Malcolm. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
as it was, the explanation served to restore her equanimity, disturbed by what had seemed his presumption in lying down in her presence: she saw that she had mistaken the action. The fact was, that, concluding from her behaviour she had something to say to him, but was not yet at leisure for him, he had lain down, as a loving dog might, to await her time. It was devotion, not coolness. To remain standing before her would have seemed a demand on her attention; to lie down was to withdraw and wait. But Florimel, although pleased, was only the more inclined to torment—a peculiarity of disposition which she inherited from her father: she bowed her face once more over her book, and read though three whole stanzas, without however understanding a single phrase in them, before she spoke. Then looking up, and regarding for a moment the youth who lay watching her with the eyes of the servants in the psalm, she said,—"Well? What are you waiting for?"
"I thocht ye wantit me, my leddy! I beg yer pardon," answered Malcolm, springing to his feet, and turning to go.
"Do you ever read?" she asked.
"Aften that," replied Malcolm, turning again, and standing stock still. "An' I like best to read jist as yer leddyship's readin' the noo, lyin' o' the san' hill, wi' the haill sea afore me, an naething atween me an' the icebergs but the watter an' the stars an' a wheen islands. It's like readin' wi' fower een, that!"
"And what do you read on such occasions?" carelessly drawled his persecutor.
"Whiles ae thing an' whiles anither—whiles onything I can lay my han's upo'. I like traivels an' sic like weel eneuch; an' history, gien it be na ower dry like. I div not like sermons, an' there's mair o' them in Portlossie than onything ither. Mr Graham—that's the schoolmaister—has a gran' libbrary, but it 's maist Laitin an' Greek, an' though I like the Laitin weel, it 's no what I wad read i' the face o' the sea. When ye're in dreid o' wantin' a dictionar', that spiles a'."
"Can you read Latin then?"
"Ay: what for no, my leddy? I can read Virgil middlin'; an' Horace's Ars Poetica, the whilk Mr Graham says is no its richt name ava, but jist Epistola ad Pisones; for gien they bude to gie 't anither it sud ha' been Ars Dramatica. But leddies dinna care aboot sic things."
"You gentlemen give us no chance. You won't teach us."
"Noo, my leddy, dinna begin to mak' ghem o' me, like my lord. I cud ill bide it frae him, an' gien ye tak till 't as weel, 1 maun jist haud oot o' yer gait. nae gentleman, an' hae ower muckle respeck for what becomes a gentleman to be pleased at bein' ca'd ane. But as for the Laitin, I'll be prood to instruck yer leddyship whan ye please."
" afraid I've no great wish to learn," said Florimel.
"I daur say no," said Malcolm quietly, and again addressed himself to go.
"Do you like novels?" asked the girl.
"I never saw a novelle. There's no ane amo' a' Mr Graham's buiks, an' I s' warran' there's full twa hunner o' them. I dinna believe there's a single novelle in a' Portlossie."
"Don't be too sure: there are a good many in our library."
"I hadna the presumption, my leddy, to coont the Hoose in Portlossie—Ye'll hae a sicht o' buiks up there, no?"
"Have you never been in the library?"
"I never set fut i' the hoose—'cep' i' the kitchie, an' ance or twise steppin' across the ha' frae the ae door to the tither. I wad fain see what kin' o' a place great fowk like you bides in, an' what kin' o' things, buiks an' a', ye hae aboot ye. It's no easy for the like o' huz 'at has but a but an' a ben (outer and inner room), to unnerstan' hoo ye fill sic a muckle place as yon. I wad be aye i' the libbrary, I think. But," he went on, glancing involuntarily at the dainty little foot that peered from under her dress, "yer leddyship's sae licht fittit, ye'll be ower the haill dwallin', like a wee bird in a muckle cage. Whan I want room, I like it wantin' wa's."
Once more he was on the point of going, but once more a word detained him.
"Do you ever read poetry?"
"Ay, sometimes—whan it 's auld."
"One would think you were talking about wine! Does age improve poetry as well?"
"I ken naething aboot wine, my leddy. Miss Horn gae me a glaiss the ither day, an' it tastit weel, but whether it was merum or mixtum, I couldna tell mair nor a haddick. Doobtless age does gar poetry smack a wee better; but I said auld only 'cause there's sae little new poetry that I care aboot comes my gait. Mr Graham's unco ta'en wi' Maister Wordsworth—no an ill name for a poet; do ye ken onything aboot him, my leddy?"
"I never heard of him."
"I wadna gie an auld Scots ballant for a barrowfu' o' his. There's gran' bits here an' there, nae doobt, but it 's ower mim mou'ed for me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's ower saft an' sliddery like i' yer mou', my leddy."
"What sort do you like then?"
"I like Milton weel. Ye get a fine mou'fu' o' him. I dinna like the verse 'at ye can murle (crumble) oot atween yer lips an' yer teeth. I like the verse 'at ye maun open yer mou' weel to lat gang. Syne it 's worth yer while, whether ye unnerstan' 't or no."
"I don't see how you can say that."
"Jist hear, my leddy! Here's a bit I cam upo' last nicht:
His volant touch, Instinct through all proportions, low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.
Hear till 't! It's gran'—even though ye dinna ken what it means a bit."
"I do know what it means," said Florimel. "Let me see: volant means—what does volant mean?"
"It means fleein', I suppose."
"Well, he means some musician or other."
"Of coorse: it maun be Jubal—I ken a' the words but fugue; though I canna tell what business instinct an' proportions hae there."
"It's describing how the man's fingers, playing a fugue—on the organ, I suppose,—"
"A fugue 'll be some kin' o' a tune, than? That casts a heap o' licht on't, my leddy—I never saw an organ: what is 't like?"
"Something like a pianoforte."
"But I never saw ane o' them either. It's ill makin' things a'thegither oot o' yer ain heid."
"Well, it 's played with the fingers—like this," said Florimel. "And the fugue is a kind of piece where one part pursues the other,—"
"An' syne," cried Malcolm eagerly, "that ane turns roon' an' rins efter the first;—that 'll be 'fled and pursued transverse.' I hae't! I hae't! See, my leddy, what it is to hae sic schoolin', wi' music an' a'! The proportions—that's the relation o' the notes to ane anither; an' fugue—that comes frae fugere to flee —'fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue '—the tane rinnin' efter the tither, roon' an' roon'. Ay, I hae't noo!– Resonant—that's echoing or resounding. But what's instinct my leddy? It maun be an adjective, thinkin'."
Although the modesty of Malcolm had led him to conclude the girl immeasurably his superior in learning because she could tell him what a fugue was, he soon found she could help him no further, for she understood scarcely anything about grammar, and her vocabulary was limited enough. Not a doubt interfered, however, with her acceptance of the imputed superiority; for it is as easy for some to assume as it is for others to yield.
"I hae't! It is an adjective," cried Malcolm, after a short pause of thought. "It's the touch that's instinct. But I fancy there sud be a comma efter instinct.—His fingers were sae used till 't that they could 'maist do the thing o' themsel's—Isna 't lucky, my leddy, that I thocht o' sayin' 't ower to you! I'll read the buik frae the beginnin',—it 's the neist to the last, I think,—jist to come upo' the twa lines i' their ain place, ohn their expeckin' me like, an' see hoo gran' they soon' whan a body unnerstan's them. Thank ye, my leddy."
"I suppose you read Milton to your grandfather?"
"Ay, sometimes—i' the lang forenights."
"What do you mean by the forenights?"
"I mean efter it 's dark an' afore ye gang to yer bed.—He