Jennie Gerhardt: A Novel, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  The spirit of Jennie--who shall express it? This daughter ofpoverty, who was now to fetch and carry the laundry of thisdistinguished citizen of Columbus, was a creature of a mellowness oftemperament which words can but vaguely suggest. There are naturesborn to the inheritance of flesh that come without understanding, andthat go again without seeming to have wondered why. Life, so long asthey endure it, is a true wonderland, a thing of infinite beauty,which could they but wander into it wonderingly, would be heavenenough. Opening their eyes, they see a conformable and perfect world.Trees, flowers, the world of sound and the world of color. These arethe valued inheritance of their state. If no one said to them "Mine,"they would wander radiantly forth, singing the song which all theearth may some day hope to hear. It is the song of goodness.

  Caged in the world of the material, however, such a nature isalmost invariably an anomaly. That other world of flesh into which hasbeen woven pride and greed looks askance at the idealist, the dreamer.If one says it is sweet to look at the clouds, the answer is a warningagainst idleness. If one seeks to give ear to the winds, it shall bewell with his soul, but they will seize upon his possessions. If allthe world of the so-called inanimate delay one, calling withtenderness in sounds that seem to be too perfect to be less thanunderstanding, it shall be ill with the body. The hands of the actualare forever reaching toward such as these--forever seizinggreedily upon them. It is of such that the bond servants are made.

  In the world of the actual, Jennie was such a spirit. From herearliest youth goodness and mercy had molded her every impulse. DidSebastian fall and injure himself, it was she who struggled withstraining anxiety, carried him safely to his mother. Did Georgecomplain that he was hungry, she gave him all of her bread. Many werethe hours in which she had rocked her younger brothers and sisters tosleep, singing whole-heartedly betimes and dreaming far dreams. Sinceher earliest walking period she had been as the right hand of hermother. What scrubbing, baking, errand-running, and nursing there hadbeen to do she did. No one had ever heard her rudely complain, thoughshe often thought of the hardness of her lot. She knew that there wereother girls whose lives were infinitely freer and fuller, but, itnever occurred to her to be meanly envious; her heart might be lonely,but her lips continued to sing. When the days were fair she looked outof her kitchen window and longed to go where the meadows were.Nature's fine curves and shadows touched her as a song itself. Therewere times when she had gone with George and the others, leading themaway to where a patch of hickory-trees flourished, because there wereopen fields, with shade for comfort and a brook of living water. Noartist in the formulating of conceptions, her soul still responded tothese things, and every sound and every sigh were welcome to herbecause of their beauty.

  When the soft, low call or the wood-doves, those spirits of thesummer, came out of the distance, she would incline her head andlisten, the whole spiritual quality of it dropping like silver bubblesinto her own great heart.

  Where the sunlight was warm and the shadows flecked with itssplendid radiance she delighted to wonder at the pattern of it, towalk where it was most golden, and follow with instinctiveappreciation the holy corridors of the trees.

  Color was not lost upon her. That wonderful radiance which fillsthe western sky at evening touched and unburdened her heart.

  "I wonder," she said once with girlish simplicity, "how it wouldfeel to float away off there among those clouds."

  She had discovered a natural swing of a wild grape-vine, and wassitting in it with Martha and George.

  "Oh, wouldn't it be nice if you had a boat up there," saidGeorge.

  She was looking with uplifted face at a far-off cloud, a red islandin a sea of silver.

  "Just supposing," she said, "people could live on an island likethat."

  Her soul was already up there, and its elysian paths knew thelightness of her feet.

  "There goes a bee," said George, noting a bumbler winging by.

  "Yes," she said, dreamily, "it's going home."

  "Does everything have a home?" asked Martha.

  "Nearly everything," she answered.

  "Do the birds go home?" questioned George.

  "Yes," she said, deeply feeling the poetry of it herself, "thebirds go home."

  "Do the bees go home?" urged Martha.

  "Yes, the bees go home."

  "Do the dogs go home?" said George, who saw one travelinglonesomely along the nearby road.

  "Why, of course," she said, "you know that dogs go home."

  "Do the gnats?" he persisted, seeing one of those curious spiralsof minute insects turning energetically in the waning light.

  "Yes," she said, half believing her remark. "Listen!"

  "Oho," exclaimed George, incredulously, "I wonder what kind ofhouses they live in."

  "Listen!" she gently persisted, putting out her hand to stillhim.

  It was that halcyon hour when the Angelus falls like a benedictionupon the waning day. Far off the notes were sounding gently, andnature, now that she listened, seemed to have paused also. Ascarlet-breasted robin was hopping in short spaces upon the grassbefore her. A humming bee hummed, a cow-bell tinkled, while somesuspicious cracklings told of a secretly reconnoitering squirrel.Keeping her pretty hand weighed in the air, she listened until thelong, soft notes spread and faded and her heart could hold no more.Then she arose.

  "Oh," she said, clenching her fingers in an agony of poeticfeeling. There were crystal tears overflowing in her eyes. Thewondrous sea of feeling in her had stormed its banks. Of such was thespirit of Jennie.