The Magnificent Ambersons - Booth Tarkington (top novels of all time TXT) 📗

Lucy looked puzzled. “What makes you have so much feeling about it? Have I offended you?”

“ ‘Offended’ nothing!” George returned brusquely. “Girls usually think they know it all as soon as they’ve learned to dance and dress and flirt a little. They never know anything about things like architecture, for instance. That house is about as bum a house as any house I ever saw!”

“Why?”

“Why?” George repeated. “Did you ask me why?”

“Yes.”

“Well, for one thing⁠—” he paused⁠—“for one thing⁠—well, just look at it! I shouldn’t think you’d have to do any more than look at it if you’d ever given any attention to architecture.”

“What is the matter with its architecture, Mr. Minafer?”

“Well, it’s this way,” said George. “It’s like this. Well, for instance, that house⁠—well, it was built like a town house.” He spoke of it in the past tense, because they had now left it far behind them⁠—a human habit of curious significance. “It was like a house meant for a street in the city. What kind of a house was that for people of any taste to build out here in the country?”

“But papa says it’s built that way on purpose. There are a lot of other houses being built in this direction, and papa says the city’s coming out this way; and in a year or two that house will be right in town.”

“It was a bum house, anyhow,” said George crossly. “I don’t even know the people that are building it. They say a lot of riffraff come to town every year nowadays and there’s other riffraff that have always lived here, and have made a little money, and act as if they owned the place. Uncle Sydney was talking about it yesterday: he says he and some of his friends are organizing a country club, and already some of these riffraff are worming into it⁠—people he never heard of at all! Anyhow, I guess it’s pretty clear you don’t know a great deal about architecture.”

She demonstrated the completeness of her amiability by laughing. “I’ll know something about the North Pole before long,” she said, “if we keep going much farther in this direction!”

At this he was remorseful. “All right, we’ll turn, and drive south awhile till you get warmed up again. I expect we have been going against the wind about long enough. Indeed, I’m sorry!”

He said, “Indeed, I’m sorry,” in a nice way, and looked very strikingly handsome when he said it, she thought. No doubt it is true that there is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner repented than over all the saints who consistently remain holy, and the rare, sudden gentlenesses of arrogant people have infinitely more effect than the continual gentleness of gentle people. Arrogance turned gentle melts the heart; and Lucy gave her companion a little sidelong, sunny nod of acknowledgment. George was dazzled by the quick glow of her eyes, and found himself at a loss for something to say.

Having turned about, he kept his horse to a walk, and at this gait the sleighbells tinkled but intermittently. Gleaming wanly through the whitish vapour that kept rising from the trotter’s body and flanks, they were like tiny fog-bells, and made the only sounds in a great winter silence. The white road ran between lonesome rail fences; and frozen barnyards beyond the fences showed sometimes a harrow left to rust, with its iron seat half filled with stiffened snow, and sometimes an old dead buggy, its wheels forever set, it seemed, in the solid ice of deep ruts. Chickens scratched the metallic earth with an air of protest, and a masterless ragged colt looked up in sudden horror at the mild tinkle of the passing bells, then blew fierce clouds of steam at the sleigh. The snow no longer fell, and far ahead, in a grayish cloud that lay upon the land, was the town.

Lucy looked at this distant thickening reflection. “When we get this far out we can see there must be quite a little smoke hanging over the town,” she said. “I suppose that’s because it’s growing. As it grows bigger it seems to get ashamed of itself, so it makes this cloud and hides in it. Papa says it used to be a bit nicer when he lived here: he always speaks of it differently⁠—he always has a gentle look, a particular tone of voice, I’ve noticed. He must have been very fond of it. It must have been a lovely place: everybody must have been so jolly. From the way he talks, you’d think life here then was just one long midsummer serenade. He declares it was always sunshine, that the air wasn’t like the air anywhere else⁠—that, as he remembers it, there always seemed to be gold-dust in the air. I doubt it! I think it doesn’t seem to be duller air to him now just on account of having a little soot in it sometimes, but probably because he was twenty years younger then. It seems to me the gold-dust he thinks was here is just his being young that he remembers. I think it was just youth. It is pretty pleasant to be young, isn’t it?” She laughed absently, then appeared to become wistful. “I wonder if we really do enjoy it as much as we’ll look back and think we did! I don’t suppose so. Anyhow, for my part I feel as if I must be missing something about it, somehow, because I don’t ever seem to be thinking about what’s happening at the present moment; I’m always looking forward to something⁠—thinking about things that will happen when I’m older.”

“You’re a funny girl,” George said gently. “But your voice sounds pretty nice when you think and talk along together like that!”

The horse shook himself all over, and the impatient sleighbells made his wish audible. Accordingly, George tightened the reins, and the cutter was off again at a three-minute trot, no despicable rate of speed.