Читать книгу The Sojourner - Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings - Страница 7

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Amelia said, “It is most disrespectful to your father to attend a dance so soon after his death.”

Ase finished tying his black tie before the kitchen mirror. She had always had some unreasonable reason against his occasional excursions into the country festivities. Having had no respect at all for her husband, fiercely satisfied to be rid of him, and having no interest in the opinions of others, her attempt now to deter him on such grounds struck him as ridiculous. In his new understanding of her he decided that denying herself warmth and communion and gaiety, she wished even more to deny it to him. Any excuse served her, and he thought it would be simpler if she made none, since she could not or would not speak the truth about it.

She persisted, “You must cut a pretty figure at a dance, even without the bad taste of dancing on your father’s fresh grave. You’ve outgrown that suit. Look at your wrists and ankles, sticking out from the cuffs and trousers.”

He had looked at them in his bedroom. The good black broadcloth suit was three years old, and between eighteen and twenty-one he had finished the last few inches of his gangling growth. He supposed he must look like a scarecrow. Yet no one had laughed at him, no one indeed had seemed even to notice. He carried a dignity past harming by the chance of ill-fitting clothes. He had always gone to the social gatherings, as he went to Mink Fisher and the gypsies, under a slight cloud of depression imposed by his mother. Now his deepset gray eyes were without embarrassment or guilt. He was as he was, he and his flute would be welcome. His mother’s whip flicked over him without the old pain.

She said, “You must feel out of it when you go to these affairs. You don’t even have a girl.”

He would prefer not to speak, for something would be resolved this evening, but he said, “I’m taking Nellie tonight.”

She studied him, drawing her heavy black eyebrows together. He was prepared for a storm of rage, or one of heir familiar stalking withdrawals to her room, as violent in their way as her words. She surprised him by nodding after a moment.

“Very good. Very proper. You are a better brother than I thought. You must keep the others away from her until Benjamin returns.”

He was not prepared for this. The Seth Thomas clock on the lamp shelf whirred and struck the hour. He was due at the Wilson farm this moment. Nellie would be sputtering. He had hitched Dan to the light cutter before bathing and dressing. He wrapped in carpeting the brick heated red hot on the range. He said “Good night, Mother,” and went to the carriage barn, placing the brick under the straw for Nellie’s feet. He untethered Dan, and on the road touched the whip to him lightly. The young stallion’s shod hoofs struck fire on the glazed snow. He was only fifteen minutes late but all the Wilsons save Nellie had gone on. The front door flew open. He had a glimpse of her against the low-turned lamplight, bundled in a red cape and red fur-trimmed bonnet, her curls escaping, her party bag swinging from her mittened hand. The door slammed and she ran across the snow and was in the seat before he could move to help her. He drew the buffalo robe around her and her small gaitered feet found the hot brick.

She said, “I almost went on with the folks. Be just like you to forget to come for me at all.”

He wanted to say that he was as likely to forget to breathe, but although he cleared his throat to speak, no words came. He was dizzy at having her close beside him, her shoulder against his arm. He could not see her face in the dark night but he was conscious of the round little shape of her, her warmth, a vitality so electric that it seemed to him sparks would fly as from Dan’s shoes if he should touch her. The sleigh bells jingled sweetly. Nellie chattered lightly, of neighbors, of other dances, her voice, he thought, as silver as the bells. There was no opening for graver matters. He was content in any case to absorb her nearness.

At the door of the lighted Grange, she said, “I suppose you brought your flute. Will you have to leave me much tonight to play?”

He read her tone as wistful and he felt light-headed.

“They expect me to play, but I won’t have to. I’d rather—”

“You’ll have to play some. I just wanted to know, how often. I promised Sam Turner the dances when you’re busy.”

He helped her out of the sleigh and to the door, then turned Dan into the stables, to tie his halter to a hay-filled stall, to cover him with a blanket. He returned soberly to the hall. He was on a fool’s errand tonight. Or any other night. He had allowed himself to be tangled in a weblike dream of his own making. He had presumed on a meaningless remark of Ben’s to build a cloud castle where he did not belong and could never enter.

He saw Nellie at the far end of the long room, laughing with half a dozen young people. She had a gift for women as well as for men. The girls of her age accepted her with little envy, were faithful friends. Older women respected her matter-of-factness, her common sense in spite of her pranks, beyond all, her known domestic talents. Ase watched her, yearning. She wore a flounced dress of silk organza, the blue of her eyes, with a satin ribbon the same color tied around her curls. The pert bow at the top was a butterfly on golden wheat.

Tim McCarthy joined him, brushed and combed and in his Sunday best.

He said, “You do be looking as forlorn as a rooster in the rain. Pay no attention tonight to the Nellie’s flirting. I’ll not call on you yet for the flute. Do you be dancing.”

Ase made his way to Nellie. She gave no greeting, but still laughing, tucked her arm in his by way of acknowledgment and claim.

He said, “I’m not playing for the first dance, Nellie.”

McCarthy went to the raised platform. He had kept away from the liquor, so that he might be at the disposal of the company. He was ready to play as long as they cared to dance. The little man seemed a full head taller. He came into his own as head fiddler and caller. He tuned his violin with authority. There were a second fiddle, a guitar, a harmonica and an accordion. Tim sensed that the dancers were eager and yet shy.

He called out, “A good evening to all. Now we’ll be having a bit of a warm-up.”

He gestured to his orchestra, and set off on an Irish jig. The Mahoneys and the Shehys tittered, looked at one another, and the two middle-aged couples took the floor for the jig. The wild dance shook the solid new boards. Everyone clapped in tune, other feet thumped and shuffled to the irresistible lilt. The ice was broken. When the Irish couples ended, red-faced and sweating, bowing to the applause, all were ready for the square dance.

Old, half-forgotten men and women took their places, standing straight as possible. Children who knew the figures paired off without selfconsciousness, practised swinging and sashaying earnestly. Ase bowed before Nellie and led her out. He was proud of her, his heart was too big for his chest. She was almost as pretty as he thought her. Aunt Jess the midwife swam onto the floor like a ship in full sail, leading Grandpa Wilson, twice her age and half her size.

McCarthy lifted his bow, called, “Face your pardners!”, the music of “Turkey in the Straw” burst out, and the square dance was on. Tim was as fine a caller as a fiddler. He had imagination, so that he varied the figures between the simple and the intricate, the restful and the exhausting. The old folks thought they felt young again but found themselves saving their strength, those of courting age injected a subtle lure and passion into the formal figures, the children danced frowning and with concentration. Aunt Jess had been at the hard cider and was dancing with abandon, a mistake for a woman of her bulk. Yet Grandpa Wilson was plainly having quite as good a time. The big woman and the little man were sashaying with the best of them. Nellie was a blue-and-gold feather, and Ase came as close to grace as he would ever come, his long legs moving like pistons, huge gnarled hands lifting Nellie clear from the floor when he swung her. The rhythm of the dance was joy, its community was release.

The ancient ones swore they had never been less tired, the lovers wandered away to corners, the children slid and swooped and jostled one another. The music was insistent, the dance almost too intense, and it ended sharply. All the dancers were relieved to collapse on the chairs and benches around the walls of the hall. McCarthy mopped his forehead.

“Come now, Asahel my friend,” he called. “Let us play only a little quiet song while the dancers rest.”

Ase went to him and picked up his flute.

“That gypsy love song,” Tim whispered. “While not truly restful, ’twill give the folks back their breath.”

In the beginning there was a chatter of talk, the children scrambling, and then the gypsy song took over, and spoke to each man, each woman. The tremulous violin made the young uneasy. Was love to prove so sad as this? The flute cried to the elders. One wrinkled hand groped to find another. Had love been after all so sweet? So sad, so sweet, the ancient song assured them. The last note faded away, to be a ghost again. The hall was hushed. In the silence a child wailed loud and suddenly, being frightened by the magic. McCarthy laid down his fiddle and Ase his flute.

McCarthy whispered, “May be we’ve done too good a job of it. ’Twill take us a mort of thumpety music to liven them up again.”

When he judged the dancers ready and rested, he gave the lead in “Little Brown Jug” to the guitar and encouraged the squeaking second fiddle and the harmonica.

“Do be twanging it up, boys,” he called out, “fast and lively. Some of the gentlemen need to be working off the hard cider.”

The laughter overlay the brisk tune, small boys whooped, the dance resumed.

There was a pause at midnight. A light supper was served. The drinking men were sobered by the food. The full, sleepy children were deposited on benches, on quilts on the floor, the older women volunteering to watch over them. The younger women changed their dresses, as was the custom, for the strenuous dancing had them perspiring and disheveled. The prettiest dresses were saved for the last hours of the dance. The atmosphere of courting was as positive as lightning. Girls arranged their flounces, tightened their corset strings, pulled their bodices lower, slapped their cheeks and bit their lips to redden them, used a trace of rice powder surreptitiously, a drop of scent at their breasts. The dancing was less boisterous. Waltzes and the Virginia reel replaced the square dances.

McCarthy led off in “Good-Night, Ladies,” and called out, “ ’Twas a fine evening and I’m hoping you are appreciating my sacrifice, staying sober. Another time, I’ll not be finding meself so noble.”

The girls changed their slippers, bundled into warm cloaks and bonnets and mittens, the mothers gathered the sleeping children, the men went to the stables to hitch the sleighs. The pre-dawn was clear and cold. The snowy road was a silver carpet-runner under the stars. Nellie snuggled under the buffalo robe close against Ase.

She said, “You’d be warmer if you weren’t all bones.”

They drove in silence. It was unlike her not to chatter. This was the moment, if he was to speak at all. He had taken too much for granted, he was certain. Surely Nellie would be waiting, like his mother, for Ben’s return. If not, if the field was open, how could she consider having him? And if the impossible were possible, what of Amelia? He had not been prepared to have her consider him a watchdog for Nellie, a eunuch guarding the gate against the prince’s coming.

Nellie said, “Ase—.”

He turned his head. Her face was graver than he had ever seen it.

“Ase, Ben’s not coming back.”

She pushed back a curl from her forehead.

He said, “I didn’t think you knew.”

“He told me. Ben played fair, in his way. Did he tell you, too?”

“Yes.”

The horse was pacing and the sleigh bells were noisy. Ase drew on the reins. Dan snorted and slowed to a walk.

Ase said, “I thought you might be waiting for him.”

She shook her head. “I was a fool to wait as long as I did.”

The way was clear for his question and he could not phrase it. She put her arm through his.

“Well, Ase? Ben say anything about you and me?”

His heart thumped painfully. Ben’s words seemed unfeeling, unsuitable.

“Did he?”

He nodded.

“Tell me.”

“He said to marry you in the spring, Nellie.”

“Now, Ase, you don’t have to ask just because Ben said so.”

Her eyes twinkled in the starlight. He had had no words of his own, he had used his brother’s and he was trapped in them. Surely she must know how he had adored her, Ben’s girl, from a distance. The cords were tight in his throat.

“I want you—”

“Oh. That’s different.”

He wanted to cry out, “I want you with my spirit and my loins, with every bone and nerve of me, I want you for warmth in my house, in my heart and my bed.”

His love was suddenly stronger than his awkwardness. He dropped the slack reins and took her in his long arms. His lips found the warm hollow under her firm chin. He felt her stir against him. She took his face in her mittened hands and pressed her mouth to his. Her kiss was long and hungry. She pushed him away, breathing pantingly, like a cat. His blood raced like the water over the mill-dam, so that he thought it must spill from him as violently.

Nellie said primly, “I haven’t said I’d have you.”

His pulse slowed. How could she have him? He wanted to say, “I am a poor stumbling thing after the glory of my brother, my feet bound to the earth, my head lost in the clouds, but I have my love and my faithfulness to offer.”

He said, “I know. How can you?”

She was grave again. She laid her hand on his arm.

“You’re a good man, Ase Linden. That’s how. Ben and I—never mind—that’s over and done with. Ben wasn’t for any one woman. I always liked you next best. I shouldn’t have teased you. I knew how you felt about me.”

The east was streaked with red and gold. Light glinted on the sleigh bells, on Nellie’s curls. Ase seemed to see her for the first time, fair as the mythical woman all men dream of. Her eyes were honest, somehow anxious, somehow sad.

She said, “I’ll make you a good wife, Ase.”

The road turned into the Wilson farm. Lamps were lit in house and barn, for the men would do their chores before breakfast and then have a few hours of sleeping. Ase held her again, but tenderly, with humility and gratitude.

“Nice to get it settled,” she said.