"Ah," said Mr. Frye, wisely, "there's no good in _that_."
Mr. Jeminy knew his own faults, and what was expected of him: he was
not severe enough. As he walked home that evening, he said to himself:
"I must be more severe; my pupils tease each other almost under my
nose. To-day as I wrote sums on the black-board, I watched out of the
corner of my eye. . . . Still, a tweaked ear is soon mended. And it's
true that when they learn to add and subtract, they will do each other
more harm."
The schoolmaster lived in a cottage on the hill overlooking the
village. He lived alone, except for Mrs. Grumble, who kept house for
him, and managed his affairs. Although they were simple, and easy to
manage, they afforded her endless opportunities for complaint. She was
never so happy as when nothing suited her. Then she carried her broom
into Mr. Jeminy's study, and looked around her with a gloomy air. "No,
really, it's impossible to go on this way," she would say, and sweep
Mr. Jeminy, his books and his papers, out of doors.
There, in the company of Boethius, he often considered the world, and
watched, from above, the gradual life of the village. He heard the
occasional tonk of cows on the hillside, the creak of a cart on the
road, the faint sound of voices, blown by the wind. From his threshold
he saw the afternoon fade into evening, and night look down across the
hills, among the stars. He saw the lights come out in the valley, one
by one through the mist, smelled the fresh, sweet air of evening; and
promptly each night at seven, far off and sad, rolling among the hills,
he heard the ghostly hooting of the night freight, leaving Milford
Junction.
"Here," he said to himself, "within this circle of hills, is to be
found faith, virtue, passion, and good sense. In this valley youth is
not without courage, or age without wisdom. Yet age, although wise, is
full of sorrow."
While he was musing in this vein, the odor of frying bacon from the
kitchen, warmed his nose. So he was not surprised to see Mrs. Grumble
appear in the doorway soon afterward. "Your supper is ready," she
said; "if you don't come in at once it will grow cold."
For supper, Mr. Jeminy had a bowl of soup, a glass of milk, bacon,
potatoes, and a loaf of bread. When Mrs. Grumble was seated, he bent
his head, and said: "Let us give thanks to God for this manifestation
of His bounty."
During the meal Mrs. Grumble was silent. But Mr. Jeminy could see that
she had something important to say. At last she remarked, "As I was on
my way to the village, I met Mrs. Barly. She said, 'You'll have to buy
your own milk after this, Mrs. Grumble.' I just stood and looked at
her."
Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised," he said. And,
indeed, it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, the
neighbors no longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables,
fruit, and milk. Mrs. Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and while
she washed the plates at the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom of
her soul. Although she liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a good
man, she felt, nevertheless, that in his company her talents were
wasted. "It is impossible to talk to Mr. Jeminy," she told Miss Beal,
the dress-maker, "because he talks so much."
It was true; Mr. Jeminy liked to talk a great deal. But his
conversation, which was often about such people as St. Francis, or
Plotinus, did not seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks about
nothing but the dead," she said to Miss Beal; "mostly heathen."
"No," said Miss Beal. "How aggravating."
Now, Mr. Jeminy, unheeding the sighs of his housekeeper, continued:
"But after all, I would not change places with Farmer Barly. For
riches are a source of trouble, Mrs. Grumble; they crowd love out of
the heart. A man is only to be envied who desires little."
"It is always the same," said Mrs. Grumble; "the rich have their
pleasures, and the poor people their sorrows."
"That," said Mr. Jeminy, "is the mistake of ignorance. For Epictetus
was a slave, and Saint Peter was a fisherman. They were poor; but they
did not consider themselves unfortunate. More to be pitied than either
Saint Peter or Epictetus, was Croesus, King of Lydia, who was probably
not as rich as Mr. Gary. But he knew how to use his wealth. Therefore
he was all the more disappointed when it was taken away from him by
Cyrus, the Persian. No, Mrs. Grumble, what you can lose is no great
good to any one.
"If you wish," he added, "I will dry the dishes, and you can spend the
evening in the village."
As he stood above the sink, rubbing the dishes with a damp cloth, he
thought: "When I die, I should like it said of me: By his own efforts,
he remained a poor man." And he stood still, the dishtowel in his
hand, thinking of that wealthy iron-master, whose epitaph is said to
read: Here lies a man who knew how to enlist in his service better men
than himself.
When the dishes were dried, Mr. Jeminy retired to his den. This little
room, from whose windows it was possible to see the sky above Barly
Hill, blue as a cornflower, boasted a desk, an old leather chair, and
several shelves of books, among them volumes of history and travel, a
King James' Bible, Arrian's Epictetus, Sabatier's life of Saint
Francis, the Meditations of Antoninus, bound in paper, and a Jervas
translation of Don Quixote. Here Mr. Jeminy was at home; in the
evening he smoked his pipe, and read from the pages of Cervantes, whose
humor, gentle and austere, comforted his mind so often vexed by the
negligence of his pupils.
On the evening of which I am speaking, Mr. Jeminy knocked the ashes out
of his pipe, and taking from his desk a bundle of papers, began to
correct his pupils' exercises. He was still engaged at this task when
Mr. Tomkins came to call.
"A fine evening," said Mr. Tomkins from the doorway.
"Come in, William," cried Mr. Jeminy, "come in. A fine evening,
indeed. Well, this is very nice, I must say."
Mr. Tomkins was older than Mr. Jeminy. His once great frame was dried
and bent; his face was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and his lips
were drawn tight under the nose, until nose and chin almost met. But
his eyes were bright and active. Now he sat in Mr. Jeminy's study, his
large, knobbly hands, brown and withered as leaves in autumn, grasping
his hat.
"Another year, Jeminy," he said, in a voice shrill with age, "another
year. Time to shingle old man Crabbe's roof again. I'm spry yet."
And resting a lean finger alongside his nose, he gave sound to a laugh
like a peal of broken bells.
In his old age Mr. Tomkins was still agile; he crawled out on a roof,
ripped up rotted shingles, and put down new ones in their place. To
see him climb to the top of a ladder, filled Mr. Jeminy with anxiety.
"You'll die," he said, "with a hammer in your hand."
"Then," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll die as I've lived."
"That's strange enough," said Mr. Jeminy, "when you come to think of
it. For men are born into this world hungry and crying. But they die
in silence and slip away without touching anything."
Mr. Tomkins cleared his throat, and watched his fingers run around his
hat's brim. He wanted to tell Mr. Jeminy some news; but it occurred to
him that it was no more than a rumor. Finally he said: "There's a new
school-ma'am over to North Adams." He cocked his head sidewise to look
at the schoolmaster. "She knows more than you, Jeminy," he said.
Mr. Jeminy sat bowed and still, his hands folded in his lap. He
remembered how he had come to Hillsboro thirty years before, a young
man full of plans and fancies. He was soon to learn that what had been
good enough for Great Grandfather Ploughman, was thought to be good
enough for his grandson, also. Mr. Jeminy remained in Hillsboro, at
first out of hope, later out of habit. At last it seemed to him as if
Hillsboro were his home. "Where else should I go?" he had asked
himself. "Here is all I have in the world. Here are my only friends.
Well, after all," he said to himself more than once, "I am not wasted
here, exactly." And he tried to comfort himself with this reflection.
He had started out to build a new school in the wilderness. "I shall
teach my pupils something more than plus and minus," he declared. He
remembered a little verse he used to sing in those days:
Laws, manuals,
And texts incline us
To cheat with plus
And rob with minus.
But it had all slipped away, like sand through his fingers. Now he
hoped to find one child to whom he could say what was in his mind.
One by one the brighter boys had drifted off to the county schools,
leaving the little schoolhouse to the dull and to the young. Some were
taken out of classes early, and added, like another pig, to the farms.
Girls, when they were old enough, were kept at home to help their
mothers; after a while they, too, married; then their education was
over. In the winter they nailed the windows shut; in the summer they
worked with the men, hoarded their pennies, and prayed to God at first,
but only wished at last, to do better than their neighbors.
Of all whom Mr. Jeminy had taught reading, writing and arithmetic, not
one was either better or happier than in childhood.
"Not one," said Mr. Jeminy, "is tidy of mind, or humble of heart. Not
one has learned to be happy in poverty, or gentle in good fortune."
"There's no poverty to-day," said Mr. Tomkins simply. It really seemed
to him as though every one were well off, because the war was over.
"There is more poverty to-day than ever before," said Mr. Jeminy.
"Hm," said Mr. Tomkins.
"Last fall," said Mr. Jeminy, "Sara Barly and Mrs. Grumble helped each
other put up vegetables. And Anna Barly came to my cottage, holding
out her apron, full of apples."
"My wife, too," said Mr. Tomkins, "put up a great many vegetables."
"But to-day," said Mr. Jeminy, "Mrs. Barly and Mrs. Grumble pass each
other without speaking. And because we are no longer at war, the bit
of land belonging to Ezra Adams, where, last spring, Mrs. Wicket
planted her rows of corn, is left to grow its mouthful of hay, to sell
to Mr. Frye."
"Ah," said Mr. Tomkins wisely, "that's it. Well, Mrs. Wicket, now.
Still," he added, "he'll have a lot of nettles in that hay."
"The rich," Mr. Jeminy continued, "quarrel with the poor, and the poor,
by way of answer, with rich and poor alike. And rich or poor, every
man reaches for more, like a child at table. That is why, William,
there is poverty to-day; poverty of the heart, of the mind, and of the
spirit.
"And yet," he added stoutly a moment later, "I'll not deny there is
plenty of light; yes, we are wise enough, there is love in our
hearts . . . Perhaps, William, heaven will be found when old men like
you and me, who have lost our way, are dead."
"Lost our way?" quavered Mr. Tomkins, "lost our way? What are you
talking about, Jeminy?"
But the fire, burning so brightly before, was almost out. "Youth,"
said Mr. Jeminy sadly . . . And he sat quite still, staring straight
ahead of him.
"Well," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll be stepping on home." Clapping his hat
somewhat uncertainly onto his head, he rose to go. Mr. Jeminy
accompanied him to the door.
"Good-night," he said.
"Good-night," said Mr. Tomkins. And off he went along the path, to
tell his wife, as he got into bed, that she was a lucky woman. But Mr.
Jeminy stood in the doorway, gazing out across the hills, like David
over Hebron. Below him the last late lanterns of the village burned in
the valley. He heard the shrill kreef kreedn kreedn of the tree frogs,
the cheep of crickets, the lonely barking of a dog, ghostly and far
away; he breathed the air of night, cold, and sweet with honeysuckle.
Age was in bed; only the young moved and whispered in the shadows;
youth, obscure and immortal; love and hope, love and sorrow. From the
meadows ascended the choir of cicada: katy did, katy didn't, katy
did. . . .
Mr. Jeminy turned and went indoors.