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The Floating Press - Wilkinson Peattie Elia

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92 pages

English

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Elia Wilkinson Peattie was a prolific fiction writer who detailed her experiences as a woman in the West in dozens of essays, short stories, and novels. In "A Mountain Woman," Peattie gives us the entertaining tale of a sophisticated New York City architect who marries a rustic but eminently practical woman from the mountains of Colorado and brings her back to the East to mingle with high society.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775419228
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

A MOUNTAIN WOMAN
* * *
ELIA WILKINSON PEATTIE

*

A Mountain Woman First published in 1896 ISBN 978-1-775419-22-8 © 2010 The Floating Press
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Foreword A Mountain Woman Jim Lancy's Waterloo A Resuscitation Two Pioneers Up the Gulch A Michigan Man A Lady of Yesterday
Foreword
*
MOST of the tales in this little book have been printed before. "AMountain Woman" appeared in Harper's Weekly, as did "The Three Johns"and "A Resuscitation." "Jim Lancy's Waterloo" was printed in theCosmopolitan, "A Michigan Man" in Lippincott's, and "Up the Gulch" inTwo Tales. The courtesy of these periodicals in permitting the storiesto be republished is cordially acknowledged.
E. W. P.
A Mountain Woman
*
IF Leroy Brainard had not had such a respect for literature, he wouldhave written a book.
As it was, he played at being an architect—and succeeded in being acharming fellow. My sister Jessica never lost an opportunity of laughingat his endeavors as an architect.
"You can build an enchanting villa, but what would you do with acathedral?"
"I shall never have a chance at a cathedral," he would reply. "And,besides, it always seems to me so material and so impertinent to build alittle structure of stone and wood in which to worship God!"
You see what he was like? He was frivolous, yet one could never tellwhen he would become eloquently earnest.
Brainard went off suddenly Westward one day. I suspected that Jessicawas at the bottom of it, but I asked no questions; and I did not hearfrom him for months. Then I got a letter from Colorado.
"I have married a mountain woman," he wrote. "None of your puny breedof modern femininity, but a remnant left over from the heroic ages,—aprimitive woman, grand and vast of spirit, capable of true and steadfastwifehood. No sophistry about her; no knowledge even that there issophistry. Heavens! man, do you remember the rondeaux and triolets Iused to write to those pretty creatures back East? It would take a Sagaman of the old Norseland to write for my mountain woman. If I were anartist, I would paint her with the north star in her locks and her feeton purple cloud. I suppose you are at the Pier. I know you usually areat this season. At any rate, I shall direct this letter thither, andwill follow close after it. I want my wife to see something of life. AndI want her to meet your sister."
"Dear me!" cried Jessica, when I read the letter to her; "I don't knowthat I care to meet anything quite so gigantic as that mountain woman.I'm one of the puny breed of modern femininity, you know. I don't thinkmy nerves can stand the encounter."
"Why, Jessica!" I protested. She blushed a little.
"Don't think bad of me, Victor. But, you see, I've a little scrap-bookof those triolets upstairs." Then she burst into a peal of irresistiblelaughter. "I'm not laughing because I am piqued," she said frankly."Though any one will admit that it is rather irritating to have a manwho left you in a blasted condition recover with such extraordinarypromptness. As a philanthropist, one of course rejoices, but as a woman,Victor, it must be admitted that one has a right to feel annoyed. But,honestly, I am not ungenerous, and I am going to do him a favor. I shallwrite, and urge him not to bring his wife here. A primitive woman, withthe north star in her hair, would look well down there in the Casinoeating a pineapple ice, wouldn't she? It's all very well to have a soul,you know; but it won't keep you from looking like a guy among women whohave good dressmakers. I shudder at the thought of what the poor thingwill suffer if he brings her here."
Jessica wrote, as she said she would; but, for all that, a fortnightlater she was walking down the wharf with the "mountain woman," and Iwas sauntering beside Leroy. At dinner Jessica gave me no chance to talkwith our friend's wife, and I only caught the quiet contralto tones ofher voice now and then contrasting with Jessica's vivacious soprano. Adrizzling rain came up from the east with nightfall. Little groups ofshivering men and women sat about in the parlors at the card-tables,and one blond woman sang love songs. The Brainards were tired with theirjourney, and left us early. When they were gone, Jessica burst intoeulogy.
"That is the first woman," she declared, "I ever met who would make afit heroine for a book."
"Then you will not feel under obligations to educate her, as youinsinuated the other day?"
"Educate her! I only hope she will help me to unlearn some of the thingsI know. I never saw such simplicity. It is antique!"
"You're sure it's not mere vacuity?" "Victor! How can you? But youhaven't talked with her. You must to-morrow. Good-night." She gatheredup her trailing skirts and started down the corridor. Suddenly sheturned back. "For Heaven's sake!" she whispered, in an awed tone, "Inever even noticed what she had on!"
The next morning early we made up a riding party, and I rode withMrs. Brainard. She was as tall as I, and sat in her saddle as if quiteunconscious of her animal. The road stretched hard and inviting underour horses' feet. The wind smelled salt. The sky was ragged with graymasses of cloud scudding across the blue. I was beginning to glow withexhilaration, when suddenly my companion drew in her horse.
"If you do not mind, we will go back," she said.
Her tone was dejected. I thought she was tired.
"Oh, no!" she protested, when I apologized for my thoughtlessness inbringing her so far. "I'm not tired. I can ride all day. Where I comefrom, we have to ride if we want to go anywhere; but here there seems tobe no particular place to—to reach."
"Are you so utilitarian?" I asked, laughingly. "Must you always havesome reason for everything you do? I do so many things just for the merepleasure of doing them, I'm afraid you will have a very poor opinion ofme."
"That is not what I mean," she said, flushing, and turning her largegray eyes on me. "You must not think I have a reason for everything Ido." She was very earnest, and it was evident that she was unacquaintedwith the art of making conversation. "But what I mean," she went on,"is that there is no place—no end—to reach." She looked back over hershoulder toward the west, where the trees marked the sky line, and anexpression of loss and dissatisfaction came over her face. "Yousee," she said, apologetically, "I'm used to different things—to themountains. I have never been where I could not see them before in mylife."
"Ah, I see! I suppose it is odd to look up and find them not there."
"It's like being lost, this not having anything around you. At least,I mean," she continued slowly, as if her thought could not easily putitself in words,—"I mean it seems as if a part of the world had beentaken down. It makes you feel lonesome, as if you were living after theworld had begun to die."
"You'll get used to it in a few days. It seems very beautiful to mehere. And then you will have so much life to divert you."
"Life? But there is always that everywhere."
"I mean men and women."
"Oh! Still, I am not used to them. I think I might be not—not veryhappy with them. They might think me queer. I think I would like to showyour sister the mountains."
"She has seen them often."
"Oh, she told me. But I don't mean those pretty green hills such as wesaw coming here. They are not like my mountains. I like mountains thatgo beyond the clouds, with terrible shadows in the hollows, and beltsof snow lying in the gorges where the sun cannot reach, and the snow isblue in the sunshine, or shining till you think it is silver, and themist so wonderful all about it, changing each moment and drifting up anddown, that you cannot tell what name to give the colors. These mountainsof yours here in the East are so quiet; mine are shouting all the time,with the pines and the rivers. The echoes are so loud in the valley thatsometimes, when the wind is rising, we can hardly hear a man talk unlesshe raises his voice. There are four cataracts near where I live, andthey all have different voices, just as people do; and one of themis happy—a little white cataract—and it falls where the sun shinesearliest, and till night it is shining. But the others only get the sunnow and then, and they are more noisy and cruel. One of them is alwaysin the shadow, and the water looks black. That is partly because therocks all underneath it are black. It falls down twenty great ledges ina gorge with black sides, and a white mist dances all over it at everyleap. I tell father the mist is the ghost of the waters. No man evergoes there; it is too cold. The chill strikes through one, and makesyour heart feel as if you were dying. But all down the side of themountain, toward the south and the west, the sun shines on the graniteand draws long points of light out of it. Father tells me soldiersmarching look that way when the sun strikes on their bayonets. Those arethe kind of mountains I mean, Mr. Grant."
She was looking at me with her face transfigured, as if it, like themountains she told me of, had been lying in shadow, and waiting for thedazzling dawn.
"I had a terrible dream once," she went on; "the most terrible dreamever I had. I dreamt that the mountains had all been taken down, andthat I stood on a plain to which there was no end. The sky was burningup, and the grass scorched brown from the heat, and it was twisting asif it were in pain. And animals, but no other person save myself, onlywild things, were crouchi