II
ONE MARCH EVENING in my sophomore year I was sitting alone in my roomafter supper. There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards andlittle streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out ofold snow-banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing throughmade me indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gonedown, the sky was turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light throbbingin it. Higher up, in the utter clarity of the western slope, the eveningstar hung like a lamp suspended by silver chains--like the lamp engravedupon the title-page of old Latin texts, which is always appearing in newheavens, and waking new desires in men. It reminded me, at any rate, toshut my window and light my wick in answer. I did so regretfully, andthe dim objects in the room emerged from the shadows and took theirplace about me with the helpfulness which custom breeds.
I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the page of the'Georgics' where tomorrow's lesson began. It opened with the melancholyreflection that, in the lives of mortals the best days are the first toflee. 'Optima dies... prima fugit.' I turned back to the beginning ofthe third book, which we had read in class that morning. 'Primus ego inpatriam mecum... deducam Musas'; 'for I shall be the first, if I live,to bring the Muse into my country.' Cleric had explained to us that'patria' here meant, not a nation or even a province, but the littlerural neighbourhood on the Mincio where the poet was born. This was nota boast, but a hope, at once bold and devoutly humble, that he mightbring the Muse (but lately come to Italy from her cloudy Grecianmountains), not to the capital, the palatia Romana, but to his ownlittle I country'; to his father's fields, 'sloping down to the riverand to the old beech trees with broken tops.'
Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at Brindisi, must haveremembered that passage. After he had faced the bitter fact that he wasto leave the 'Aeneid' unfinished, and had decreed that the great canvas,crowded with figures of gods and men, should be burned rather thansurvive him unperfected, then his mind must have gone back to theperfect utterance of the 'Georgics,' where the pen was fitted to thematter as the plough is to the furrow; and he must have said to himself,with the thankfulness of a good man, 'I was the first to bring the Museinto my country.'
We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had been brushed by thewing of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone knew Cleric intimatelyenough to guess what that feeling was. In the evening, as I sat staringat my book, the fervour of his voice stirred through the quantities onthe page before me. I was wondering whether that particular rocky stripof New England coast about which he had so often told me was Cleric'spatria. Before I had got far with my reading, I was disturbed by aknock. I hurried to the door and when I opened it saw a woman standingin the dark hall.
'I expect you hardly know me, Jim.'
The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize her until she steppedinto the light of my doorway and I beheld--Lena Lingard! She was soquietly conventionalized by city clothes that I might have passed heron the street without seeing her. Her black suit fitted her figuresmoothly, and a black lace hat, with pale-blue forget-me-nots, satdemurely on her yellow hair.
I led her toward Cleric's chair, the only comfortable one I had,questioning her confusedly.
She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She looked about her withthe naive curiosity I remembered so well. 'You are quite comfortablehere, aren't you? I live in Lincoln now, too, Jim. I'm in business formyself. I have a dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street.I've made a real good start.'
'But, Lena, when did you come?'
'Oh, I've been here all winter. Didn't your grandmother ever write you?I've thought about looking you up lots of times. But we've all heardwhat a studious young man you've got to be, and I felt bashful. I didn'tknow whether you'd be glad to see me.' She laughed her mellow, easylaugh, that was either very artless or very comprehending, one neverquite knew which. 'You seem the same, though--except you're a young man,now, of course. Do you think I've changed?'
'Maybe you're prettier--though you were always pretty enough. Perhapsit's your clothes that make a difference.'
'You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty well in my business.'
She took off her jacket and sat more at ease in her blouse, of somesoft, flimsy silk. She was already at home in my place, had slippedquietly into it, as she did into everything. She told me her businesswas going well, and she had saved a little money.
'This summer I'm going to build the house for mother I've talked aboutso long. I won't be able to pay up on it at first, but I want her tohave it before she is too old to enjoy it. Next summer I'll take herdown new furniture and carpets, so she'll have something to look forwardto all winter.'
I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and well-cared-for, andthought of how she used to run barefoot over the prairie until afterthe snow began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased her round and roundthe cornfields. It seemed to me wonderful that she should have got on sowell in the world. Certainly she had no one but herself to thank for it.
'You must feel proud of yourself, Lena,' I said heartily. 'Look at me;I've never earned a dollar, and I don't know that I'll ever be able to.'
'Tony says you're going to be richer than Mr. Harling some day. She'salways bragging about you, you know.'
'Tell me, how IS Tony?'
'She's fine. She works for Mrs. Gardener at the hotel now. She'shousekeeper. Mrs. Gardener's health isn't what it was, and she can'tsee after everything like she used to. She has great confidence in Tony.Tony's made it up with the Harlings, too. Little Nina is so fond of herthat Mrs. Harling kind of overlooked things.'
'Is she still going with Larry Donovan?'
'Oh, that's on, worse than ever! I guess they're engaged. Tony talksabout him like he was president of the railroad. Everybody laughs aboutit, because she was never a girl to be soft. She won't hear a wordagainst him. She's so sort of innocent.'
I said I didn't like Larry, and never would.
Lena's face dimpled. 'Some of us could tell her things, but it wouldn'tdo any good. She'd always believe him. That's Antonia's failing, youknow; if she once likes people, she won't hear anything against them.'
'I think I'd better go home and look after Antonia,' I said.
'I think you had.' Lena looked up at me in frank amusement. 'It's a goodthing the Harlings are friendly with her again. Larry's afraid of them.They ship so much grain, they have influence with the railroad people.What are you studying?' She leaned her elbows on the table and drew mybook toward her. I caught a faint odour of violet sachet. 'So that'sLatin, is it? It looks hard. You do go to the theatre sometimes, though,for I've seen you there. Don't you just love a good play, Jim? I can'tstay at home in the evening if there's one in town. I'd be willing towork like a slave, it seems to me, to live in a place where there aretheatres.'
'Let's go to a show together sometime. You are going to let me come tosee you, aren't you?'
'Would you like to? I'd be ever so pleased. I'm never busy after sixo'clock, and I let my sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, tosave time, but sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I'd be glad tocook one for you. Well'--she began to put on her white gloves--'it'sbeen awful good to see you, Jim.'
'You needn't hurry, need you? You've hardly told me anything yet.'
'We can talk when you come to see me. I expect you don't often have ladyvisitors. The old woman downstairs didn't want to let me come up verymuch. I told her I was from your home town, and had promised yourgrandmother to come and see you. How surprised Mrs. Burden would be!'Lena laughed softly as she rose.
When I caught up my hat, she shook her head. 'No, I don't want you to gowith me. I'm to meet some Swedes at the drugstore. You wouldn't care forthem. I wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, butI must tell her how I left you right here with your books. She's alwaysso afraid someone will run off with you!' Lena slipped her silk sleevesinto the jacket I held for her, smoothed it over her person, andbut
toned it slowly. I walked with her to the door. 'Come and see mesometimes when you're lonesome. But maybe you have all the friendsyou want. Have you?' She turned her soft cheek to me. 'Have you?' shewhispered teasingly in my ear. In a moment I watched her fade down thedusky stairway.
When I turned back to my room the place seemed much pleasanter thanbefore. Lena had left something warm and friendly in the lamplight.How I loved to hear her laugh again! It was so soft and unexcited andappreciative gave a favourable interpretation to everything. When Iclosed my eyes I could hear them all laughing--the Danish laundry girlsand the three Bohemian Marys. Lena had brought them all back to me. Itcame over me, as it had never done before, the relation between girlslike those and the poetry of Virgil. If there were no girls like them inthe world, there would be no poetry. I understood that clearly, for thefirst time. This revelation seemed to me inestimably precious. I clungto it as if it might suddenly vanish.
As I sat down to my book at last, my old dream about Lena coming acrossthe harvest-field in her short skirt seemed to me like the memory of anactual experience. It floated before me on the page like a picture, andunderneath it stood the mournful line: 'Optima dies... prima fugit.'