More Jonathan Papers Part 7

Thank you, said Jonathan.

III

Evenings on the Farm

Im going out to clean the pasture spring; Ill only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may); I shant be gone long.You come too.

Im going out to fetch the little calf Thats standing by the mother. Its so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I shant be gone long.You come too.

ROBERT FROST.

When we first planned to take up the farm we looked forward with especial pleasure to our evenings. They were to be the quiet rounding-in of our days, full of companions.h.i.+p, full of meditation. Well do lots of reading aloud, I said. And well have long walks. There wont be much to do _but_ walk and read. I can hardly wait. And I chose our summer books with special reference to reading aloud.

Of course, I said, as we fell to work at our packing, well have to do all sorts of things first. But the days are so long up there, and the life is very simple. And in the evenings youll help. We ought to be settled in a week.

Or twoor three, suggested Jonathan.

Three! What is there to do?

Farm-life isnt so blamed simple as you think.

But what _is_ there to do? Now, listen! One day for trunks, one day for boxes and barrels, one day for closets, thats three, one for curtains, four, one day forfor the garret, thats five. Wellone day for odds and ends that I havent thought of. Thats liberal, Im sure.

Better say the rest of your life for the odds and ends you havent thought of, said Jonathan, as he drove the last nail in a neatly headed barrel.

Jonathan, why are you such a pessimist?

Im not, except when youre such an optimist.

If Id begun by saying it would take a month, would you have said a week?

Cant tell. Might have.

Anyway, theres nothing bad about odds and ends. Theyre about all women have much to do with most of their lives.

Thats what I said. And you called me a pessimist.

I didnt call you one. I said, why were you one.

Im sorry. My mistake, said Jonathan with the smile of one who scores.

And so we went.

One day for trunks was all right. Any one can manage trunks. And the second day, the boxes were emptied and sent flying out to the barn.

Curtains I decided to keep for evening work, while Jonathan read. That left the closets and the attic, or rather the attics, for there was one over the main house and one over the new part,still new, although now some seventy years old. They were known as the attic and the little attic.

I thought I would do the closets first, and I began with the one in the parlor. This was built into the chimney, over the fireplace. It was low, and as long as the mantelpiece itself. It had two long shelves shut away behind three gla.s.s doors through which the treasures within were dimly visible. When I swung these open it felt like opening a tombcold, musty air hung about my face. I brushed it aside, and considered where to begin.

It was a depressing collection. There were photographs and photographs, some in frames, the rest of them tied up in packages or lying in piles. A few had names or messages written on the back, but most gave no clue; and all of them gazed out at me with that expression of complete respectability that const.i.tutes so impenetrable a mask for the personality behind. Most of us wear such masks, but the older photographers seem to have been singularly successful in concentrating attention on them. Then there were alb.u.ms, with more photographs, of people and of views. There was a big Bible, some prayer-books, and a few other books elaborately bound with that heavy fancifulness that we are learning to call Victorian.

One of these was on The Wonders of the Great West; another was about The Female Saints of America. I took it down and glanced through it, but concluded that one had to be a female saint, or at least an aspirant, to appreciate it. Then there were things made out of dried flowers, out of hair, out of sh.e.l.ls, out of pine-cones. There were vases and other ornamental bits of china and gla.s.s, also Victorian, looking as if they were meant to be continually washed or dusted by the worn, busy fingers of the female saints. As I came to fuller realization of all these relics, my resolution flickered out and there fell upon me a strange numbness of spirit. I seemed under a spell of inaction. Everything behind those gla.s.s doors had been cherished too long to be lightly thrown away, yet was not old enough to be valuable nor useful enough to keep. I spent a long dayone of the longest days of my lifebrowsing through the books, trying to sort the photographs, and glancing through a few old letters. I did nothing in particular with anything, and in the late afternoon I roused myself, put them all back, and shut the gla.s.s doors. I had nothing to show for my days experience except a deep little round ache in the back of my neck and a faint bra.s.sy taste in my mouth. I complained of it to Jonathan later.

It always tasted just that way to me when I was a boy, he said, but I never thought much about itI thought it was just a closet-taste.

And it isnt only the taste, I went on. It does something to me, to my state of mind. Im afraid to try the garret.

Garrets are different, said Jonathan. But Id leave them. They can wait.

Theyve waited a good while, of course, I said.

And so we left the garrets. We came back to them later, and were glad we had done so. But that is a story by itself.

Meanwhile, in the evenings, Jonathan helped.

Im afraid you were more or less right about the odd jobs, I admitted one night. They do seem to acc.u.mulate. I was holding a candle while he set up a loose latch.

Theyve been acc.u.mulating a good many years, said Jonathan.

Yes, thats it. And so the doors all stick, and the latches wont latch, and the shades are sulky or wild, and the pantry shelveshave you noticed?theyre all warped so they rock when you set a dish on them.

And the chairs pull apart, added Jonathan.

Yes. Of course after we catch up well be all right.

I wouldnt count too much on catching up.

Why not? I asked.

The farm has had a long start.

But youre a Yankee, I argued; the Yankee nature fairly feeds on such jobsputter jobs, you know.

Yes, I know.

Only, of course, you get on faster if youre not too particular about having the exact tool

Considered as a Yankee, Jonathans only fault is that when he does a job he likes to have a very special tool to do it with. Often it is so special that I have never heard its name before and then I consider he is going too far. He merely thinks I havent gone far enough. Perhaps such matters must always remain matters of opinion. But even with this handicap we did begin to catch up, and we could have done this a good deal faster if it had not been for the pump.

The pump was a clear case of new wine in an old bottle. It was large and very strong. The people who worked it were strong too. But the walls and floor to which it was attached were not strong at all. And so, one night, when Jonathan wanted a walk I was obliged instead to suggest the pump.