Читать книгу The Master; a Novel - Israel Zangwill - Страница 6

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âMatt, Matt, whatâs thet thar noise?â

Matt opened his eyes vaguely, shaking off his younger brotherâs frantic clutch.

âItâs onây the frost,â he murmured, closing his eyes again. âGo to sleep, Billy.â

Since the sled accident that had crippled him for life, Billy was full of nervous terrors, and the night had been charged with mysterious noises. Within the lonely wooden house weather-boards and beams cracked; without, twigs snapped and branches crashed; at times Billy heard reports as loud as pistol-shots. One of these shots meant the bursting of the wash-basin on the bedroom bench, Matt having forgotten to empty its contents, which had expanded into ice.

Matt curled himself up more comfortably and almost covered his face with the blanket, for the cold in the stoveless attic was acute. In the gray half-light the rough beams and the quilts glistened with frozen breaths. The little square window-panes were thickly frosted, and below the crumbling rime was a thin layer of ice left from the day before, solid up to the sashes, and leaving no infinitesimal dot of clear glass, for there was nothing to thaw it except such heat as might radiate through the bricks of the square chimney that came all the way from the cellar through the centre of the flooring to pop its head through the shingled roof.

âMatt!â Billy was nudging his brother in the ribs again.

âHullo!â grumbled the boy.

âThet thar ainât the frost. Hark!â

â âTis, I tell ye. Donât you hear the pop, pop, pop?â

âNot thet; tâother down-stairs.â

âOh, thetâs the wind, I reckon.â

âNo; itâs some âun screaminâ!â

Matt raised himself on his elbow, and listened.

âWhy, you gooney, itâs onây mother rowinâ Harriet,â he said, reassuringly, and snuggled up again between the blankets.

The winter, though yet young, had already achieved a reputation. Blustrous north winds had driven inland, felling the trees like lumbermen. In the Annapolis Basin myriads of herrings, surprised by Jack Frost before their migratory instinct awoke, had been found frozen in the weirs, and the great salt tides overflowing the high dykes had been congealed into a chocolate sea that, when the liquid water beneath ran back through the sluices, lay solid on the marshes. By the shores of the Basin of Minas sea-birds flapped ghostlike over amber ice-cakes, whose mud-streaks under the kiss of the sun blushed like dragonâs blood.

Snow had fallen heavily, whitening the âevergreenâ hemlocks, and through the shapeless landscape half-buried oxen had toiled to clear the blurred roads bordered by snow-drifts, till the three familiar tracks of hoofs and sleigh-runners came in sight again. The stage to Truro ploughed its way along, with only dead freight on its roof and a furred animal or two, vaguely human, shivering inside. Sometimes the mail had to travel by horse, and sometimes it altogether disappointed Billy and his brothers and sisters of the excitement of its passage; for the stage road ran by the small clearing, in the centre of which their house and barn had been built—a primitive gabled house, like a Noahâs ark, ugliness unadorned, and a cheap log barn of the âlean-toâ type, with its cracks corked with moss, and a roof of slabs.

Jack Frost might stop the mail, but he could not stop the gayeties of the season. âWooden frolicsâ and quilting-parties and candy-pullings and infares and Baptist revival-meetings had been as frequent as ever; and part of Mattâs enjoyment of his couch was a delicious sense of oversleeping himself legitimately, for even his mother could hardly expect him to build the fire at five when he had only returned from Deacon Haileyâs âmuddinâ frolicâ at two. He saw himself coasting down the white slopes in his hand-sled, watching the wavering radiance of the northern lights that paled the moon and the stars, and wishing his mother would not spoil the after-glow of the nightâs pleasure and the poetic silence of the woods by grumbling about his grown-up sister Harriet, who had deserted them for an earlier escort home. He felt himself well rewarded for his afternoonâs labor in loading marsh mud for the top-dressing of Deacon Haileyâs fields; and a sudden remembrance of how his mother had been rewarded for helping Mrs. Hailey to prepare the feast made him nudge Billy in his turn.

âCheer up, Billy. Weâve brought back a basket oâ goodies: thereâs plum-cake, doughnuts—â

âItâs gettinâ worst,â said Billy. âHark!â

Matt mumbled impatiently and redirected his thoughts to the âmuddinâ frolic.â The images of the night swept before him with almost the vividness of actuality; he lost himself in memories as though they were realities, and every now and then a dash of sleep streaked these waking visions with the fantasy of dream.

âMy, how the fiddle shrieks!â runs the boyâs reminiscence. âWhy donât ole Jupe do his tuninâ to home, the pesky nigger? Weâre all waitinâ for the reel—the âfoursâ are all made up; Ruth Hailey and me hev took the floor. Ruth looks jest great with thet white frock anâ the pink sash, thetâs a fact. Hooray!—âThe Devil among the Tailors!â—La, lalla, lalla, lalla, lalla, flip-flop!â He hears the big winter top-boots thwack the threshing-floor. Keep it up! Whoop! Faster! Ever faster! Oh, the joy of life!

Now he is swinging Ruth in his arms. Oh, the merry-go-round! The long rows of candles pinned by forks to the barn walls are guttering in the wind of the movement; the horses tied to their mangers neigh in excitement; from between their stanchions the mild-eyed cows gaze at the dancers, perking their naïve noses and tranquilly chewing the cud. A bat, thawed out of his winter nap by the heat of the temporary stove, flutters drowsily about the candles; and the odors of the stable and of the packed hay mingle with the scents of the ball-room. Mattâs exhaustive eye, though never long off pretty Ruthâs face, takes in even the grains of wheat that gild many a tousled head of swain or lass as the shaking of the beams dislodges the unthreshed kernels in the mow under the eaves, and, keener even than the eye of his collie, Sprat, notes the mice that dart from their holes to seize the fallen drops of tallow. But perhaps Sprat is only lazy, for he will not vacate his uncomfortable snuggery under the stove, though he has to shift his carcass incessantly to escape the jets of tobacco-juice constantly squirted in his direction. It serves him right, thinks his young master, for persisting in coming, though, for the matter of that, the creature, having superintended the mud-hauling, has more right to be present than Bully Preep. âWonder why sister Harriet lets him dance with her so ofân!â the panorama of his thought proceeds. âWhat kin she see in the skunk, fur lanâ sakes? I told her âbout the way he bully-ragged me when he was boss oâ the school and I was a teeny shaver. But she donât seem to care a snap. Girls are queer critters, thetâs a fact. He used to put a chip on my shoulder, anâ egg the fellers on to flick it off. But, gosh! didnât I hit him a lick when he pulled little Ruthâs hair? Heâd a black eye, thetâs a fact, though he givâ me two, anâ mother anâ teacher âud a givâ me one more apiece, but there warnât no more left. I took it out in picters though, I guess. My! didnât ole McTavitâs face jest look reedicâlous when he discovered Bully Preep in the fly-leaf of every readinâ-book. Thetâs jest how mother is glarinâ at Harriet this moment. Pop! pop! pop! What a lot oâ ginger-beer anâ spruce-beer Deacon Hailey is openinâ! Pop! pop! pop! He donât seem to notice them thar black bottles oâ rum. Heâs âtarnal cute, is ole Hey. Seems like heâs talkinâ to mother. Wonder how she kin understand him. He allus talks as if his mouth was full oâ words—but itâs onây tobacco, I reckon. Pop! pop! pop! Thetâs what I allus hear him say, windinâ up with a âHeyâ—anâ it does rile me some to refuse pumpkin-pie, not knowinâ heâs invitinâ me to anythinâ but hay. I âspect motherâs heerd him talk considerable, just es Iâve heerd the jays anâ the woodpeckers; though she kinât tell one from tâother, I vow, through beinâ raised at Halifax. Thunderation! thetâs never her dancinâ with ole Hey! My stars, whatâll her elders say? Well, I wow! She is backslidinâ. Ah, she recollecks! She pulls up, her face is like a beet. Ole Hey is argufyinâ, but she hangs back in her traces. I reckon she kinder thinks sheâs kicked over the dashboard this time. Ah, heâs gone and taken Harriet for a pardner instead; heâll like sister better, I guess. By gum! Heâs kickinâ up his heels like a colt when it fust feels the crupper. I do declare Marm Hailey is lookinâ pesky ugly âbout it. Sheâs a mighty handsome critter, anyways. Pity she kinât wear her hat with the black feather indoors—she does look jest spliffinâ when she drives her horses through the snow. Whoop! Keep it up! Sling it out, ole Jupe! More rosin. Yankee doodle, keep it up, Yankee doodle dandy! Go it, you cripples; Iâll hold your crutches! Why, thereâs Billy dancinâ with the crutch I made him!â he tells himself as his vision merges in dream. âPop! pop! pop! How his crutch thumps the floor! Poor Billy! Fancy hevinâ to hop through life on thet thar crutch, like a robin on one leg! Or shall I hev to make him a longer one when heâs growed up? Mebbe he wonât grow up—mebbe heâll allus be the identical same size; and when heâs an ole man heâll be the right size again, anâ the crutchâll onây be a sorter stick. I wish I hed a stick to make this durned cow keep quiet—I kinât milk her! So! so! Daisy! Ole Jupeâs music ainât for four-legged critters to dance to! My! whatâs thet nonsense âbout a cow? Why, Iâm dreaminâ. Whoa, there! Give her a tickler in the ribs, Billy. Hullo! look out! hereâs father come back from sea! Quick, Billy, chuck your crutch in the hay-mow. Kinât you stand straighter nor that? Unkink your leg, or fatherâll never take you out to be a pirate. Fancy a pirate on a crutch! It was my fault, father, for fixinâ up thet thar fandango, but motherâs lambasted me aâready, anâ she wanted to shoot herself. But it donât matter to you, father—youâre allus away aâmost, anâ Billyâs crutch kinât get into your eye like it does into motherâs. She was afeared to write to you âbout it. Thetâs onây Billy in a fit—you see, Daisy kicked him, and they couldnât fix his leg back proper; it donât fit, so he hes fits now anâ then. Heâll never be a pirate now. Drive the crutch deeper into the ice, Charley; steady there with the long pole. The iron pin goes into the crutch, Billy; donât get off the ashes, youâll slide under the sled. Now, then, is the rope right? Jump on the sled, you girls and fellers! Round with the pole! Whoop! Hooray! Ainât she scootinâ jest! Let her rip! Pop! Snap! Geewiglets! The ropeâs give! Donât jump off, Billy, I tell you; youâll kill yourself! Stick in your toes anâ donât yowl; weâll slacken at the dykes. Look at Ruth—she donât scream. Thunderation! Weâre goinâ over into the river! Hold tight, you uns! Bang! Smash! Weâre on the ice-cakes! Is thet you thetâs screaminâ, Billy? You ainât hurt, I tell you—donât yowl—you gooney—donât—â

But it was not Billyâs voice that he heard screaming when the films of sleep really cleared away. The little cripple was nestling close up to him with the same panic-stricken air as when they rode that flying sled together. This time it was impossible to mistake their motherâs voice for the wind—it rose clearly in hysterical vituperation.

âAnâ you orter be âshamed oâ yourself, I do declare, goinâ home all alone in a sleigh with a young man—in the dead oâ night, too!â

âThere were more nor ourn on the road; and since Abner Preep was perlite enough—â

âYes, anâ you didnât think oâ me on the road oncet, I bet! If young Preep wanted to do the perlite, heâdâ aâ took me in his fatherâs sleigh, not a wholesome young gal.â

âBut I was tarâd out with dancinâ eâen aâmost, and you onây—â

âDonât you talk about my dancinâ, you blabbinâ young slummix! Jest keep your eye on your Preeps with their bow-legs anâ their pigeon-toes.â

âHis legs is es straight es yourn, anyhow.â

âPâraps youâll say thet Iâve got Injun blood next. Look at his round shoulders and his lanky hair—heâs a Micmac, thetâs what he is. He onây wants a few baskets and butter-tubs to make him look nateral. Ugh! I kin smell spruce every time I think on him.â

âItâs you that hev hed too much spruce-beer, hey?â

âYou sassy minx! Folks hev no right to bring eyesores into the world. Iâd rather stab you than see you livinâ with Abner Preep. Itâs a squaw he wants, thetâs a fact, not a wife!â

âIâd rather stab myself than go on livinâ with you.â

For a moment or two Matt listened in silent torture. The frequency of these episodes had made him resigned, but not callous. Now Harrietâs sobs were added to the horror of the altercation, and Matt fancied he heard a sound of scuffling. He jumped out of bed in an agony of alarm. He pulled on his trousers, caught up his coat, and slipped it on as he flew barefoot down the rough wooden stairs, with his woollen braces dangling behind him.

In the narrow icy passage at the foot of the stairs, in the bleak light from the row of little crusted panes on either side of the door, he found his mother and sister, their rubber-cased shoes half-buried in snow that had drifted in under the door. Mrs. Strang was fully dressed in her âfrolickinâ â costume, which at that period included a crinoline; she wore an astrakhan sacque, reaching to the knees, and a small poke-bonnet, plentifully beribboned, blooming with artificial flowers within and without, and tied under the chin by broad, black, watered bands. Round her neck was a fringed afghan, or home-knit muffler. She was a tall, dark, voluptuously-built woman, with blazing black eyes and handsome features of a somewhat Gallic cast, for she came of old Huguenot stock. She stood now drawing on her mittens in terrible silence, her bosom heaving, her nostrils quivering. Harriet was nearer the door, flushed and panting and sobbing, a well-developed auburn blonde of sixteen, her hair dishevelled, her bodice unhooked, a strange contrast to the otherâs primness.

âWhere you goinâ?â she said, tremulously, as she barred her motherâs way with her body.

âIâm goinâ to drownd myself,â answered her mother, carefully smoothing out her right mitten.

âNonsense, mother,â broke in Matt. âYou kinât go out—itâs snowinâ.â

He brushed past the pair and placed himself with his back to the door, his heart beating painfully. His motherâs mad threats were familiar enough, yet they never ceased to terrify. Some day she might really do something desperate. Who knew?

âIâm goinâ to drownd myself,â repeated Mrs. Strang, carefully winding the muffler round her head.

She made a step towards the door, sweeping the limp Harriet roughly behind her.

âYou kinât get out,â Matt said, firmly. âWhy, you hevnât hed breakfast yet.â

âWhat do I want oâ breakfus? Your sister is breakfus ânough for me. Clear out oâ the way.â

âDonât you let her go, Matt!â cried Harriet. âIâll quit instead.â

âYou!â exclaimed her mother, turning fiercely upon her, while her eyes spat fire. âYou are young and wholesome—the world is afore you. You were not brought from a great town to be buried in a wilderness. Marry your Preeps anâ your Micmacs, and nurse your pappooses. God has cursed me with froward children anâ a cripple, anâ a husband that goes gallivantinâ onchristianly about the world with never a thought for his âmortal soul, anâ the Lord has doomed me to worship Him in the wrong church. Mother yourselves; I throw up the position.â

âIs it my fault if father hesnât wrote you lately?â cried Harriet. âIs it my fault if thereâs no Baptist church to Cobequid village?â

âShut your mouth, you brazen hussy! Youâve drove your mother to her death! Stand out oâ my way, Matthew; donât you disobey my dyinâ requesâ.â

âI shaânât,â said the boy, squaring his shoulders firmly against the door. âWhere kin you drownd yourself? The pondâs froze anâ the tideâs out.â

He could think of no other argument for the moment, and he had an incongruous vision of her sliding down to the river on her stomach, as the boys often did, down the steep, reddish-brown slopes of greasy mud, or sinking into a squash-hole like an errant horse.