The Secret Garden - Chapter 4 Martha

Frances Hodgson Burnett

In the morning she opened her eyes because a maid had come into the room, and she was kneeling on the stove blanket and pulling cinder out loud. Mary lay and watched her for a while, then toured the room. She had never seen a room like this before, and thought it was new and dark. The walls are covered with tapestries embroidered with forest views. Under the trees are figures dressed in costume, and in the distance looms the corner tower of a castle. There are hunters, horses, dogs and ladies in the painting. Mary felt like she was in the forest with them. Outside a deep window, she could see a large uphill field with no trees in sight, which looked strange like an endless, dark, purple sea.

　　"What's that?" She said, pointing out the window.

　　The young maid, Martha, had just stood up, looked over, and also pointed and said, "Is there?"

　　"Yes"

　　"That's Mul," smiled kindly, "you like it?"

　　"No," replied Mary, "I hate it. ”

　　"That's because you're not used to it yet," Martha said, walking back to the stove, "and you think it's too big in space now." You'll love it though. ”

　　"What about you?" Mary asked.

　　"Ah, I like it." Martha replied, gleefully wiping away the iron shelf for the firewood, "I like it very much. It's not bare. It was covered with living things, smelling incense. In the spring and summer, the beloved individuals—the wattles, the plantagenets, the heathers all bloomed, smelled like honey, and there was fresh air everywhere—the sky seemed so high, and the bees and larks chirped so nicely—hummed and sang. yes! O Mul, I will not exchange anything. ”

　　Mary listened, her expression dark and confused. This was completely different from the Indian servant she was used to. They were as humble as slaves, afraid to speak to their masters. They perform a bowed hand salute to the master, calling the master "the protector of the poor" and so on. Indian servants are commanded, not asked to do things. It's not used to saying "please" and "thank you" there, and Mary always scratches her mother's face when she's angry. She was a little elusive about how she would react if anyone grabbed the girl. She was a round, rose-colored, well-intentioned creature, but she had a strong attitude that led Miss Mary to speculate that she might even throw herself back—if the person who snatched her was just a little girl.

　　"You're a strange servant." She said on the pillow, rather arrogantly.

　　Mary sat up on her knees, with a shoe polish brush in her hand, laughing, and looked at her without losing her temper at all. "Ah! "I know," she said, "that if Miserwest had a mistress, I would never have been a servant." Maybe they could make me a shabu-shabu servant in the room. I was too average looking, too heavy in Yorkshire. But the house was interesting, so big, as if there were no men and no mistresses except Mr. Picher and Mrs. Modlauker. Mr. Cranvin, he didn't care about anything when he was here, and besides, he was almost always out there. Mrs. Mordlock was kind enough to give me this errand. She told me that if Miserwest had been like any other big estate, she would never have been able to do that. ”

　　"Are you my servant?" Mary asked, still looking like an imperious little Indian.

　　Martha began to polish her firewood rack again.

　　"Come here to do the work of a servant, and serve you a little by the way." But you don't need a lot of care. ”

　　"Who's going to dress me?" Mary asked.

　　Martha knelt up again and stared straight into her eyes. Surprised, she spoke wide, vague Yorkshire dialect.

　　"Eight will wear his own dental suit!" She said.

　　"What do you mean?" I can't understand what you're saying. Mary said.

　　"Ah! "I forgot," said Martha, "that Mrs. Mordrock told me that I had to be careful, or you wouldn't know what I was talking about. I mean don't you dress yourself?"

　　"No," replied Mary with great indignation, "I have never done it in my life. Of course my wet nurse gave me something to wear. ”

　　"Then," said Martha, apparently unaware of how reckless she was, "it's time for you to learn." You should have started learning earlier. Taking care of yourself a little bit of yourself is good for you. My mother used to say that she understood that big people's children don't grow up to be fools—those nurses, other people bathe them, get dressed, and take them out for a walk, just like they are puppies!"

　　"India is different." Mary said with disdain that she couldn't stand it anymore.

　　But Martha didn't move at all.

　　"Ah! I could see that it wasn't the same," she replied almost sympathetically, "and I dare say it's because there are too many blacks there and too few respectable whites. When I heard that you were from India, I thought you were also black. ”

　　Mary sat up furiously.

　　"What!" She said, "What! You think I'm indigenous! You—you pig!"

　　Martha stared at her eyes and her face was hot.

　　"Who are you calling?" She said, "You don't have to be so aggressive." This is not the way the little girl talks. I didn't look down on black people in the slightest. You go and read the pamphlet, and the black people in it are always very religious. You always read that black people are our brothers. I had never seen a black man, and was happy to see a grin quite close. When I came in the morning to make a fire, I slipped over to your bed and carefully pulled the quilt down to look at you. "You're like this," he said disappointedly, "darker than I am—much more than yellow." ”

　　Mary's anger and humiliation could not even be endured. "You think I'm indigenous!" How dare you! You don't understand the indigenous people at all! They are not human beings - they are servants and must perform a hand salute to you. You don't know anything about India! You don't know anything about everything!"

　　She was so angry that she could do nothing under the mere gaze of this girl, and somehow she suddenly felt very lonely, far away from all that she was familiar with and familiar with her. She threw her head into the pillow and suddenly let out an angry sob. Her sobs were so hard to restrain that the well-meaning Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened and pitied her. Martha walked over to the bed and bent down on her.

　　"Ah! Don't you cry like that!" She pleaded, "You really don't want to." I didn't know you'd be angry. I don't know anything about anything – like you said. I ask for your pardon, Miss. Don't cry. ”

　　In her strange Yorkshire words, there was a soothing, a genuine friendliness, a firmness, that worked for Mary. She gradually stopped crying and quieted down. Martha breathed a sigh of relief.

　　"It's time for you to get up," she said, "and Mrs. Mordlock said, I'm going to bring breakfast and tea to the next room." That room has been converted into your toddler's room. If you get up, I'll dress you. If the button is on the back, you can't buckle it yourself. ”

　　When Mary finally decided to get up, the clothes Martha had taken out of her closet were not the ones she had worn when she arrived with Mrs. Mordlock the night before.

　　"Those are not mine." She said, "Mine is all black. ”

　　She looked at the thick white wool coat and dress and added a cold affirmation:

　　"Those look better than mine."

　　"You must wear these," replied Martha, "and Mr. Cranvin has instructed Mrs. Mordlock to buy them from London." He said, 'I don't want a kid dressed in black to wander around like a wandering ghost.' He said, 'That would make the place even more desolate.' Put color on her. Mom said she knew what he meant. Mom always knew what boys were thinking. She never hesitated to speak. ”

　　"I hate black stuff." Mary said.

　　The process of getting dressed allowed both of them to learn something. Martha used to "button" her younger siblings, but she had never seen a child stand still, waiting for someone else to do it for her, as if she had no hands or feet herself.

　　"Why don't you put on your shoes yourself?" When Mary quietly stretched out her feet, she said.

　　"By my wet nurse," Replied Mary with a narrow eye, "it is custom. ”

　　She used to say this—"It's custom." The native servants always kept these words on their lips. If someone tells them to do something their ancestors haven't done in thousands of years, they stare at each other gently and say, "It's not custom." "The other side knows that this is the end of the matter.

　　It is not customary for Miss Mary to do things, it is customary for her to stand like a doll and let others dress. But before breakfast, she had begun to guess that her life at The Mister West Estate would eventually teach her to learn something very new—like putting on her own shoes, putting on her own socks, and picking up what she had fallen off. If Martha had always served a young and sophisticated young lady, and was well trained, she might have been more obedient and respectful, and would have known that she should comb her hair, button her boots, and pick up things and put them away. However, she was only a Yorkshire peasant girl, untrained, simple and simple, and grew up with a group of siblings in the shepherd farmhouse. A group of children never dream of not having to take care of themselves while taking care of the small ones below—small ones or babies with arms bent, or toddlers stumbling everywhere.

　　If Mary had been a merry child, she might have already begun to laugh at Martha, but Mary just listened indifferently, wondering how her attitude was so free. At first she had no interest, but slowly, with the girl's good temper clanging, as uninhibited as if she were in her own home, Mary Kai began to pay attention to what she was saying.

　　"Ah! "You go and look at their gang," she said, "there are twelve of us, and my father has only sixteen shillings a week." I can tell you that my mother used them all to buy porridge for the dolls. They stumbled on the shepherd and played there all day. Mom said the air on the Mure fed them fat. She said she believed they, like wild foals, ate grass. Our family, Deacon, twelve years old, he had a wild pony that he said was his own. ”

　　"Where did he find it?" Mary asked.

　　"What he found on the shepherd, when the wild foal was little—with its mother. He began to make friends with it, fed it a little bread, and plucked tender grass for it. The foal slowly fell in love with Deacon, followed him, and allowed him to ride on his back. Deacon was a good guy and the animals liked him. ”

　　Mary had never owned a pet and always wanted one. So she took a slight interest in Deacon, for she had never been interested in anyone other than herself, and this first healthy emotion was like a wisp of morning light slowly pulled out at dawn. She went into the room that had been converted into a toddler's room for her and found it very similar to the one where she slept. This is not a children's room, but an adult's room, with dark old paintings on the walls and heavy oak chairs. Generous breakfast on the central table. But her appetite had always been small, and Martha had laid her the first plate, and her gaze on the plate was worse than indifference.

　　"I don't." She said.

　　"You don't want this oatmeal?!" Martha cried out in disbelief.

　　"Don't."

　　"You don't know how good it is. Put some syrup, or no sugar. ”

　　"I don't want it." Mary repeated.

　　"Ah!" Martha said, "I can't stand watching good food go to waste. If our children were sitting at this table, they would be able to eat in less than five minutes. ”

　　"Why?" Mary said coldly.

　　"Why?" Martha imitated, "Because they almost never fill their stomachs." They were as hungry as hawks and foxes. ”

　　"I don't know what hunger is." Mary said that she was indifferent because of ignorance.

Martha was indignant.

　　"Well, trying to starve is good for you. I could clearly see," she said bluntly, "that I have no patience, and I am not patient with people sitting there just staring at good bread and good meat. I said it! I wish Deacon, Philip, and Jane were all around here. ”

　　"Why don't you give them it?" Mary suggested.

　　"It's not mine." Mary said firmly, "I shouldn't rest today." I take a monthly break, just like everyone else. Then I would go home and clean up and let my mother rest for the day. ”

　　Mary drank some tea and ate some toast with jam.

　　"You're dressed warmly, run out and play." Martha said, "It's good for you, it gives you an appetite." ”

　　Mary walked to the window. There are some gardens, paths, and trees, but everything is depressed and the cold is dull.

　　"Get out? What am I going out for in this weather?"

　　"Well, if you don't go out, you'll have to stay in the house, what can you do?"

　　Mary glanced around. Nothing to do. Mrs. Mordrock did not think of entertainment when she prepared the toddler's room. Maybe it would be better to go out and see what the garden looks like.

　　"Who's going to go with me?" Mary asked.

　　Martha narrowed her eyes.

　　"You go on your own," he replied, "and you have to learn to play on your own, just like any other child without siblings." Our family Deacon himself went to Mul for a few hours. That's how he made friends with the foal. He got a sheep, and the sheep knew him, and the birds came to him to eat. No matter how little he ate, he always saved a little bread to coax his animals. ”

　　It was Deacon's story that made Mary decide to go out, though she herself didn't realize it. Even if there are no foals and sheep outside, there will be birds. They should be different from indian birds, and maybe it will make her happy to see them.

　　Martha found Mary a coat and hat, a pair of solid little chubby boots, and led her downstairs.

　　"You go around that road, it's the garden." She pointed to a door on the wall woven with shrubs and said, "There were many flowers in the summer, but now there are no flowers blooming." She seemed hesitant and added, "There's a garden that's locked up." No one has gone in for ten years. ”

　　"Why?" Mary asked involuntarily. There were a hundred locked doors in this strange house, and now there is another one.

　　"After Mr. Cranvin's wife died, he had the garden locked. He didn't allow anyone to go in. The garden used to be hers. He locked the door and dug a pit to bury the key. Mrs. Mordlock is ringing the bell—I have to hurry up. ”

　　After she had gone, Mary descended the path and walked toward the door opened by the bush wall. She couldn't help but think about the garden that had been untouched for ten years. She wondered what the garden would look like and if there were any living flowers in it. As she passed through the bush doors, she was in a large garden with wide lawns and manicured edges of winding paths. There were some trees, flower beds, evergreens were trimmed into strange shapes, and in the middle of a large pond was a gray fountain. But the bare flower bed looked gloomy, and the fountain did not open. It's not the garden that's locked up. How can a garden be locked up? You can always go into a garden.

　　As she was thinking this, she saw that at the end of the path at her feet, there seemed to be a long wall, full of ivy. She wasn't familiar enough with England to know that she had come across a vegetable garden, which was used to grow vegetables and fruits. She walked toward the wall, and there was a door in the ivy that was open. Apparently not the locked garden, she could go in.

　　She went through the door and found a garden surrounded by walls, and it was only one of several with walls, and the doors of several gardens seemed to be interconnected. She saw another open green door, revealing a path between shrubs and flower beds with winter vegetables grown. Fruit branches are domesticated into pieces and flat against the wall. Some flower beds are covered with glass covers. This place is really bare and ugly, Mary thought, standing there staring around. There is green in the summer, maybe it looks better, but now there is nothing beautiful to say.

　　A moment later, an old man with a shovel on his shoulder came through the door of the second garden. He saw Mary, a look of astonishment, and then touched the duck-tongue hat. His face was old and obedient, and there was no joy in meeting Mary—but at that time she was angry with his garden, with a "very stubborn" face, and must have seemed unwilling to touch him.

　　"What is this place?" she asked.

　　"A vegetable garden." He replied.

　　"What's that?" Mary pointed to the other side of the green door.

　　"Another vegetable garden," he paused slightly, "there's another one on the other side of the wall, and on the other side of that wall is an orchard." ”

　　"Can I go in?" Mary asked.

　　"If you want to. There's not much to see though. ”

　　Mary did not respond. She followed the path through the second green door. There she found more walls, winter vegetables, and glass covers, but there was a closed door on the second wall. Maybe the way to that garden that no one had seen in ten years. Because Mary was not a timid child, always freewheeling, she went to the green door and twisted her handle. She hoped that the door would not open, so that she would find the mysterious garden—but the door would open easily, and she would go in, and it would be an orchard. It was also surrounded by walls, trees submissively clinging to the wall, and bare fruit trees among the brown blades of grass in winter — but there were no green doors to be seen there. Mary searched, and when she reached the end of the high part of the garden, she noticed that the wall did not seem to end in the orchard, but extended beyond the orchard, as if enclosing another piece of land over there. She could see the treetops on the wall, and as she stood quietly, she saw a little bird with a bright red chest standing on the highest branch of a tree, and suddenly it began the song of winter—almost as if it had spotted her and was calling out to her.

　　She stopped to listen, and somehow its cheerful friendly chirp gave her a sense of joy—the grumpy little girl would also feel lonely, and the big closed house, the bare big shepherd, and the big bare garden made the grumpy little girl feel as if there was no one else in the world, only herself. If she had been a tender child and used to being loved, she might have been heartbroken. Despite the fact that she was "Very Stubborn Miss Mary", and in spite of her loneliness, this bright-breasted bird brought almost a smile to her little bitter melon face. She listened to it until it flew away. It was different from the Indian bird, and she liked it and wondered if she would ever see it again. Maybe it lives in that secret garden and knows everything.

　　Probably because she had nothing to do, she couldn't forget the abandoned garden. She was curious about it and wanted to know what it was like. Why did Mr. Archibald bury the key? If he had loved his wife so much, why would he hate her garden? She wondered if she would see him, but she knew that if she did, she wouldn't like him, and he wouldn't like her. She would just stand there staring at him, not speaking, though she must have wanted to ask him if he thought to death: Why would he do such a strange thing?

"People never liked me, and I never liked everyone," she thought, "and I could never talk like a Crawford kid." They're always talking and laughing and making noise. ”

　　She thought about the way the robin was singing to her, and as she remembered the top of the tree it perched on, she stopped abruptly on the path.

　　"I believe the tree is in that secret garden— I feel certainly must be," she said, "and that place is surrounded by walls and there are no doors." ”

　　She walked back to the first vegetable garden she had just been to and saw the old man digging the ground. She walked up to him and stood there, looking at him for a moment, with a cold little look. He ignored her, so in the end she spoke to him.

　　"I went to other gardens." She said.

　　"No one is stopping you." He replied old-fashionedly.

　　"I'm going to the orchard."

　　"There's no dog biting you at the door." He replied.

　　"There is no door to another garden." Mary said.

　　"What garden?" He said in a gruff voice, stopping for a moment without digging.

　　"The garden on the other side of the wall," replied Mary, "there are trees over there—I can see a lot of treetops." A little red-breasted bird stands in the treetops singing. ”

　　She was surprised to see the obedient, weathered old face change its expression. A smile slowly stretched out, and the gardener looked very different. This scene made her think to herself, it is wonderful, it is much better to look when a person smiles. She had never thought of it that way before.

　　He turned to the side of the garden near the orchard and began to whistle—in a low voice. She couldn't understand how such a well-behaved man could make such a diligent and patient voice. Almost instantaneously, something interesting happened. She heard a small, soft, urgent sound burst through the air—it was a red-breasted bird coming toward them, and it stopped at a pile of dirt not far from the gardener's feet.

　　"Isn't it," the old man laughed softly, and he spoke to the bird in a tone like it was to a child.

　　"Where are you, you cheeky little beggar?" He said, "I didn't see Na until today. Didn't Na start chasing girls so early this year? It's also too impatient. ”

　　The little bird tilted its slightly larger head to the side and looked up at him, bright and supple eyes like two black dews. It seemed to be very cooked, and it was not afraid at all. It jumped around, pecking sharply at the soil, looking for seeds and bugs. This evoked a strange feeling in Mary's heart, because she was so beautiful, happy, so human. It has a full little body, a delicate beak, and a pair of slender and delicate legs.

　　"Do you come as soon as you call it?" She asked in a low voice.

　　"Of course, it came on time. I knew it when it grew fur and learned to fly. It came from the nest of that garden, and the first time it flew over the wall, it was too weak to fly back. We made friends those days. When it flew over the wall again, their nest of young birds was gone. It felt lonely and came back to me. ”

　　"What kind of bird is it?" Mary asked.

　　"You don't know? It is a red-breasted robin. This is the friendliest and most curious bird in the world. They're just as friendly as dogs— if you know how to get along with them. Watch it peck around at us. It knows we're talking about it. ”

　　This old guy seems to be the strangest scene in the world. He looked at the bulging bird in the bright red vest as if he were both proud of it and cherished it.

　　"It's a complacent fellow," he laughed softly, "and it loves to hear people talk about it." A curious one—God bless me, it has no preferences other than curiosity and nosy. It always depends on what I'm planting. Grandpa Cranvenru didn't want to bother with things, it knew it all. It's the garden manager here, it is. ”

　　The robins were busy jumping around, pecking at the soil, stopping from time to time to glance at them. Mary felt it gaze at her own black dewy eyes full of curiosity. It was as if it wanted to know everything about her. "Where did the other chicks go?" she asked.

　　"Nobody knows. The big birds drive them out of their nests and let them fly on their own. Before you even notice they scatter. This one is sensible, it knows it's lonely. ”

　　Miss Mary took a step closer to the robin and looked at it vigorously.

　　"I feel lonely."

　　She hadn't known it before, and that was one of the things that made her feel bored and uncomfortable. The robin looked at her, and the moment she looked at the robin, she seemed to understand.

　　The old gardener's bald hat pushed back and stared at her for a while.

　　"You're a little doll from India?" he asked.

　　Mary nodded.

　　"No wonder you're alone. You'll be more lonely here than you used to be. He said.

　　He began digging the ground again, plunging the shovel deep into the fertile black soil of the garden, and the robins were busy jumping around.

　　"What's your name?" Mary asked.

　　He stood up and answered her.

　　"Ji Yuanben," he replied, and then with a strange laugh, "I am lonely myself, except when it is with me." He threw a thumbs up at the robin, "I'm just such a friend." ”

　　"I don't have any," said Mary, "and I never have." My wet nurse didn't like me, and I never played with anyone. ”

　　The indifference to blunt thoughts is a Yorkshire style, and old Ji is a Yorkshire shepherd.

　　"Na and I'm pretty much like me," he said, "we're made of a material." Neither of us is good-looking, both look weird, and have odd tempers. The two of us are just as fierce-tempered, both of us, I can guarantee. ”

　　It was the big truth, and Mary Lennox had never heard the truth about herself. The native servants are always the most respectful of you and obey you, no matter what you do. She had never thought much about her appearance before, but she wondered if she was as unlovable as Ji Yuanben, and whether she was as obedient as he was before the robins came. She actually began to suspect that she was indeed "fierce-tempered." She felt uncomfortable.

　　Suddenly a small sound sounded like a wave near her, and she turned around. She was a few feet away from a small apple tree, and the robin flew onto a branch, and the song burst out. Ji Yuanben burst out laughing.

　　"What does it want to do?" Mary asked.

　　"It decided to make friends with you," replied old Ji, "and if it hadn't fallen in love with you, it would have cursed me." ”

　　"Me?" Mary said, walking gently toward the little tree and looking up.

　　"Would you like to make friends with me?" She said to the robin like a man, "Would you like to?" Her attitude was not that of a hard state, nor of an overbearing Indian, but of gentleness and courtesy, and Ji Yuanben was as surprised as she had when she first heard him whistle.

"How," he shouted, "you speak as cordially as a man, as if you were a child, no longer a tough old woman. You speak in almost the same voice as When Deacon spoke to his wild things on the shepherds.

　　"You know Deacon?" Mary asked, hurriedly turning back.

　　"Everybody knows him. Yorkshire wanders around. Even every blackberry and heather knew him. I can assure you that the fox will lead him to see his cub, and that the lark's nest is not hidden from him. ”

　　Mary had wanted to ask more questions. She was almost as curious about Deacon as she was about the abandoned garden. But at this moment, the robin, who had just finished singing, shook his body slightly, spread his wings and flew away. Its visit is over, and there is still something else to be done.

　　"It flew over the wall!" Mary cried out and watched it, "It flew into the orchard—it flew over another wall—into the garden without doors!"

　　"It lives there." Old Ji said, "It hatched from there." If he was courting, he was courting a young robin lady who lived in the old rose bushes there. ”

　　"Rose bushes," said Mary, "where are the rose bushes?"

　　Ji Yuanben drew a shovel and dug it up again.

　　"Ten years ago there was." He muttered.

　　"I'd like to go and see them," said Mary, "where is the Green Gate?" There must be a door somewhere. ”

　　Old Season poked the shovel deeply, looking as unsociable as when he first saw it.

　　"Ten years ago there was, but now there is none." He said.

　　"No doors!" Mary cried out, "There must be." ”

　　"No one has ever found it, and it's nobody's business. Don't be like a nosy doll sniffing for no reason. Okay, I'm going to work. Walk away and play on your own. I'm running out of time. ”

　　He actually stopped digging, threw the shovel over his shoulder, and left, without glancing at her, let alone saying goodbye.