secret out of. He was good-natured, child-like as a Heathen Chinee,
talked freely with everybody in such English as he had at command, knew
all the little people of the village, and was followed round by them
partly from his personal attraction for them, and partly because he was
apt to have a stick of candy or a handful of peanuts or other desirable
luxury in his pocket for any of his little friends he met with. He had
that wholesome, happy look, so uncommon in our arid countrymen,--a look
hardly to be found except where figs and oranges ripen in the open air.
A kindly climate to grow up in, a religion which takes your money and
gives you a stamped ticket good at Saint Peter's box office, a roomy
chest and a good pair of lungs in it, an honest digestive apparatus, a
lively temperament, a cheerful acceptance of the place in life assigned
to one by nature and circumstance,--these are conditions under which
life may be quite comfortable to endure, and certainly is very pleasant
to contemplate. All these conditions were united in Paolo. He was the
easiest; pleasantest creature to talk with that one could ask for a
companion. His southern vivacity, his amusing English, his simplicity
and openness, made him friends everywhere.
It seemed as if it would be a very simple matter to get the history of
his master out of this guileless and unsophisticated being. He had
been tried by all the village experts. The rector had put a number of
well-studied careless questions, which failed of their purpose. The old
librarian of the town library had taken note of all the books he carried
to his master, and asked about his studies and pursuits. Paolo found
it hard to understand his English, apparently, and answered in the most
irrelevant way. The leading gossip of the village tried her skill in
pumping him for information. It was all in vain.
His master's way of life was peculiar,--in fact, eccentric. He had hired
rooms in an old-fashioned three-story house. He had two rooms in the
second and third stories of this old wooden building: his study in
the second, his sleeping-room in the one above it. Paolo lived in the
basement, where he had all the conveniences for cooking, and played the
part of chef for his master and himself. This was only a part of his
duty, for he was a man-of-all-work, purveyor, steward, chambermaid,--as
universal in his services for one man as Pushee at the Anchor Tavern
used to be for everybody.
It so happened that Paolo took a severe cold one winter's day, and had
such threatening symptoms that he asked the baker, when he called, to
send the village physician to see him. In the course of his visit the
doctor naturally inquired about the health of Paolo's master.
“Signor Kirkwood well,--molto bene,” said Paolo. “Why does he keep out
of sight as he does?” asked the doctor.
“He always so,” replied Paolo. “Una antipatia.”
Whether Paolo was off his guard with the doctor, whether he revealed it
to him as to a father confessor, or whether he thought it time that the
reason of his master's seclusion should be known, the doctor did not
feel sure. At any rate, Paolo was not disposed to make any further
revelations. Una antipatia,--an antipathy,--that was all the doctor
learned. He thought the matter over, and the more he reflected the
more he was puzzled. What could an antipathy be that made a young man
a recluse! Was it a dread of blue sky and open air, of the smell of
flowers, or some electrical impression to which he was unnaturally
sensitive?
Dr. Butts carried these questions home with him. His wife was a
sensible, discreet woman, whom he could trust with many professional
secrets. He told her of Paolo's revelation, and talked it over with
her in the light of his experience and her own; for she had known some
curious cases of constitutional likes and aversions.
Mrs. Butts buried the information in the grave of her memory, where
it lay for nearly a week. At the end of that time it emerged in a
confidential whisper to her favorite sister-in-law, a perfectly safe
person. Twenty-four hours later the story was all over the village that
Maurice Kirkwood was the subject of a strange, mysterious, unheard-of
antipathy to something, nobody knew what; and the whole neighborhood
naturally resolved itself into an unorganized committee of
investigation.
IV. THE YOUNG SOLITARY
What is a country village without its mysterious personage? Few are now
living who can remember the advent of the handsome young man who was the
mystery of our great university town “sixty years since,”--long enough
ago for a romance to grow out of a narrative, as Waverley may remind us.
The writer of this narrative remembers him well, and is not sure that
he has not told the strange story in some form or other to the last
generation, or to the one before the last. No matter: if he has told it
they have forgotten it,--that is, if they have ever read it; and whether
they have or have not, the story is singular enough to justify running
the risk of repetition.
This young man, with a curious name of Scandinavian origin, appeared
unheralded in the town, as it was then, of Cantabridge. He wanted
employment, and soon found it in the shape of manual labor, which he
undertook and performed cheerfully. But his whole appearance showed
plainly enough that he was bred to occupations of a very different
nature, if, in deed, he had been accustomed to any kind of toil for his
living. His aspect was that of one of gentle birth. His hands were not
those of a laborer, and his features were delicate and refined, as well
as of remarkable beauty. Who he was, where he came from, why he had
come to Cantabridge, was never clearly explained. He was alone,
without friends, except among the acquaintances he had made in his new
residence. If he had any correspondents, they were not known to the
neighborhood where he was living. But if he had neither friends nor
correspondents, there was some reason for believing that he had enemies.
Strange circumstances occurred which connected themselves with him in
an ominous and unaccountable way. A threatening letter was slipped under
the door of a house where he was visiting. He had a sudden attack of
illness, which was thought to look very much like the effect of poison.
At one time he disappeared, and was found wandering, bewildered, in a
town many miles from that where he was residing. When questioned how he
came there; he told a coherent story that he had been got, under some
pretext, or in some not incredible way, into a boat, from which, at a
certain landing-place, he had escaped and fled for his life, which he
believed was in danger from his kidnappers.
Whoever his enemies may have been,--if they really existed,--he did not
fall a victim to their plots, so far as known to or remembered by this
witness.
Various interpretations were put upon his story. Conjectures were as
abundant as they were in the case of Kaspar Hauser. That he was of
good family seemed probable; that he was of distinguished birth, not
impossible; that he was the dangerous rival of a candidate for a greatly
coveted position in one of the northern states of Europe was a favorite
speculation of some of the more romantic young persons. There was no
dramatic ending to this story,--at least none is remembered by the
present writer.
“He left a name,” like the royal Swede, of whose lineage he may have
been for aught that the village people knew, but not a name at which
anybody “grew pale;” for he had swindled no one, and broken no woman's
heart with false vows. Possibly some withered cheeks may flush faintly
as they recall the handsome young man who came before the Cantabridge
maidens fully equipped for a hero of romance when the century was in its
first quarter.
The writer has been reminded of the handsome Swede by the incidents
attending the advent of the unknown and interesting stranger who had
made his appearance at Arrowhead Village.
It was a very insufficient and unsatisfactory reason to assign for the
young man's solitary habits that he was the subject of an antipathy.
For what do we understand by that word? When a young lady screams at
the sight of a spider, we accept her explanation that she has a natural
antipathy to the creature. When a person expresses a repugnance to some
wholesome article of food, agreeable to most people, we are satisfied if
he gives the same reason. And so of various odors, which are pleasing to
some persons and repulsive to others. We do not pretend to go behind
the fact. It is an individual, and it may be a family, peculiarity. Even
between different personalities there is an instinctive elective dislike
as well as an elective affinity. We are not bound to give a reason why
Dr. Fell is odious to us any more than the prisoner who peremptorily
challenges a juryman is bound to say why he does it; it is enough that
he “does not like his looks.”
There was nothing strange, then, that Maurice Kirkwood should have
his special antipathy; a great many other people have odd likes and
dislikes. But it was a very curious thing that this antipathy should
be alleged as the reason for his singular mode of life. All sorts of
explanations were suggested, not one of them in the least satisfactory,
but serving to keep the curiosity of inquirers active until they were
superseded by a new theory. One story was that Maurice had a great fear
of dogs. It grew at last to a connected narrative, in which a fright
in childhood from a rabid mongrel was said to have given him such
a sensitiveness to the near presence of dogs that he was liable to
convulsions if one came close to him.
This hypothesis had some plausibility. No other creature would be so
likely to trouble a person who had an antipathy to it. Dogs are very apt
to make the acquaintance of strangers, in a free and easy way. They
are met with everywhere,--in one's daily walk, at the thresholds of the
doors one enters, in the gentleman's library, on the rug of my lady's
sitting-room and on the cushion of her carriage. It is true that there
are few persons who have an instinctive repugnance to this “friend of
man.” But what if this so-called antipathy were only a fear, a terror,
which borrowed the less unmanly name? It was a fair question, if,
indeed, the curiosity of the public had a right to ask any questions at
all about a harmless individual who gave no offence, and seemed entitled
to the right of choosing his way of living to suit himself, without
being submitted to espionage.
There was no positive evidence bearing on the point as yet. But one
of the village people had a large Newfoundland dog, of a very sociable
disposition, with which he determined to test the question. He watched
for the time when Maurice should leave his house for the woods or the
lake, and started with his dog to meet him. The animal walked up to the
stranger in a very sociable fashion, and began making his acquaintance,
after the usual manner of well-bred dogs; that is, with the courtesies
and blandishments by which the canine Chesterfield is distinguished from
the ill-conditioned cur. Maurice patted him in a friendly way, and spoke
to him as one who was used to the fellowship of such companions. That
idle question and foolish story were disposed of, therefore, and some
other solution must be found, if possible.
A much more common antipathy is that which is entertained with regard to
cats. This has never been explained. It is not mere aversion to the
look of the creature, or to any sensible quality known to the common
observer. The cat is pleasing in aspect, graceful in movement, nice
in personal habits, and of amiable disposition. No cause of offence is
obvious, and yet there are many persons who cannot abide the presence of
the most innocent little kitten. They can tell, in some mysterious way,
that there is a cat in the room when they can neither see nor hear the
creature. Whether it is an electrical or quasi-magnetic phenomenon, or
whatever it may be, of the fact of this strange influence there are too
many well-authenticated instances to allow its being questioned. But
suppose Maurice Kirkwood to be the subject of this antipathy in its
extremest degree, it would in no manner account for the isolation to
which he had condemned himself. He might shun the firesides of the old
women whose tabbies were purring by their footstools, but these worthy
dames do not make up the whole population.
These two antipathies having been disposed of, a new suggestion was
started, and was talked over with a curious sort of half belief, very
much as ghost stories are told in a circle of moderately instructed and
inquiring persons. This was that Maurice was endowed with the unenviable
gift of the evil eye. He was in frequent communication with Italy, as
his letters showed, and had recently been residing in that country, as
was learned from Paolo. Now everybody knows that the evil eye is not
rarely met with in Italy. Everybody who has ever read Mr. Story's “Roba
di Roma” knows what a terrible power it is which the owner of the evil
eye exercises. It can blight and destroy whatever it falls upon. No
person's life or limb is safe if the jettatura, the withering glance of
the deadly organ, falls upon him. It must be observed that this malign
effect may follow a look from the holiest personages, that is, if we may
assume that a monk is such as a matter of course. Certainly we have
a right to take it for granted that the late Pope, Pius Ninth, was an
eminently holy man, and yet he had the name of dispensing the mystic and
dreaded jettatura as well as his blessing. If Maurice Kirkwood carried
that destructive influence, so that his clear blue eyes were more to be
feared than the fascinations of the deadliest serpent, it could easily
be understood why he kept his look away from all around him whom he
feared he might harm.
No sensible person in Arrowhead Village really believed in the evil
eye, but it served the purpose of a temporary hypothesis, as do many
suppositions which we take as a nucleus for our observations without
putting any real confidence in them. It was just suited to the romantic
notions of the more flighty persons in the village, who had meddled more
or less with Spiritualism, and were ready for any new fancy, if it were
only wild enough.
The riddle of the young stranger's peculiarity did not seem likely to
find any very speedy solution. Every new suggestion furnished talk for
the gossips of the village and the babble of the many tongues in the two
educational institutions. Naturally, the discussion was liveliest among
the young ladies. Here is an extract from a letter of one of these young
ladies, who, having received at her birth the ever-pleasing name of
Mary, saw fit to have herself called Mollie in the catalogue and in her
letters. The old postmaster of the town to which her letter was directed
took it up to stamp, and read on the envelope the direction to “Miss
Lulu Pinrow.” He brought the stamp down with a vicious emphasis, coming
very near blotting out the nursery name, instead of cancelling the
postage-stamp. “Lulu!” he exclaimed. “I should like to know if that
great strapping girl isn't out of her cradle yet! I suppose Miss Louisa
will think that belongs to her, but I saw her christened and I heard
the name the minister gave her, and it was n't 'Lulu,' or any such baby
nonsense.” And so saying, he gave it a fling to the box marked P, as if
it burned his fingers. Why a grown-up young woman allowed herself to be
cheapened in the way so many of them do by the use of names which become
them as well as the frock of a ten-year-old schoolgirl would become a
graduate of the Corinna Institute, the old postmaster could not guess.
He was a queer old man.
The letter thus scornfully treated runs over with a young girl's written
loquacity:
“Oh, Lulu, there is such a sensation as you never saw or heard of 'in
all your born days,' as mamma used to say. He has been at the village
for some time, but lately we have had--oh, the weirdest stories about
him! 'The Mysterious Stranger is the name some give him, but we girls
call him the Sachem, because he paddles about in an Indian canoe. If I
should tell you all the things that are said about him I should use up
all my paper ten times over. He has never made a visit to the Institute,
and none of the girls have ever spoken to him, but the people at the
village say he is very, very handsome. We are dying to get a look at
him, of course--though there is a horrid story about him--that he has
the evil eye did you ever hear about the evil eye? If a person who is
born with it looks at you, you die, or something happens--awful--is n't
it?
“The rector says he never goes to church, but then you know a good many
of the people that pass the summer at the village never do--they
think their religion must have vacations--that's what I've heard they
say--vacations, just like other hard work--it ought not to be hard work,
I'm sure, but I suppose they feel so about it. Should you feel afraid to
have him look at you? Some of the girls say they would n't have him
for the whole world, but I shouldn't mind it--especially if I had on my
eyeglasses. Do you suppose if there is anything in the evil eye it would
go through glass? I don't believe it. Do you think blue eye-glasses
would be better than common ones? Don't laugh at me--they tell such
weird stories! The Terror--Lurida Vincent, you know-makes fun of all
they say about it, but then she 'knows everything and doesn't believe
anything,' the girls say--Well, I should be awfully scared, I know,
if anybody that had the evil eye should look at me--but--oh, I
don't know--but if it was a young man--and if he was very--very
good-looking--I think--perhaps I would run the risk--but don't tell
anybody I said any such horrid thing--and burn this letter right
up--there 's a dear good girl.”
It is to be hoped that no reader will doubt the genuineness of this
letter. There are not quite so many “awfuls” and “awfullys” as one
expects to find in young ladies' letters, but there are two “weirds,”
which may be considered a fair allowance. How it happened that “jolly”
did not show itself can hardly be accounted for; no doubt it turns up
two or three times at least in the postscript.
Here is an extract from another letter. This was from one of the
students of Stoughton University to a friend whose name as it was
written on the envelope was Mr. Frank Mayfield. The old postmaster
who found fault with Miss “Lulu's” designation would probably have
quarrelled with this address, if it had come under his eye. “Frank” is
a very pretty, pleasant-sounding name, and it is not strange that many
persons use it in common conversation all their days when speaking of a
friend. Were they really christened by that name, any of these numerous
Franks? Perhaps they were, and if so there is nothing to be said. But
if not, was the baptismal name Francis or Franklin? The mind is apt to
fasten in a very perverse and unpleasant way upon this question, which
too often there is no possible way of settling. One might hope, if he
outlived the bearer of the appellation, to get at the fact; but since
even gravestones have learned to use the names belonging to childhood
and infancy in their solemn record, the generation which docks its
Christian names in such an un-Christian way will bequeath whole
churchyards full of riddles to posterity. How it will puzzle and
distress the historians and antiquarians of a coming generation to
settle what was the real name of Dan and Bert and Billy, which last is
legible on a white marble slab, raised in memory of a grown person, in a
certain burial-ground in a town in Essex County, Massachusetts!
But in the mean time we are forgetting the letter directed to Mr. Frank
Mayfield.
“DEAR FRANK,--Hooray! Hurrah! Rah!
“I have made the acquaintance of 'The Mysterious Stranger'! It happened
by a queer sort of accident, which came pretty near relieving you of
the duty of replying to this letter. I was out in my little boat, which
carries a sail too big for her, as I know and ought to have remembered.
One of those fitful flaws of wind to which the lake is so liable struck
the sail suddenly, and over went my boat. My feet got tangled in the
sheet somehow, and I could not get free. I had hard work to keep my head
above water, and I struggled desperately to escape from my toils; for if
the boat were to go down I should be dragged down with her. I thought
of a good many things in the course of some four or five minutes, I can
tell you, and I got a lesson about time better than anything Kant and
all the rest of them have to say of it. After I had been there about an
ordinary lifetime, I saw a white canoe making toward me, and I knew that
our shy young gentleman was coming to help me, and that we should become
acquainted without an introduction. So it was, sure enough. He saw what
the trouble was, managed to disentangle my feet without drowning me in
the process or upsetting his little flimsy craft, and, as I was somewhat
tired with my struggle, took me in tow and carried me to the landing
where he kept his canoe. I can't say that there is anything odd about
his manners or his way of talk. I judge him to be a native of one of our
Northern States,--perhaps a New Englander. He has lived abroad during
some parts of his life. He is not an artist, as it was at one time
thought he might be. He is a good-looking fellow, well developed, manly
in appearance, with nothing to excite special remark unless it be a
certain look of anxiety or apprehension which comes over him from time
to time. You remember our old friend Squire B., whose companion was
killed by lightning when he was standing close to him. You know the look
he had whenever anything like a thundercloud came up in the sky. Well, I
should say there was a look like that came over this Maurice Kirkwood's
face every now and then. I noticed that he looked round once or twice as
if to see whether some object or other was in sight. There was a little
rustling in the grass as if of footsteps, and this look came over his
features. A rabbit ran by us, and I watched to see if he showed any sign
of that antipathy we have heard so much of, but he seemed to be pleased
watching the creature.
“If you ask me what my opinion is about this Maurice Kirkwood, I think
he is eccentric in his habit of life, but not what they call a 'crank'
exactly. He talked well enough about such matters as we spoke of,--the
lake, the scenery in general, the climate. I asked him to come over
and take a look at the college. He did n't promise, but I should not be
surprised if I should get him over there some day. I asked him why he
did n't go to the Pansophian meetings. He did n't give any reason, but
he shook his head in a very peculiar way, as much as to say that it was
impossible.
“On the whole, I think it is nothing more than the same feeling of dread
of human society, or dislike for it, which under the name of religion
used to drive men into caves and deserts. What a pity that Protestantism
does not make special provision for all the freaks of individual
character! If we had a little more faith and a few more caverns, or
convenient places for making them, we should have hermits in these holes
as thick as woodchucks or prairie dogs. I should like to know if you
never had the feeling,
“'Oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place!'
“I know what your answer will be, of course. You will say, 'Certainly,
“'With one fair spirit for my minister;'”
“but I mean alone,--all alone. Don't you ever feel as if you should like
to have been a pillar-saint in the days when faith was as strong as
lye (spelt with a y), instead of being as weak as dish-water? (Jerry is
looking over my shoulder, and says this pun is too bad to send, and a
disgrace to the University--but never mind.) I often feel as if I should
like to roost on a pillar a hundred feet high,--yes, and have it soaped
from top to bottom. Wouldn't it be fun to look down at the bores and
the duns? Let us get up a pillar-roosters' association. (Jerry--still
looking over says there is an absurd contradiction in the idea.)
“What a matter-of-fact idiot Jerry is!
“How do you like looking over, Mr. Inspector general?”
The reader will not get much information out of this lively young
fellow's letter, but he may get a little. It is something to know that
the mysterious resident of Arrowhead Village did not look nor talk like
a crazy person; that he was of agreeable aspect and address, helpful
when occasion offered, and had nothing about him, so far as yet
appeared, to prevent his being an acceptable member of society.