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.

"I persisted that, although such characteristics had no connection with
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.

"The fact is," I said, "that I'm a little--well, sensitive; and when
you, or the person I thought was you, did not speak to me, nor look at
me, nor pay any more heed to me than if I had been a talking-machine
worked with a crank, I was somewhat provoked, and determined that if you
suddenly chose to freeze in that way I would freeze too, and that you
should have no more of that story in which you were so interested; and
so I smashed the loves of Tomaso and Lucilla and took up commerce, which
I was sure you would hate."

At this there was a quick flash in her eyes, and the first tremblings of
a smile at the corners of her mouth.

"Oh!" she said, and that was all she did say, as she returned to the
table and took her seat.

"Is my explanation satisfactory?" I asked.

"Oh, certainly," she answered; "and if you will excuse me for saying so,
I think you are a very fortunate man. In trying to punish me you
protected yourself,--that is, if you care to have secretaries from our
institution."

As I could not see her face, I could not determine what answer I should
make to this remark, and she continued, as she turned over the sheets:--

"What are you going to do with the pages which were written yesterday?"

"Tear them up," I replied, "and throw them into the basket. I wish to
annihilate them utterly."

She obeyed me, and tore Sister Sarah's work into very small pieces.

"Now we will go on with the original and genuine story," I said. "And as
the occurrences of yesterday are entirely banished from my mind, and as
all recollection of the point where we left off has gone, will you
kindly read two or three pages of what you last wrote?"

Several times I had perceived, or thought I had perceived, symptoms of
emotion in the back of my secretary's shawl, and these symptoms, if such
they were, were visible now. She occupied some minutes in selecting a
suitable point at which to begin, but when she had done this she read
without any signs of emotion, either in her shawl or in her face.

The story of the Sicilian young people progressed slowly, not because of
any lack of material, but because I was anxious to portray the phases as
clearly and as effectively as I could possibly do it; and whenever I
could prevent myself from thinking of something else, I applied my mind
most earnestly to this object. I flatter myself that I did the work very
well, and I am sure there were passages the natural fervor of which
would have made Sister Sarah bounce at least a yard from her chair, had
they been dictated to her, but my nun did not bounce in the least.