The Sick-a-Bed Lady: And Also Hickory Dock, The Very Tired Girl, The Happy-Day, Something That Happened in October, The Amateur Lover, Heart of The City, The Pink Sash, Woman's Only BusinessAbbott, Eleanor Hallowell
General
The Sick-a-Bed Lady: And Also Hickory Dock, The Very Tired Girl, The Happy-Day, Something That Happened in October, The Amateur Lover, Heart of The City, The Pink Sash, Woman's Only Business
Abbott, Eleanor Hallowell
Fiction; Short stories
Old Sagner was deliciously stupid over many things, but he dissected the
darkness toward Professor Lennart's house as though it had been his
favorite kind of cadaver. Here, was the hardening turf, compact as
flesh. There, was the tough, tight tendon of the ripping ground pine.
Farther along under an exploring match a great vapid peony loomed like a
dead heart. Somewhere out in an orchard the May-blooms smelled
altogether too white. Almost at the edge of the Lennarts' piazza he
turned and stepped back to my pace and began talking messily about some
stale biological specimen that had just arrived from the Azores.
College people, it seemed, did not ring bells for one another, and the
most casual flop of Sagner's knuckles against the door brought Mrs.
Lennart almost immediately to welcome us. "Almost immediately," I say,
because the slight, faltering delay in her footfall made me wonder even
then whether it was limb or life that had gone just a little bit lame.
But the instant the hall light struck her face my hand clutched down
involuntarily on Sagner's shoulder. It was the same, same face whose
brighter, keener, shinier pastelled likeness had been the only joyous
object in Sagner's homesick German room. With almost embarrassing
slowness now we followed her lagging steps back to the library.
It was the first American home that I had seen for some years, and the
warmth of it, and the color, and the glow, and the luxurious,
deep-seated comfort, mothered me like the notes of an old, old song.
Between the hill-green walls the long room stretched like a peaceful
valley to the very edge of the huge, gray field-stone fireplace that
blocked the final vista like a furious breastwork raised against all the
invading tribes of history. Red books and gold frames and a
chocolate-colored bronze or two caught up the flickering glint from the
apple-wood fire, and out of some shadowy corner flanked by a grand piano
a young girl's contralto voice, sensuous as liquid plush, was lipping
its magic way up and down the whole wonderful, molten scale.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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