Читать книгу The Abandoned Farmer - Sydney Herman Preston - Страница 3

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"You need to turn the little chap loose in the country," was the doctor's verdict, given in a low tone that didn't—thank Heaven!—attract Paul's attention, though if the child hadn't been absorbed for the moment in driving a brood of imaginary chickens into an imaginary coop under a real parlor table this indiscreet reference would have caused a scene. The doctor had been cautioned not to do or say anything that would arouse suspicion in the mind of our offspring as to the real nature of his visit, so he should have known better, but of course he couldn't know what a dread Paul had of sometime having to go somewhere without his parents.

Marion sank weakly into a chair, then sat up very straight and braced herself for what was coming; I made a frantic pantomimic appeal to the doctor for temporary silence, then I grabbed Paul by the arm, pointing out the fiction that the chickens had escaped around the end of the table into the hall. When he had darted out in pursuit I shut the door, turning in time to hear Marion say with a piteous break in her voice: "Doctor, tell us the worst—is it his lungs?"

His tone, to our over-anxious ears, had suggested a fear that he was about to break the news that our precious boy was doomed to an early grave, and it was a relief to see him not only smile, but look as if he would enjoy a hearty laugh. "Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Carton," he said cheerily. "He's a delicate little fellow, but spry as a cricket and quite sound. Send him to the country for six months,—and—ha ha!—don't coddle him so much."

Send our little Paul to the country! Even in her half-allayed anxiety Marion smiled at the idea. Paul, who had never been away from her tender care for one hour, who had howled with dismay when he gathered from our unguarded conversation that when little boys went to school they didn't take their parents too! Now Paul, up to this time, fortunately for our peace of mind, had been spared the ordinary illnesses and accidents of childhood; indeed, so carefully had he been guarded, that at the age of six he had never tasted unboiled water, unsterilized milk or unhygienic bread, and although he had learned to walk upstairs by himself, had never descended alone except when an anxious parent stood breathlessly at the foot of the stairs ready to break a possible fall. An ordinary child might have rebelled or evaded our watchfulness, but Paul was not an ordinary child, and he was preternaturally anxious to avoid danger and keep us up to the mark. His active little mind ferreted out supposititious disasters with alarming realism until our nerves were unstrung by the constant effort to guard against the possible calamities that he suggested.

Send Paul to the country? Send him—to the country! A likely thing, indeed!—and leave us to be tortured by mental visions of his dear little incapable feet projecting out of a water barrel or being mowed off by an overgrown lawn-mower, his helpless form impaled upon the horns of a bull or dangling from the mouth of a vicious horse.

That evening, after Paul was safely asleep, we talked the whole matter over. We had previously toyed with nebulous schemes of living in the country, but the doctor's opinion transformed what had seemed an impracticable but entrancingly delightful castle-in-the-air to a definite consideration of how we could make it an actuality. As Marion said, it was our plain duty to do what was best for Paul, even if we had to sacrifice a few extraneous luxuries in carrying it out, and when she used the word duty I knew that, come what would, we were going to live in the country. Duty is Marion's strong point; mine also, in a sort of second-hand way, for I have learned to obey the dictates of her conscience with an amazing alacrity. With her, the principle involved in the most trivial act is a matter of vital importance, while I am inclined to act first, and from that action deduce a principle to justify the course I have taken. Her mind is intensely analytical, and she believes rigidly what she ought to believe; I am, perhaps, a trifle more imaginative, more easily swayed by passing enthusiasms, more given to believing what I want to believe, less inclined to see a clear-cut difference between black and white.

It is not strange, therefore, that our opinions often differ, but in this case we were of one mind from the first, the only difficulty that faced us being the question of ways and means, and on this point Marion was, strange to say, more optimistic than I.

"I have a feeling, a presentiment," she said, in a tone of fervent conviction, "that if we make up our minds hard enough it will become possible. We've been talking about this for years, and I never felt until this moment that it was really going to be true."

For a moment her calm certainty influenced my hopes, then I shook my head doubtfully. "You forget," I rejoined, "that there's no other opening in sight, and as long as I'm doing 'Music and Drama' for the Observer I must stay in the city. If I had regular hours, if I were a bank clerk, for instance, we might live in the suburbs, but——"

"We've been over all that hundreds of times," she interrupted, "and you know that if you had been a bank clerk I wouldn't have married you. You're not going to give up journalism, but I'm sure something will happen to let us live where we want to live. And as for the suburbs, it seems to me it would be better to get a real farm in the real country. If we could find a good comfortable farm-house near the railroad with plenty of land around it, I don't believe it would cost us any more than one of those flimsy cottages with a garden plot attached that we looked at last year."

I found, as we talked the matter over, that Marion's imagination had been fired by the idea of some quaint old-fashioned homestead with gabled roof, open fireplaces and latticed windows, surrounded by ancient shade-trees and a straggling apple-orchard. All these accessories I could appreciate, and, in comparison, an ordinary suburban cottage, one of many others exactly alike, began to seem quite out of the question. There were delightful possibilities about buying a real farm, not to mention the inviting prospect of running it afterward.

"That's a capital idea!" I exclaimed, in eager approval. "I could raise a couple of hundred dollars to make the first payment, then we could give a mortgage for the balance and pay it off with the proceeds of the first year's crop. Then we could soon make enough money to——"

I stopped short, for I became aware that my wife was regarding me with a smile of loving toleration. "There you are again, Henry," she said, with a merry laugh. "What a lot of money we'd save if I let you carry out a few of your wild schemes! We're not going to raise one dollar to make a first payment; we're not going to give a mortgage, so you'll not be able to pay it off with the first year's crop."

"But it was your proposal," I protested, "you said——"

"I didn't say we might buy a farm, but I think we might be able to rent one for less than we pay for this house, and I'm sure we can live more cheaply in the country than in the city, if we make up our minds not to spend money needlessly."

It didn't seem to me that a rented farm without a mortgage could be as attractive as the one I had imagined, but I reluctantly admitted that Marion's plan might be more economical than mine. If I hadn't done so she certainly would have reminded me of some of my errors of judgment.

"And now," she continued, "the next thing to consider is how much money we can afford not to spend on the farm."

At that moment I had mentally unloaded a car of farm implements, resplendent in green and red paint, with the same feeling of delightful excitement that accompanies the unpacking of a Noah's ark. In fact, I had them arranged on the station platform and was directing my hired men how to load the wagons. "Can afford not to spend," I repeated abstractedly.

There was silence. When I awoke from my reverie I discovered that my wife was gazing at me with a curious expression, her lips tightly compressed. I stood to attention at once.

"Yes, Marion," I went on briskly. "I was just thinking about that. I was just calculating how many implements we could buy."

"Indeed? And have you decided whether you would rather go in for horse-raising or thoroughbred cattle?"

"No, I haven't got that far; but I think a herd of Jerseys would do to start with, then——"

"Then you are like other men! I wonder if any city man ever farmed without losing his common-sense. Can't you see, Henry, that we'd be hopelessly in debt if we started in that way? Why, even if we were wealthy the money would soon be all gone at that rate of spending. How many otherwise level-headed men do you know who have squandered fortunes in farming for pleasure?"

"Well, there's Judge Davis, and old Hamilton, and—oh, lots of them—but, you see, they didn't know how to manage, and I would profit by their mistakes. I wouldn't borrow five hundred dollars, for instance, to invest in Jerseys, without seeing my way clear to double the money in a year or two by selling gilt-edged butter."

"Now listen, Henry," said my wife, with the indulgent yet unrelenting smile of a mother who pushes a fragile vase beyond the reach of her infant's grasp; "you're not going to borrow one dollar; you're not going to have a herd of Jerseys; you're not going to buy reapers and threshing machines, horses and wagons and windmills. How much would a spade, a rake, and a hoe cost?"

I gasped. "A spade—a rake!——" I began incredulously, then I smiled a smile of feeble intelligence to conceal the fact that I failed to see the point: I know what it feels like to perpetrate a pointless joke.

"And a hoe," continued Marion, earnestly. "How much would they cost?"

"About two dollars," I replied, in vague wonderment.

"Then that settles it! You may spend two dollars in implements, but not another cent. And as for drains——"

"Perhaps you would allow three for them," I interjected, with a derisive laugh. "Judge Davis spent three thousand in underdraining his farm."

"Then we'll do without underdrains. Do you begin to see now what I mean by deciding how much money we can afford not to spend."

"I believe I do," I answered, amused yet fascinated by her idea. "It will total a large amount if you keep on, but I don't see how a farm can be made to pay without investing money in it. Why, you've got to put money into anything, even into a gold mine, before you can get returns."

It was an unfortunate illustration, as I learned from Marion's pitying look. I winced; I knew what was coming. "Henry," she said, and in her face I saw that she was responding to the call of duty, "I don't grudge one dollar of that money you put into the Emperor shares last year, even if the lesson is wasted on you, as it seems to be; for that experience made me determine that I would never trust your judgment about investments again when my common-sense tells me you are wrong. Aunt Sophy says that all men who haven't been brought up on a farm are attacked by an insane belief, at some period of their lives, that they can make money by farming. She says Uncle Philip had made a hundred thousand dollars in the grocery business when he retired and bought a farm. She implored him not to do it, but he persisted, saying there was heaps of money in farming if properly managed, and he could run a farm on business principles and make it pay. But when he died she found he had left only forty thousand dollars for her to live on, and she is convinced that if he hadn't been taken away so suddenly she would have been altogether penniless. Poor Aunt Sophy! She weeps more over that money than over Uncle Philip, and the worst of it is that some semi-religious novel she has read has unsettled her old-fashioned ideas about heaven so that she is afraid that when her turn comes she'll find him at it again. The thought has hardened her so that I shouldn't be surprised if she married old Mr. Fairman and renounced Uncle Philip."

I had been about to say that I felt myself to be peculiarly fitted to illustrate paying methods of farming, but I desisted. I had been inclined to resent Marion's taunt about the unlucky mining venture, but the serious recital of the woes of her uncle and aunt moved me to laughter. I jocularly declared I would go around to the bank to see if the money we had saved by not buying a farm had been placed to my credit, but her anxiety that I should understand her theory checked my innocent levity.

"You wouldn't make light of this matter," she said, reproachfully, "if you understood its importance. Now listen: what I mean is, that instead of calculating how much money we might be able to spend on the farm we should try to see how much we can do without spending. I am sure that is the right way to avoid making a farm not pay. For example, if you think you want to buy an electric potato-digger you ought to save up the money and then——"

"And then you'll decide that I can afford not to buy it!"

"Probably—but don't you see the money would then be clear profit, and you would have it instead of a useless machine."

"It wouldn't be useless—it would dig potatoes."

"It might dig potatoes, but Aunt Sophy says you can't depend on any of these contrivances, so the chances are that it would be useless; besides, you said the Emperor shares would dig gold, and they swallowed——"

The thought of mining shares is distasteful to me; to have them dragged into the conversation is distracting; to look forward to having every budding plan nipped by the chilling reminders of bygone mistakes that my temperament would allow me to forget was not to be endured. "Marion," I interrupted, hastily, "it's a capital plan! I'll agree to try it if we ever have a farm, if you'll promise never to do or say anything to remind me of that stroke of bad luck."

"Don't you mean bad management?" she asked, gayly. "You have a dreadfully lax memory about these things, and I know you would have forgotten the Emperor shares long ago if I hadn't reminded you. However, you know it's for your own good and——"

"It isn't," I protested, with vehemence. "It dulls my sensibilities and hardens my heart."

Marion shook her head dubiously, but she promised.

I do not believe in my own presentiments, for I never have any, unless the ever-present optimistic belief that everything I undertake is going to turn out well is a presentiment, but I have learned by experience to place a certain amount of dependence upon Marion's. Therefore, for a few days after our conversation I confidently expected something to turn up, and every day when I returned home from the office I saw by her inquiring expectant glance that she was looking for the fulfilment of her prediction. As time passed, however, I began to think she had been mistaken, though I did not say so, for I know how annoying it is to have one's mistakes pointed out when one is most keenly conscious of them. Besides, to refrain made me feel magnanimous, and that feeling, perhaps, caused a shade of pitying magnanimity to creep into my tone when we discussed the project; so Marion, who is intensely susceptible to inflections, was perfectly well aware that I was practising one of the higher virtues, as well as showing a delicate consideration for her feelings that she might well copy in regard to mine. Of course, we could do nothing but make plans during the winter; but as spring approached, without any prospect of a change that would give me regular hours of work, it seemed as if we should have to give up, for a time, the prospect of moving to the country.

It was one morning early in March that the unexpected did happen. I was at my desk reading a batch of indignant letters taking me to task for an opinion I had expressed in an article on musical culture when a summons arrived from the editor-in-chief. Up to that moment I had been amused by the denials of my assertion that the performance of a Bach fugue on the piano as part of a concert programme should be condemned as provocative of snobbish pretence; that the giving out of the theme by the performer had become the signal for the audience to assume an air of intense and exalted intellectual enjoyment, though not one person in a hundred could appreciate the logical development of such a composition or distinguish anything but a confused intermingling of the parts; but the summons from the editor made me regard the matter more seriously. I hurriedly looked over the article to see if I had laid myself open to reproof for indiscretion. Yes, I had! At the very end the statement glared at me that musicians listened to a fugue with the strained intentness of jugglers watching a fellow-performer keeping three balls in the air; I had committed the fatal oversight of not saying some musicians. Probably an irate deputation representing the profession so notoriously sensitive to truthful criticism had waited upon the editor to demand a public retraction of the libel.

"Sit down, Carton," said the editor, as I entered. "You've been doing 'Music and Drama' for two years now," he said musingly, laying down his pen, "and I don't think I have expressed my opinion of your work to you personally."

I shook my head mutely, afraid of what was coming next.

"That, however, doesn't indicate any want of appreciation on my part. You have changed the former commonplace rut of criticism to something that people read with interest, and if they laugh and swear alternately, so much the better. You have a knack of telling the truth with a light touch that is quite refreshing. How would you like to edit the agricultural page in the weekly?"

I gazed at him in bewilderment; ready to laugh if he meant to be jocular, incredulous of his serious intention. "The agricultural page!" I exclaimed.

"Rather sudden, eh? Well, I'll tell you how the matter stands. Old Rollings is out of it, and I've got to fill his place at once. Now it strikes me that farmers don't hanker after instruction in their newspaper—they want to be entertained, and I think you might make the thing go. The salary will be higher and you can take your own time for the work."

"But I don't know much about agriculture," I protested.

"That isn't of any consequence. There are the exchanges, the Farmer's Cyclopædia and the scissors, and you'll learn not to waste space by advising farmers to plant corn in hills three feet apart or to feed potato bugs on paris green. The main thing is to make the department entertaining, so let yourself go and be as funny as you like, provided there's a grain of horse-sense at the bottom. For instance, you might have an article on how to make the farm pay, taking as a text—um, let me see—ah—you might advocate——"

"The planting of summer boarders in rows three feet apart?" I ventured.

The editor leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Go ahead, Carton," he said warmly. "You mightn't be able to draw a better looking pig in a prize competition than the rest of us, but I'd bank on you making a pretty turn to his tail."

The die was cast, and yet, for a few days at least, I felt as one might, who, accustomed to prate of the certain bliss of a heavenly home, is suddenly presented with a pass to the delectable land. A kaleidoscopic vision dazzled me of a picturesque country house, an orchard, a cow, a horse, real hens for Paul, our own fruit and vegetables, but beyond I could not see clearly, for I was unnerved by the sudden transition from the fine arts to agriculture. I had gained a superficial insight into rural life from the stand-point of the summer boarder, but I was well aware that I didn't know as much about farming as about art and literature. However, the editor's confidence in my ability to do the work and Marion's glowing enthusiasm caused me to keep my misgivings to myself. Indeed, though I never boast, I find it difficult to detract from another person's estimate of my knowledge or attainments; it seems less egotistical to smile and look modest than to enlarge upon one's own affairs. There was just one thing that caused me a pang. Marion, in pointing out the advantage it would be to me to have a free hand in writing, casually acknowledged that for a long time she had felt that criticism was not my forte and that I would write better when I had more scope for my imagination. My pained surprise at this confession moved her to merriment, and she laughingly declared that a woman's vanity was all on the surface, but a man's was unfathomable. Did I answer back? No, I didn't, for when I am truly grieved I merely smile faintly with patient, loving forgiveness; besides, I didn't know what to say. Afterward—for I didn't realize it at the time—I saw that I felt hurt, not because she had underrated my previous work, but because she had heretofore simulated a proper appreciation of it. I cannot bear to think that my wife is capable of stooping to any kind of pretence, and I am quite single-minded in this, for I like her to be more perfect—infinitely more perfect—than I am. One would suppose this statement to be unquestionable. It isn't; she immediately asks why, and in the silence which follows when I am trying to think she repeats the query with such challenging meaningful emphasis that, alas!—I cannot say.