The Brimming Cup

he Life of Mrs.

il

ise startled herself almost as much as her callers by turning over that leaf in the photograph al

rk, hanging over her shoulder and knee, the to-be-

little boys, although she knew helplessly that this naturally made them extremely keen not to miss any chance to catch a glimpse of such a one. She could see that they thought it queer, there being anything so exciting in this old album of dull snapshots and geographical picture-postcards of places and churches and ruins and things that Father and Mother

otograph marked "Rome from the Pincian Gardens," although through the top of his dark, close-cropped head she could fairly feel the racing, inquiring speculations whirling about. Nor had she any right to resent that. She supposed people had a right to what went on in their own heads,

lace photograph, in this company? Something had burst up from the subconscious and flashed its way into action, moving her tongue to speak and

passed over unnoticed, a gesture of hers as inexplicable to her as to them. Oh well, the best thing, of course, was to carry it off

d carelessly; "l

as he had been doing for the other photographs, "'View of the Campagna f

es. It made her quite genuinely break into a laugh. It was really a joke on them. She sai

en a single person or donkey in it, and gave up the riddle. Mother certainly had spoken

lways doing. Well, it wasn't fair. She hated taking advantage of them like that. It was a sort of sin against the

n't at all warded off attention, but rather drawn it hard and scrutinizing, in spite of those down-dropped sharp eyes. Well, there was no

re. They certainly have very fine views about the Eternal City. I envy y

could be with a good big dose of simplicity holding everything in a clear solution, so th

ulated what she did from the first motion to the last, made her voice casual but not elaborately so, and put one a

iousness, something asked her, "Why

o try to think it out. Later on, tonight, after the children were in bed, when she was brushing her hair . . . oh, probably she'd find as you so often did, when you went after the cause

, taken from the tramway lin

view," said

smal as his speech was Niagara-l

probably had been sitting on the steps of the kitchen, looking out into the darkness, in the long, motionless vigil which made up

ou call "depression" (whatever that meant), the dull hooded apparition that came blackly and laid its leaden hand on your heart. This news was j

ime tonight. Scatter quick, and put on your things. We'll all go

in their felt slippers. Scramblings, chatterings, and stamping soun

lained, drawing a long, plain, black silk scarf closely about her head and shoulders, "Why, yes, do come. It's an occasion as uniquely Ashleyian as pelota is Basque. You, Mr. Marsh, with your exhaustive inquiries into the habi

quite gay and young to be teasing somebody again. She was only paying him back in his own coin. He himself was always telling everybody about his deep interest in the curi

losely about her head, glancing at herself in the mirror. She smiled back with sympathy at the smili

the unconscious called up to her, "You

cried to herself. "Who would have thought that narrowness and priggishness could rub off on a person's mind like that! Mrs. Bayweath

heerfully as they went out of the front door. Paul had secured the hand

, or lock the door, or anyth

not a soul in the valley who would think of going in and rummaging . . . let alone tak

path, "it certainly looks queer to me, the door standing open

other's and ran towards the house. She darted up to the

na?ve conviction of the elderly bachelor that th

exactly what is in Elly's mind when she does things.

girl ran ba

want, dear?" a

it, like that, all quiet, with nobody in it. The furni

amed Mark, out of the darkness

g forward to join t

see?" asked Marsh. "You forget yo

ou're going to see a rite of the worship of beauty which Ash

e shock of that singular, loud laugh of his. It was in conversation like something-or-other in the or

s of beauty!" he cried, out of the s

sted. "Just because they go to it in overalls and

Welles, patient of the verbose by-play of h

. It was like having the sweetest old uncle bes

red Marsh; "not that I know a

t and thick. She would not amuse them; no, she would really tell them, move them. She chose the deeper intonations of her voice, she selec

nds out word to all her neighbors to be ready. And we are all ready. For days, in the back of our minds as we go about our dull, routine life, there is the thought that the cereus is near to bloom. Nelly and her grim husband hang over it day by day, watching it slowly prepare for its hour of glory. Sometimes when they cannot decide just the time it will open, they sit up all through a long night, hour after hour of darkness and silence, to make sure that it does not bloom unseen. When they see that it

the voice of the older man say with a quiver, "We

d fiercely from the other side, "They do

c wire had fallen across her arm. Why was t

pacing forward, side by side, unseen

ore it. The children and Touclé were waiting at the door. They all went in together, shaking hands with the mistre

knew what strange thoughts were going on behind that proud taciturnity. She showed the guests to chairs, of which a great many, mostly already filled, stood about the center table, on which sprawled the great, spiny, un

her greediness and her love of beauty all jumbled together! A neighbor leaned from her chair to say to Mrs. Crittenden, "Warm for this time of year, ain't it?" And another remarked, looking at Mark's little trousers, "That material come out real good, didn't it? I made up what I got of it, into a dress

wn, nodding silent greetings to the other neighbors. In turning to salute them, Marise caught a glimpse of Mr. Marsh, fixing his brilliant scrutiny first on one and then on another of the company. At that moment he was gazing at Nelly Powers, "taking her in" thought Marise, from her beautiful hair to those preposterously h

king of something very far away. He looked tired and old, it seemed to her, and without that quietly shining aspect of peace which she found so touching. Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps she ought not to have

Elly. Marise saw everyone's eyes turn to the center of the room and lo

und would have wounded the flower. All those human souls bowed themselves. Almost a light shone upon th

her, "quoting the Paradiso, about Vermont farmers!" as though he could k

flower, lived only in the incredibly leisurely, masterful motion with which the grotesquely shaped protecting petals curled themselves back from the center. Their motion was so slow that the mind was lost in d

heard everyone about her do the same. They turned to each other with inarticulate exclama

wrinkled faces. The petals cast a clear, rosy reflection upon their sallow cheeks. Some of the younger mothers took their little children over to the table

lose and look at it, children

ly on the child's soft hair and smiled at her. How curious it was to see that grim, battered old visage smile! Elly was the only creature in the world at whom the old Indian ever smi

bout, exchanged a few laconic greetings, and began putting their wraps on. Marise remem

the farmer's wife, as they came away. "It wouldn't seem lik

intense there, because of the gigantic pine-tree which towered above the little house. "Are you there, Paul?" she call

se bent over the little girl and divined in the darkness that s

er's neck, straining her close in a wild embrace. Little Mark, on the other side, yawned and staggered sleepily on hi

ented the ol

d had stood gazing admiringly up at the huge pine-tr

comment as they walked on, "with apolog

y in their stupefyingly monotonous life that they welcome anything, anything at all as a break . . . only if they could choose, they would infinitely prefer a two-headed calf or a bearded woman to your flower. The only reason they go to see that is because it is a curiosity, not becaus

aled to him, "do you think th

that both of you told the truth about it. The truth's pretty big for any one person to tell. Isn't it

pe you're satisfied. You've been called 'ni

s from field and loom and vineyard, what do you suppose he would have seen? Dullness and insensitiveness in the eyes of those Grecian farmer-lads, no doubt, occupied entirely with keeping the oxen in line; a low v

," said Mr. Welles mildly, "but I guess Vincent w

ith the verdict now

warmth of feeling which the flower and the people around it had roused in her heart, not the faintest trace was left. She had only a cool interested certainty that her side had a perfec

entric plant and the vacancy of mind of those sons of toil, cursed, soul-destroying toi

to the statuesque, you know. They call that grand silent calm of her, stupidness! Ever since 'Gene brought her here as a bride, a year after we came to live in Crittenden's, I have gone out of my way

er black, dour husband is furiously in love with her and furiously jealous of that tall, ruddy fello

his shouting out of something sh

lles resignedly. The phrase ran from his

t Frank Warner did go to the Powers' a good dea

not wanting to?" asked Marsh with the most aut

. . ?" she re

ong, vital man, they belong together. Whom God hath joined . . . Don't try to tell me that your judgment is maimed by the Chinese shoes of outworn ideas, such as the binding nature of a mediaeval ceremony. That doesn't marry anybody, and you know it. If s

and insensitive they could feel nothing but an interest in two-headed calves, and here they are, characters in an Italian opera. I only wish Nelly Powers were capable of understanding those grand languages of yours and then know what she thought of your idea of what's in her mind. And as for 'Gene's je

is for children's stronger, better selves, to live in the enervating, hot-house concentration on them of an unbalanced, undeveloped woman, who has let everything else in her personality atrophy except her morbid preoccupatio

sively, and felt, as she heard the words, that they had a flat, na?ve sound, out of key w

aned) is hostility. We hated our elders, because they got in our way. And they'll hate us as soon as they get the strength to, because we'll be in their way. And we

, "what do you say to such talk? Don'

many fashions in talk come and go. I never could see that people acted any differently, no matter which way they talk." As he finished, he drew a long sigh, which had obviously no connectio

under her feet, so different from the iron rigidity of the winter earth, and the cool soft pressure of the night-air on her cheeks, when, like something thrust into her mind from the outside, there rose into her consciousness, articulate and complete, the reason why she had shrunk from looking at the photograph of

ing flood had been ebbing, ebbing out of their hearts. They were not alive as they had been alive when t

do so much with her own hands, she had not even had the time to know the stupid, tragic thing that was happening to her . . . that she was turning into a slow, vegetating plant instead of a human being. And now she understood the meaning of the strange dejection she h

it, involuntary and reflex, was to crush it instantly down, lest the man walking at her side should

unimaginable secrets which it is. There they were, the three of them, stepping side by side, brushing each other as they moved; and as remote from each other as though they were on different stars. What were the thoughts, powerful, complex, under perfect control, which were

ing and saying, "Elly's the looniest kid! She's just been saying that Father is like . . ." Elly, in a p

ther was like the end of her hair that's fastened into her head, and Mother was the end that flaps in t

r. "Mother, it's nasty-horrid in Pau

"It wasn't very kind in Paul, but there was noth

plained the child. "Only . . ." She look

, "to be compared with such a remarkably nice thing as a brook in spring-time.

hed Elly, reliev

asked Marise. "If one of you big children will unbutton Mark in the back

time to kiss us good-night in our beds," begged Elly and M

out to her ardently, and she felt her heart melt. What darlings the

armful, kissing them indiscriminately. "Yes, of course,

's eyes on her

te roughness, "There, that's enough. Scamper alo

en he spoke about hot-house enervating concentration. She had been more stung by t

ion of such weariness, that Marise moved quickly to him. "See here, Mr. Welles," she said impulsively, "you have something on your mind, and I've got the mother-habit so

it. "It does me good to have you so nice to me," he said, "but I'm afraid even you can't fix i

't send the gladioli

sing dislike for him. She had often felt him to be hard and ruthless

etter?" she aske

a teacher in a school for Negroes, down in Georgia, for years, most of her life. But I had sort of lost track of her, till I had to send her some little family trinkets that were left after my old aunt di

ok his head, as though to shake off a c

y, the school?" asked Marise with a va

y-laborers of them, almost anything in fact except the thing they can't rise without, ordinary human respect. It made a very painful impression on my mind, her letter, very. She gave such instances. I haven't been able to get it out of my mind. For instance, one of the small things she told me . . . it seems incredible . . . is that Southern white people won't give the ordinary title of respect of Mr. or Mrs. or Dr. even to a highly educated Negro. They call them by their first names, like servants

d astonishment filled her mind, up to the brim. Of all the to

e, that she knew exactly what was in that old white head. And all the time it had been this. Who could have made the faintest guess a

lass, trying to untangle with her eyes a complicated twist of moral fibers, inextricably bound up with each other, the moral fibers that made up her life .

such a dim sense of the people who might be endangered by it. And the confusion here, under the microscope of her a

m fairly stupid to him, but she could not bring out anything else. W

her kindly, and stood up. "I'm pretty tired. I gues

n's. "I'll tuck you up, my old friend, with a good hot toddy inside you, and let you sleep off this outrageously crazy daylight nightmare you'v

faith. "Oh, the Japanese factory-hands, t

ching his poor old protesting conscience till it cracks, to make it reach

seeing that wonderful flower very much. I wonder if I could grow one like it? It

he had her own. But even as she felt the impulse, she had again a startled sense of how much more goes on under

dense, lustreless black silk wrap about Marise's head and shoul

at the soft, opaque folds of her wrap. "Oh, this is a thousand years old. It dates from the Bayonne days. It's Basque. It's their variation, I imagine, on the Spanish mantilla. They never wear hats, the Basque women. The little girls, when they have made their first

said Marsh, going ou

far from the Ne