‘Your survey is concluded, Mr. Scribe; be so good now as to lay your
finger upon the exact part of the chimney wall where you believe this
secret closet to be; or would a witch-hazel wand assist you, Mr.
Scribe?’
‘No, sir, but a crowbar would,’ he, with temper, rejoined.
Here, now, thought I to myself, the cat leaps out of the bag. I looked
at him with a calm glance, under which he seemed somewhat uneasy. More
than ever now I suspected a plot. I remembered what my wife had said
about abiding by the decision of Mr. Scribe. In a bland way, I resolved
to buy up the decision of Mr. Scribe.
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘really, I am much obliged to you for this survey. It has
quite set my mind at rest. And no doubt you, too, Mr. Scribe, must feel
much relieved. Sir,’ I added, ‘you have made three visits to the
chimney. With a business man, time is money. Here are fifty dollars, Mr.
Scribe. Nay, take it. You have earned it. Your opinion is worth it. And
by the way’--as he modestly received the money--‘have you any objections
to give me a--a--little certificate--something, say, like a steamboat
certificate, certifying that you, a competent surveyor, have surveyed my
chimney, and found no reason to believe any unsoundness; in short,
any--any secret closet in it. Would you be so kind, Mr. Scribe?’
‘But, but, sir,’ stammered he with honest hesitation.
‘Here, here are pen and paper,’ said I, with entire assurance.
Enough.
That evening I had the certificate framed and hung over the dining-room
fireplace, trusting that the continual sight of it would forever put at
rest at once the dreams and stratagems of my household.
But, no. Inveterately bent upon the extirpation of that noble old
chimney, still to this day my wife goes about it, with my daughter
Anna’s geological hammer, tapping the wall all over, and then holding
her ear against it, as I have seen the physicians of life insurance
companies tap a man’s chest, and then incline over for the echo.
Sometimes of nights she almost frightens one, going about on this
phantom errand, and still following the sepulchral response of the
chimney, round and round, as if it were leading her to the threshold of
the secret closet.
‘How hollow it sounds,’ she will hollowly cry. ‘Yes, I declare,’ with an
emphatic tap, ‘there is a secret closet here. Here, in this very spot.
Hark! How hollow!’
‘Psha! wife, of course it is hollow. Who ever heard of a solid chimney?’
But nothing avails. And my daughters take after, not me, but their
mother.
Sometimes all three abandon the theory of the secret closet, and return
to the genuine ground of attack--the unsightliness of so cumbrous a
pile, with comments upon the great addition of room to be gained by its
demolition, and the fine effect of the projected grand hall, and the
convenience resulting from the collateral running in one direction and
another of their various partitions. Not more ruthlessly did the Three
Powers partition away poor Poland, than my wife and daughters would fain
partition away my chimney.
But seeing that, despite all, I and my chimney still smoke our pipes, my
wife reoccupies the ground of the secret closet, enlarging upon what
wonders are there, and what a shame it is, not to seek it out and
explore it.
‘Wife,’ said I, upon one of these occasions, ‘why speak more of that
secret closet, when there before you hangs contrary testimony of a
master mason, elected by yourself to decide. Besides, even if there were
a secret closet, secret it should remain, and secret it shall. Yes,
wife, here, for once, I must say my say. Infinite sad mischief has
resulted from the profane bursting open of secret recesses. Though
standing in the heart of this house, though hitherto we have all nestled
about it, unsuspicious of aught hidden within, this chimney may or may
not have a secret closet. But if it have, it is my kinsman’s. To break
into that wall, would be to break into his breast. And that
wall-breaking wish of Momus I account the wish of a church-robbing
gossip and knave. Yes, wife, a vile eavesdropping varlet was Momus.’
‘Moses?--Mumps? Stuff with your mumps and your Moses!’
The truth is, my wife, like all the rest of the world, cares not a fig
for my philosophical jabber. In dearth of other philosophical
companionship, I and my chimney have to smoke and philosophise together.
And sitting up so late as we do at it, a mighty smoke it is that we two
smoky old philosophers make.
But my spouse, who likes the smoke of my tobacco as little as she does
that of the soot, carries on her war against both. I live in continual
dread lest, like the golden bowl, the pipes of me and my chimney shall
yet be broken. To stay that mad project of my wife’s, naught answers.
Or, rather, she herself is incessantly answering, incessantly besetting
me with her terrible alacrity for improvement, which is a softer name
for destruction. Scarce a day I do not find her with her tape-measure,
measuring for her grand hall, while Anna holds a yard-stick on one side,
and Julia looks approvingly on from the other. Mysterious intimations
appear in the nearest village paper, signed ‘Claude,’ to the effect that
a certain structure, standing on a certain hill, is a sad blemish to an
otherwise lovely landscape. Anonymous letters arrive, threatening me
with I know not what, unless I remove my chimney. Is it my wife, too, or
who, that sets up the neighbours to badgering me on the same subject,
and hinting to me that my chimney, like a huge elm, absorbs all moisture
from my garden? At night, also, my wife will start as from sleep,
professing to hear ghostly noises from the secret closet. Assailed on
all sides, and in all ways, small peace have I and my chimney.
Were it not for the baggage, we would together pack up, and remove from
the country.
What narrow escapes have been ours! Once I found in a drawer a whole
portfolio of plans and estimates. Another time, upon returning after a
day’s absence, I discovered my wife standing before the chimney in
earnest conversation with a person whom I at once recognised as a
meddlesome architectural reformer, who, because he had no gift for
putting up anything, was ever intent upon pulling down; in various parts
of the country having prevailed upon half-witted old folks to destroy
their old-fashioned houses, particularly the chimneys.
But worst of all was that time I unexpectedly returned at early morning
from a visit to the city, and upon approaching the house, narrowly
escaped three brickbats which fell, from high aloft, at my feet.
Glancing up, what was my horror to see three savages, in blue jean
overalls, in the very act of commencing the long-threatened attack. Ay,
indeed, thinking of those three brickbats, I and my chimney have had
narrow escapes.
It is now some seven years since I have stirred from home. My city
friends all wonder why I don’t come to see them, as in former times.
They think I am getting sour and unsocial. Some say that I have become a
sort of mossy old misanthrope, while all the time the fact is, I am
simply standing guard over my mossy old chimney; for it is resolved
between me and my chimney, that I and my chimney will never surrender.
-----
Footnote 12:
In the margin of the MS. of this Essay, Melville’s wife wrote the
following note:--
‘All this about his wife, applied to his mother--who was very vigorous
and energetic about the farm, etc. The proposed removal of the chimney
is purely mythical.’
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