75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories. Коллектив авторов

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СКАЧАТЬ rubbin’ it up. Sarah Jane died o’ pneumonia about three or four years after that, and the folks that nursed her said she wouldn’t take a drink o’ water or a dose o’ medicine out o’ any cup but that. There’s some folks, child, that don’t have to do anything but walk along and hold out their hands, and the premiums jest naturally fall into ’em; and there’s others that work and strive the best they know how, and nothin’ ever seems to come to ’em; and I reckon nobody but the Lord and Sarah Jane knows how much happiness she got out o’ that cup. I’m thankful she had that much pleasure before she died.’

      There was a quilt hanging over the foot of the bed that had about it a certain air of distinction. It was a solid mass of patchwork, composed of squares, parallelograms, and hexagons. The squares were of dark gray and red-brown, the hexagons were white, the parallelograms black and light gray. I felt sure that it had a history that set it apart from its ordinary fellows.

      ‘Where did you get the pattern, Aunt Jane?’ I asked. ‘I never saw anything like it.’

      The old lady’s eyes sparkled, and she laughed with pure pleasure.

      ‘That’s what everybody says,’ she exclaimed, jumping up and spreading the favored quilt over two laden chairs, where its merits became more apparent and striking. ‘There ain’t another quilt like this in the State o’ Kentucky, or the world, for that matter. My granddaughter Henrietta, Mary Frances’ youngest child, brought me this pattern from Europe.’

      She spoke the words as one might say, ‘from Paradise,’ or ‘from Olympus[81],’ or ‘from the Lost Atlantis[82].’ ‘Europe’ was evidently a name to conjure with, a country of mystery and romance unspeakable. I had seen many things from many lands beyond the sea, but a quilt pattern from Europe! Here at last was something new under the sun. In what shop of London or Paris were quilt patterns kept on sale for the American tourist?

      ‘You see,’ said Aunt Jane, ‘Henrietta married a mighty rich man, and jest as good as he’s rich, too, and they went to Europe on their bridal trip. When she come home she brought me the prettiest shawl you ever saw. She made me stand up and shut my eyes, and she put it on my shoulders and made me look in the lookin’-glass, and then she says, “I brought you a new quilt pattern, too, grandma, and I want you to piece one quilt by it and leave it to me when you die.” And then she told me about goin’ to a town over yonder they call Florence[83], and how she went into a big church that was built hundreds o’ years before I was born. And she said the floor was made o’ little pieces o’ colored stone, all laid together in a pattern, and they called it mosaic. And says I, “Honey, has it got anything to do with Moses and his law?” You know the Commandments[84] was called the Mosaic Law[85], and was all on tables o’ stone. And Henrietta jest laughed, and says she: “No, grandma; I don’t believe it has. But,” says she, “the minute I stepped on that pavement I thought about you, and I drew this pattern off on a piece o’ paper and brought it all the way to Kentucky for you to make a quilt by.” Henrietta bought the worsted for me, for she said it had to be jest the colors o’ that pavement over yonder, and I made it that very winter.’

      Aunt Jane was regarding the quilt with worshipful eyes, and it really was an effective combination of color and form.

      ‘Many a time while I was piecin’ that,’ she said, ‘I thought about the man that laid the pavement in that old church, and wondered what his name was, and how he looked, and what he’d think if he knew there was a old woman down here in Kentucky usin’ his patterns to make a bed quilt.’

      It was indeed a far cry from the Florentine artisan of centuries ago to this humble worker in calico and worsted, but between the two stretched a cord of sympathy that made them one – the eternal aspiration after beauty.

      ‘Honey,’ said Aunt Jane, suddenly, ‘did I ever show you my premiums?’

      And then, with pleasant excitement in her manner, she arose, fumbled in her deep pocket for an ancient bunch of keys, and unlocked a cupboard on one side of the fireplace. One by one she drew them out, unrolled the soft yellow tissue-paper that enfolded them, and ranged them in a stately line on the old cherry center-table – nineteen sterling silver cups and goblets. ‘Abram took some of ’em on his fine stock, and I took some of ’em on my quilts and salt-risin’ bread and cakes,’ she said, impressively.

      To the artist his medals, to the soldier his cross of the Legion of Honor[86], and to Aunt Jane her silver cups. All the triumph of a humble life was symbolized in these shining things. They were simple and genuine as the days in which they were made. A few of them boasted a beaded edge or a golden lining, but no engraving or embossing marred their silver purity. On the bottom of each was the stamp: ‘John B. Akin, Danville, Ky.’ There they stood,

      ‘Filled to the brim with precious memories,’ – memories of the time when she and Abram had worked together in field or garden or home, and the County Fair brought to all a yearly opportunity to stand on the height of achievement and know somewhat the taste of Fame’s enchanted cup.

      ‘There’s one for every child and every grandchild,’ she said, quietly, as she began wrapping them in the silky paper, and storing them carefully away in the cupboard, there to rest until the day when children and grandchildren would claim their own, and the treasures of the dead would come forth from the darkness to stand as heirlooms on fashionable sideboards and damask[87]-covered tables.

      ‘Did you ever think, child,’ she said, presently, ‘how much piecin’ a quilt’s like livin’ a life? And as for sermons, why, they ain’t no better sermon to me than a patchwork quilt, and the doctrines is right there a heap plainer’n they are in the catechism[88]. Many a time I’ve set and listened to Parson Page preachin’ about predestination and free-will, and I’ve said to myself, “Well, I ain’t never been through Centre College up at Danville, but if I could jest git up in the pulpit with one of my quilts, I could make it a heap plainer to folks than parson’s makin’ it with all his big words.” You see, you start out with jest so much caliker; you don’t go to the store and pick it out and buy it, but the neighbors will give you a piece here and a piece there, and you’ll have a piece left every time you cut out a dress, and you take jest what happens to come. And that’s like predestination. But when it comes to the cuttin’ out, why, you’re free to choose your own pattern. You can give the same kind o’ pieces to two persons, and one’ll make a “nine-patch” and one’ll make a “wild-goose chase,” and there’ll be two quilts made out o’ the same kind o’ pieces, and jest as different as they can be. And that is jest the way with livin’. The Lord sends us the pieces, but we can cut ’em out and put ’em together pretty much to suit ourselves, and there’s a heap more in the cuttin’ out and the sewin’ than there is in the caliker. The same sort o’ things comes into СКАЧАТЬ