A Modern Chronicle — Complete. Winston Churchill
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Название: A Modern Chronicle — Complete
Автор: Winston Churchill
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4057664619662
isbn:
At night, in the warm season, when well brought up children were at home or at the seashore, strange things were said to happen at Uhrig's Cave.
Honora was a tall slip of a girl of sixteen before it was given her to know these mysteries, and the Ali Baba theory a thing of the past. Other theories had replaced it. Nevertheless she clung tightly to Peter's arm as they walked down Locust Street and came in sight of the wall. Above it, and under the big trees, shone a thousand glittering lights: there was a crowd at the gate, and instead of saying, “Open, Sesame,” Peter slipped two bright fifty-cent pieces to the red-faced German ticketman, and in they went.
First and most astounding of disillusions of passing childhood, it was not a cave at all! And yet the word “disillusion” does not apply. It was, after all, the most enchanting and exciting of spots, to make one's eye shine and one's heart beat. Under the trees were hundreds of tables surrounded by hovering ministering angels in white, and if you were German, they brought you beer; if American, ice-cream. Beyond the tables was a stage, with footlights already set and orchestra tuning up, and a curtain on which was represented a gentleman making decorous love to a lady beside a fountain. As in a dream, Honora followed Peter to a table, and he handed her a programme.
“Oh, Peter,” she cried, “it's going to be 'Pinafore'!”
Honora's eyes shone like stars, and elderly people at the neighbouring tables turned more than once to smile at her that evening. And Peter turned more than once and smiled too. But Honora did not consider Peter. He was merely Providence in one of many disguises, and Providence is accepted by his beneficiaries as a matter of fact.
The rapture of a young lady of temperament is a difficult thing to picture. The bird may feel it as he soars, on a bright August morning, high above amber cliffs jutting out into indigo seas; the novelist may feel it when the four walls of his room magically disappear and the profound secrets of the universe are on the point of revealing themselves. Honora gazed, and listened, and lost herself. She was no longer in Uhrig's Cave, but in the great world, her soul a-quiver with harmonies.
“Pinafore,” although a comic opera, held something tragic for Honora, and opened the flood-gates to dizzy sensations which she did not understand. How little Peter, who drummed on the table to the tune of:
“Give three cheers and one cheer more
For the hearty captain of the Pinafore,”
imagined what was going on beside him! There were two factors in his pleasure; he liked the music, and he enjoyed the delight of Honora.
What is Peter? Let us cease looking at him through Honora's eyes and taking him like daily bread, to be eaten and not thought about. From one point of view, he is twenty-nine and elderly, with a sense of humour unsuspected by young persons of temperament. Strive as we will, we have only been able to see him in his role of Providence, or of the piper. Has he no existence, no purpose in life outside of that perpetual gentleman in waiting? If so, Honora has never considered it.
After the finale had been sung and the curtain dropped for the last time, Honora sighed and walked out of the garden as one in a trance. Once in a while, as he found a way for them through the crowd, Peter glanced down at her, and something like a smile tugged at the corners of a decidedly masculine mouth, and lit up his eyes. Suddenly, at Locust Street, under the lamp, she stopped and surveyed him. She saw a very real, very human individual, clad in a dark nondescript suit of clothes which had been bought ready-made, and plainly without the bestowal of much thought, on Fifth Street. The fact that they were a comparative fit was in itself a tribute to the enterprise of the Excelsior Clothing Company, for Honora's observation that he was too long one way had been just. He was too tall, his shoulders were too high, his nose too prominent, his eyes too deep-set; and he wore a straw hat with the brim turned up.
To Honora his appearance was as familiar as the picture of the Pope which had always stood on Catherine's bureau. But to-night, by grace of some added power of vision, she saw him with new and critical eyes. She was surprised to discover that he was possessed of a quality with which she had never associated him—youth. Not to put it too strongly—comparative youth.
“Peter,” she demanded, “why do you dress like that?”
“Like what?” he said.
Honora seized the lapel of his coat.
“Like that,” she repeated. “Do you know, if you wore different clothes, you might almost be distinguished looking. Don't laugh. I think it's horrid of you always to laugh when I tell you things for your own good.”
“It was the idea of being almost distinguished looking that—that gave me a shock,” he assured her repentantly.
“You should dress on a different principle,” she insisted.
Peter appeared dazed.
“I couldn't do that,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because—because I don't dress on any principle now.”
“Yes, you do,” said Honora, firmly. “You dress on the principle of the wild beasts and fishes. It's all in our natural history at Miss Farmer's. The crab is the colour of the seaweed, and the deer of the thicket. It's a device of nature for the protection of weak things.”
Peter drew himself up proudly.
“I have always understood, Miss Leffingwell, that the king of beasts was somewhere near the shade of the jungle.”
Honora laughed in spite of this apparent refutation of her theory of his apparel, and shook her head.
“Do be serious, Peter. You'd make much more of an impression on people if you wore clothes that had—well, a little more distinction.”
“What's the use of making an impression if you can't follow it up?” he said.
“You can,” she declared. “I never thought of it until to-night, but you must have a great deal in you to have risen all the way from an errand boy in the bank to a lawyer.”
“Look out!” he cautioned her; “I shall become insupportably conceited.”
“A little more conceit wouldn't hurt you,” said Honora, critically. “You'll forgive me, Peter, if I tell you from time to time what I think. It's for your own good.”
“I try to realize that,” replied Peter, humbly. “How do you wish me to dress—like Mr. Rossiter?”
The picture evoked of Peter arrayed like Mr. Harland Rossiter, who had sent flowers to two generations and was preparing to send more СКАЧАТЬ