"What's the matter?" I said. "Your mahogany furniture is charming,
but I'm tired of it. Do I have to sit here any longer? And where's
Mr. Mifflin? Did he get his money?"
The cashier was a horrid little creature with side whiskers.
"I'm sorry you had to wait, Madam," he said. "The transaction is
just concluded. We gave Mr. Mifflin what was due him. There is no
need for you to stay longer."
I thought this was very extraordinary. Surely the Professor would
not leave without saying good-bye? However, I noticed that the clock
said three minutes to three, so I thought that perhaps he had had to
run to catch his train. He was such a strange little man, anyway....
Well, I went back to the hotel, quite a little upset by this sudden
parting. At least I was glad the little man had got his money all
right. Probably he would write from Brooklyn, but of course I
wouldn't get the letter till I returned to the farm as that was the
only address he would have. Perhaps that wouldn't be so long after
all: but I did not feel like going back now, when Andrew had been
so horrid.
I drove Parnassus on the ferry, and we crossed the river. I felt
lost and disagreeable. Even the fresh movement through the air
gave me no pleasure. Bock whined dismally inside the van.
It didn't take me long to discover that Parnassing all alone had
lost some of its charms. I missed the Professor: missed his abrupt,
direct way of saying things, and his whimsical wit. And I was
annoyed by his skipping off without a word of good-bye. It didn't
seem natural. I partially appeased my irritation by stopping at a
farmhouse on the other side of the river and selling a cook book.
Then I started along the road for Bath--about five miles farther on.
Peg's foot didn't seem to bother her so I thought it would be safe
to travel that far before stopping for the night. Counting up the
days (with some difficulty: it seemed as though I had been away from
home a month), I remembered that this was Saturday night. I thought
I would stay in Bath over Sunday and get a good rest. We jogged
sedately along the road, and I got out a copy of "Vanity Fair." I
was so absorbed in Becky Sharp that I wouldn't even interrupt myself
to sell books at the houses we passed. I think reading a good book
makes one modest. When you see the marvellous insight into human
nature which a truly great book shows, it is bound to make you feel
small--like looking at the Dipper on a clear night, or seeing the
winter sunrise when you go out to collect the morning eggs. And
anything that makes you feel small is mighty good for you.
"What do you mean by a great book?" said the Professor--I mean,
I imagined him saying it. It seemed to me as if I could see him
sitting there, with his corncob pipe in his hand and that quizzical
little face of his looking sharply at me. Somehow, talking with
the Professor had made me think. He was as good as one of those
Scranton correspondence courses, I do believe, and no money to pay
for postage.
Well, I said to the Professor--to myself I mean--let's see: what
_is_ a good book? I don't mean books like Henry James's (he's
Andrew's great idol. It always seemed to me that he had a kind
of rush of words to the head and never stopped to sort them out
properly). A good book ought to have something simple about it. And,
like Eve, it ought to come from somewhere near the third rib: there
ought to be a heart beating in it. A story that's all forehead
doesn't amount to much. Anyway, it'll never get over at a Dorcas
meeting. That was the trouble with Henry James. Andrew talked so
much about him that I took one of his books to read aloud at our
sewing circle over at Redfield. Well, after one try we had to fall
back on "Pollyanna."
I haven't been doing chores and running a farmhouse for fifteen
years without getting some ideas about life--and even about books.
I wouldn't set my lit'ry views up against yours, Professor (I was
still talking to Mifflin in my mind), no, nor even against
Andrew's--but as I say, I've got some ideas of my own. I've learned
that honest work counts in writing books just as much as it does in
washing dishes. I guess Andrew's books must be some good after all
because he surely does mull over them without end. I can forgive
his being a shiftless farmer so long as he really does his literary
chores up to the hilt. A man can be slack in everything else, if
he does one thing as well as he possibly can. And I guess it won't
matter my being an ignoramus in literature so long as I'm rated A-1
in the kitchen. That's what I used to think as I polished and
scoured and scrubbed and dusted and swept and then set about getting
dinner. If I ever sat down to read for ten minutes the cat would
get into the custard. No woman in the country sits down for fifteen
consecutive minutes between sunrise and sunset, anyway, unless
she has half a dozen servants. And nobody knows anything about
literature unless he spends most of his life sitting down. So
there you are.
The cultivation of philosophic reflection was a new experience for
me. Peg ambled along contentedly and the dog trailed under Parnassus
where I had tied him. I read "Vanity Fair" and thought about all
sorts of things. Once I got out to pick some scarlet maple leaves
that attracted me. The motors passing annoyed me with their dust
and noise, but by and by one of them stopped, looked at my outfit
curiously, and then asked to see some books. I put up the flaps for
them and we pulled off to one side of the road and had a good talk.
They bought two or three books, too.
By the time I neared Bath the hands of my watch pointed to supper.
I was still a bit shy of Mifflin's scheme of stopping overnight at
farmhouses, so I thought I'd go right into the town and look for a
hotel. The next day was Sunday, so it seemed reasonable to give the
horse a good rest and stay in Bath two nights. The Hominy House
looked clean and old-fashioned, and the name amused me, so in I
went. It was a kind of high-class boarding-house, with mostly old
women around. It looked to me almost literary and Elbert Hubbardish
compared to the Grand Central in Shelby. The folks there stared at
me somewhat suspiciously and I half thought they were going to say
they didn't take pedlars; but when I flashed a new five-dollar bill
at the desk I got good service. A five-dollar bill is a patent of
nobility in New England.
My! how I enjoyed that creamed chicken on toast, and buckwheat cakes
with syrup! After you get used to cooking all your own grub, a meal
off some one else's stove is the finest kind of treat. After supper
I was all prepared to sit out on the porch with my sweater on and
give a rocking chair a hot box, but then I remembered that it was up
to me to carry on the traditions of Parnassus. I was there to spread
the gospel of good books. I got to thinking how the Professor never
shirked carrying on his campaign, and I determined that I would be
worthy of the cause.
When I think back about the experience, it seems pretty crazy, but
at the time I was filled with a kind of evangelistic zeal. I thought
if I was going to try to sell books I might as well have some fun
out of it. Most of the old ladies were squatting about in the
parlour, knitting or reading or playing cards. In the smoking-room I
could see two dried-up men. Mrs. Hominy, the manager of the place,
was sitting at her desk behind a brass railing, going over accounts
with a quill pen. I thought that the house probably hadn't had a
shock since Walt Whitman wrote "Leaves of Grass." In a kind of
do-or-die spirit I determined to give them a rouse.
In the dining-room I had noticed a huge dinner bell that stood
behind the door. I stepped in there, and got it. Standing in the
big hall I began ringing it as hard as I could shake my arm.
You might have thought it was a fire alarm. Mrs. Hominy dropped her
pen in horror. The colonial dames in the parlour came to life and
ran into the hall like cockroaches. In a minute I had gathered quite
a respectable audience. It was up to me to do the spellbinding.
"Friends," I said (unconsciously imitating the Professor's tricks
of the trade, I guess), "this bell which generally summons you to
the groaning board now calls you to a literary repast. With the
permission of the management, and with apologies for disturbing your
tranquillity, I will deliver a few remarks on the value of good
books. I see that several of you are fond of reading, so perhaps the
topic will be congenial?"
They gazed at me about as warmly as a round of walnut sundaes.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," I continued, "of course you remember the
story of Abe Lincoln when he said, 'if you call a leg a tail, how
many tails has a dog?' 'Five,' you answer. Wrong; because, as Mr.
Lincoln said, calling a leg a tail...."
I still think it was a good beginning. But that was as far as I got.
Mrs. Hominy came out of her trance, hastened from the cage, and
grabbed my arm. She was quite red with anger.
"Really!" she said. "Well, really!... I must ask you to continue
this in some other place. We do not allow commercial travellers in
this house."
And within fifteen minutes they had hitched up Peg and asked me to
move on. Indeed I was so taken aback by my own zeal that I could
hardly protest. In a kind of daze I found myself at the Moose Hotel,
where they assured me that they catered to mercantile people. I went
straight to my room and fell asleep as soon as I reached the straw
mattress.
That was my first and only public speech.