briskly. "All she has to do is to keep her eyes on her work, and I
suppose, from what you say, that the flaps of her bonnet do not
interfere with her keeping her ears on you. But if at any time you
desire to make a change, all you have to do is to let me know, and I can
easily arrange the matter."
I promised that I would certainly let her know in case I had such a
desire.
That evening Walkirk remarked to me that he thought nothing could be
more satisfactory for me than to have on tap, so to speak, an
institution like the House of Martha, from which I could draw a
secretary whenever I wanted one, and keep her for as long or as short a
time as pleased me; and to have this supply in the immediate
neighborhood was an extraordinary advantage.
I agreed that the arrangement was a very good one; and I think he was
about to ask some questions in regard to my nun, but I began my recital,
and cut off any further conversation on the subject.
My monologue was rather disjointed that evening, for my mind was
occupied with other things, or, more strictly speaking, another thing. I
felt quite sure, however, that Walkirk did not notice my preoccupation,
for he gave the same earnest and interested attention to my descriptions
which he had always shown, and which made him such an agreeable and
valuable listener. Indeed, his manner put me at my ease, because, on
account of the wandering of my mind, his general expression indicated
that, if I found it necessary to pause in order that I might arrange
what I should say next, he was very glad of the opportunity thus given
him to reflect upon what I had just said. He was an admirable listener.
XV.
HOW WE WENT BACK TO GENOA.
The next morning I awaited with considerable perturbation of mind the
arrival of my nun. I felt assured that, after the occurrences of the
previous day, there must certainly be some sort of a change in her. She
could not go on exactly as she had gone on before. The nature of this
anticipated change concerned me very much,--too much, I assured myself.
Would she be more rigid and repellent than she had been before the
advent of the wasp? But this would be impossible. On the other hand,
would she be more like other people? Would she relax a little, and work
like common secretaries? Or,--and I whistled as I thought of it,--having
once done so, would she permanently cut loose from the absurdities
enjoined upon her by the House of Martha people, and look at me and talk
to me in the free, honest, ingenuous, frank, sincere, and thoroughly
sensible manner in which she had spoken to me the day before?
After revolving these questions in my mind for some time, another one
rudely thrust itself upon me: would she come at all? It was already
seven minutes past nine; she had never been so late. Now that I came to
think of it, this would be the most natural result of the wasp business.
The thought shocked me. I ceased to walk up and down my study, and
stopped whistling. I think my face must have flushed; I know my pulse
beat faster. My eyes fell upon the body of him who I believed had been
my friend. I felt like crushing his remains with my fist. He had been my
enemy! He had shown me what I had to lose, and he had made me lose it.
Even in the midst of my agitation this thought made me smile. How much I
was making of this affair of my secretary. What difference, after
all--But I did not continue the latter question. It did make a
difference, and it was of no use to reason about it. What was I to do
about it? That was more to the point.
At this instant, my nun, followed by Sister Sarah, entered the adjoining
room. The latter merely bowed to me, went out, and locked the door
behind her. I was very glad she did not speak to me, for the sudden
revulsion of feeling produced by the appearance of the two would have
prevented my answering her coherently. I do not know whether my nun
bowed or not. If she did, the motion was very slight. She took her seat
and prepared for work. I did not say anything, for I did not know what
to say. The proper thing to do, in order to relieve my embarrassment and
hers,--that is, if she had any,--was to begin work at once; but for the
life of me I could not remember whether my dictation of the day before
concerned Sicily or Egypt. I did not like to ask her, for that would
seem like a trick to make her speak.
But it would not do to keep her sitting there with an idle pen in her
hand. I must say something, so I blurted out some remarks concerning the
effect of the climate of the Mediterranean upon travelers from northern
countries; and while doing this I tried my best to remember where, on
the shores of this confounded sea, I had been the day before.
Philosophizing and generalizing were, however, not in my line: I was
accustomed to deal with action and definite observation, and I soon
dropped the climate of the Mediterranean, and went to work on some of
the soul-harrowing improvements in the Eternal City, alluding with
particular warmth to the banishment of the models from the Spanish
Stairs. Now the work went on easily, but I was gloomy and depressed. My
nun sat at the table, more like a stiff gray-enveloped principle than
ever before. I did not feel at liberty even to make a remark about the
temperature of the room. I feared that whatever I said might be
construed into an attempt to presume upon the accidental intercourse of
the day before.
For half an hour or more she went on with the work, but, during a pause
in my dictation, she sat up straight in her chair and laid down her pen.
Then, without turning her face to me, she began to speak. I stood
open-mouthed, and, I need not say, delighted. Whatever her words might
be, it rejoiced me to hear them; to know that she voluntarily recognized
my existence, and desired to communicate with me.
"I have spoken to Mother Anastasia," she said, her voice directed
towards the screen in the open window, "and I told her that it was
impossible for me to work without sometimes saying a few words to ask
for what I need, or to request you to repeat a word which I did not
catch. Since I began to write I have lost no less than twenty-three
words. I have left blanks for them, and made memoranda of the pages;
but, as I said to her, if this sort of thing went on, you would forget
what words you had intended to use, and when you came to read the
manuscript you could not supply them, and that therefore I was not doing
my work properly, and honestly earning the money which would be paid to
the institution. I also told her that you sometimes forgot where you
left off the day before, and that I ought to read you a few lines of
what I had last written, in order that you might make the proper
connection. I think this is very necessary, for to-day you have left an
awful gap. Yesterday we were writing about that old Crusader's bank in
Genoa, and now you are at work at Rome, when we haven't even started for
that city."
Each use of this word "we" was to me like a strain of music from the
heavens.
"Do you think I did right?" she added.
"Right!" I exclaimed. "Most assuredly you did. Nothing could be more
helpful, and in fact more necessary, than to let me know just where I
left off. What did the sisters say?"
"I spoke only to Mother Anastasia," she replied. "She considered the
matter a little while, and then said that she could see there must be
times when you would require some information from me in regard to the
work, and that there could be no reasonable objection to my giving such
information; but she reminded me that the laws of the House of Martha
require that the sisters must give their sole attention to the labor
upon which they are employed, and must not indulge, when so engaged, in
any conversation, even among themselves, that is not absolutely
necessary."
"Mother Anastasia is very sensible," said I, "and if I were to see her,
I should be happy to express my appreciation of her good advice upon the
subject. And, by the way, did she tell you that it was necessary to wear
that hot bonnet while you are working?"
"She did not say anything about it," she answered; "it was not needful.
We always wear our bonnets outside of the House of Martha."
I was about to make a further remark upon the subject, but restrained
myself: it was incumbent on me to be very prudent. There was a pause,
and then she spoke again.
"You are not likely to see Mother Anastasia," she said, "but please do
not say anything on the subject to Sister Sarah; she is very rigorous,
and would not approve of talking under any circumstances. In fact, she
does not approve of my coming here at all."
"What earthly reason can she have for that?" I asked.
"She thinks it's nonsensical for you to have a secretary," she answered,
"and that it would be much better for you to do your own work, and make
a gift of the money to the institution, and then I could go and learn to
be a nurse. I only mention these things to show you that it would be
well not to talk to her of Mother Anastasia's good sense."
"You may rest assured," said I, "that I shall not say a word to her."
"And now," said she, "shall we put aside what I have written to-day, and
go back to Genoa? The last thing you dictated yesterday was this: 'Into
this very building once came the old Crusaders to borrow money for their
journeys to the Holy Land.'"
We went to Genoa.
"How admirably," I exclaimed, when she had gone, "with what wonderful
tact and skill she has managed the whole affair! Not one word about the
occurrences of yesterday, not an allusion which could embarrass either
herself or me. If only she had looked at me! But she had probably
received instructions on that point which she did not mention, and it is
easy to perceive that she is honest and conscientious."
But after all it was not necessary that I should see her face. I had
seen it, and I could never forget it.
Whistling was not enough for me that day; I sang.
"What puts you into such remarkably good spirits?" asked my grandmother.
"Have you reached an unusually interesting part of your work?"
"Indeed I have," I answered, and I gave her such a glowing account of
the way the Red Cross Knights, the White Cross Knights, and the Black
Cross Knights clanked through the streets of Genoa, before setting sail
to battle for the Great Cross, that the cheeks of the old lady flushed
and her eyes sparkled with enthusiastic emotion.
"I don't wonder it kindles your soul to write about such things," she
said.
XVI.
I RUN UPON A SANDBAR.
Day by day, the interest of my nun in her work appeared to increase.
Every morning, so soon as she sat down at her table, she read to me the
concluding portion of what had been written the day before; and if a
Sunday intervened, she gave me a page or more. Her interest was
manifested in various ways. Several times she so far forgot the
instructions she must have received as to turn her face towards me, when
asking me to repeat something that she did not catch, and on such
occasions I could not for some moments remember what I had said, or
indeed what I was about to say.
Once she stopped writing, and, turning half round in her chair, looked
fairly at me, and said that she thought I had made a mistake in saying
that visitors were not allowed to go up the Tower of Pisa without a
guide; for she, with two other ladies, had gone to the top without any
one accompanying them. But she thought it was very wrong to allow people
to do this, and that I should be doing a service to travelers if I were
to say something on the subject.
Of course I replied that I would make the correction, and that I would
say something about the carelessness to which she referred. Then there
ensued a pause, during which she turned her face towards the window,
imagining, I have no doubt, that I was busy endeavoring to compose
something suitable to say upon the subject; but I was not thinking of
anything of the sort. I was allowing my mind to revel in the delight
which I had had in looking at her while she spoke. When her pen began to
scratch impatiently upon the paper, I plunged into some sort of a homily
on the laxity of vigilance in leaning towers. But, even while dictating
this, I was wondering what she would look like if, instead of that gray
shawl and gown, she were arrayed in one of the charming costumes which
often make even ordinary young ladies so attractive.
As our daily work went on, my nun relaxed more frequently her proscribed
rigidity, and became more and more like an ordinary person. When she
looked at me or spoke, she always did so in such an unpremeditated
manner, and with such an obvious good reason, that I could not determine
whether her change of manner was due to accumulative forgetfulness, or
to a conviction that it was absurd to continue to act a part which was
not only unnatural under the circumstances, but which positively
interfered with the work in hand. Some of her suggestions were of the
greatest service, but I fear that the value of what she said was not as
fully appreciated as was the pleasure of seeing and hearing her say it.
Thus joyously passed the hours of work, and in the hours when I was not
working I looked forward with glad anticipation to the next forenoon;
but after a time I began to be somewhat oppressed by the fear that my
work would come to an end before long for want of material. I was
already nearing the southern limit of my travels, and my return
northward had not been productive of the sort of subject-matter I
desired. In my recitals to Walkirk I had gone much more into detail
regarding my experiences, and had talked about a great many things which
it had been pleasant to talk about, but which I did not consider good
enough to put into my book. In dictating to my nun I had carefully
sifted the mass to which Walkirk had listened, and had used only such
matter as I thought would interest her and the general reader. My high
regard for the intelligence of my secretary and her powers of
appreciation had led me to discard too much, and therefore there was
danger that my supply of subject-matter would give out before my nun
grew to be an elderly woman; and this I did not desire.
I had read and heard enough of the travels of others to be able to
continue my descriptions of foreign countries for an indefinite period;
but I had determined, from the first, that nothing should go into my
book except my own actual experiences, and therefore I could not rely
upon other books for the benefit of mine. But, in considering the
matter, I concluded that, if my material should be entirely my own, it
would answer my purpose to make that material what I pleased; and thus
it happened that I determined to weave a story into my narrative. This
plan, I assured myself, would be in perfect harmony with the design of
my work. The characters could be drawn from the people whom I had met in
my travels. The scenes could be those which I had visited, and the plot
and tone of the story could be made to aid the reader in understanding
the nature of the country and the people of which it was told. More than
all, I could make the story as long as I pleased.
This was a capital idea, and I began immediately to work upon it. I
managed the story very deftly; at least that was my opinion. My two
principal characters made their appearance in Sicily, and at first were
so intermingled with scenery and incidents as not to be very prominent;
then they came more to the front, and other characters introduced
themselves upon occasion. As these personages appeared and reappeared, I
hoped that they would gradually surround themselves with an interest
which would steadily increase the desire to know more and more about
them. Thus, as I went on, I said less and less about Sicily, and more
and more about my characters, especially the young man and the young
woman, the curious blending of whose lives I was endeavoring to depict.
This went on very smoothly for a few days, and then, about eleven
o'clock one morning, my nun suddenly leaned back in her chair and laid
down her pen.
"I cannot write any more of this," she said, looking out of the window.
I was so astonished that I could scarcely ask her what she meant.
"This is love-making," she continued, "and with love-making the sisters
of the House of Martha can have nothing to do. It is one of our
principal rules that we must not think about it, read about it, or talk
about it; and of course it would have been forbidden to write about it,
if such a contingency had ever been thought of. Therefore I cannot do
any more work of that kind."
In vain I expostulated; in vain I told her that this was the most
important part of my book; in vain I declaimed about the absurdity of
such a regulation; in vain I protested; in vain I reasoned. She shook
her head, and said there was no use talking about it; she knew the
rules, and should obey them.
I had been standing near the grating, but now I threw myself into a
chair, and sat silent, wondering what I should do. Must I give up this
most admirable plan of carrying on my work, simply because those foolish
sisters had made absurd rules for themselves? Must I wind up my book for
want of material? Not for a moment did I think of getting another
secretary, or of selecting some other sort of that stuff which literary
people call padding, for the purpose of prolonging my pleasant labors. I
was becoming interested in the love-story I had begun, and I wanted to
go on with it, and I believed also that it would be of great advantage
to my book; but, on the other hand, it was plain that my nun would not
write this story, and it was quite as plain to me that I could not
insist upon anything which would cause her to leave me.
"Don't you think," she said presently, still looking towards the window,
"that we had better do some sort of work for the rest of the morning? It
is not right for me to sit here idle. Suppose you try to supply some of
the words which were left out of the manuscript, in the first days of my
writing for you."
"Very well," said I; and, taking up her memoranda, she began to look for
the vacant spaces which she had left in the manuscript pages. I supplied
very few words, for to save my life I could not at this moment bring my
mind to bear upon such trifles; but it was pretense of work, and better
than embarrassing idleness. Before my secretary left me I must think of
something to say to her in regard to the work for to-morrow; but what
should I say? Should I tell her I would drop the story, or that I would
modify it so as to make it feasible for her to write? Something must
quickly be decided upon, and while I was tumultuously revolving the
matter in my mind twelve o'clock and the sub-mother came. My secretary
went away, with nothing but the little bow which she was accustomed to
make when leaving the room.
XVII.
REGARDING THE ELUCIDATION OF NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS.
I was left in my study in a very unpleasant state of mind. I was
agitated and apprehensive. Perhaps that young woman would not come any
more. I had not told her that I was going to stop writing about love,
and there was every reason to suppose she would not return. What an
imbecile I had been! I had done nothing, because I could not think of
exactly the right thing to do.
I now felt that I must ask the advice of somebody in regard to this
embarrassing and important affair. For a moment I thought of my
grandmother, but she would be sure to begin by advising me to change my
secretary. She seldom urged me to do what I did not want to do, but if I
offered her a chance to give me advice on this occasion I knew what
would be uppermost in her mind.
So I put on my hat and went to Walkirk, at the inn. I found him at work
on a mass of accounts, dating back for years, which I had given him to
adjust. With great circumspection I laid before him this new affair.
"You see," said I, "she is a first-class secretary. She has learned to
do my work as I like it done, and I do not wish to make a change, and,
on the other hand, I do not care to alter the plan of my book."
Walkirk was always very respectful, but he could not restrain a smile at
the situation.
"It does seem to me," he said, "a very funny thing to dictate a
love-story to one of the sisters of the House of Martha. Of course they
are not nuns, they are not even Roman Catholics, but they are just as
strict and strait-laced about certain things as if their house were
really a convent. So far as I can see, there is but one thing to do, and
that is to confine yourself to descriptions of travel; and perhaps it
would be well to let your secretary know in some way that you intend to
do so; otherwise I think she may throw up the business, and that would
be a pity."
It sometimes surprises me to discover what an obstinate person I am.
When I want to do a thing, it is very difficult for me to change my
mind.
"She must not throw up the business," I said, "and I do not see how I
can leave out the story. I have planned it far ahead, and to discard it
I should have to go back and cut and mangle a great deal of good work
that I have done."
Walkirk reflected.
"I admit," he replied, "that that would be very discouraging. Perhaps we
can think of some plan of getting out of the difficulty."
"I hope you can do that," said I, "for I cannot."
"How would this do?" he asked presently. "Suppose I go and see Mother
Anastasia this afternoon, and try and make her look at this matter from
a strictly business point of view. I can tell her that the sort of thing
you are doing is purely literature, that you can't keep such things out
of literature, and that the people who engage in the mechanical work of
literature cannot help running against those things at one time or
another. I can try to make her understand what an advantageous
connection this is, and what a great injury to the House of Martha it
would be if it should be broken off. I can tell her that it is not
improbable that you may take to writing as a regular business, and that
you may give profitable employment to the sisters for years and years.
There are a good many other things I might say, and you may be sure I
shall do my very best."
"Go," I said, "but be very careful about what you say. Don't make her
think that I am too anxious to retain this particular sister, but make
her understand that I do not wish to begin all over again with another
one. Also, do not insist too strongly on my desire to write a
love-story, but put it to her that when I plan out work of course I want
to do the work as I have planned it. Try to keep these important points
in your mind; then you can urge common sense upon her as much as you
please."
I sent a note to my grandmother saying that I should not be home to
luncheon, and after having taken a bite at the inn I set out for a long
walk. It was simply impossible for me to talk about common things until
this matter was settled.
It was about the middle of the afternoon when I returned to the inn, and
Walkirk had not come back. I went away again, took a turn through the
woods, and on approaching the inn I saw him walking down the shady road
which led from the House of Martha. I hurried to meet him.
So soon as he was near enough, Walkirk, with a beaming face, called
out:--
"All right, sir. I have settled that little matter for you."
"How? What?" I exclaimed. "What have you done?"
We had now reached each other, and stood together by the side of the
road.
"Well," said my under-study, "I have seen Mother Anastasia, and I have
found her a very sensible woman,--an admirable woman, I assure you. She
was a good deal surprised when I told her my errand, for that was the
first she had heard of the love-story; in fact, I suppose your secretary
had not had time to tell her about it. She commended the sister highly
for her refusal to write it, saying that her action was in strict
accordance with the spirit of their rules. When she had finished saying
all she had to say on that point, I presented your side of the question;
and I assure you, sir, that I clapped on it a very bright light, so that
if she did not see its strong points the fault must be in her own eyes.
As the event proved, there was nothing the matter with her eyes. I shall
not try to repeat what I said, but I began by explaining to her the
nature of your work, and showed her how impossible it was for you to
write about foreign countries without referring to their people, and how
you could not speak of the people without mentioning their peculiar
manners and customs, and that this story was nothing more nor less than
an interweaving of some of the characteristics of the people of Sicily
with the descriptions of the country. Thus much I inferred from your
remarks about the story.