secretary's window, while she wrote at the table, and I walked up and
down my study, or threw myself into one chair or another, endeavoring to
forget that that man was sitting by the window; that he was trying his
best not to do anything which might disturb me; that he did not read, or
write, or occupy his mind in any way; that he heard every word I
dictated to his wife without indicating that he was not deaf, or that he
was capable of judging whether my words were good, bad, or unworthy of
consideration. Not only did I endeavor not to think of him, but I tried
not to see either him or his wife. The silent, motionless figure of the
one, and the silent but animated and vivacious figure of the other,
filled with an eager desire to do her work properly, with a bubbling and
hearty love for her husband, and an evident joyousness in the fact that
she could love, work, and watch, all at the same time, drove from my
mind every thought of travel or foreign experiences. Without the
malarial husband I should have asked for no better secretary; but he
spoiled everything. He was like a raw oyster in a cup of tea.
I could not drive from my mind the vision of that man even when I knew
he was asleep in his bed. There was no way of throwing him off. His wife
had expressed to my grandmother the delight she felt in having him in
the room with her while she worked, and my grandmother had spoken to me
of her own sympathetic pleasure in this arrangement. I saw it would be
impossible to exile him again to the apple-tree, even if the ground
should ever be dry enough. There was no hope that he would be left at
his home; there was no hope that he would get better, and go off to
attend to his own business; there was no hope that he would die.
From dictating but little I fell to dictating almost nothing at all. To
keep my secretary at work, I gave her some notes of travel of which to
make a fair copy, while I occupied myself in wondering what I was going
to do about that malarial husband.
At last I ceased to wonder, and I did something. I went to the city,
and, after a day's hard work, I secured a position for my secretary in a
large publishing establishment, where her husband could sit by a window
in a secluded corner, and keep as quiet as a mouse. The good lady
overwhelmed me with thanks for my kindness. She had begun to fear that,
as the season grew colder, the daily trip would not suit her husband,
and she gave me credit for having thought the same thing.
My grandmother and Walkirk were greatly concerned, as well as surprised,
at what I had done. The former said that, if I attempted to write my
book with my own hand, she feared the sedentary work would tell upon my
health; and my under-study, while regretting very much that his efforts
to provide me with an amanuensis had proved unsuccessful, showed very
plainly, although he did not say so, that he hoped I had found that
authorship was an annoying and unprofitable business, and that I would
now devote myself to pursuits which were more congenial, and in which he
could act for me when occasion required.
IX.
WALKIRK'S IDEA.
Walkirk very soon discovered that I had no intention whatever of giving
up the writing of my book, and I quieted the fears of my grandmother, in
regard to my health, by assuring her that the sedentary work connected
with the production of my volume would not be done by me. Secretaries
could be had, and I would get one.
This determination greatly disturbed Walkirk. He did not wish to see me
perform a service for myself which it was his business to perform for
me, and in which he had failed. I know that he gave the matter the most
earnest consideration, and two days after my late secretary and her
husband had left me he came into my study, his face shining with a new
idea.
"Mr. Vanderley," said he, "to find you an amanuensis who will exactly
suit you, and who will be willing to come here into the country to work,
is, I think you will admit, a very difficult business; but I do not
intend, if I can help it, to be beaten by it. I have thought of a plan
which I believe will meet all contingencies, and I have come to propose
it to you. You know that institution just outside the village,--the
House of Martha?"
I replied that I knew of it.
"Well," he continued, "I did not think of it until a day or two ago, and
I have since been inquiring into its organization and nature. That
sisterhood of Martha is composed of women who propose not only to devote
themselves to a life of goodness, but to imitate the industrious woman
for whom they have named themselves. They work not only in their
establishment, but wherever they can find suitable occupation, and all
that they earn is devoted to the good of the institution. Some of them
act as nurses for the sick,--for pay if people can afford it, for
nothing if they cannot. Others have studied medicine, and practice in
the same way. They also prepare medicines and dispense them, and do a
lot of good things,--if possible, for money and the advantage of the
House of Martha. But every woman who joins such an institution cannot
expect immediately to find the sort of remunerative work she can best
do, and I am informed that there are several women there who, at
present, are unemployed. Now, it is my opinion that among these you
could find half a dozen good secretaries."
I laughed aloud. "Those women," said I, "are just the same as nuns. It
is ridiculous to suppose that one of them would be allowed to come here
as my secretary, even if she wanted to."
"I am not so sure of that," persisted Walkirk; "I do not see why
literary, or rather clerical, pursuits should not be as open to them as
medicine or nursing."
"You may not see it," said I, "but I fancy that they do."
"It is impossible to be certain on that point," he replied, "until we
have proposed the matter to them, and given them the opportunity to
consider it."
"If you imagine," I said, "that I have the effrontery to go to that
nunnery--for it is no more nor less than that--and ask the Lady Abbess
to lend me one of her nuns to write at my dictation, you have very much
mistaken me."
Walkirk smiled. "I hardly expected you to do that," said he, "although I
must insist that it is not a nunnery, and there is no Lady Abbess. There
is a Head Mother, and some sub-mothers, I believe. My idea was that Mrs.
Vanderley should drive over there and make inquiries for you. A
proposition from an elderly lady of such high position in the community
would have a much better effect than if it came from a gentleman."
Walkirk's plan amused me very much, and I told him I would talk to my
grandmother about it. When I did so, I was much surprised to find that
she received the idea with favor.
"That Mr. Walkirk," she said, "is a man of a good deal of penetration
and judgment, and if you could get one of those sisters to come here and
write for you I should like it very much; and if the first one did not
suit, you could try another without trouble or expense. The fact that
you had a good many strings to your bow would give you ease of mind and
prevent your getting discouraged. I don't want you to give up the idea
of having a secretary."
Then, with some hesitation, my good grandmother confided to me that
there was another reason why this idea of employing a sister pleased
her. She had been a little afraid that some lady secretary, especially
like that very pleasant and exemplary person with the invalid husband,
might put the notion into my head that it would be a good thing for me
to have a wife to do my writing. Now, of course she expected me to get
married some day. That was all right, but there was no need of my being
in any hurry about it; and as to my wife doing my writing, that was not
to be counted upon positively. Some wives might not be willing to do it,
and others might not do it well; so, as far as that matter was
concerned, nothing would be gained. But one of those sisters would never
suggest matrimony. They were women apart from all that sort of thing.
They had certain work to do in this world, and they did it for the good
of the cause in which they were enlisted, without giving any thought to
those outside matters which so often occupy the minds of women who have
not, in a manner, separated themselves from the world. She would go that
very afternoon to the House of Martha and make inquiries.
X.
THE PLAN OF SECLUSION.
My grandmother returned from the House of Martha disappointed and
annoyed. Life had always flowed very smoothly for her, and I had rarely
seen her in her present mental condition.
"I do not believe," she said, "that that institution will succeed. Those
women are too narrow-minded. If they were in a regular stone-walled
convent, it would be another thing, but they are only a sisterhood. They
are not shut up there; it's their business and part of their religion to
go out, and why they should not be willing to come here and do good, as
well as anywhere else, I cannot see, for the life of me."
"Then they objected to the proposition?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied, "they did, and without any reason whatever. I saw
their superior, whom they call Mother Anastasia, and from her I learned
that there were several women in the establishment who were thoroughly
competent to act as secretaries; but when I proposed that one of them
should come and write for you, she said that would not do at all. I
reasoned the matter with her: that literature was as high a profession
as medicine, and as much good could be done with the practice of one as
the other; and if the sisters went out to nurse and to cure, they might
just as well go out to write for those who cannot write for themselves.
To that she answered, it was not the writing she objected to,--that was
all well enough,--but it was decidedly outside of the vocation of the
order for one of the sisters to spend her mornings with a young
gentleman. If he were sick and suffering, and had no one else to attend
to him, it would be different. Upon this, I told her that you would be
sick if you were obliged to do your own writing, and therefore I
couldn't see the difference.
"But I must admit she was very good-natured and pleasant about it, and
she told me that if you chose to come to their visitors' room and make
yourself comfortable there, and dictate, one of the sisters would sit at
the table behind the grating and would write for you. I replied that I
did not believe you would like that, but that I would mention it to
you."
I laughed. "So much for Walkirk's brilliant idea," I said. "I fancy
myself going every morning to that nunnery to do my work in their
cheerless visitors' room!"
"Cheerless? I should say so!" exclaimed my grandmother,--"bare floors,
bare walls, and hard wooden chairs. It is not to be thought of."
That evening I informed Walkirk of the ill success of my grandmother's
mission, but to my surprise he did not appear to be discouraged.
"I don't think we need have any trouble at all in managing that affair,"
said he. "Why shouldn't you have a grating put up in the doorway between
your study and the secretary's room? Then the sister could go in there,
the other door could be locked, and she would be as much shut off from
the world as if she were behind a grating in the House of Martha. I
believe, if this plan were proposed to the sisters, it would be agreed
to."
I scouted the idea as utterly absurd; but when, the next morning, I
mentioned it to my grandmother, she caught at it eagerly, and no sooner
had she finished her breakfast than she ordered her carriage and drove
to the House of Martha.
She returned triumphant.
"We had a long discussion," she said, "but Mother Anastasia finally saw
the matter in its proper light. She admitted that if a room could be
arranged in this house, in which a sister could be actually secluded,
there was no good reason why she should not work there as consistently
with their rules as if she were in the House of Martha. Therefore, she
agreed, if you concluded to carry out this plan, to send a sister every
morning to write for you. So now, if you want a secretary from the House
of Martha, you can have one."
To this I replied that I most positively wanted one; and Walkirk was
immediately instructed to have a suitable grating made for the doorway
between my study and the secretary's room.
Nearly a week was required for the execution of this work, and during
this time I took a rest from literary composition and visited some
friends, leaving all the arrangements for my new secretary in the hands
of my grandmother and Walkirk. When I returned, the iron grating was in
its place. It was a neat and artistic piece of work, but I did not like
it. I object decidedly to anything which suggests restraint. The whole
affair of the secretary was indeed very different from what I would have
had it, but I had discovered that even in our advanced era of
civilization one cannot always have everything he wants, albeit he be
perfectly able and willing to pay for it.
XI.
MY NUN.
At nine o'clock on the morning of the appointed day my new secretary
came, accompanied by one of those sisters called by Walkirk sub-mothers.
My grandmother received the two, and conducted them to the secretary's
room. I was sitting in my study, but no attention was paid to me. The
sub-mother advanced to the grating, and, having examined it, appeared
satisfied to find that it was securely fastened in the doorway. The nun,
as I called her, although Walkirk assured me the term was incorrect,
stood with her back toward me, and when her companion had said a few
words to her, in a low tone, she took her seat at the table. She wore a
large gray bonnet, the sides and top of which extended far beyond her
face, a light gray shawl, and a gray gown. She sat facing the window,
with her left side turned toward me, and from no point of my study could
I get a glimpse of her features.
The sub-mother looked out of the window, which opened upon little more
than the once husband-sheltering apple-tree, and then, after a general
glance around the room, she looked at me, and for the first time
addressed me.
"I will come for the sister at twelve o'clock," she said, and with that
she followed my grandmother out of the room, and locked the door behind
her.
I stood and looked through the grating at my new secretary. I am not
generally a diffident man, and have never been so with persons in my
employment; but now, I must admit, I did not feel at my ease. The nun
sat perfectly motionless; her hands were folded in her gray lap, and her
gray bonnet was slightly bowed, so that I did not know whether she was
gazing down at the table or out of the window.
She was evidently ready for work, but I was not. I did not know exactly
how to begin with such a secretary. With the others I had been outspoken
from the first; I had told them what I wanted and what I did not want,
and they had been ready enough to listen and ready enough to answer. But
to this silent, motionless gray figure I did not feel that I could be
outspoken. No words suggested themselves as being appropriate to speak
out. If I could see her face but for a moment, and discover whether she
were old or young, cross-looking or gentle, I might know what to say to
her. My impulse was to tell her there was a hook on which she could hang
her bonnet and shawl, but as I did not know whether or not these sisters
ever took off their bonnets and shawls, I did not feel at liberty to
make this suggestion.
But it would not do to continue there, looking at her. She might be a
very shy person, and if I appeared shy it would probably make her all
the shyer; so I spoke.
"You will find paper," I said, "in the drawer of your table, and there
are pens, of different sorts, in that tray." She opened the drawer, took
out some paper, and selected a pen, all without turning her head toward
me. Having broken the ice, I now felt impelled to deliver a short
lecture on my requirements; but how could I say what I required without
knowing what manner of person it was of whom I required it? I therefore
postponed the lecture, and determined to begin work without further
delay, as probably that would be the best way to put us both at our
ease. But it had been more than two weeks since I had done any work, and
I could not remember what it was that I had been dictating, or
endeavoring to dictate, to the lady with the malarial husband. I
therefore thought it well to begin at a fresh point, and to leave the
gap to be filled up afterward. I felt quite sure, when last at work, I
had been treating of the south of France, and had certainly not reached
Marseilles. I therefore decided to take a header for Marseilles, and
into Marseilles I plunged.
As soon as I began to speak the nun began to write, and having at last
got her at work I felt anxious to keep her at it, and went steadily on
through the lively seaport; touching upon one point after another as
fast as I thought of them, and without regard to their proper sequence.
But although I sometimes skipped from one end of the city to the other,
and from history to street scenes, I dictated steadily, and the nun
wrote steadily. She worked rapidly, and apparently heard and understood
every word I said, for she asked no questions and did not hesitate. I am
sure I never before dictated so continuously. I had been in the habit of
stopping a good deal to think, not only about my work, but about other
things, but now I did not wish to stop.
This amanuensis was very different from any other I had had. The others
worked to make money for themselves, or to please me, or because they
liked it. This one worked from principle. The money which I paid for her
labor did not become her money. It was paid to the House of Martha. She
sat there and wrote to promote the principles upon which the House of
Martha was founded. In fact, so far as I was concerned, she was nothing
more than a principle.
Now, to interfere with the working of a principle is not the right thing
to do, and therefore I felt impelled to keep on dictating, which I did
until the hall door of the secretary's room was unlocked and the
sub-mother walked in. She came forward and said a few words to the nun,
who stopped writing and wiped her pen. The other then turned to me, and
in a low voice asked if the work of the sister was satisfactory. I
advanced to the grating, and answered that I was perfectly satisfied,
and was about to make some remarks, which I hoped would lead to a
conversation, when the sub-mother--whose name I subsequently learned was
Sister Sarah--made a little bow, and, saying if that were the case they
would return at nine the next morning, left the room in company with the
nun. The latter, when she arose from the table, turned her back to me,
and went out without giving me the slightest opportunity of looking into
her cavernous bonnet. This she did, I must admit, in the most natural
way possible, which was probably the result of training, and gave one no
idea of rudeness or incivility.
When they were gone I was piqued, almost angry with myself. I had
intended stopping work a little before noon, in order to talk to that
nun, even if she did not answer or look at me. She should discover that
if she was a principle, I was, at least, an entity. I did not know
exactly what I should say to her, but it would be something one human
being would be likely to say to another human being who was working for
him. If from the first I put myself on the proper level, she might in
time get there. But although I had lost my present chance, she was
coming again the next day.
I entered the secretary's room by the hall door, and looked at the
manuscript which had been left on the table. It was written in an
excellent hand, not too large, very legible, and correctly punctuated.
Everything had been done properly, except that after the first three
pages she had forgotten to number the leaves at the top; but as every
sheet was placed in its proper order, this was an omission which could
be easily rectified. I was very glad she had made it, for it would give
me something to speak to her about.
At luncheon my grandmother asked me how I liked the new secretary, and
added that if she did not suit me I could try another next day. I
answered that so far she suited me, and that I had not the least wish at
present to try another. I think my grandmother was about to say
something regarding this sister, but I instantly begged her not to do
so. I wished to judge her entirely on her merits, I said, and would
rather not hear anything about her until I had come to a decision as to
her abilities. I did not add that I felt such an interest in the
anticipated discovery of the personality of this secretary that I did
not wish that discovery interfered with.
In the evening Walkirk inquired about the sister-amanuensis, but I
merely answered that so far she had done very well, and dropped the
subject. In my own mind I did not drop the subject until I fell asleep
that night. I found myself from time to time wondering what sort of a
woman was that nun. Was she an elderly, sharp-faced creature; was she a
vapid, fat-faced creature, or a young and pleasing creature? And when I
had asked myself these questions, I snubbed myself for taking the
trouble to think about the matter, and then I began wondering again.
But upon one point I firmly made up my mind: the relationship between my
secretary and myself should not continue to be that of an entity
dictating to a principle.
XII.
EZA.
The next day, when the nun and Sister Sarah entered the secretary's
room, I advanced to the grating and bade them good-morning. They both
bowed, and the nun took her seat at the table. Sister Sarah then turned
to me and asked if I had a gold pen, adding that the sister was
accustomed to writing with one. I answered that I had all kinds of pens,
and if the sister wanted a gold one it was only necessary to ask me for
it. I brought several gold pens, and handed them through the grating to
the sub-mother, who gave them to the secretary, and then took her leave,
locking the door behind her. My nun took one of the pens, tried it,
arranged the paper, and sat ready to write. I stood by the grating,
hoping to converse a little, if it should be possible.
"Is there anything else you would like?" I said. "If there is, you know
you must mention it."
She gently shook her head. The idea now occurred to me that perhaps my
nun was dumb; but I almost instantly thought that this could not be, for
dumb people were almost always deaf, and she could hear well enough.
Then it struck me that she might be a Trappist nun, and bound by a vow
of silence; but I reflected that she was not really a nun, and
consequently could not be a Trappist.
Having been unsuccessful in my first attempt to make her speak, and
having now stood silent for some moments, I felt it might be unwise to
make another trial just then, for my object would be too plain. I
therefore sat down and began dictating.
I did not work as easily as I had done on the preceding morning, for I
intended, if possible, to make my nun look at me, or speak, before the
hour of noon, and thinking of this intention prevented me from keeping
my mind upon my work. From time to time I made remarks in regard to the
temperature of the room, the quality of the paper, or something of the
kind. To these she did not answer at all, or slightly nodded, or shook
her head in a deprecatory manner, as if they were matters not worth
considering.
Then I suddenly remembered the omission of the paging, and spoke of
that. In answer she took up the manuscript she had written and paged
every sheet. After this my progress was halting and uneven.
Involuntarily my mind kept on devising plans for making that woman speak
or turn her face toward me. If she would do the latter, I would be
satisfied; and even if she proved to be an unveiled prophetess of
Khorassan, there would be no further occasion for conjectures and
wonderings, and I could go on with my work in peace. But it made me
nervous to remain silent, and see that nun sitting there, pen in hand,
but motionless as a post, and waiting for me to give her the signal to
continue the exercise of the principle to which her existence was now
devoted.
I went on with my dictation. I had left Marseilles, had touched slightly
upon Nice, and was now traveling by carriage on the Cornice Road to
Mentone. "It was on this road," I dictated, "that an odd incident
occurred to me. We were nearly opposite the old robber village of"--and
then I hesitated and stopped. I could not remember the name of the
village. I walked up and down my study, rubbing my forehead, but the
name would not recur to me. I was just thinking that I would have to go
to the library and look up the name of the village, when from out of the
depths of the nun's bonnet there came a voice, low but distinct, and, I
thought, a little impatient, and it said, "Eza."