the life of the sisters of the House of Martha, they were a part of the
world which you were describing, and that it could be no more harm for a
sister, working for wages and the good of the cause, to assist in that
description than it would be for one of them to make lace to be worn at
a wedding, a ceremony with which the sisters could have nothing to do,
and which in connection with themselves they could not even think about.
This point made an impression on Mother Anastasia, and, having thought
about it a minute or two, she said there was a certain force in it.
"Then she asked me if this narrative of yours was a strongly accentuated
love-story. Here she had me at a disadvantage, for I have not heard it;
but I assured her that, knowing the scope and purpose of your work, I
did not believe that you would accentuate any portion of it more than
was absolutely necessary.
"After some silent consideration, Mother Anastasia said she would go and
speak with the sister who had been doing your work. She was gone a good
while,--at least it seemed so to me; and when she came back she said
that she had been making inquiries of the sister, and had come to the
conclusion that there was no good reason why the House of Martha should
not continue to assist you in the preparation of your book."
"Did she say she would send the same sister?" I asked quickly.
"No, she did not," answered Walkirk; "but not wishing to put the
question too pointedly, I first thanked her, on your behalf, for the
kindly consideration she had given the matter. I then remarked--without
intimating that you said anything about it--that I hoped nothing would
occur to retard the progress of the work, and that the present
arrangement might continue without changes of any kind, because I knew
that when you were dictating your mind was completely absorbed by your
mental labors, and that any alteration in your hours of work, or the
necessity of explaining your methods to a new amanuensis, annoyed and
impeded you. To this she replied it was quite natural you should not
desire changes, and that everything should go on as before."
"Walkirk," I exclaimed, "you are a trump!" In my exuberant satisfaction
I would have clapped him on the back; but it would not do to be so
familiar with an under-study, and besides I did not wish him to
understand the extent of my delight at the result of his mission. That
sort of thing I liked to keep to myself.
XVIII.
AN ILLEGIBLE WORD.
Every morning there seemed to be some reason or other why I should
anticipate with an animated interest the coming of my secretary, and on
the morning after what I might call her "strike" the animation of said
interest was very apparent to me, but I hope not to any one else. Over
and over I said to myself that I must not let my nun see that I was
greatly pleased with Walkirk's intervention. It would be wise to take
the result as a matter of course.
As the clock struck nine, she and Sister Sarah entered the anteroom, and
the latter advanced to the grating and looked into my study, peering
from side to side. I did not like this sister's face; she looked as if
she had grown unpleasantly plump on watered milk.
"Is it necessary," she asked, "that you should smoke tobacco during your
working hours?"
"I never do it," I replied indignantly,--"never!"
"Several times," she said, "I have thought I perceived the smell of
tobacco smoke in this sister's garments."
"You are utterly mistaken!" I exclaimed. "During the hours of work these
rooms are perfectly free from anything of the sort."
She gave a little grunt and departed, and when she had locked the door I
could not restrain a slight ejaculation of annoyance.
"You must not mind Sister Sarah," said the sweet voice of my nun behind
the barricade of her bonnet; "she is as mad as hops this morning."
"What is the matter with her?" I asked, my angry feelings disappearing
in an instant.
"She and Mother Anastasia have had a long discussion about the message
you sent in regard to my keeping on with the story. Sister Sarah is very
much opposed to my doing your writing at all."
"Well, as she is not the head of your House, I suppose we need not
trouble ourselves about that," I replied. "But how does the arrangement
suit you? Are you satisfied to continue to write my little story?"
"Satisfied!" she said. "I am perfectly delighted;" and as she spoke she
turned toward me, her eyes sparkling, and her face lighted by the most
entrancing smile I ever beheld on the countenance of woman. "This is a
thousand times more interesting than anything you have done yet,
although I liked the rest very much. Of course I stopped when I supposed
it was against our rules to continue; but now that I know it is all
right I am--But no matter; let us go on with it. This is what I last
wrote," and she read: "'Tomaso and the pretty Lucilla now seated
themselves on the rock, by a little spring. He was trying to look into
her lovely blue eyes, which were slightly turned away from him and
veiled by their long lashes. There was something he must say to her, and
he felt he could wait no longer. Gently he took the little hand which
lay nearest him, and'--There is where I stopped," she said; and then,
her face still bright, but with the smile succeeded by an air of earnest
consideration, she asked, "Do you object to suggestions?"
"Not at all," said I; "when they are to the point, they help me."
"Well, then," she said, "I wouldn't have her eyes blue. Italian girls
nearly always have black or brown eyes. It is hard to think of this girl
as a blonde."
"Oh, but her eyes are blue," I said; "it would not do at all to have
them anything else. Some Italian girls are that way. At any rate, I
couldn't alter her in my mind."
"Perhaps not," she replied, "but in thinking about her she always seems
to me to have black eyes; however, that is a matter of no importance,
and I am ready to go on."
Thus, on matters strictly connected with business, my nun and I
conversed, and then we went on with our work. I think that from the very
beginnings of literature there could have been no author who derived
from his labors more absolute pleasure than I derived from mine: never
was a story more interesting to tell than the story of Tomaso and
Lucilla. It proved to be a very long one, much longer than I had
supposed I could make it, and sometimes I felt that it was due to the
general character of my book that I should occasionally insert some
description of scenery or instances of travel.
My secretary wrote as fast as I could dictate, and sometimes wished, I
think, that I would dictate faster. She seldom made comments unless she
thought it absolutely necessary to do so, but there were certain
twitches and movements of her head and shoulders which might indicate
emotions, such as pleasant excitement at the sudden development of the
situation, or impatience at my delay in the delivery of interesting
passages; and I imagined that during the interpolation of descriptive
matter she appeared to be anxious to get through with it as quickly as
possible, and to go on with the story.
It was my wish to make my book a very large one; it was therefore
desirable to be economical with the material I had left, and to eke it
out as much as I could with fiction; but upon considering the matter I
became convinced that it could not be very long before the material
which in any way could be connected with the story must give out, and
that therefore it would have to come to an end. How I wished I had spent
more time in Sicily! I would have liked to write a whole book about
Sicily.
Of course I might take the lovers to other countries; but I had not
planned anything of this kind, and it would require some time to work it
out. Now, however, a good idea occurred to me, which would postpone the
conclusion of the interesting portion of my work. I would have my
secretary read what she had written. This would give me time to think
out more of the story, and it is often important that an author should
know what he has done before he goes on to do more. We had arrived at a
point where the narrative could easily stop for a while; Tomaso having
gone on a fishing voyage, and the middle-aged innkeeper, whose union
with Lucilla was favored by her mother and the village priest, having
departed for Naples to assume the guardianship of two very handsome
young women, the daughters of an old friend, recently deceased.
When I communicated to my nun my desire to change her work from writing
to reading, she seemed surprised, and asked if there were not danger
that I might forget how I intended to end the story. I reassured her on
this point, and she appeared to resign herself to the situation.
"Shall I begin with the first page of the manuscript," said she, "or
read only what I have written?"
"Oh, begin at the very beginning," I said. "I want to hear it all."
Then she began, hesitating a little at times over the variable
chirography of my first amanuensis. I drew up my chair near to the
grating, but before she had read two pages I asked her to stop for a
moment.
"I think," said I, "it will be impossible for me to get a clear idea of
what you are reading unless you turn and speak in my direction. You see,
the sides of your bonnet interfere very much with my hearing what you
say."
For a few moments she remained in her ordinary position, and then she
slowly turned her chair toward me. I am sure she had received
instructions against looking into my study, which was filled with
objects calculated to attract the attention of an intelligent and
cultivated person. Then she read the manuscript, and as she did so I
said to myself, over and over again, that for her to read to me was a
thousand times more agreeable than for me to dictate to her.
As she read, her eyes were cast down on the pages which she held in her
hand; but frequently when I made a correction they were raised to mine,
as she endeavored to understand exactly what I wanted her to do. I made
a good many alterations which I think improved the work very much.
Once she found it utterly impossible to decipher a certain word of the
manuscript. She scrutinized it earnestly, and then, her mind entirely
occupied by her desire properly to read the matter, she rose, and came
close to the grating, holding the page so that I could see it.
"Can you make out this word?" she asked. "I cannot imagine how any one
could write so carelessly."
I sprang to my feet and stood close to the grating. I could not take the
paper from her, and it was necessary for her to hold it. I examined the
word letter by letter. I gave my opinion of each letter, and I asked her
opinion. It was a most illegible word. A good many things interfered
with my comprehension of it. Among these were the two hands with which
she held up the page, and another was the idea which came to me that in
the House of Martha the sisters were fed on violets. I am generally
quite apt at deciphering bad writing, but never before had I shown
myself so slow and obtuse at this sort of thing.
Suddenly a thought struck me. I glanced at the clock in my study. It
wanted ten minutes of twelve.
"It must be," said I, "that that word is intended to be
'heaven-given,'--at any rate, we will make it that; and now I think I
will get you to copy the last part of that page. You can do it on the
back of the sheet."
She was engaged in this writing when Sister Sarah came in.
XIX.
GRAY ICE.
During the engagement of my present secretary, a question had frequently
arisen in my mind, which I wished to have answered, but which I had
hesitated to ask, for fear the sister should imagine it indicated too
much personal interest in her. This question related to her name, and
now it was really necessary for me to know it. I did not wish any longer
to speak to her as if she were merely a principle; she had become a most
decided entity. However harsh and gray and woolly her name might be, I
wanted to know it and to hear it from her own lips. The next morning I
asked her what it was.
She was sitting at the table arranging the pages she was going to read,
and at the question she turned toward me. Her face was flushed, but not,
I think, with displeasure.
"Do you know," she said, "it has seemed to me the funniest thing in the
world that you have never cared the least bit to know my name."
"I did care," I replied, "in fact it was awkward not to know it; but of
course I did not want to--interfere in any way with the rules of your
establishment."
"Ah," she said, "I have noticed your extreme solicitude in regard to our
rules, but there is no rule against telling our names. Mine is Sister
Hagar."
"Hagar!" I exclaimed. "You do not mean that is your real name?"
"It is the name given me by the House of Martha," she answered. "There
is a list of names by which the sisters must be called, and as we enter
the institution we take the names in their order on the list. Hagar came
to me."
"I shall not call you by that," said I, "and we may as well go on with
our work."
I was anxious to have her read, and to forget that she was called Hagar.
She was a long time arranging the manuscript and putting the pages in
order. I did not hurry her, but I could not see any reason for so much
preparation. Presently she said, still arranging the sheets, and with
her head bent slightly over her work: "I don't know whether or not I
ought to tell you, but I dislike to be called Hagar. The next name on
the list is Rebecca, and I am willing to take that, but the rules of the
House do not allow us to skip an unappropriated name, and permit no
choosing. However, Mother Anastasia has not pressed the matter, and,
although I am entered as Sister Hagar, the sisters do not call me by
that name."
"What do they call you?"
"Oh, they simply use the name that was mine before I entered the House
of Martha," said she.
"And what is that?" I asked quickly.
"Ah," said my nun, pushing her sheets into a compact pile, and thumping
their edges on the table to make them even, "to talk about that would be
decidedly against the rules of the institution;--and now I am ready to
read."
Thus did she punish me for what she considered my want of curiosity or
interest; I knew it as well as if she had told me so. I accepted the
rebuff and said no more, and she went on with her reading.
On this and the following day I became aware how infinitely more
pleasant it was to listen than to be listened to,--at least under
certain circumstances. I considered it wonderfully fortunate to be able
to talk to such an admirable listener as Walkirk: but to sit and hear my
nun read; to watch the charming play of her mouth, and the occasional
flush of a smile when she came to something exciting or humorous; to
look into the blue of her eyes, as she raised them to me while I
considered an alteration, was to me an overwhelming rapture,--I could
call it nothing less. But by the end of the third morning of reading my
good sense told me that this sort of thing could not go on, and it would
be judicious for me to begin again my dictation, and to let my secretary
confine herself to her writing. The fact that on any morning I had not
allowed her to read until the hour of noon was an additional proof that
my decision was a wise one.
The story of Tomaso and Lucilla now went bravely on, with enough
groundwork of foreign land for the characters to stand on, and I tried
very hard to keep my mind on the writing of my book and away from its
writer. Outwardly I may have appeared to succeed fairly well in this
purpose, but inwardly the case was different. However, if I could
suppress any manifestations of my emotions, I told myself, I ought to be
satisfied.
A few mornings after the recommencement of the dictation I was a little
late in entering my study, and I found my secretary already at the table
in the anteroom. In answer to my morning salutation she merely bowed,
and sat ready for work. She did not even offer to read what she had last
written. This surprised me. Was she resenting what she might look upon
as undue stiffness and reserve? If so, I was very sorry, but at the same
time I would meet her on her own ground. If she chose to return to her
old rigidity, I would accept the situation, and be as formal as she
liked.
More than this, I began to feel a little resentment. I would revert not
only to my former manner, but to my former matter. I would wind up that
love-story, and confine myself to the subject of foreign travel.
Acting on this resolution, I made short work of Tomaso and Lucilla. The
former determined not to think of marriage until he was several years
older, and had acquired the necessary means to support a wife; and
Lucilla accepted the advice of her mother and the priest, and obtained a
situation in a lace-making establishment in Venice, where she resolved
to work industriously until the middle-aged innkeeper had made up his
mind whether or not he would marry one of the handsome girls to whom he
had become guardian.
To this very prosaic conclusion of the love-story I added some remarks
intended as an apology for introducing such a story into my sketches of
travel, and showing how the little narrative brought into view some of
the characteristics of the people of Sicily. After that I discoursed of
the present commerce of Italy as compared with that of the Middle Ages.
My secretary took no notice whatever of my change of subject, but went
on writing as I dictated. This apathy at last became so annoying to me
that, excusing myself, I left my study before the hour of noon.
It is impossible for me to say how the events, or rather the want of
events, of that morning disturbed my mind. By turns I was angry, I was
grieved, I was regretful, I was resentful. It is so easy sometimes for
one person, with the utmost placidity, to throw another person into a
state of mental agitation; and this I think is especially noticeable
when the placid party is a woman.
As the day wore on, my disquiet of mind and body and general ill humor
did not abate, and, wishing that other people should not notice my
unusual state of mind, I took an early afternoon train to the city;
leaving a note for Walkirk, informing him that his services as listener
would not be needed that evening. The rest of that day I spent at my
club, where, fortunately for my mood, I met only a few old fellows who
could not get out of town in the summer, and who had learned, from long
practice, to be quite sufficient unto themselves. Seated in a corner of
the large reading-room, I spent the evening smoking, holding in my hand
an unread newspaper, and asking myself mental questions.
I inquired why in the name of common sense I allowed myself to be so
disturbed by the conduct of an amanuensis, paid by the day, and,
moreover, a member of a religious order. I inquired why the fates should
have so ordered it that this perfectly charming young woman should
suddenly have become frozen into a mass of gray ice. I inquired if I had
inadvertently done or said anything which would naturally wound the
feelings or arouse the resentment of a sister of the House of Martha. I
inquired if there could be any reasonable excuse for a girl who, on
account of an omission or delay in asking her name, would assume a
manner of austere rudeness to a gentleman who had always treated her
with scrupulous courtesy. Finally I asked myself why it was that I
persisted, and persisted, and persisted in thinking about a thing like
this, when my judgment told me that I should instantly dismiss the whole
affair from my mind, and employ my thoughts on something sensible; and
to this I gave the only answer which I made to any of the inquiries I
had put to myself. That was that I did not know why this was so, but it
was so, and there was no help for it.
Walking home from the station quite late at night, the question which
had so much troubled me suddenly resolved itself, and I became convinced
that the change in the manner of my secretary was due to increased
pressure of the rules of the House of Martha. I would not, I could not,
believe that a fit of pique, occasioned by my apparent want of interest
in her, could make her thus cold and even rude. She was not the kind of
girl to do this thing of her own volition. It was those wretched rules;
and if they were to be enforced in this way, the head of the House of
Martha should know that I considered the act a positive discourtesy, if
nothing more.
I was angry,--that was not to be wondered at; but it was a great relief
to me to feel that I need not be angry with my secretary.
XX.
TOMASO AND I.
The next day my amanuensis bade me good-morning in her former pleasant
manner, but without turning toward me seated herself quickly at the
table, and took the manuscript from the drawer. "Oh, ho!" I thought,
"then you can speak; and it was not the rules which made you behave in
that way, but your own pique, which has worn off a little." I glanced at
her as she intently looked over the work of the day before, and I was
considering whether or not it would be fitting for me to show that there
might be pique on one side of the grating as well as on the other, when
suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a burst of laughter,--girlish,
irrepressible laughter. With the manuscript in her hands, my nun
actually leaned back in her chair and laughed so heartily that I wonder
my grandmother did not hear her.
"I declare," she said, turning to me, her eyes glistening with tears of
merriment, "this is the funniest thing I ever saw. Why, you have
actually separated those poor lovers for life, and crushed every hope in
the properest way. And then all the rest about commerce! I wouldn't have
believed you could do it."
"What do you mean?" I exclaimed. "You showed no surprise when you wrote
it."
Again she laughed.
"Wrote it!" she cried. "I never wrote a line of it. It was Sister Sarah
who was your secretary yesterday. Didn't you know that?"
I stood for a moment utterly unable to answer; then I gasped, "Sister
Sarah wrote for me yesterday! What does it mean?"
"Positively," said she, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet,
"this is not only the funniest, but the most wonderful thing in the
world. Do you mean truly to say that you did not know it was Sister
Sarah who wrote for you yesterday?"
"I did not suspect it for an instant," I answered.
"It was, it was!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in her earnestness,
and stepping closer to the grating. "When we came here yesterday, and
found you were not in your room, a sudden idea struck her. 'I will stay
here myself, this morning,' she said, 'and do his writing. I want to
know what sort of a story this is that is being dictated to a sister of
our House;' and so she simply turned me out and told me to go home. You
don't know how frightened I was. I was afraid that, as we dress exactly
alike, you might not at first notice that Sister Sarah was sitting at
the table, and that you might begin with an awfully affectionate speech
by Tomaso; for I knew that something of that kind was just on the point
of breaking out, and I knew too that if you did it there would be lively
times in the House of Martha, and perhaps here also. I fairly shivered
the whole morning, and my only hope was that she would begin to snap at
you as soon as you came in, and you would then know whom you had to deal
with, and that you would have to put a lot of water into your
love-making if you wanted any more help from the sisters. But if I had
known that you would not find out that she was writing for you, I should
certainly have died. I couldn't have stood it. But how in the world
could you have kept on thinking that that woman was I? She is shorter
and fatter, and not a bit like me, except in her clothes; and if you
thought I was writing for you, why did you dictate that ridiculous
stuff?"
I stood confounded. Here were answers to devise.
"Of course the dress deceived me," I said presently, "and not once did
she turn her face toward me; besides, I did not imagine for a moment
that any one but you could be sitting at that table."
"But I cannot understand why," she pursued, "if you didn't know it was
Sister Sarah, you made that sudden change in your story."
For a moment I hesitated, and then I saw I might as well speak out
honestly. When a man sees before him a pair of blue eyes like those
which were then fixed upon me, the chances are that he will speak out
honestly.