_Then came Bella--and Gibbs_
We had other entertainments. I have not thus far mentioned the domestic
service that followed Lazarus. There was a hiatus of brief duration, and
then came Bella--Bella and Gibbs. Bella was from town and of literary
association. We inherited her from authors whose ideals perhaps did not
accord with hers--I do not know. At all events, she tried ours for a
period. I know that she was considerably middle-aged, hard of hearing,
and short of sight, and that when I tried to recall her name I could not
think of anything but "Hunka-munka." Heaven knows why--it must have
expressed her, I suppose.
But Hunka-munka--Bella, I mean--had resources. Her specialties were
Kipling and deep-dish apple pie. We could have worried along without
Kipling, but her deep-dish pie with whipped cream on it was a poem that
won our hearts. I must be fair. Hunka-munka's cooking was all good, as
to taste, and if her vision had been a bit more extended it might have
been of better appearance. I suppose the steam collected on her
super-thick glasses and she had to work somewhat by guess. Never mind--I
still recall her substantial and savory dinners with deep gratitude,
especially the pie of the deep dish with whipped cream atop.
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Gibbs came when we acquired Lord Beaconsfield and the furnace. My gifts
do not run to the care of a horse and an egg-coal fire. I don t know
where Gibbs had matriculated, but he professed to have taken high
degrees in those functions, and thus became a part of our establishment.
I think he overestimated his powers in the directions named, but he was
not without talents. He could wash and wipe dishes and, incredible as
it may seem, he was also literary. Like attracts like, by some law past
understanding. To me it still seems a wonderful thing that this little
waif of a man with a taste for Tolstoy and a passion for long words
should have just then landed upon us.
Gibbs had a warm and fairly snug room in the barn--"a veritable bijou of
an apartment," he called it, though it was, I think, something less, and
he declared that the aroma of the hay and the near presence of Lord
Beaconsfield gave him a "truly bucolic emotion" that was an inspiration.
Nevertheless, Gibbs could not resist Bella and her domain. This was
proper enough. He was convenient to hand her things, to help with the
dishes and to discuss deeply and at length their favorite authors. When
our meals were in preparation or safely over there was more literature,
five to one, in the kitchen than in any other part of the house.
Sometimes the drift of it came to us. It was necessary for Gibbs to
speak up pretty smartly to get his remarks into Hunka-munka's
consciousness. Once in the heat of things we heard him say: "One may not
really compare or contrast the literary emanations of Tolstoy and
Kipling except as to the net human residuum. Difference in environment
would preclude any cosmic psychology of interrelationship."
As this noble sentence came hurtling through the door I felt poor and
disheartened. Never could I hope to reach such a height. And here was
Gibbs washing dishes and tossing off those things without a thought.
Hunka-munka's reply was lost on us. Like many persons of defective
hearing, she had the habit of speaking low, but I do not think her
remarks were in the gaudy class of her associate's.
Their discussions were not entirely of Tolstoy and Kipling. There was a
neighborhood library and they took books from it--books which I judge
became more romantic as the weeks went by. I judge this because Gibbs
grew more careful in the matter of dress, and when the days became
pleasanter the two walked down to the bridge across the brook and looked
over into the water, after the manner of heroes and heroines in the
novels of Mrs. Southworth and Bertha M. Clay.
What might have been the outcome of the discussions, the dish-washings,
the walks, the leanings over the bridge at the trysting-place, we may
only speculate now. For a time the outlook for this "romance of real
life" seemed promising, then came disillusion. Gibbs, alas, had a bent
which at first we did not suspect, but which in time became only too
manifest. It had its root in a laudable desire--the desire to destroy
anything resembling strong drink. Only, I think he went at it in the
wrong way. His idea was to destroy it by drinking it up. He
miscalculated his capacity. It took no great quantity of strong waters
to partially destroy Gibbs, and at such times he was neither literary
nor romantic, no fit mate for Hunka-munka, who had a tidy sum in savings
laid away and did not wish to invest it in the destroying process. I do
not know what she said to him, at last, but there came a day when he
vanished from our sight and knowledge, and the kitchen after dinner was
silent. I suppose the change was too much for Hunka-munka, for she
saddened and lost vigor. Her deep-dish pies became savorless, the
whipped cream smeary and sad of taste. She went the way of all cooks,
and if it had not been spring, with the buds breaking and the birds
calling and the trout leaping in the brook, we should have grieved as
over a broken song.
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