Ogilvy_第1章_无广告免费看-丁香书院

　　CHAPTERI—HOWMYMOTHERGOTHERSOFTFACE
　　OnthedayIwasbornweboughtsixhair—bottomedchairs，andinourlittlehouseitwasanevent，thefirstgreatvictoryinawoman’slongcampaign；howtheyhadbeenlabouredfor，thepound—
　　noteandthethirtythreepenny—bitstheycost，whatanxietytherewasaboutthepurchase，theshowtheymadeinpossessionofthewestroom，myfather’sunnaturalcoolnesswhenhebroughtthemin（buthisfacewaswhite）—Isooftenheardthetaleafterwards，andsharedasboyandmaninsomanysimilartriumphs，thatthecomingofthechairsseemstobesomethingIremember，asifIhadjumpedoutofbedonthatfirstday，andrunbentoseehowtheylooked。Iamsuremymother’sfeetwereettlingtobebenlongbeforetheycouldbetrusted，andthatthemomentaftershewasleftalonewithmeshewasdiscoveredbarefootedinthewestroom，doctoringascar（whichshehadbeenthefirsttodetect）ononeofthechairs，orsittingonthemregally，orwithdrawingandre—
　　openingthedoorsuddenlytotakethesixbysurprise。Andthen，I
　　think，ashawlwasflungoverher（itisstrangetometothinkitwasnotIwhoranafterherwiththeshawl），andshewasescortedsternlybacktobedandremindedthatshehadpromisednottobudge，towhichherreplywasprobablythatshehadbeengonebutaninstant，andtheimplicationthatthereforeshehadnotbeengoneatall。Thuswasonelittlebitofherrevealedtomeatonce：IwonderifItooknoteofit。Neighbourscameintoseetheboyandthechairs。Iwonderifshedeceivedmewhensheaffectedtothinkthattherewereotherslikeus，orwhetherIsawthroughherfromthefirst，shewassoeasilyseenthrough。Whensheseemedtoagreewiththemthatitwouldbeimpossibletogivemeacollegeeducation，wasIsoeasilytakenin，ordidIknowalreadywhatambitionsburnedbehindthatdearface？whentheyspokeofthechairsasthegoalquicklyreached，wasIsuchanewcomerthathertimidlipsmustsay’Theyarebutabeginning’beforeIheardthewords？Andwhenwewerelefttogether，didIlaughatthegreatthingsthatwereinhermind，orhadshetowhisperthemtomefirst，andthendidIputmyarmroundherandtellherthatI
　　wouldhelp？Thusitwasforsuchalongtime：itisstrangetometofeelthatitwasnotsofromthebeginning。
　　Itisallguess—workforsixyears，andshewhomIseeinthemisthewomanwhocamesuddenlyintoviewwhentheywereatanend。
　　HertimidlipsIhavesaid，buttheywerenottimidthen，andwhenIknewherthetimidlipshadcome。Thesoftface—theysaythefacewasnotsosoftthen。Theshawlthatwasflungoverher—wehadnotbeguntohuntherwithashawl，nortomakeourbodiesascreenbetweenherandthedraughts，nortocreepintoherroomascoreoftimesinthenighttostandlookingatherassheslept。
　　Wedidnotseeherbecominglittlethen，norsharplyturnourheadswhenshesaidwonderinglyhowsmallherarmshadgrown。Inherhappiestmoments—andneverwasahappierwoman—hermouthdidnotofasuddenbegintotwitch，andtearstolieonthemuteblueeyesinwhichIhavereadallIknowandwouldevercaretowrite。
　　Forwhenyoulookedintomymother’seyesyouknew，asifHehadtoldyou，whyGodsentherintotheworld—itwastoopenthemindsofallwholookedtobeautifulthoughts。Andthatisthebeginningandendofliterature。ThoseeyesthatIcannotseeuntilIwassixyearsoldhaveguidedmethroughlife，andIprayGodtheymayremainmyonlyearthlyjudgetothelast。TheywerenevermoremyguidethanwhenIhelpedtoputhertoearth，notwhimperingbecausemymotherhadbeentakenawayafterseventy—sixgloriousyearsoflife，butexultinginherevenatthegrave。
　　Shehadasonwhowasfarawayatschool。Irememberverylittleabouthim，onlythathewasamerry—facedboywhoranlikeasquirrelupatreeandshookthecherriesintomylap。WhenhewasthirteenandIwashalfhisagetheterriblenewscame，andIhavebeentoldthefaceofmymotherwasawfulinitscalmnessasshesetofftogetbetweenDeathandherboy。Wetroopedwithherdownthebraetothewoodenstation，andIthinkIwasenvyingherthejourneyinthemysteriouswagons；Iknowweplayedaroundher，proudofourrighttobethere，butIdonotrecallit，Ionlyspeakfromhearsay。Herticketwastaken，shehadbiddenusgoodbyewiththatfightingfacewhichIcannotsee，andthenmyfathercameoutofthetelegraph—officeandsaidhuskily，’He’sgone!’Thenweturnedveryquietlyandwenthomeagainupthelittlebrae。ButIspeakfromhearsaynolonger；Iknewmymotherforevernow。
　　Thatishowshegothersoftfaceandherpatheticwaysandherlargecharity，andwhyothermothersrantoherwhentheyhadlostachild。’Dinnagreet，poorJanet，’shewouldsaytothem；andtheywouldanswer，’Ah，Margaret，butyou’regreetingyoursel。’
　　MargaretOgilvyhadbeenhermaidenname，andaftertheScotchcustomshewasstillMargaretOgilvytoheroldfriends。MargaretOgilvyIlovedtonameher。OftenwhenIwasaboy，’MargaretOgilvy，areyouthere？’Iwouldcallupthestair。
　　Shewasalwaysdelicatefromthathour，andformanymonthsshewasveryill。Ihaveheardthatthefirstthingsheexpressedawishtoseewasthechristeningrobe，andshelookedlongatitandthenturnedherfacetothewall。Thatwaswhatmademeasaboythinkofitalwaysastherobeinwhichhewaschristened，butIknewlaterthatwehadallbeenchristenedinit，fromtheoldestofthefamilytotheyoungest，betweenwhomstoodtwentyyears。Hundredsofotherchildrenwerechristenedinitalso，suchrobesbeingthenararepossession，andthelendingofoursamongmymother’sglories。Itwascarriedcarefullyfromhousetohouse，asifitwereitselfachild；mymothermademuchofit，smootheditout，pettedit，smiledtoitbeforeputtingitintothearmsofthosetowhomitwasbeinglent；shewasinourpewtoseeitbornemagnificently（somethinginsideitnow）downtheaisletothepulpit—side，whenastirofexpectancywentthroughthechurchandwekickedeachother’sfeetbeneaththebook—boardbutwerereverentintheface；andhoweverthechildmightbehave，laughingbrazenlyorskirlingtoitsmother’sshame，andwhateverthefatherashehelditupmightdo，lookdoitedprobablyandbowatthewrongtime，thechristeningrobeoflongexperiencehelpedthemthrough。Andwhenitwasbroughtbacktohershetookitinherarmsassoftlyasifitmightbeasleep，andunconsciouslypressedittoherbreast：therewasneveranythinginthehousethatspoketoherquitesoeloquentlyasthatlittlewhiterobe；itwastheoneofherchildrenthatalwaysremainedababy。Andshehadnotmadeitherself，whichwasthemostwonderfulthingaboutittome，forsheseemedtohavemadeallotherthings。Alltheclothesinthehousewereofhermaking，andyoudon’tknowherintheleastifyouthinktheywereoutofthefashion；sheturnedthemandmadethemnewagain，shebeatthemandmadethemnewagain，andthenshecoaxedthemintobeingnewagainjustforthelasttime，sheletthemoutandtooktheminandputonnewbraid，andaddedapieceuptheback，andthustheypassedfromonememberofthefamilytoanotheruntiltheyreachedtheyoungest，andevenwhenweweredonewiththemtheyreappearedassomethingelse。Inthefashion!I
　　mustcomebacktothis。Neverwasawomanwithsuchaneyeforit。
　　Shehadnofashion—plates；shedidnotneedthem。Theminister’swife（acloak），thebanker’sdaughters（thenewsleeve）—theyhadbuttopassourwindowonce，andthescalp，sotospeak，wasinmymother’shands。Observeherrushing，scissorsinhand，threadinmouth，tothedrawerswhereherdaughters’Sabbathclotheswerekept。OrgotochurchnextSunday，andwatchacertainfamilyfilingin，theboyliftinghislegshightoshowoffhisnewboots，butalltheothersdemure，especiallythetimid，unobservant—
　　lookinglittlewomanintherearofthem。Ifyouweretheminister’swifethatdayorthebanker’sdaughtersyouwouldhavegotashock。Butsheboughtthechristeningrobe，andwhenIusedtoaskwhy，shewouldbeamandlookconscious，andsayshewantedtobeextravagantonce。Andshetoldme，stillsmiling，thatthemoreawomanwasgiventostitchingandmakingthingsforherself，thegreaterwasherpassionatedesirenowandagaintorushtotheshopsand’befoolish。’Thechristeningrobewithitspatheticfrillsisoverhalfacenturyoldnow，andhasbeguntodroopalittle，likeadaisywhosetimeispast；butitisasfondlykepttogetherasever：Isawitinuseagainonlytheotherday。
　　Mymotherlayinbedwiththechristeningrobebesideher，andI
　　peepedinmanytimesatthedoorandthenwenttothestairandsatonitandsobbed。Iknownotifitwasthatfirstday，ormanydaysafterwards，thattherecametome，mysister，thedaughtermymotherlovedthebest；yes，moreIamsureeventhanshelovedme，whosegreatgloryshehasbeensinceIwassixyearsold。Thissister，whowasthenpassingoutofher’teens，cametomewithaveryanxiousfaceandwringingherhands，andshetoldmetogobentomymotherandsaytoherthatshestillhadanotherboy。Iwentbenexcitedly，buttheroomwasdark，andwhenIheardthedoorshutandnosoundcomefromthebedIwasafraid，andIstoodstill。IsupposeIwasbreathinghard，orperhapsIwascrying，forafteratimeIheardalistlessvoicethathadneverbeenlistlessbeforesay，’Isthatyou？’Ithinkthetonehurtme，forImadenoanswer，andthenthevoicesaidmoreanxiously’Isthatyou？’again。Ithoughtitwasthedeadboyshewasspeakingto，andIsaidinalittlelonelyvoice，’No，it’snohim，it’sjustme。’ThenIheardacry，andmymotherturnedinbed，andthoughitwasdarkIknewthatshewasholdingoutherarms。
　　AfterthatIsatagreatdealinherbedtryingtomakeherforgethim，whichwasmycraftywayofplayingphysician，andifIsawanyoneoutofdoorsdosomethingthatmadetheotherslaughI
　　immediatelyhastenedtothatdarkroomanddiditbeforeher。I
　　supposeIwasanoddlittlefigure；Ihavebeentoldthatmyanxietytobrightenhergavemyfaceastrainedlookandputatremorintothejoke（Iwouldstandonmyheadinthebed，myfeetagainstthewall，andthencryexcitedly，’Areyoulaughing，mother？’）—andperhapswhatmadeherlaughwassomethingIwasunconsciousof，butshedidlaughsuddenlynowandthen，whereuponIscreamedexultantlytothatdearsister，whowaseverinwaiting，tocomeandseethesight，butbythetimeshecamethesoftfacewaswetagain。ThusIwasdeprivedofsomeofmyglory，andI
　　rememberonceonlymakingherlaughbeforewitnesses。Ikeptarecordofherlaughsonapieceofpaper，astrokeforeach，anditwasmycustomtoshowthisproudlytothedoctoreverymorning。
　　TherewerefivestrokesthefirsttimeIslippeditintohishand，andwhentheirmeaningwasexplainedtohimhelaughedsoboisterously，thatIcried，’Iwishthatwasoneofhers!’Thenhewassympathetic，andaskedmeifmymotherhadseenthepaperyet，andwhenIshookmyheadhesaidthatifIshowedittohernowandtoldherthatthesewereherfivelaughshethoughtImightwinanother。Ihadlessconfidence，buthewasthemysteriousmanwhomyouranforinthedeadofnight（youflungsandathiswindowtowakenhim，andifitwasonlytoothacheheextractedthetooththroughtheopenwindow，butwhenitwassomethingsternerhewaswithyouinthedarksquareatonce，likeamanwhosleptinhistopcoat），soIdidashebademe，andnotonlydidshelaughthenbutagainwhenIputthelaughdown，sothatthoughitwasreallyonelaughwithatearinthemiddleIcounteditastwo。
　　Itwasdoubtlessthatsamesisterwhotoldmenottosulkwhenmymotherlaythinkingofhim，buttotryinsteadtogethertotalkabouthim。Ididnotseehowthiscouldmakeherthemerrymothersheusedtobe，butIwastoldthatifIcouldnotdoitnobodycould，andthismademeeagertobegin。Atfirst，theysay，Iwasoftenjealous，stoppingherfondmemorieswiththecry，’Doyoumindnothingaboutme？’butthatdidnotlast；itsplacewastakenbyanintensedesire（again，Ithink，mysistermusthavebreatheditintolife）tobecomesolikehimthatevenmymothershouldnotseethedifference，andmanyandartfulwerethequestionsIputtothatend。ThenIpractisedinsecret，butafterawholeweekhadpassedIwasstillratherlikemyself。Hehadsuchacheerywayofwhistling，shehadtoldme，ithadalwaysbrightenedheratherworktohearhimwhistling，andwhenhewhistledhestoodwithhislegsapart，andhishandsinthepocketsofhisknickerbockers。I
　　decidedtotrusttothis，soonedayafterIhadlearnedhiswhistle（everyboyofenterpriseinventsawhistleofhisown）fromboyswhohadbeenhiscomrades，Isecretlyputonasuitofhisclothes，darkgreytheywere，withlittlespots，andtheyfittedmemanyyearsafterwards，andthusdisguisedIslipped，unknowntotheothers，intomymother’sroom。Quaking，Idoubtnot，yetsopleased，Istoodstilluntilshesawme，andthen—howitmusthavehurther!’Listen!’Icriedinaglowoftriumph，andI
　　stretchedmylegswideapartandplungedmyhandsintothepocketsofmyknickerbockers，andbegantowhistle。
　　Shelivedtwenty—nineyearsafterhisdeath，suchactiveyearsuntiltowardtheend，thatyouneverknewwhereshewasunlessyoutookholdofher，andthoughshewasfrailhenceforthandevergrowingfrailer，herhousekeepingagainbecamefamous，sothatbridescalledasamatterofcoursetowatchherca’mingandsandingandstitching：thereareoldpeoplestill，oneortwo，totellwithwonderintheireyeshowshecouldbaketwenty—fourbannocksinthehour，andnotachipinoneofthem。Andhowmanyshegaveaway，howmuchshegaveawayofallshehad，andwhatprettywaysshehadofgivingit!Herfacebeamedandrippledwithmirthasbefore，andherlaughthatIhadtriedsohardtoforcecamerunninghomeagain。Ihaveheardnosuchlaughasherssavefrommerrychildren；thelaughterofmostofusages，andwearsoutwiththebody，buthersremainedgleefultothelast，asifitwerebornafresheverymorning。Therewasalwayssomethingofthechildinher，andherlaughwasitsvoice，aseloquentofthepasttomeaswasthechristeningrobetoher。ButIhadnotmadeherforgetthebitofherthatwasdead；inthosenine—and—twentyyearshewasnotremovedonedayfartherfromher。Manyatimeshefellasleepspeakingtohim，andevenwhileshesleptherlipsmovedandshesmiledasifhehadcomebacktoher，andwhenshewokehemightvanishsosuddenlythatshestartedupbewilderedandlookedabouther，andthensaidslowly，’MyDavid’sdead!’orperhapsheremainedlongenoughtowhisperwhyhemustleavehernow，andthenshelaysilentwithfilmyeyes。WhenIbecameamanandhewasstillaboyofthirteen，Iwrotealittlepapercalled’DeadthisTwentyYears，’whichwasaboutasimilartragedyinanotherwoman’slife，anditistheonlythingIhavewrittenthatsheneverspokeabout，noteventothatdaughtershelovedthebest。Nooneeverspokeofittoher，oraskedherifshehadreadit：onedoesnotaskamotherifsheknowsthatthereisalittlecoffininthehouse。Shereadmanytimesthebookinwhichitisprinted，butwhenshecametothatchaptershewouldputherhandstoherheartorevenoverherears。
　　CHAPTERII—WHATSHEHADBEEN
　　Whatshehadbeen，whatIshouldbe，thesewerethetwogreatsubjectsbetweenusinmyboyhood，andwhilewediscussedtheoneweweredecidingtheother，thoughneitherofusknewit。
　　BeforeIreachedmytenthyearagiantenteredmynativeplaceinthenight，andwewoketofindhiminpossession。Hetransformeditintoanewtownataratewithwhichweboysonlycouldkeepup，forasfastashebuiltdamswemaderaftstosailinthem；heknockeddownhouses，andtherewewerecrying’Pilly!’amongtheruins；hedugtrenches，andwejumpedthem；wehadtobedraggedbythelegsfrombeneathhisengines，hesunkwells，andinwewent。
　　Butthoughtherewerenevercircumstancestowhichboyscouldnotadaptthemselvesinhalfanhour，olderfolkareslowerintheuptake，andIamsuretheystoodandgapedatthechangessosuddenlybeingworkedinourmidst，andscarceknewtheirwayhomenowinthedark。Wherehadbeenformerlybuttheclickoftheshuttlewassoontheroarof’power，’handloomswerepushedintoacornerasaroomisclearedforadance；everymorningathalf—pastfivethetownwaswakenedwithayell，andfromachimney—stackthatrosehighintoourcallerairtheconquerorwavedforevermorehisflagofsmoke。Anothererahaddawned，newcustoms，newfashionssprangintolife，allaslustyasiftheyhadbeenbornattwenty—one；asquicklyastwopeoplemayexchangeseats，thedaughter，tillnowbutaknitterofstockings，becamethebreadwinner，hewhohadbeenthebreadwinnersatdowntotheknittingofstockings：whathadbeenyesterdayanestofweaverswasto—dayatownofgirls。
　　Iamnotofthosewhowouldflingstonesatthechange；itissomething，surely，thatbacksarenolongerprematurelybent；youmaynomorelookthroughdimpanesofglassattheagedpoorweavingtremulouslyfortheirlittlebitofgroundinthecemetery。
　　Ratheraretheirworkingyearstoofewnow，notbecausetheywillitsobutbecauseitiswithyouththatthepower—loomsmustbefed。Well，thisteachesthemtomakeprovision，andtheyhavethemeansastheyneverhadbefore。Notinbatchesareboysnowsenttocollege；thehalf—dozenayearhavedwindledtoone，doubtlessbecauseinthesedaystheycanbegintodrawwagesastheystepoutoftheirfourteenthyear。Hereassuredlythereisloss，butallthelosseswouldbebutapebbleinaseaofgainwereitnotforthis，thatwithsomanyofthefamily，youngmothersamongthem，workinginthefactories，homelifeisnotsobeautifulasitwas。
　　SomuchofwhatisgreatinScotlandhassprungfromtheclosenessofthefamilyties；itisthereIsometimesfearthatmycountryisbeingstruck。Thatweareallbeingreducedtoonedeadlevel，thatcharacteraboundsnomoreandlifeitselfislessinteresting，suchthingsIhaveread，butIdonotbelievethem。Ihaveevenseenthemgivenasmyreasonforwritingofapasttime，andinthatatleastthereisnotruth。Inourlittletown，whichisasampleofmany，lifeisasinteresting，aspathetic，asjoyousaseveritwas；nogroupofweaverswasbettertolookatorthinkaboutthantherivuletofwinsomegirlsthatoverrunsourstreetseverytimethesluiceisraised，thecomedyofsummereveningsandwinterfiresidesisplayedwiththeoldzestandeverywindow—blindisthecurtainofaromance。Oncethelightsofalittletownarelit，whocouldeverhopetotellallitsstory，orthestoryofasinglewyndinit？Andwholookingatlightedwindowsneedstoturntobooks？ThereasonmybooksdealwiththepastinsteadofwiththelifeImyselfhaveknownissimplythis，thatIsoongrowtiredofwritingtalesunlessIcanseealittlegirl，ofwhommymotherhastoldme，wanderingconfidentlythroughthepages。SuchagriphashermemoryofhergirlhoodhaduponmesinceIwasaboyofsix。
　　Thoseinnumerabletalkswithhermadeheryouthasvividtomeasmyown，andsomuchmorequaint，for，toachild，theoddestofthings，andthemostrichlycolouredpicture—book，isthathismotherwasonceachildalso，andthecontrastbetweenwhatsheisandwhatshewasisperhapsthesourceofallhumour。Mymother’sfather，theoneheroofherlife，diednineyearsbeforeIwasborn，andIrememberthiswithbewilderment，sofamiliarlydoestheweather—beatenmason’sfigurerisebeforemefromtheoldchaironwhichIwasnursedandnowwritemybooks。Onthesurfaceheisashardasthestoneonwhichhechiselled，andhisfaceisdyedredbyitsdust，heisroundedintheshouldersanda’hoast’huntshimever；soonerorlaterthatcoughmustcarryhimoff，butuntilthenitshallnotkeephimfromthequarry，norshallhischappedhands，aslongastheycangraspthemell。Itisanightofrainorsnow，andmymother，thelittlegirlinapinaforewhoisalreadyhishousekeeper，hasbeenmanytimestothedoortolookforhim。Atlasthedrawsnigh，hoasting。OrIseehimsettingofftochurch，forhewasagreat’stoop’oftheAuldLichtkirk，andhismouthisveryfirmnowasiftherewereacaseofdisciplinetoface，butonhiswayhomeheisbowedwithpity。Perhapshislittledaughterwhosawhimsosternanhouragodoesnotunderstandwhyhewrestlessolonginprayerto—night，orwhywhenherisesfromhiskneeshepresseshertohimwithunwontedtenderness。Orheisinthischairrepeatingtoherhisfavouritepoem，’TheCameronian’sDream，’andatthefirstlinessosolemnlyuttered，’InadreamofthenightIwaswaftedaway，’
　　shescreamswithexcitement，justasIscreamedlongafterwardswhensherepeatedtheminhisvoicetome。OrIwatch，asfromawindow，whileshesetsoffthroughthelongparkstothedistantplacewhereheisatwork，inherhandaflagonwhichcontainshisdinner。Sheissingingtoherselfandgleefullyswingingtheflagon，shejumpstheburnandproudlymeasuresthejumpwithhereye，butsheneverdalliesunlessshemeetsababy，forshewassofondofbabiesthatshemusthugeachoneshemet，butwhileshehuggedthemshealsonotedhowtheirrobeswerecut，andafterwardsmadepaperpatterns，whichsheconcealedjealously，andinthefulnessoftimeherfirstrobeforhereldestbornwasfashionedfromoneofthesepatterns，madewhenshewasinhertwelfthyear。
　　Shewaseightwhenhermother’sdeathmadehermistressofthehouseandmothertoherlittlebrother，andfromthattimeshescrubbedandmendedandbakedandsewed，andarguedwiththeflesheraboutthequarterpoundofbeefandpennybonewhichprovideddinnerfortwodays（butifyouthinkthatthiswaspovertyyoudon’tknowthemeaningoftheword），andshecarriedthewaterfromthepump，andhadherwashing—daysandherironingsandastockingalwaysonthewireforoddmoments，andgossipedlikeamatronwiththeotherwomen，andhumouredthemenwithatolerantsmile—allthesethingsshedidasamatterofcourse，leapingjoyfulfrombedinthemorningbecausetherewassomuchtodo，doingitasthoroughlyandsedatelyasifthebrideswerealreadydueforalesson，andthenrushingoutinafitofchildishnesstoplaydumpsorpalaulayswithothersofherage。I
　　seeherfrockslengthening，thoughtheywereneververyshort，andthegamesgivenreluctantlyup。ThehorrorofmyboyhoodwasthatIknewatimewouldcomewhenIalsomustgiveupthegames，andhowitwastobedoneIsawnot（thisagonystillreturnstomeindreams，whenIcatchmyselfplayingmarbles，andlookonwithcolddispleasure）；IfeltthatImustcontinueplayinginsecret，andI
　　tookthisshadowtoher，whenshetoldmeherownexperience，whichconvincedusboththatwewereverylikeeachotherinside。Shehaddiscoveredthatworkisthebestfunafterall，andIlearneditintime，buthavemylapses，andsohadshe。
　　Iknowwhatwasherfavouritecostumewhenshewasattheagethattheymakeheroinesof：itwasapalebluewithapalebluebonnet，thewhiteribbonsofwhichtiedaggravatinglybeneaththechin，andwhenquestionedaboutthisgarbsheneveradmittedthatshelookedprettyinit，butshedidsay，withblushestoo，thatbluewashercolour，andthenshemightsmile，asatsomememory，andbegintotellusaboutamanwho—butitendedtherewithanothersmilewhichwaslongerindeparting。Sheneversaid，indeedshedeniedstrenuously，thatshehadledthemenadance，butagainthesmilereturned，andcamebetweenusandfullbelief。Yes，shehadherlittlevanities；whenshegottheMizpahringshedidcarrythatfingerinsuchawaythatthemostreluctantmustsee。Shewasveryparticularabouthergloves，andhidherbootssothatnoothershouldputthemon，andthensheforgottheirhiding—place，andhadsuspicionsoftheonewhofoundthem。Agoodwayofenragingherwastosaythatherlastyear’sbonnetwoulddoforthisyearwithoutalteration，orthatitwoulddefythefaceofclaytocountthenumberofhershawls。Inoneofmybooksthereisamotherwhoissettingoffwithhersonforthetowntowhichhehadbeencalledasminister，andshepausesonthethresholdtoaskhimanxiouslyifhethinksherbonnet’sets’her。Areviewersaidsheactedthus，notbecauseshecaredhowshelooked，butforthesakeofherson。This，Iremember，amusedmymotherverymuch。
　　Ihaveseenmanywearyon—dingsofsnow，buttheoneIseemtorecollectbestoccurrednearlytwentyyearsbeforeIwasborn。Itwasatthetimeofmymother’smarriagetoonewhoprovedamostlovingashewasalwaysawell—lovedhusband，amanIamveryproudtobeabletocallmyfather。Iknownotforhowmanydaysthesnowhadbeenfalling，butadaycamewhenthepeoplelostheartandwouldmakenomoregulliesthroughit，andbynextmorningtodosowasimpossible，theycouldnotflingthesnowhighenough。
　　ItsbackwasagainsteverydoorwhenSundaycame，andnoneventuredoutsaveavaliantfew，whobuffetedtheirwayintomymother’shometodiscussherpredicament，forunlessshewas’cried’inthechurchthatdayshemightnotbemarriedforanotherweek，andhowcouldshebecriedwiththeministerafieldawayandthechurchburiedtothewaist？Forhourstheytalked，andatlastsomemenstartedforthechurch，whichwasseveralhundredyardsdistant。
　　Threeofthemfoundawindow，andforcingapassagethroughit，criedthepair，andthatishowitcameaboutthatmyfatherandmotherweremarriedonthefirstofMarch。
　　Thatwouldbetheend，Isuppose，ifitwereastory，buttomymotheritwasonlyanotherbeginning，andnotthelast。Iseeherbendingoverthecradleofherfirst—born，collegeforhimalreadyinhereye（andmyfathernotlessambitious），andanonitisagirlwhoisinthecradle，andthenanothergirl—alreadyatragicfiguretothosewhoknowtheend。Iwonderifanyinstincttoldmymotherthatthegreatdayofherlifewaswhensheborethischild；
　　whatIamsureofisthatfromthefirstthechildfollowedherwiththemostwistfuleyesandsawhowsheneededhelpandlongedtoriseandgiveit。Forofphysicalstrengthmymotherhadneververymuch；itwasherspiritthatgotthroughthework，andinthosedaysshewasoftensoillthatthesandrainedonthedoctor’swindow，andmenrantoandfrowithleeches，and’sheisinlife，wecansaynomore’wastheinformationforthosewhocameknockingatthedoor。’Iamsorrowtosay，’herfatherwritesinanoldletternowbeforeme，’thatMargaretisinastatethatshewasneversobadbeforeinthisworld。TillWednesdaynightshewasinaspooraconditionasyoucouldthinkoftobealive。
　　However，afterbleeding，leeching，etc。，theDr。saysthismorningthatheisbetterhopednow，butatpresentwecansaynomorebutonlysheisaliveandinthehandsofHiminwhosehandsallourlivesare。Icangiveyounoadequateviewofwhatmyfeelingsare，indeedtheyareaburdentooheavyformeandIcannotdescribethem。Ilookonmyrightandlefthandandfindnocomfort，andifitwerenotfortherockthatishigherthanImyspiritwouldutterlyfall，butblessedbeHisnamewhocancomfortthosethatarecastdown。OformorefaithinHissupportinggraceinthishouroftrial。’
　　Thensheis’onthemend，’shemay’tholethro’’iftheytakegreatcareofher，’whichwewillbeforwardtodo。’Thefourthchilddieswhenbutafewweeksold，andthenextattwoyears。Shewashergrandfather’scompanion，andthushewroteofherdeath，thisstern，self—educatedAuldLichtwiththechappedhands：—
　　’IhopeyoureceivedmylastinwhichIspokeofDearlittleLydiabeingunwell。NowwithdeepsorrowImusttellyouthatyesterdayIassistedinlayingherdearremainsinthelonelygrave。Shediedat7o’clockonWednesdayevening，Isupposebythetimeyouhadgottheletter。TheDr。didnotthinkitwascrouptilllateonTuesdaynight，andallthatMedicalaidcouldprescribewasdone，buttheDr。hadnohopeafterhesawthatthecroupwasconfirmed，andhardindeedwouldthehearthavebeenthatwouldnothavemeltedatseeingwhatthedearlittlecreaturesufferedallWednesdayuntilthefeebleframewasquitewornout。Shewasquitesensibletillwithin2hoursofherdeath，andthenshesunkquitelowtillthevitalsparkfled，andallmedicinethatshegotshetookwiththegreatestreadiness，asifapprehensivetheywouldmakeherwell。Icannotwelldescribemyfeelingsontheoccasion。
　　Ithoughtthatthefountain—headofmytearshadnowbeendriedup，butIhavebeenmistaken，forImustconfessthatthebrinyrivuletsdescendedfastonmyfurrowedcheeks，shewassuchawinningChild，andhadsucharegardformeandalwayscameandtoldmeallherlittlethings，andasshewasnowspeaking，someofherlittleprattlewasverytaking，andthelivelyimagesofthesethingsintrudethemselvesmoreintomymindthantheyshoulddo，butthereisallowanceformoderategriefonsuchoccasions。ButwhenIamtellingyouofmyowngriefandsorrow，IknownotwhattosayofthebereavedMother，shehathnotmetwithanythinginthisworldbeforethathathgonesonearthequickwithher。Shehadnohandlingofthelastoneasshewasnotableatthetime，forsheonlyhadheronceinherarms，andheraffectionshadnottimetobesofairlyentwinedaroundher。Iammuchafraidthatshewillnotsoonifevergetoverthistrial。Althoughshewasweaklybefore，yetshewasprettywellrecovered，butthishathnotonlyaffectedhermind，butherbodyissomuchaffectedthatsheisnotwellabletositsolongasherbedismakingandhathscarcelytastedmeat[i。e。food]sinceMondaynight，andtillsometimeiselapsedwecannotsayhowshemaybe。ThereisnonethatisnotaParentthemselvesthatcanfullysympathisewithoneinsuchastate。Davidismuchaffectedalso，butitisnotsowellknownonhim，andtheyoungerbranchesofthefamilyareaffectedbutitwillbeonlymomentary。Butalasinallthisvastado，thereisonlythesorrowoftheworldwhichworkethdeath。Ohowgladdeningwoulditbeifwewereinasgreatbitternessforsinasforthelossofafirst—born。OhowunfittedpersonsorfamiliesisfortrialswhoknowsnotthedivineartofcastingalltheircaresupontheLord，andwhatmultitudesaretherethatwhenearthlycomfortsistakenaway，maywellsayWhathaveImore？alltheirdelightisplacedinsomeonethingoranotherintheworld，andwhocanblamethemforunwillinglypartingwithwhattheyesteemtheirchiefgood？Othatwewerewisetolayuptreasureforthetimeofneed，foritistrulyasolemnaffairtoenterthelistswiththekingofterrors。Itisstrangethatthelivinglaythethingssolittletoheartuntiltheyhavetoengageinthatwarwherethereisnodischarge。OthatmyheadwerewatersandmineeyesafountainoftearsthatImightweepdayandnightformyownandothers’stupidityinthisgreatmatter。Oforgracetodoeverydayworkinitspropertimeandtoliveabovethetemptingcheatingtrainofearthlythings。Therestofthefamilyaremoderatelywell。IhavebeenforsomedaysworsethanIhavebeenfor8monthspast，butImaysoongetbetter。IaminthesamewayIhaveoftenbeeninbefore，butthereisnosecurityforitalwaysbeingso，forIknowthatitcannotbefarfromthetimewhenI
　　willbeoneofthosethatoncewere。Ihavenoothernewstosendyou，andaslittleheartforthem。Ihopeyouwilltaketheearliestopportunityofwritingthatyoucan，andbeparticularasregardsMargaret，forsherequiresconsolation。’
　　Hediedexactlyaweekafterwritingthisletter，butmymotherwastoliveforanotherforty—fouryears。Andjoysofakindneversharedinbyhimweretocometohersoabundantly，solongdrawnoutthat，strangeasitwouldhaveseemedtohimtoknowit，herfullerlifehadscarceyetbegun。Andwiththejoysweretocometheirsweet，frightenedcomradespainandgrief；againshewastobetouchedtothequick，againandagaintobesoillthat’sheisinlife，wecansaynomore，’butstillshehadattendantsvery’forward’tohelpher，someofthemunborninherfather’stime。
　　Shetoldmeeverything，andsomymemoriesofourlittleredtownarecolouredbyhermemories。Iknewitasithadbeenforgenerations，andsuddenlyIsawitchange，andthetransformationcouldnotfailtostrikeaboy，forthesefirstyearsarethemostimpressionable（nothingthathappensafterwearetwelvemattersverymuch）；theyarealsothemostvividyearswhenwelookback，andmorevividthefartherwehavetolook，until，attheend，whatliesbetweenbendslikeahoop，andtheextremesmeet。ButthoughthenewtownistomeaglassthroughwhichIlookattheold，thepeopleIseepassingupanddownthesewynds，sitting，nightcapped，ontheirbarrow—shafts，hobblingintheirblackstochurchonSunday，arelessthoseIsawinmychildhoodthantheirfathersandmotherswhodidthesethingsinthesamewaywhenmymotherwasyoung。Icannotpicturetheplacewithoutseeingher，asalittlegirl，cometothedoorofacertainhouseandbeatherbassagainstthegav’le—end，orthereisaweddingto—night，andthecarriagewiththewhite—earedhorseissentforamaideninpaleblue，whosebonnet—stringstiebeneaththechin。
　　CHAPTERIII—WHATISHOULDBE
　　Mymotherwasagreatreader，andwithtenminutestosparebeforethestarchwasreadywouldbeginthe’DeclineandFall’—andfinishit，too，thatwinter。Foreignwordsinthetextannoyedherandmadeherbemoanherwantofaclassicaleducation—shehadonlyattendedaDame’sschoolduringsomeeasymonths—butsheneverpassedtheforeignwordsbyuntiltheirmeaningwasexplainedtoher，andwhennextsheandtheymetitwasasacquaintances，whichIthinkwascleverofher。OneofherdelightswastolearnfrommescrapsofHorace，andthenbringthemintoherconversationwith’collegedmen。’Ihavecomeuponherinlonelyplaces，suchasthestair—headortheeastroom，mutteringthesequotationsaloudtoherself，andIwellrememberhowshewouldsaytothevisitors，’Ay，ay，it’sverytrue，Doctor，butasyouknow，"Eheufugaces，Postume，Postume，labunturanni，"’or’Sal，Mr。So—and—so，mylassieisthrivingwell，butwoulditno’bemoretothepointtosay，"Omatrapulchrafiliapulchrior"？’whichastoundedthemverymuchifshemanagedtoreachtheendwithoutbeingflung，butusuallyshehadafitoflaughinginthemiddle，andsotheyfoundherout。
　　Biographyandexplorationwereherfavouritereading，forchoicethebiographyofmenwhohadbeengoodtotheirmothers，andshelikedtheexplorerstobealivesothatshecouldshudderatthethoughtoftheirventuringforthagain；butthoughsheexpressedahopethattheywouldhavethesensetostayathomehenceforth，shegleamedwithadmirationwhentheydisappointedher。InlaterdaysIhadafriendwhowasanAfricanexplorer，andshewasintwomindsabouthim；hewasoneofthemostengrossingofmortalstoher，sheadmiredhimprodigiously，picturedhimattheheadofhiscaravan，nowattackedbysavages，nowbywildbeasts，andadoredhimfortheuneasyhourshegaveher，butshewasalsoafraidthathewantedtotakemewithhim，andthenshethoughtheshouldbeputdownbylaw。Explorers’mothersalsointerestedherverymuch；
　　thebooksmighttellhernothingaboutthem，butshecouldcreatethemforherselfandwringherhandsinsympathywiththemwhentheyhadgotnonewsofhimforsixmonths。Yetthereweretimeswhenshegrudgedhimtothem—asthedaywhenhereturnedvictorious。Thenwhatwasbeforehereyeswasnotthesoncomingmarchinghomeagainbutanoldwomanpeeringforhimroundthewindowcurtainandtryingnottolookuplifted。Thenewspaperreportswouldbeabouttheson，butmymother’scommentwas’She’saproudwomanthisnight。’
　　WereadmanybookstogetherwhenIwasaboy，’RobinsonCrusoe’
　　beingthefirst（andthesecond），andthe’ArabianNights’shouldhavebeenthenext，forwegotitoutofthelibrary（apennyforthreedays），butondiscoveringthattheywerenightswhenwehadpaidforknightswesentthatvolumepacking，andIhavecurledmylipsatiteversince。’ThePilgrim’sProgress’wehadinthehouse（itwasascommonapossessionasadresser—head），andsoenamouredofitwasIthatIturnedourgardenintosloughsofDespond，withpea—stickstorepresentChristianonhistravelsandabuffet—stoolforhisburden，butwhenIdraggedmymotherouttoseemyhandiworkshewasscared，andIfeltfordays，withacertainelation，thatIhadbeenadarkcharacter。BesidesreadingeverybookwecouldhireorborrowIalsoboughtonenowandagain，andwhilebuying（itwastheoccupationofweeks）Iread，standingatthecounter，mostoftheotherbooksintheshop，whichisperhapsthemostexquisitewayofreading。AndItookinamagazinecalled’Sunshine，’themostdeliciousperiodical，Iamsure，ofanyday。Itcostahalfpennyorapennyamonth，andalways，asIfondlyremember，hadacontinuedtaleaboutthedearestgirl，whosoldwater—cress，whichisadaintynotgrownandIsupposeneverseeninmynativetown。ThisromanticlittlecreaturetooksuchholdofmyimaginationthatIcannoteatwater—
　　cressevennowwithoutemotion。Ilayinbedwonderingwhatshewouldbeuptointhenextnumber；Ihavelosttroutbecausewhentheynibbledmymindwaswanderingwithher；myearlylifewasembitteredbyhernotarrivingregularlyonthefirstofthemonth。
　　Iknownotwhetheritwasowingtoherloiteringonthewayonemonthtoanextentfleshandbloodcouldnotbear，orbecausewehadexhaustedthepennylibrary，butonadayIconceivedagloriousidea，oritwasputintomyheadbymymother，thendesirousofmakingprogresswithhernewcloutyhearthrug。Thenotionwasnothingshortofthis，whyshouldInotwritethetalesmyself？Ididwritethem—inthegarret—buttheybynomeanshelpedhertogetonwithherwork，forwhenIfinishedachapterI
　　boundeddownstairstoreadittoher，andsoshortwerethechapters，soreadywasthepen，thatIwasbackwithnewmanuscriptbeforeanotherclouthadbeenaddedtotherug。Authorshipseemed，likeherbannock—baking，toconsistofrunningbetweentwopoints。
　　Theywerealltalesofadventure（happiestishewhowritesofadventure），nocharacterswereallowedwithinifIknewtheirlikeintheflesh，thescenelayinunknownparts，desertislands，enchantedgardens，withknights（noneofyournights）onblackchargers，androundthefirstcorneraladysellingwater—cress。
　　AttwelveorthereaboutIputtheliterarycallingtobedforatime，havinggonetoaschoolwherecricketandfootballweremoreesteemed，butduringtheyearbeforeIwenttotheuniversity，itwokeupandIwrotegreatpartofathree—volumenovel。Thepublisherrepliedthatthesumforwhichhewouldprintitwasahundredand—however，thatwasnottheimportantpoint（Ihadsixpence）：wherehestabbedusbothwasinwritingthatheconsideredmea’cleverlady。’IrepliedstifflythatIwasagentleman，andsincethenIhavekeptthatmanuscriptconcealed。I
　　lookedthroughitlately，and，oh，butitisdull!Idefyanyonetoreadit。
　　Themalignancyofpublishers，however，couldnotturnmeback。
　　FromthedayonwhichIfirsttastedbloodinthegarretmymindwasmadeup；therecouldbenohum—dreadful—drumprofessionforme；
　　literaturewasmygame。Itwasnothighlythoughtofbythosewhowishedmewell。Irememberbeingaskedbytwomaidenladies，aboutthetimeIlefttheuniversity，whatIwastobe，andwhenI
　　repliedbrazenly，’Anauthor，’theyflunguptheirhands，andoneexclaimedreproachfully，’AndyouanM。A。!’Mymother’sviewsatfirstwerenotdissimilar；forlongshetookminejestinglyassomethingIwouldgrowoutof，andafterwardstheyhurthersothatItriedtogivethemup。Tobeaminister—thatshethoughtwasamongthefairestprospects，butshewasaveryambitiouswoman，andsometimesshewouldadd，halfscaredatherappetite，thattherewereministerswhohadbecomeprofessors，’butitwasnotcannytothinkofsuchthings。’
　　Ihadonepersononlyonmyside，anoldtailor，oneofthefullestmenIhaveknown，andquitethebesttalker。Hewasabachelor（hetoldmeallthatistobeknownaboutwoman），aleanman，pallidofface，hislegsdrawnupwhenhewalkedasifhewasevercarryingsomethinginhislap；hiswalkswereoftheshortest，fromthetea—
　　potonthehobtotheboardonwhichhestitched，fromtheboardtothehob，andsotobed。Hemighthavegoneouthadtheideastruckhim，butintheyearsIknewhim，thelastofhisbravelife，I
　　thinkhewasonlyintheopentwice，whenhe’flitted’—changedhisroomforanotherhardby。Ididnotseehimmakethesejourneys，butIseemtoseehimnow，andheissomewhatdizzyintheoddatmosphere；inonehandhecarriesabox—iron，heraisestheother，wonderingwhatthisisonhishead，itisahat；afaintsmellofsingedclothgoesbywithhim。Thismanhadheardofmysetofphotographsofthepoetsandaskedforasightofthem，whichledtoourfirstmeeting。Irememberhowhespreadthemoutonhisboard，andafterlookinglongatthem，turnedhisgazeonmeandsaidsolemnly，WhatcanIdotobeforeverknown，Andmaketheagetocomemyown？
　　TheselinesofCowleywerenewtome，butthesentimentwasnotnew，andImarvelledhowtheoldtailorcouldseethroughmesowell。Soitwasstrangetometodiscoverpresentlythathehadnotbeenthinkingofmeatall，butofhisownyoungdays，whenthatcoupletsanginhishead，andhe，too，hadthirstedtosetoffforGrubStreet，butwasafraid，andwhilehehesitatedoldagecame，andthenDeath，andfoundhimgraspingabox—iron。
　　Ihurriedhomewiththemouthful，butneighbourshaddroppedin，andthiswasforherearsonly，soIdrewhertothestair，andsaidimperiously，WhatcanIdotobeforeverknown，Andmaketheagetocomemyown？
　　Itwasanoddrequestforwhichtodrawherfromatea—table，andshemusthavebeensurprised，butIthinkshedidnotlaugh，andinafteryearsshewouldrepeatthelinesfondly，withaflushonhersoftface。’Thatisthekindyouwouldliketobeyourself!’wewouldsayinjesttoher，andshewouldreplyalmostpassionately，’No，butIwouldbewindyofbeinghismother。’Itispossiblethatshecouldhavebeenhismotherhadthatothersonlived，hemighthavemanageditfromsheerloveofher，butformypartIcansmileatoneofthosetwofiguresonthestairnow，havinglonggivenupthedreamofbeingforeverknown，andseeingmyselfmoreakintomyfriend，thetailor，forashewasfoundattheendonhisboard，soIhopeshallIbefoundatmyhandloom，doinghonestlytheworkthatsuitsmebest。WhoshouldknowsowellasI
　　thatitisbutahandloomcomparedtothegreatgunsthatreverberatethroughtheagetocome？Butshewhostoodwithmeonthestairthatdaywasaverysimplewoman，accustomedallherlifetomakingthemostofsmallthings，andIweavedsufficientlywelltopleaseher，whichhasbeenmyonlysteadfastambitionsinceI
　　wasalittleboy。
　　NotlessthanminebecameherdesirethatIshouldhavemyway—
　　but，ah，theironseatsinthatparkofhorriblerepute，andthatbareroomatthetopofmanyflightsofstairs!WhileIwasawayatcollegeshedrainedallavailablelibrariesforbooksaboutthosewhogotoLondontolivebythepen，andtheyalltoldthesameshudderingtale。London，whichsheneversaw，wastoheramonsterthatlickedupcountryyouthsastheysteppedfromthetrain；therewerethegarretsinwhichtheysatabject，andtheparkseatswheretheypassedthenight。Thoseparkseatswerethemonster’sglaringeyestoher，andasIgobythemnowsheisnearertomethanwhenIaminanyotherpartofLondon。Idaresaythatwhennightcomes，thisHydeParkwhichissogaybyday，ishauntedbytheghostsofmanymothers，whorun，wild—eyed，fromseattoseat，lookingfortheirsons。
　　Butifwecoulddodgethosedrearyseatsshelongedtoseemetrymyluck，andIsoughttoexcludethemfromthepicturebydrawingmapsofLondonwithHydeParkleftout。Londonwasasstrangetomeastoher，butlongbeforeIwasshotuponitIknewitbymaps，anddrewthemmoreaccuratelythanIcoulddrawthemnow。ManyatimesheandItookourjaunttogetherthroughthemap，andweremostgleeful，poppingintotelegraphofficestowiremyfatherandsisterthatweshouldnotbehometilllate，winkingtomybooksinlordlyshop—windows，lunchingatrestaurants（andrememberingnottocallitdinner），saying，’Howdo？’toMr。AlfredTennysonwhenwepassedhiminRegentStreet，callingatpublishers’officesforcheque，when’Willyoutakecareofit，orshallI？’Iaskedgaily，andshewouldbecertaintoreply，’I’mthinkingwe’dbettertakeittothebankandgetthemoney，’forshealwaysfeltsurerofmoneythanofcheques；sotothebankwewent（’Twotens，andtherestingold’），andthencestraightway（bycab）totheplacewhereyoubuysealskincoatsformiddlingoldladies。Buterethelaughwasdonetheparkwouldcomethroughthemaplikeablot。
　　’Ifyoucouldonlybesureofasmuchaswouldkeepbodyandsoultogether，’mymotherwouldsaywithasigh。
　　’Withsomethingover，mother，tosendtoyou。’
　　’Youcouldnaexpectthatatthestart。’
　　ThewenchIshouldhavebeencourtingnowwasjournalism，thatgrisetteofliteraturewhohasasmileandahandforallbeginners，welcomingthematthethreshold，teachingthemsomuchthatisworthknowing，introducingthemtotheotherladywhomtheyhaveworshippedfromafar，showingthemevenhowtowooher，andthenbiddingthemabrightGod—speed—hewereaningratewho，havinghadherjoyouscompanionship，nolongerflingsherakissastheypass。Butthoughshebearsnoill—willwhensheisjilted，youmustservefaithfullywhileyouarehers，andyoumustseekheroutandmakemuchofher，and，untilyoucanrelyonhergood—
　　nature（notethis），notawordabouttheotherlady。WhenatlastshetookmeinIgrewsofondofherthatIcalledherbytheother’sname，andevennowIthinkattimesthattherewasmorefuninthelittlesister，butIbeganbywooingherwithcontributionsthatwereallmisfits。InanoldbookIfindcolumnsofnotesaboutworksprojectedatthistime，nearlyalltoconsistofessaysondeeplyuninterestingsubjects；thelightestwastobeavolumeontheoldersatirists，beginningwithSkeltonandTomNash—thehalfofthatmanuscriptstillliesinadustychest—theonlystorywasaboutMaryQueenofScots，whowasalsothesubjectofmanyunwrittenpapers。QueenMaryseemstohavebeenluringmetomyundoingeversinceIsawHolyrood，andIhaveahorridfearthatImaywritethatnovelyet。Thatanythingcouldbewrittenaboutmynativeplaceneverstruckme。Wehadreadsomewherethatanovelistisbetterequippedthanmostofhistradeifheknowshimselfandonewoman，andmymothersaid，’Youknowyourself，foreverybodymustknowhimself’（thereneverwasawomanwhoknewlessaboutherselfthanshe），andshewouldadddolefully，’ButIdoubtI’mtheonlywomanyouknowwell。’
　　’ThenImustmakeyoumyheroine，’Isaidlightly。
　　’Ageyauld—farrant—likeheroine!’shesaid，andwebothlaughedatthenotion—solittledidwereadthefuture。
　　ThusitisobviouswhatweremyqualificationswhenIwasrashlyengagedasaleader—writer（itwasmysisterwhosawtheadvertisement）onanEnglishprovincialpaper。AtthemomentIwasasupliftedastheothers，forthechancehadcomeatlast，withwhatweallregardedasaprodigioussalary，butIwaswantedinthebeginningoftheweek，anditsuddenlystruckmethattheleadersweretheonethingIhadalwaysskipped。Leaders!Howweretheywritten？whatweretheyabout？Mymotherwasalreadysittingtriumphantamongmysocks，andIdurstnotletherseemequaking。Iretiredtoponder，andpresentlyshecametomewiththedailypaper。Whichweretheleaders？shewantedtoknow，soevidentlyIcouldgetnohelpfromher。Hadsheanymorenewspapers？Iasked，andafterrummaging，sheproducedafewwithwhichherboxeshadbeenlined。Others，verydusty，camefrombeneathcarpets，andlastlyasootybundlewasdraggeddownthechimney。SurroundedbytheseIsatdown，andstudiedhowtobecomeajournalist。
　　CHAPTERIV—ANEDITOR
　　Adevoutlady，towhomsomefriendhadpresentedoneofmybooks，usedtosaywhenaskedhowshewasgettingonwithit，’Sal，it’sdreary，weary，uphillwork，butI’vewrastledthroughwithtougherjobsinmytime，and，pleaseGod，I’llwrastlethroughwiththisone。’Itwasinthisspirit，Ifear，thoughshenevertoldmeso，thatmymotherwrestledforthenextyearormorewithmyleaders，andindeedIwasalwaysgenuinelysorryforthepeopleIsawreadingthem。InmysparehoursIwastryingjournalismofanotherkindandsendingittoLondon，butnearlyeighteenmonthselapsedbeforetherecametome，asunlookedforasatelegram，thethoughtthattherewassomethingquaintaboutmynativeplace。Aboywhofoundthataknifehadbeenputintohispocketinthenightcouldnothavebeenmoresurprised。AfewdaysafterwardsIsentmymotheraLondoneveningpaperwithanarticleentitled’AnAuldLichtCommunity，’andtheytoldmethatwhenshesawtheheadingshelaughed，becausetherewassomethingdrolltoherinthesightofthewordsAuldLichtinprint。Forher，asforme，thatnewspaperwassoontohavethefaceofafriend。TothisdayI
　　neverpassitsplacardsinthestreetwithoutshakingitbythehand，andsheusedtosewitspagestogetheraslovinglyasthoughtheywereachild’sfrock；butletthetruthbetold，whenshereadthatfirstarticleshebecamealarmed，andfearingthetalkofthetown，hidthepaperfromalleyes。Forsometimeafterwards，whileIproudlypicturedhershowingthisandsimilararticlestoallwhofeltaninterestinme，shewasreallyconcealingthemfearfullyinabandboxonthegarretstair。AndshewantedtoknowbyreturnofpostwhetherIwaspaidforthesearticlesasmuchasIwaspaidforrealarticles；whensheheardthatIwaspaidbetter，shelaughedagainandhadthemoutofthebandboxforre—reading，anditcannotbedeniedthatshethoughttheLondoneditorafinefellowbutslightlysoft。
　　WhenIsentoffthatfirstsketchIthoughtIhadexhaustedthesubject，butoureditorwrotethathewouldlikesomethingmoreofthesame，soIsenthimamarriage，andhetookit，andthenI
　　triedhimwithafuneral，andhetookit，andreallyitbegantolookasifwehadhim。Nowmymothermighthavebeendiscovered，inanswertocertainexcitedletters，flingingthebundleofundarnedsocksfromherlap，and’goinginforliterature’；shewasrackingherbrains，byrequest，formemoriesImightconvertintoarticles，andtheycametomeinletterswhichshedictatedtomysisters。HowwellIcouldhearhersayingsbetweenthelines：’Buttheeditor—manwillneverstandthat，it’sperfectblethers’—’Bythispostitmustgo，Itellyou；wemusttaketheeditorwhenhe’shungry—wecannabeblamedforit，canwe？heprintsthemofhisfreewill，sothewiteishis’—’ButI’mnearterrified。—IfLondonfolkreadsthemwe’redonefor。’AndIwassoundedastotheadvisabilityofsendinghimapresentofalippieofshortbread，whichwastobehercraftywayofgettingroundhim。
　　Bythistime，thoughmymotherandIwerehundredsofmilesapart，youmaypictureuswavingourhandstoeachotheracrosscountry，andshouting’Hurrah!’Youmayalsopicturetheeditorinhisofficethinkinghewasbehavinglikeashrewdmanofbusiness，andunconsciousthatupinthenorththerewasanelderlyladychucklingsomuchathimthatshecouldscarcelyscrapethepotatoes。
　　Iwasnowabletoseemymotheragain，andtheparkseatsnolongerloomedsoprominentinourmapofLondon。Still，theretheywere，anditwaswithaneffortthatshesummonedupcouragetoletmego。Shefearedchanges，andwhocouldtellthattheeditorwouldcontinuetobekind？Perhapswhenhesawme—
　　Sheseemedtobeverymuchafraidofhisseeingme，andthis，I
　　wouldpointout，wasareflectiononmyappearanceormymanner。
　　No，whatshemeantwasthatIlookedsoyoung，and—andthatwouldtakehimaback，forhadInotwrittenasanagedman？
　　’Butheknowsmyage，mother。’
　　’I’mgladofthat，butmaybehewouldnalikeyouwhenhesawyou。’
　　’Oh，itismymanner，then!’
　　’Idinnasaythat，but—’
　　Heremysisterwouldbreakin：’Theshortandthelongofitisjustthis，shethinksnobodyhassuchmannersasherself。Canyoudenyit，youvainwoman？’Mymotherwoulddenyitvigorously。
　　’Youstandthere，’mysisterwouldsaywithaffectedscorn，’andtellmeyoudon’tthinkyoucouldgetthebetterofthatmanquickerthananyofus？’
　　’Sal，I’mthinkingIcouldmanagehim，’saysmymother，withachuckle。
　　’Howwouldyousetaboutit？’
　　Thenmymotherwouldbegintolaugh。’Iwouldfindoutfirstifhehadafamily，andthenIwouldsaytheywerethefinestfamilyinLondon。’
　　’Yes，thatisjustwhatyouwoulddo，youcunningwoman!Butifhehasnofamily？’
　　’Iwouldsaywhatgreatmeneditorsare!’
　　’Hewouldseethroughyou。’
　　’Nothe!’
　　’Youdon’tunderstandthatwhatimposesoncommonfolkwouldneverhoodwinkaneditor。’
　　’That’swhereyouarewrong。Gentleorsimple，stupidorclever，themenareallalikeinthehandsofawomanthatflattersthem。’
　　’Ah，I’msuretherearebetterwaysofgettingroundaneditorthanthat。’
　　’Idaresaythereare，’mymotherwouldsaywithconviction，’butifyoutrythatplanyouwillneverneedtotryanother。’
　　’Howartfulyouare，mother—youwithyoursoftface!Doyounotthinkshame？’
　　’Pooh!’saysmymotherbrazenly。

已是第一章

查看目录