Читать книгу The Cruise of The Violetta - Arthur Willis Colton - Страница 5

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MRS. MINK was a pleasant looking woman, though somewhat thin, and with sharp gray eyes. She wore a plain, neat black dress, such as a self-respecting woman might wear to church in some small inland city. A large flowered rug covered the deck, a round mahogany table in the middle of it. There were a hammock and a number of upholstered chairs, each with a doily on the back of it. A work-basket stood on the table, brimming with sewing materials. A white crocheted shawl hung on the back of a chair, a red paper lampshade over the electric bulb.

The scene wakened sleeping associations of mine. Just such a shawl my maiden aunts wore in Connecticut, just such doilies were on their rocking chairs, just such flowered carpets were in their parlours. They dressed like Mrs. Mink too, but, to the best of my recollection, were not so agreeable to look at.

That weird glistening sea garden of coral and purple feathers and improbable fish was fresh in my mind, with Dr. Ulswater's talk, both undomestic, paradoxical, and showing coloured objects slumberously afloat in a transparent and deluding element. The wide blue harbour; the steep white town buried in tropical foliage; the big spruce yacht, too; the yellow-bearded Swede Jansen, and the crew in flat caps and jumpers—all these belonged to the world as I had known it of later years. With the line of the awning came the abrupt change; there ruled the flowered carpet, the centre table, the doilies, the provincial feminine touch, the tradition and influence of a million parlours and “sitting rooms” of the States. One missed the wall paper, and mantelpiece, the insipid and carefully framed print, and the black stove; but Mrs. Mink seemed to have made herself at home, so far as she was able, and the effect was homelike.

All this while Mrs. Mink looked critical, and Dr. Ulswater was introducing himself and me, and presently I became aware that Mrs. Mink was telling Dr. Ulswater her story.

It appeared that she came from the small city of Potterville, Ohio, whose aspect might be inferred and pictured—a half-dozen brick business blocks, a railway station, a dozen churches, dusty streets, board sidewalks, maples for shade trees—mainly young and not too healthy—clapboarded frame houses with narrow piazzas, a thin, monotonous current of social talk, a limited and local existence.

Until the year before, the fortunes of Mrs. Mink had hardly led her beyond the borders of the State, nor away from Potterville for more than a few days.

Mr. Mink, a silent, plodding man—as I gathered—a banker, counted a well-to-do citizen, but not suspected of unusual wealth, had died the year before, of a natural and normal sickness. There must have been a secretive element in him, something now forever unexplained. He had sat at his desk in his bank. Away from the bank he had never alluded to business. He had not liked any habits to be altered. No one in Potterville, not even the bank cashier, certainly not Mrs. Mink, suspected that Potterville harboured a millionaire. But when Mrs. Mink found herself a widow of extensive and varied wealth, she set herself to consider the situation. So far the story was partly inferential. Mrs. Mink spoke with some reserve.

When the size of her income was explained to her by her lawyer, who was also her neighbour, she cried, in some alarm, “What shall I do?”

He said: “Get a steam yacht. Go into high society, and found a college. Spend it on the heathen. Make your name immortal in Potterville.”

“But,” said Mrs. Mink, narratively, “I thought those were too many different things. But when I was little I often wished I could see the equator, and now I rather wanted to see the heathen, and the idols that have pictures in Sunday-school quarterlies. The more I thought of parrots and monkeys and bananas and Foreign Missions, the more I knew what I ought to do first. Because I knew more about Foreign Missions than about colleges, and I thought tropical countries would be nicer than high society.”

“Admirable!” cried Dr. Ulswater, suddenly. “What logic! For subtle inference and accurate reasoning, look at that!”

Mrs. Mink looked surprised.

“But I felt sure that it would be better to be comfortable while I was examining the missions, so I went to the lawyer, and he sent me to some people who made ships. After that everything was plain.”

“Plain!” cried Dr. Ulswater. “It's a syllogism.”

“The ship-dealer was very kind,” said Mrs. Mink, reflecting. “He got the Violetta and Captain Jansen. It has been quite pleasant so far. But——” She hesitated.

“But you haven't yet seen what you seek for,” said Dr. Ulswater. “You have taken but a step into the imperium of the tropics. You have far to go. I have been on the road these twenty years. Imprimis, I will show you the model upon which the heathen idol is constructed.”

He brought up the cuttlefish from the boat and unbundled it. Mrs. Mink thought it was somewhat uglier than any pictures of heathen idols.

“The faith of the savage is based upon fear in the midst of wonder,” said Dr. Ulswater. “This is an incarnate terror and obscure nightmare seen moving through ineffable sea gardens. Behold the seed of religions. You are wise, madam, in desiring to see and to hear, to know the miracle of the world. Everywhere two miracles confront each other, the visible world and the soul of man beholding it, but custom and usage are blinding; that is to say, the more you get used to a thing, the more you don't see it.”

Mrs. Mink nodded.

“The soul of the heathen,” continued Dr. Ulswater, musing, “and that of the missionary are both remarkable.” Mrs. Mink looked suspicious; but he continued, musing: “There is, at this moment, an insurrection in Haiti, a bad-tempered mountain blowing up in Peru, and ten thousand miles from there a large brown idol, that I know well, sitting in the woods in Ceylon, with green jade eyes and silver finger-nails. And they're all turned over once a day.”

Something about Mrs. Mink, self-contained, quiet, and decisive, looking at him with shrewd, unbewildered eyes, seemed to rouse him to conversation; or else he had an object in being entertaining. Captain Jansen and two or three blue-capped sailors were near, and stood at the corner of the cabin listening, while he talked on, talked immensely, talked gloriously, talked like the power of Niagara, until the tide ran out and the sun set, and Mrs. Mink said, “Now you'll stay to tea,” so decisively that we stayed to tea.

In the cabin were green curtains and pink lamp-shade, wall paper and framed prints, a radiator, biscuits, cake, preserves, a red-haired Irish servant-girl named Norah, and Mrs. Mink at home. She was thoughtful.

“Do you have to collect cuttlefish?” she asked at last.

“I? No. I do what I like. Why?” Dr. Ulswater's innocence of manner was perhaps too elaborate. “My curly-haired young friend must not go back to his job for some weeks in South America, for he is not yet a grizzly-bear. He is languid, like a jelly-fish.”

“Well, I shouldn't dare ask any one away from business. But I have some spare rooms, and I would be pleased if you and Mr. Kirby would visit me. It would be a great help, if you aren't too busy.”

“We are your grateful guests,” said Dr. Ulswater, elaborately.

When we came to go, the sulky negro and his boat had disappeared. Captain Jansen offered to take us ashore. Dr. Ulswater bundled up his cuttlefish. Mrs. Mink said, “He's dreadfully untidy.”

“Admirable!” cried Dr. Ulswater again. “It's a select word, a creative description! He's a regular litter. His very vital point is loose.”

We slid away in the starlight.

“What personality!” muttered Dr. Ulswater. “What point of view! Untidy! The very word! She buys a steam yacht, furnishes it in the style of Potterville, Ohio, and starts off to examine Foreign Missions. Why, sure! That's easy!”

Captain Jansen chuckled: “I see men try sheet her more'n once, but they don't. She have a head.”

“Untidy!” muttered Dr. Ulswater. “Untidy!”—as if he foreboded trouble in that word.