Book: Autumn

R >> Robert Nathan >> Autumn




"Well," said Aaron, "that's what schooling does for a man. It gives
him a manner of talking, along with something to say."

Margaret, bent over her work again, plunged her red, wet arms up to the
elbow in hot, soapy water. "You'll never lack talk, Aaron," she
remarked; "or suffer for want of something to say. But it isn't
washing my pots for me, nor bringing in the corn . . ."

"I'm going along now," said Aaron. "If the old man wakes before I'm
back again, don't hurry him off, mother; I'd be glad to talk with him a
bit before he goes."

"Who said anything about hurrying him off?" cried Mrs. Bade. "He can
stay till doomsday, for all I care. He can sit and talk to me, while
you're blowing on your flute. It'll be real companionable."

And she turned back to her pots and pans, a faint smile causing her
mouth to curl down at one end, and up at the other.

Mr. Jeminy awoke in the afternoon. It was the nature of this kind and
simple man to accept without question the hospitality of people he had
never seen before; for he felt friendly toward every one. As he sat
down to supper with the Bades, he bowed his head, and offered up a
grace, with all his heart:

"Abide, O Lord, in this house; and be present at the breaking of bread,
in love and in kindness. Amen."

During the meal, Aaron Bade asked Mr. Jeminy many questions, to
discover what the old man hoped to do. "I suppose," he said, "you've
come a good distance."

"Yes," said Mr. Jeminy gravely, "I have come a good distance."

Aaron Bade gave his wife a look which said plainly, "There, you see,
mother."

"Where is your home, old man?" asked Mrs. Bade kindly.

"I have no home," said Mr. Jeminy.

Aaron Bade cleared his throat. "Are you bound anywhere in particular?"
he asked.

"No," said Mr. Jeminy.

"Then," said Aaron Bade, "we'd admire to have you stay with us, if it's
agreeable to you."

Mr. Jeminy looked about him at the homely kitchen, with its brown
crockery set away neatly on the shelves. "If I stay with you," he
said, "I should like to work in the fields, and help with the sowing
and the harvesting."

"So you may," said Aaron Bade.

Mr. Jeminy looked at Margaret. "And you, madam?" he asked. "Would you
care for the company of a garrulous old man at evening in your kitchen?"

Margaret blushed with pleasure. "Yes," she said.

"Very well," said Mr. Jeminy; "I will stay."

In this fashion Mr. Jeminy settled down at Bade's Farm, as farm hand to
Aaron Bade. At the end of a week he felt that he had nothing to
regret. He was active and spry, and believed himself to be useful. In
fact, he could not remember when he had been so happy. High on his
hill, he heard October's skyey gales go by above his head, and in the
noonday drowse, watched, from the shade of a tree, the crows fly out
across the valley, with creaking wings and harsh, discordant cries. In
the early morning, he came tip-toeing down the stairs; from the open
doorway he marked day rise above the east in bands of yellow light, and
saw the foggy clouds of dawn slip quietly away, rising from the
valleys, drifting across the hills; in the afternoon he labored in the
fields, and at night, his tired body filled his mind with comfortable
thoughts.

On his way to lunch, he stopped at the woodpile to get an armful of
kindling for Mrs. Bade. The sober way she looked at him as he came in,
hid from all but herself the almost voluptuous pleasure it gave her
merely to be waited on, a pleasure she was more than half afraid to
enjoy, for fear at jealous heaven might take it away, and leave her
with all her work to do, and bad habits besides.

Therefore, as she ladled out potatoes, two to a plate, she seemed, to
look at her, busier than ever; and far from being grateful, might have
been used to favors every day of her life, whereas all the while she
was saying ecstatically to herself, "Lord, make me humble."

For she saw in Mr. Jeminy all she had fancied as a girl, and lost hope
in as a woman. Life . . . life was, then, to be had--leastways, a view
of it, a good view of it--was to be heard of, by special act of Grace,
on Bade's Farm, at Adams' Forge--of all places. So she dressed in her
neatest, and was kinder than ever to Aaron, who was missing it. For
she felt it was all just for her; she alone saw Mr. Jeminy for what he
was, a grand, unusual peephole on the world. It was her own private
peep, she thought. But she was wrong. Aaron was peeping as hard as
she, and pitying her, as she was pitying him, for all he thought she
was missing.

As for Mr. Jeminy, he let them think what they pleased. At first he
was silent, out of shame. But later he enjoyed it as much as they did.
"In Ceylon," he would say, "the tea fields . . ."

One day, a week after his arrival, Mr. Jeminy took the plow horse,
Elijah, to the village to be shod. There the fragrance of wood fires
mingled with a sweeter smell from barns and kitchens. As it was the
hour when school let out, the yard in front of the schoolhouse was
filled with children on their way home; laughing and calling each
other, their voices rose in minor glees along the road, like the
squabble of birds. And Mr. Jeminy, in front of the smithy, watched
them go by, while his thoughts as follows:

"There," he said to himself, "its arms of texts, goes the new world.
Within those careless heads and happy hearts we must look for courage,
for wisdom and for sacrifice. Yet I believe they have the same
thoughts as anybody else. That is to say, they suppose it is God's
business to look after them. Yes, they are like their parents: they
are carried away by what they are doing, which they do not believe
could be done otherwise. One can see with what coldness, or even
blows, they receive the advances of other little children, who wish to
play with them. Well, as for those others, they go off at once, and
play by themselves. One of them, whose hat has been taken by the rest,
is digging in the earth with a bent twig, sharpened at one end.
Possibly he is digging for a treasure, which will be of no value to
anybody but himself. When he is older, he will be sorry he is not a
child again."

At this point, Elijah being shod and ready, he ceased his reflections
and went call for Aaron at the post-office. As the rode home together,
the old schoolmaster, sunk in reverie, remained silent. But Aaron
wanted to talk, now that he had some one to talk to.

"We'll get around to the wood to-morrow, and lay in another cord or
two."

"As you like."

"They're saying down to the store that feed will be higher than ever
this winter. I suppose we'd better lay in a store. I can't sell a few
barrels of potatoes, though I did want to save them."

Mr. Jeminy roused himself with an effort. "I had the horse shod all
around," he said.

Aaron nodded. "I guess it's just as well," he replied. "Did you ask
about fixing the harrow?"

"It will take a week," said Mr. Jeminy. "I said to go ahead, figuring
that we had the whole winter before us."

"We could do with a new harrow," said Aaron, "only there's no way to
pay for it."

Mr. Jeminy shook the reins over Elijah's back. "I have a little
money," he began, "laid away . . ."

"You're very kind," said Aaron, "but I don't figure to take advantage
of it. Still, living's hard; so much trouble. Take me; here I am
bound down to a farm's got as many rocks in it as anything else. I've
been as far south as Attleboro, but I've never had a view of the world,
like you've had. I'll die as I've lived, without anything to be
grateful for, so far as I can see."

"You've had more to be grateful for than I ever had," said Mr. Jeminy
simply, "and I'm not complaining."

"Go along," said Aaron; "you're speaking out of kindness. But it
doesn't fool me any. I know you've led a wandering life, Mr. Jeminy.
But I'd admire to see a little something of the world myself."

Above them the smoke from Aaron's chimney, thin and blue, rose bending
like an Indian pipe in the still air. And Mr. Jeminy gazed at it in
silence, before replying:

"You have had the good things of life, Aaron Bade."

"Have I?" said Aaron bitterly. "I'm sure I didn't know it. What are
the good things of life, Mr. Jeminy?"

"Love," said Mr. Jeminy, "peace, quiet of the heart, the work of one's
hands. Perhaps it is human to wish for more. But to be human is not
always to be wise. Do you desire to see the world, Aaron Bade? Soon
you would ask to be home again."

"Well, I don't know about that," said Aaron.

"Ah," said Mr. Jeminy, "love is best of all."

And once again he relapsed into silence. In the evening he drove the
cows in. High up on Hemlock, Aaron, among his slow, thin tunes,
thought to himself: "There go the cows. Mr. Jeminy understands me;
he's a traveled man." And he played his flute harder than ever,
because Mr. Jeminy, who had seen, as Aaron thought, all Aaron had
wanted to see, breathed the airs of foreign lands, and sailed the seven
seas, was setting Aaron's cows to right, in Aaron's tumbled barn.

In the kitchen, Margaret, going to light the lamp, smiled at her
thoughts, which were timid and gay. She was happy because Mr. Jeminy,
who had seen so many elegant women, helped her with her apple jellies,
and brought her kindlings for the stove.

When the cows were milked, Mr. Jeminy came out of the barn, and stood
looking up at the sky, yellow and green, with its promise of frost. "A
cold night," he said to himself, "and a bright morning." He could hear
the wind rising in the west. "Winter is not far off," he said, and he
carried the two warm, foaming milkpails into the kitchen.

As he was eating his supper, a wagon came clattering down the road and
stopped at the door. "There's Ellery Deakan back from Milford," said
Margaret at the window. "I wonder what he wants at this time of night.
Looks to be somebody with him. Go and see, Mr. Jeminy. I've the
pudding to attend to."




XII

MRS. WICKET

Mrs. Grumble was dying. She lay without moving, one wasted hand
holding tightly to the fingers of Mrs. Wicket, who sat beside the bed.
There, where Mrs. Grumble had worked and scolded for twenty years, all
was still; while the clock on the dresser, like a solemn footstep,
seemed to deepen the silence with its single, hollow beat.

But if it was quiet in the schoolmaster's house, it was far from being
quiet in the village, where Mrs. Tomkins was going hurriedly from house
to house in search of Mrs. Wicket's runaway daughter. Mrs. Wicket, who
was dozing, did not hear the anxious voices calling everywhere for
Juliet. To Mrs. Grumble, the sound was like the dwindling murmur of a
world with which she was nearly done. She felt that her end was
approaching, and remarked:

"I hope I haven't given you too much trouble, Mrs. Wicket."

Mrs. Wicket tried to assure Mrs. Grumble that she had not been any
trouble to her. But Mrs. Grumble said weakly:

"Maybe when I was out of my head . . ."

"Don't you fret yourself a mite about that," cried Mrs. Wicket; "for
that's all over. Now you're going to get well."

"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "no, I'm not going to get well. I'm going to
die." She thought over, in silence, what she had just said, and it
appeared to satisfy her. At the thought of death she was calm and
willing. "I remember," she remarked, "how I used to have a horror of
dying. I was afraid to die, without having done anything to make me
out different from anybody else. But I guess nobody's any different
when it comes to dying, Mrs. Wicket. It feels easy and natural."

"Don't you so much as even think of it," said Mrs. Wicket.

Mrs. Grumble smiled. "There's no use trying to fool me," she declared.
"I'm not afraid any more. I'd like to see Mr. Jeminy before I go. I'd
like to know he was in good hands. I'd like to think you'd look after
him a bit, Mrs. Wicket, when I'm gone."

"Yes," said Mrs. Wicket, "set your mind at rest."

"You've been very kind to me," said Mrs. Grumble, with difficulty.
"You've had a hard time of it here in Hillsboro. You're a good woman,
Mrs. Wicket. I'm glad you'll be here for him when he comes home. I
took care of him for twenty years. As though he were my own."

"I'll care for him the same," said Mrs. Wicket, "as though he were my
own."

Mrs. Grumble seemed to be content with this promise, for she remained
for some time sunk in silence. At last she said, "He'll come in time
for me to see him again. He won't leave me to die alone, not after I
took care of him for twenty years.

"I remember the time he brought me a bit of lace from the fair over to
Milford. He used to give me a lot of trouble. But he didn't forget to
bring me home a piece of lace from the fair. I put it on my petticoat.

"He's on his way home now, Mrs. Wicket: yes, I can feel he's coming
home."

Mrs. Wicket, who had been up with Mrs. Grumble the night before, let
her head droop forward on her breast. "I don't doubt it," she said.
And in the silence of the sickroom, she presently fell asleep. Mrs.
Grumble lay with wide open eyes, staring at the door through which Mr.
Jeminy was to come. She felt quiet and happy; it seemed to her that
her pain was already over and done with. Framed in the doorway, in the
yellow lamplight, she beheld the fancies of her youth, the memories of
the past. She saw again the woman she had been, and watched, with eyes
filled with compassion, her early sorrows, and the troubles of her
later years. "It was all of no account," she said to herself, "but it
doesn't matter now." And she set herself to wait in patience for Mr.
Jeminy, who she never doubted would come to help her die.

Meanwhile the schoolmaster, in Aaron Bade's wagon, was rattling along
the road, with Juliet tight asleep in his arms. As he drew near his
home, he saw in the distance Barly Hill, and the lights of Barly Farm
shining across the valley. "I am coming home again," he said to them;
"I have no longer any pride. So now I know that I am an old man."

But later a feeling of peace took possession of his heart. "Yes," he
said, "I am an old man. The world is not my affair any more. I belong
to yesterday, with its triumphs and its failures; I must share in the
glory, such as it is, of what has been done. The future is in the
hands of this child, sound asleep by my side. It is in your hands,
Anna Barly, and yours, Thomas Frye. But you must do better than I did,
and those with whom I quarreled. To youth is given the burden and the
pain. Only the old are happy to-day.

"Children, children, what will become of you?"

When Mr. Jeminy, with Juliet in his arms, strode in through Mrs.
Grumble's door, Mrs. Wicket rose to her feet, her hands pressed to her
bosom with delight and alarm. Mr. Jeminy gave Juliet to her mother.
"Take the child home," he said. Then with timid, hesitant steps, he
approached Mrs. Grumble's bed.

"You've been a long time coming," she said. "I'm tired."

"I'm here now," replied Mr. Jeminy; "I am not going away any more."

"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "you'd better stay home and attend to things.
I won't be here much longer."

Mr. Jeminy wanted to say "nonsense," but he was unable to speak.
Instead he took Mrs. Grumble's hand in both of his. "Are you going to
leave me, dear friend?" he asked.

Mrs. Grumble smiled; then she gave a sigh. "Look what you called me,"
she said. And they were both silent, thinking of the past together.
In the distance the crisp footsteps of Mrs. Wicket died away down the
hill. And presently nothing was to be heard but the steady ticking of
the clock on the mantel. Then Mr. Jeminy, for once, could find nothing
to say. It seemed to him that instead of the clock's ticking, he heard
the footsteps of death in the house, on the stair . . . tik, tok, tik,
tok . . . And he sighed, with sadness and horror, "Ah, my friend," he
thought, "are you as frightened as I am?"

Presently he saw that Mrs. Grumble was trying to lift herself up in
bed. "I'm going now," she said. Her voice was low, but resonant.
"Mrs. Wicket will look after you. She's a good woman, Mr. Jeminy. My
mind's at peace. I never knew death was so simple and ordinary. It's
almost like nothing."

She sank back; her voice gave out and she began to cough. "You will
only tire yourself by talking," said Mr. Jeminy. "Rest now. Then in
the morning . . ."

"No," said Mrs. Grumble faintly, "there'll be no morning for me, unless
it's the morning of the Lord. Not where I'm going."

"You are going where I, too, must go," said Mr. Jeminy. "You are going
a little before me. Soon I shall come hurrying after you."

"It's nearly over," said Mrs. Grumble. "I did what I could." Her mind
began to wander; she spoke some words to herself.

"You, God," said Mr. Jeminy aloud, "this is your doing. Then come and
be present; receive the forgiveness of this good woman, to whom you
gave, in this life, poverty and sacrifice."

"Please," whispered Mrs. Grumble, "speak of God with more respect."
They were her last words; it was the end. A spasm of coughing shook
her; for a moment she seemed anxious to speak. But as Mr. Jeminy bent
over her, her breath failed; her head fell back, and with a single,
frightened glance, Mrs. Grumble passed away, without saying what she
had intended.

Mr. Jeminy closed her eyes, and folded her hands across her breast.
"She is gone already," he thought; "she is far away. She has pressed
ahead, so swiftly, beyond sight or hearing."

He bent his head. "You made me comfortable in my life, Mrs. Grumble,"
he said, "yet at the end I could do nothing for you. But you will not
think badly of me for that.

"Now you are hurrying through eternity. To you, these few slow hours
before the dawn are no different from to-morrow or yesterday; they will
never pass.

"Do you see, at last, the meaning of the spectacle you have just
quitted? Do you understand what I, for all my wisdom, do not
understand? You are free to ask God to explain it to you; you can say,
'I saw armies with banners, and scholars with their books.' Perhaps he
will tell you the meaning of it. But for us, who remain, it has no
meaning. Well, we say, this is life. We laugh, applaud, talk
together, and think about ourselves. And one by one we slip away, no
wiser than before.

"We are like the bees, who work from dawn till dark, gathering honey in
the fields and in the woods. But we are not as wise as the bees, for
each one grasps what he can, and cries, 'this is mine.' Then seeing
that it is of no use to him, he adds, 'What will you give me for it?'"

And he began to think of the past. It seemed to him that he was in
school again. It was spring; and the children came romping into the
schoolroom, their arms full of books and flowers. Summer passed; he
saw Anna Barly crying by the roadside, under the gray sky. He heard
himself saying to Mrs. Grumble: "Yes, that's right, stop up your
ears . . ." And he saw himself walking toward Milford in the
moonlight, under the falling leaves. "Who, now," he thought, "will
drive me out of doors because my room is in disorder, or burn, when I
am away, the scraps of paper on which I have scribbled my memoranda?"

He bowed his head. "Rest quietly, Mrs. Grumble," he said. "Your
troubles are over. For you there is neither doubt nor grief; life does
not matter to you any more. Nor does it matter very much to me. For
there is no one now to care what I do. I am no trouble to anybody."

The chilly breath of morning filled the valley with mist, fine, gray,
imperceptible in the faint light of dawn. And a farmer's cart, as it
rattled down the road, woke, in his chair, the old schoolmaster from
the reverie into which he had fallen.

Faint and clear the early lights of the village went out, leaving the
valley empty and cold. A freight train whistled at the junction, and
crept, with tolling bell, over the switches, to the south.

The sun, rising, poured its yellow light into Mrs. Grumble's room,
illuminating the bed, with its silent burden, and the still figure
huddled in the chair. Slowly, and with difficulty, Mr. Jeminy got to
his feet and crossed to the window. There his gaze encountered Mrs.
Wicket, coming up the hill.

Blowing on his hands, Mr. Jeminy went to meet her in the early sunshine.

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