THE HOUSE OF MARTHA

by

FRANK R. STOCKTON







Boston and New York
Houghton, Mifflin and Company
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1891
Copyright, 1891,
By Frank B. Stockton.
All rights reserved.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.





CONTENTS.


CHAP.

        I. My Grandmother and I

       II. Relating to my Year in Europe

      III. The Modern Use of the Human Ear

       IV. I obtain a Listener

        V. Chester Walkirk

       VI. My Under-Study

      VII. My Book

     VIII. The Malarial Adjunct

       IX. Walkirk's Idea

        X. The Plan of Seclusion

       XI. My Nun

      XII. Eza

     XIII. My Friend Vespa

      XIV. I favor Permanency in Office

       XV. How we went back to Genoa

      XVI. I run upon a Sandbar

     XVII. Regarding the Elucidation of National Characteristics

    XVIII. An Illegible Word

      XIX. Gray Ice

       XX. Tomaso and I

      XXI. Lucilla and I

     XXII. I close my Book

    XXIII. Racket Island

     XXIV. The Interpolation

      XXV. About Sylvia

     XXVI. Mother Anastasia

    XXVII. A Person

   XXVIII. The Floating Grocery

     XXIX. Fantasy?

      XXX. A Discovery

     XXXI. Taking up Unfinished Work

    XXXII. Tomaso and Lucilla

   XXXIII. The Distant Topsail

    XXXIV. The Central Hotel

     XXXV. Money makes the Mare go

    XXXVI. In the Shade of the Oak

   XXXVII. The Performance of my Under-Study

  XXXVIII. A Broken Trace

    XXXIX. A Soul Whisper?

       XL. An Inspiration

      XLI. Miss Laniston

     XLII. The Mother Superior

    XLIII. Was his Heart true to Poll?

     XLIV. Preliminary Brotherhood

      XLV. I make Coffee and get into Hot Water

     XLVI. Going back for a Friend

    XLVII. I interest Miss Laniston

   XLVIII. In a Cold, Bare Room

     XLIX. My Own Way

        L. My Book of Travel

       LI. A Loose End

      LII. I finish the Sicilian Love-Story




THE HOUSE OF MARTHA.




I.

MY GRANDMOTHER AND I.


My grandmother sat in her own particular easy-chair by the open window
of her back parlor. This was a pleasant place in which to sit in the
afternoon, for the sun was then on the other side of the house, and she
could look not only over the smooth grass of the side yard and the
flower beds, which were under her especial care, but across the corner
of the front lawn into the village street. Here, between two handsome
maple-trees which stood upon the sidewalk, she could see something of
what was going on in the outer world without presenting the appearance
of one who is fond of watching her neighbors. It was not much that she
saw, for the street was a quiet one; but a very little of that sort of
thing satisfied her.

She was a woman who was easily satisfied. As a proof of this, I may say
that she looked upon me as a man who always did what was right. Indeed,
I am quite sure there were cases when she saved herself a good deal of
perplexing cogitation by assuming that a thing was right because I did
it. I was her only grandchild: my father and mother had died when I was
very young, and I had always lived with her,--that is, her house had
always been my home; and as I am sure there had never been any reason
why I should not be a dutiful and affectionate grandson, it was not
surprising that she looked upon me with a certain tender partiality, and
that she considered me worthy of all the good that she or fortune could
bestow upon me.

My grandmother was nearly seventy, but her physical powers had been
excellently well preserved; and as to her mental vigor, I could see no
change in it. Even when a little boy I had admired her powers of
sympathetic consideration, by which she divined the needs and desires of
her fellow-creatures; and now that I had become a grown man I found
those powers as active and ready as they had ever been.

The village in which we lived contained a goodly number of families of
high standing and comfortable fortune. It was a village of well-kept and
well-shaded streets, of close-cut grass, with no litter on the
sidewalks. Our house was one of the best in the place, and since I had
come of age I had greatly improved it. I had a fair inheritance from my
mother, and this my grandmother desired me to expend without reference
to what I was receiving and would receive from her. To her son's son
would come ultimately everything that she possessed.

Being thus able to carry out my ideas concerning the comfort and
convenience of a bachelor, I had built a wing to my grandmother's house,
which was occupied only by myself. It communicated by several doors with
the main building, and these doors were nearly always open; but it was
satisfactory to me to think that if I chose I might shut and lock them,
and thus give my apartment the advantages of a separate house. The
ground floor of my establishment consisted of a large and handsome
library and study, with a good-sized anteroom opening from it, and above
were my sleeping and dressing rooms. With the exception of the time
devoted to reading, reflection, and repose, I lived with my grandmother.

Neither of us, however, confined ourself to this village life. The
winters my grandmother generally spent with a married sister in a
neighboring city, and I was accustomed to visit and journey whenever it
pleased me. Recently I had spent a year in Europe, and on my return I
joined my grandmother for a while, before going to our village home.




II.

RELATING TO MY YEAR IN EUROPE.


I do not suppose that any one ever enjoyed travel and residence in
England and on the Continent more than I did; but I do not now intend to
give any account of my experiences, nor of the effect they had upon me,
save in one regard. I had traveled and lived for the most part alone,
and one of the greatest pleasures connected with my life in Europe was
the anticipation of telling my friends who had never crossed the ocean
what I had seen, heard, and done.

But when I returned to America I met with a great disappointment: my
glowing anticipations were not realized. I could find scarcely any one
who cared to know what I had seen, heard, or done.

At this I was as much surprised as disappointed. I believed that I
possessed fair powers of description and narration, and many of my
traveling experiences were out of the common. In fact, I had endeavored
to see things the ordinary traveler does not see, and to do things which
he seldom does. I found, however, that my unusual experiences were of no
advantage to me in making people desirous to hear accounts of my
travels. I might as well have joined a party of personally conducted
tourists.

My friends and acquaintances in town were all glad to see me, not that
they might hear what had happened to me, but that they might tell me
what had happened to them. This disposition sometimes threw me into a
state of absolute amazement. I could not comprehend, for instance, why
Mrs. Gormer, who had known me for years, and who I thought would take
such an active interest in everything that concerned me, should dismiss
my European tour with a few remarks in regard to my health in the
countries I had passed through, and then begin an animated account of
the troubles she had had since I had been away: how the house she had
been living in had had two feet of water in the cellar for weeks at a
time, and how nobody could find out whether it was caused by a spring in
the ground or the bursting of an unknown water-pipe,--but no matter what
it was, they couldn't stay there; and what a dreadful time they had in
finding another house; and how the day appointed for Jennie's wedding
coming directly in the middle of the moving, it had to be postponed, for
she declared she would never be married anywhere but at home; and how
several of Mr. Barclay's relations came down from New Hampshire on
purpose to be at the wedding, and had to stay either at hotels or with
friends, for it was more than a week before her house could be made
ready for the wedding. She then remarked that of course I had heard of
the shameful way in which John had been treated in regard to that
position in the Treasury department at Washington; and as I had not
heard she went on and told me about it, until it was time for me to go.

At my club, some of the men did not know that I had been away, but there
were others who were very glad to hear that I had been in Europe,
because it gave them an opportunity to tell me about that very exciting
election of Brubaker, a man of whom I had never heard, who had been
proposed by Shuster, with whom I was not acquainted, and seconded by
Cushman, whom I did not know. I found no one desirous of hearing me talk
about my travels, and those who were willing to do so were satisfied
with a very few general points. Sometimes I could not but admire the
facility and skill with which some of the people who stay at home were
able to defend themselves against the attempted loquacity of the
returned traveler.

Occasionally, in social gatherings, I met with some one, generally a
lady, who did take an interest in hearing that I had been in such or
such a place; but this was always some place in which she had been, and,
after comparing experiences, she would go on to tell of things which she
had seen and done, and often ended by making me feel very sorry for
having neglected my opportunities.

"Yes," said one, "it must have been cold on the top of that lonely
mountain, with nothing to warm you but those plump little wolves, and
the constant fear that their mother might come back; but you ought to
have been here during the blizzard." And then she went on with a full
history of the great blizzard.

Everywhere I was met by that blizzard. Those people who had not moved,
or who had not had a puzzling disease in the family, or who had not been
instrumental in founding a free kindergarten, could always fall back on
the blizzard. I heard how their fathers could not get home on the train,
of the awful prices the people charged for clearing away the snow, of
the way in which Jane and Adelaide had to get on without music lessons
for nearly ten days, and of the scarcity of milk. No one who had seen
and felt that irrepressible storm suffered from it as I did. It chilled
the aspirations of my soul, it froze the unspoken words of my mouth, it
overwhelmed and buried every rising hope of speech, and smothered and
sometimes nearly obliterated my most interesting recollection. Many a
time I have mentally sent that blizzard to regions where its icy blasts
would have melted as in a hot simoom.

I truly believed that in our village I should find sensible people who
would be glad to hear about interesting things which they never had
seen. Many of them had not traveled, and a returned tourist was a
comparative rarity in the place. I went down there on purpose to talk
about Europe. It was too early for my grandmother's return to the
country. I proposed to spend a week with my village friends, and, before
their bright firesides, charm and delight them with accounts of those
things which had so charmed and delighted me. The lives of city people
are so filled with every sort of material that it is useless to try to
crowd anything more into them. Here, however, were people with excellent
intellects, whose craving for mental pabulum, especially in the winter,
could be but partially satisfied.

But bless me! I never heard of such an over-stock of mental pabulum as I
found there. It was poured upon me by every one with whom I tried to
converse. I was frequently permitted to begin statements which I
believed must win their way, if they were allowed a fair start; but very
soon something I said was sure to suggest something which had occurred
in the village, and before I could brace myself the torrent would burst
upon me. Never did I hear, in the same space of time, so much about
things which had happened as I then heard from my village neighbors. It
was not that so much had occurred, but that so much was said about what
had occurred. It was plain there was no hope for me here, and after
three days I went back to town.

Now it was early summer, and my grandmother and I were again in our dear
home in the village. As I have said, she was sitting by the open window,
where she could look out upon the flowers, the grass, and a little of
the life of her neighbors. I sat near her, and had been telling her of
my three days in the Forest of Arden, and of the veritable Jaques whom I
met there, when she remarked:--

"That must have been extremely interesting; and, speaking of the woods,
I wish you would say to Thomas that so soon as he can find time I want
him to bring up some of that rich wood-soil and put it around those
geraniums."

This was the first time my grandmother had interjected any remark into
my recitals. She had often asked me to tell her about my travels, and on
every other occasion she had listened until she softly fell asleep. I
now remembered having heard her say that it interfered with her night's
rest to sleep in the daytime. Perhaps her present interruption was
intended as a gentle rebuke, and no other kind of rebuke had ever come
to me from my grandmother.

I went out to find Thomas, oppressed by a mild despair. If I were to
tell my tales to a stone, I thought, it would turn on me with a sermon.




III.

THE MODERN USE OF THE HUMAN EAR.


During my lonely walks and rides through the country about our village,
I began to cogitate and philosophize upon the present social value of
the human ear. Why do people in society and in domestic circles have
ears? I asked myself. They do not use them to listen to one another. And
then I thought and pondered further, and suddenly the truth came to me:
the ears of the present generation are not purveyors to the mind; they
are merely agents of the tongue, who watch for breaks or weak places in
the speech of others, in order that their principal may rush in and hold
the field. They are jackals, who scent out a timid pause or an
unsuspecting silence which the lion tongue straightway destroys. Very
forcibly the conviction came to me that nowadays we listen only for an
opportunity to speak.

I was grieved that true listening had become a lost art; for without it
worthy speech is impossible. To good listening is due a great part of
the noble thought, the golden instruction, and the brilliant wit which
has elevated, enlightened, and brightened the soul of man. There are
fine minds whose workings are never expressed in writing; and even among
those who, in print, spread their ideas before the world there is a
certain cream of thought which is given only to listeners, if, happily,
there be such.

Modern conversation has degenerated into the Italian game of
_moccoletto_, in which every one endeavors to blow out the candles of
the others, and keep his own alight. In such rude play there is no
illumination. "There should be a reform," I declared. "There should be
schools of listening. Here men and women should be taught how, with
sympathetic and delicate art, to draw from others the useful and
sometimes precious speech which, without their skillful coöperation,
might never know existence. To be willing to receive in order that good
may be given should be one of the highest aims of life.

"Not only should we learn to listen in order to give opportunity for the
profitable speech of others, but we should do so out of charity and good
will to our fellow-men. How many weary sick-beds, how many cheerless
lives, how many lonely, depressed, and silent men and women, might be
gladdened, and for the time transformed, by one who would come, not to
speak words of cheer and comfort, but to listen to tales of suffering
and trial! Here would be one of the truest forms of charity; an almost
unknown joy would be given to the world.

"There should be brotherhoods and sisterhoods of listeners; like good
angels, they should go out among those unfortunates who have none to
hear that which it would give them so much delight to say."

But alas! I knew of no such good angels. Must that which I had to tell
remain forever untold for the want of one? This could not be; there must
exist somewhere a man or a woman who would be willing to hear my
accounts of travels and experiences which, in an exceptionable degree,
were interesting and valuable.

I determined to advertise for a listener.




IV.

I OBTAIN A LISTENER.


The writing of my advertisement cost me a great deal of trouble. At
first I thought of stating that I desired a respectable and intelligent
person, who would devote a few hours each day to the services of a
literary man; but on reflection I saw that this would bring me a vast
number of answers from persons who were willing to act as secretaries,
proof-readers, or anything of the sort, and I should have no means of
finding out from their letters whether they were good listeners or not.

Therefore I determined to be very straightforward and definite, and to
state plainly what it was I wanted. The following is the advertisement
which I caused to be inserted in several of the city papers:--

     "Wanted.--A respectable and intelligent person, willing to
     devote several hours a day to listening to the recitals of a
     traveler. Address, stating compensation expected, Oral."

I mentioned my purpose to no one, not even to my grandmother, for I
should merely make myself the object of the ridicule of my friends, and
my dear relative's soul would be filled with grief that she had not been
considered competent to do for me so slight a service. If I succeeded in
obtaining a listener, he could come to me in my library, where no one
would know he was not a stenographer to whom I was dictating literary
matter, or a teacher of languages who came to instruct me in Arabic.

I received a dozen or more answers to my advertisement, some of which
were very amusing, and others very unsatisfactory. Not one of the
writers understood what sort of services I desired, but all expressed
their belief that they were fully competent to give them, whatever they
might be.

After a good deal of correspondence and some interviewing, I selected at
last a person who I believed would prove himself a satisfactory
listener. He was an elderly man, of genteel appearance, and apparently
of a quiet and accommodating disposition. He assured me that he had once
been a merchant, engaged in the importation of gunny-bags, and, having
failed in business, had since depended on the occasional assistance
given him by a widowed daughter-in-law. This man I engaged, and arranged
that he should lodge at the village inn, and come to me every evening.

I was truly delighted that so far I had succeeded in my plan. Now,
instead of depending upon the whims, fancies, or occasional good-natured
compliance of any one, I was master of the situation. My listener was
paid to listen to me, and listen to me he must. If he did not do so
intelligently, he should be dismissed. It would be difficult to express
fully the delight given me by my new possession,--the ownership of
attention.

Every evening my listener came; and during a great part of every day I
thought of what I should say to him when he should come. I talked to him
with a feeling of freedom and absolute independence which thrilled me
like champagne. What mattered it whether my speech interested him or
not? He was paid to listen, without regard to interest; more than that,
he was paid to show an interest, whether he felt it or not. Whether I
bored him or delighted him, it made no difference; in fact, it would be
a pleasure to me occasionally to feel that I did bore him. To have the
full opportunity and the perfect right to bore a fellow-being is a
privilege not lightly to be prized, and an added zest is given to the
enjoyment of the borer by the knowledge that the bored one is bound to
make it appear that he is not bored.

In an easy-chair opposite to me my listener sat and listened for two
hours every evening. I interested myself by watching and attempting to
analyze the expressions on his face, but what these appeared to indicate
made no difference in my remarks. I do not think he liked repetitions,
but if I chose to tell a thing several times, I did so. He had no right
to tell me that he had heard that before. Immunity from this remark was
to me a rare enjoyment.

I made it a point to talk as well as I could, for I like to hear myself
talk well, but I paid no attention to the likings of my listener. Later
I should probably do this, but at present it was a joy to trample upon
the likings of others. My own likings in this respect had been so often
trampled upon that I would not now deny myself the exercise of the
right--bought and paid for--to take this sweet revenge.

On the evenings of nine week-days and one Sunday, when I confined myself
entirely to a description of a short visit to Palestine, I talked and my
listener listened. About the middle of the evening of the tenth
week-day, when I was engaged in the expression of some fancies evoked by
the recollection of a stroll through the Egyptian department of the
Louvre, I looked at my listener, and beheld him asleep.

As I stopped speaking he awoke with a start, and attempted to excuse
himself by stating that he had omitted to take coffee with his evening
meal. I made no answer, but, opening my pocket-book, paid and discharged
him.




V.

CHESTER WALKIRK.


It is not my custom to be discouraged by a first failure. I looked over
the letters which had been sent to me in answer to my advertisement, and
wrote to another of the applicants, who very promptly came to see me.

The appearance of this man somewhat discouraged me. My first thought
concerning him was that a man who seemed to be so thoroughly alive was
not likely to prove a good listener. But after I had had a talk with him
I determined to give him a trial. Of one thing I was satisfied: he would
keep awake. He was a man of cheerful aspect; alert in motion, glance,
and speech. His age was about forty; he was of medium size, a little
inclined to be stout, and his face, upon which he wore no hair, was
somewhat ruddy. In dress he was neat and proper, and he had an air of
friendly deference, which seemed to me to suit the position I wished him
to fill.

He spoke of himself and his qualifications with tact, if not with
modesty, and rated very highly his ability to serve me as a listener;
but he did so in a manner intended to convince me that he was not
boasting, but stating facts which it was necessary I should know. His
experience had been varied: he had acted as a tutor, a traveling
companion, a confidential clerk, a collector of information for
technical writers, and in other capacities requiring facility of
adaptation to exigencies. At present he was engaged in making a
catalogue for a collector of prints, whose treasures, in the course of
years, had increased to such an extent that it was impossible for him to
remember what his long rows of portfolios contained. The collector was
not willing that work among his engravings should be done by artificial
light, and, as the evenings of my visitor were therefore disengaged, he
said he should be glad to occupy them in a manner which would not only
be profitable to him, but, he was quite sure, would be very interesting.

The man's name was Chester Walkirk, and I engaged him to come to me
every evening, as my first listener had done.

I began my discourses with Walkirk with much less confidence and
pleasurable anticipation than I had felt with regard to the quiet,
unassuming elderly person who had been my first listener, and whom I had
supposed to be a very model of receptivity. The new man I feared would
demand more,--if not by word, at least by manner. He would be more like
an audience; I should find myself striving to please him, and I could
not feel careless whether he liked what I said or not.

But by the middle of the first evening all my fears and doubts in regard
to Walkirk had disappeared. He proved to be an exceptionally good
listener. As I spoke, he heard me with attention and evident interest;
and this he showed by occasional remarks, which he took care should
never be interruptions. These interpolations were managed with much
tact; sometimes they were in the form of questions, which reminded me of
something I had intended to say, but had omitted, which led me to speak
further upon the subject, perhaps on some other phase of it. Now and
then, by the expression on his countenance, or by a word or two, he
showed interest, gratification, astonishment, or some other appropriate
sentiment.

When I stopped speaking, he would sit quietly and muse upon what I had
been saying; or, if he thought me not too deeply absorbed in reflection,
would ask a question, or say something relative to the subject in hand,
which would give me the opportunity of making some remarks which it
gratified me to know that he wanted to hear.

I could not help feeling that I talked better to Walkirk than I had ever
done to any one else; and I did not hesitate to admit to myself that
this gratifying result was due in great part to his ability as a
listener. I do not say that he drew me out, but he gave me opportunities
to show myself in the broadest and best lights. This truly might be said
to be good listening; it produced good speech.

Day after day I became better and better satisfied with Chester Walkirk,
and it is seldom that I have enjoyed myself more than in talking to him.
I am sure that it gave me more actual pleasure to tell him what I had
seen and what I had done than I had felt in seeing and doing those
things. This may appear odd, but it is a fact. I readily revived in
myself the emotions that accompanied my experiences, and to these
recalled emotions was added the sympathetic interest of another.

In other ways Walkirk won my favor. He was good-natured and intelligent,
and showed that he was anxious to please me not only as a listener, but
as a companion, or, I might better say, as an associate inmate of my
study. What he did not know in this respect he set himself diligently to
learn.




VI.

MY UNDER-STUDY.


In talking about my travels to Chester Walkirk, I continued for a time
to treat the subject in the same desultory manner in which I had related
my experiences to my first listener; but the superior intelligence, and
I may say the superior attention, of Walkirk acted upon me as a
restraint as well as an incentive. I made my descriptions as graphic and
my statements as accurate as I could, and, stimulated by his occasional
questions and remarks, I began to discourse systematically and with a
well-considered plan. I went from country to country in the order in
which I had traveled through them, and placed my reflections on social,
political, or artistic points where they naturally belonged.

It was plain to see that Walkirk's interest and pleasure increased when
my rambling narrations resolved themselves into a series of evening
lectures upon Great Britain, the Continent, and the north coast of
Africa, and his pleasure was a decided gratification to me. If his
engagements and mine had permitted, I should have been glad to talk to
him at other times, as well as in the evening.

After a month or more of this agreeable occupation, the fact began to
impress itself upon me that I was devoting too much time to the pleasure
of being listened to. My grandmother gently complained that the time I
gave to her after dinner appeared to be growing less and less, and there
was a good deal of correspondence and other business I was in the habit
of attending to in the evening which now was neglected, or done in the
daytime, when I should have been doing other things.

I was not a man of leisure. My grandmother owned a farm about a mile
from our village, and over the management of this I exercised a
supervision. I was erecting some houses on land of my own on the
outskirts of the village, and for this reason, as well as others, it
frequently was necessary for me to go to the city on business errands.
Besides all this, social duties had a claim on me, summer and winter.

I had gradually formed the habit of talking with Walkirk on other
subjects than my travels, and one evening I mentioned to him some of the
embarrassments and annoyances to which I had been subjected during the
day, on account of the varied character of my affairs. Walkirk sat for a
minute or two, his chin in his hand, gazing steadfastly upon the carpet;
then he spoke:--

"Mr. Vanderley, what you say suggests something which I have been
thinking of saying to you. I have now finished the catalogue of prints,
on which I was engaged when I entered your service as a listener; and my
days, therefore, being at my disposal, it would give me great pleasure
to put them at yours."

"In what capacity?" I asked.

"In that of an under-study," said he.

I assured him that I did not know what he meant.

"I don't wonder at that," said he, with a smile, "but I will explain. In
theatrical circles each principal performer is furnished with what is
termed in the profession an under-study. This is an actor, male or
female, as the case may be, who studies the part of the performer, and
is capable of going through with it, with more or less ability, in case
the regular actor, from sickness or any other cause, is prevented from
appearing in his part. In this way the manager provides against
emergencies which might at any time stop his play and ruin his business.
Now, I should like very much to be your under-study, and I think in this
capacity I could be of great service to you."

I made no answer, but I am sure my countenance expressed surprise.

"I do not mean," he continued, "to propose that I shall act as your
agent in the various forms of business which press upon you, but I
suggest that you allow me to do for you exactly what the under-study
does for the actor; that is, that you let me take your place when it is
inconvenient or impossible for you to take it yourself."

"It strikes me," said I, "that, in the management of my affairs, it
would be very seldom that you or any one else could take my place."

"Of course," said Walkirk, "under present circumstances that would be
impossible; but suppose, for instance, you take me with you to those
houses you are building, that you show me what has been done and what
you intend to do, and that you let me make myself familiar with the
whole plan and manner of the work. This would be easy for me, for I have
superintended house-building; and although I am neither a plumber, a
mason, a carpenter, a paper-hanger, or a painter, I know how such people
should do their work. Therefore, if you should be unable to attend to
the matter yourself,--and in such case only,--I could go and see how the
work was progressing; and this I could do with regard to your farm, or
any other of your business with the details of which you should care to
have me make myself familiar,--always remembering that I should not act
as your regular agent in any one of these affairs, but as one who, when
it is desirable, temporarily takes your place. I think, Mr. Vanderley,
that it would be of advantage to you to consider my proposition."

I did consider it, and the next evening I engaged Chester Walkirk as an
under-study.




VII.

MY BOOK.


In order to be at hand when I might need him, Walkirk took up his
residence at the village tavern, or, as some of us were pleased to call
it, the inn. To make him available when occasion should require, I took
him with me to the scene of my building operations and to my
grandmother's farm, and he there showed the same intelligent interest
that he gave to my evening recitals. I had no difficulty in finding
occupation for my under-study, and, so far as I could judge, he attended
to the business I placed in his hands as well as I could have done it
myself; indeed, in some instances, he did it better, for he gave it more
time and careful consideration.

In this business of supplying my place in emergencies, Walkirk showed so
much ability in promoting my interests that I became greatly pleased
with the arrangement I had made with him. It was somewhat surprising to
me, and I think to Walkirk, that so many cases arose in which I found it
desirable that he should take my place. I was going to look at a horse:
some visitors arrived; I sent Walkirk. There was a meeting of a
scientific society which I wished very much to attend, but I could not
do that and go to a dinner party to which I had been invited on the same
evening; Walkirk went to the meeting, took notes, and the next day gave
me a full report in regard to some particular points in which I was
interested, and which were not mentioned in the short newspaper notice
of the meeting.

In other cases, of which at first I could not have imagined the
possibility, my under-study was of use to me. I was invited to address
my fellow townsmen and townswomen on the occasion of the centennial
anniversary of the settlement of our village, and as I had discovered
that Walkirk was a good reader I took him with me, in order that he
might deliver my written address in case my courage should give out. My
courage did not give out, but I am very sure that I was greatly
supported and emboldened by the knowledge that if, at the last moment,
my embarrassment should not allow me to begin my address, or if in the
course of its delivery I should feel unable, for any reason, to go on
with it, there was some one present who would read it for me.

It had long been my habit to attend with my grandmother, bi-monthly, an
early evening whist party at the house of an elderly neighbor. I had a
bad headache on one of these appointed evenings, and Walkirk, who was a
perfectly respectable and presentable man, went with my grandmother in
my stead. I afterward heard that he played an excellent hand at whist, a
remark which had never been made of me.

But I will not refer at present to any further instances of the
usefulness of my under-study, except to say that, as I found his feet
were of the same size and shape as my own, I sent him to be measured for
a pair of heavy walking-shoes which I needed; and I once arranged for
him to serve in my place on a coroner's jury, in the case of a drowned
infant.

The evening listenings still went on, and as the scope of my remarks
grew wider, and their purpose became better defined, it began to dawn
upon me that it was selfish to devote these accounts of remarkable
traveling experiences to the pleasure of only two men, myself and my
listener; the public would be interested in these things. I ought to
write a book.

This idea pleased me very much. As Walkirk was now able to take my place
in so many ways, I could give a good deal of time each day to
composition; and, moreover, there was no reason why such work should
interfere with my pleasure in being listened to. I could write by day,
and talk at night. It would be all the better for my book that I should
first orally deliver the matter to Walkirk, and afterward write it. I
broached this idea to Walkirk; but, while he did not say so in words, it
was plain to me he did not regard it with favor. He reflected a little
before speaking.

"The writing of a book," he said, "is a very serious thing; and although
it is not my province to advise you, I will say that if I were in your
place I should hesitate a good while before commencing a labor like
that. I have no doubt, judging from what I have already heard of your
travels, that you would make a most useful and enjoyable book, but the
question in my mind is, whether the pleasure you would give your readers
would repay you for the time and labor you would put upon this work."

This was the first time that Walkirk had offered me advice. I had no
idea of taking it, but I did not resent it.

"I do not look at the matter in that way," I said. "An absorbing labor
will be good for me. My undertaking may result in overworking you, for
you will be obliged to act as my under-study even more frequently than
you do now."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of work," said he; "I can stand any amount of it.
But how about the evening discourses,--will they come to an end?"

"Not at all," said I; "I shall go on giving you an account of my
travels, just as before. This will help me to judge better what to put
in and what to leave out."

"I am very glad to hear that," he said, with animation; "I do not
hesitate to own to you that I should very greatly regret to lose those
most interesting accounts of your experiences."

This was very complimentary, but, as he was paid to listen, the remark
did not possess the force it would have had, had he paid to hear me.

Enthusiastically I went to work upon my book, and I found that talking
about my travels to Walkirk helped me to write about them for the
public. But a week had not passed when I came to the conclusion that
writing was in no way so pleasant as talking. I disliked labor with the
pen; I disliked long sitting at my desk. The composition of the matter
was enough for me; some one else should put it on paper. I must have a
secretary. I went immediately to Walkirk, who was at the inn, working
upon some of my accounts.

"Walkirk," said I, "I can get somebody else to do that sort of thing. I
want you to act as my amanuensis."

To my surprise his face clouded. He seemed troubled, even pained.

"I am very, very sorry," he said, "to decline any work which you may
desire me to do, but I really must decline this. I cannot write from
dictation. I cannot be your amanuensis. Although it may seem like
boasting, this is one of the few things I cannot do: my nervous
temperament, my disposition, in fact my very nature, stand in the way,
and make the thing impossible."

I could not understand Walkirk's objections to this sort of work, for he
was a ready writer, a good stenographer, and had shown himself perfectly
willing and able to perform duties much more difficult and distasteful
than I imagined this possibly could be. But there are many things I do
not understand, and which I consider it a waste of time to try to
understand; and this was one of them.

"Then I must get some one else," said I.

"If you decide to do that," said Walkirk, "I will attend to the matter
for you, and you need trouble yourself no further about it. I will go to
the city, or wherever it is necessary to go, and get you an amanuensis."

"Do so," said I, "but come and report to me before you make any
engagement."

The next day Walkirk made his report. He had not been as successful as
he had hoped to be. If I had been doing my work in the city, he could
have found me stenographers, amanuenses, or type-writers by the hundred.
By living and working in the country, I made his task much more
difficult. He had found but few persons who were willing to come to me
every day, no matter what the weather, and only one or two who would
consent to come to our village to live.

But he had made a list of several applicants who might suit me, and who
were willing to accept one or the other of the necessary conditions.

"They are all women!" I exclaimed, when I looked at it.

"Yes," said he; "it would be very difficult, perhaps impossible, to find
a competent man who would answer your purpose. The good ones could not
afford to give you part of their time, which is all you require, and you
would not want any other. With women the case is different; and besides,
I am sure, from my own experience, that a lady amanuensis would suit
your purpose much better than a man: she would be more patient, more
willing to accommodate herself to your moods, in every way more
available."

I had not engaged Walkirk to be my under-study in matters of judgment,
and I did not intend that he should act in that capacity; but there was
force in his remarks, and I determined to give them due consideration.
Although I had apartments of my own, I really lived in my grandmother's
house; and of course it was incumbent upon me to consult her upon this
subject. She looked at the matter in her usual kindly way, and soon came
to be of the opinion that, if I could give a worthy and industrious
young woman an opportunity to earn her livelihood, I ought to do it;
taking care, of course, to engage no one who could not furnish the very
best references.

I now put the matter again into Walkirk's hands, and told him to produce
the persons he had selected. He managed the matter with great skill, and
in the course of one morning four ladies called upon me, in such a way
that they did not interfere with each other. Of these applicants none
pleased me. One of them was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, rather spare
person, whose youthful energies had been so improved by years that I was
sure her briskness of action, her promptness of speech, and her evident
anxiety to get to work and to keep at it would eventually drive me
crazy.

Another was a skilled stenographer, who could write I forget how many
hundred words a minute; and when I told her there were no minutes in
which I could dictate as many words as that, even if I wanted to, and
that there would be many minutes in which I should not dictate any words
at all, she said she was afraid that if she fell into a dilly-dally,
poky way of working it would impair her skill, and it might be
difficult, when she left my employment, to regain her previous
expertness. She was quite willing, however, to engage with me, and
thought that if I would try to dictate as fast as possible I might, in
time, be able to keep her nearly up to her normal standard.

A third one was willing to write longhand, and to work as slowly and as
irregularly as I pleased. I gave her a short trial, but her writing was
so illegible that I could not discover whether or not she made mistakes
in spelling. I had, however, my suspicions on this point.

The fourth applicant I engaged to come for a week on trial. She
exhibited no prominent disabilities, and I thought she might be made to
answer my purpose; but as she possessed no prominent capabilities, and
as she asked me to repeat almost every sentence which I dictated to her,
I found it very tiresome to work with her, and I punished Walkirk by
making him act as my under-study on the third and fourth days of her
engagement. I requested him to dictate to her some detailed incidents of
travel which I had told him, and which I was sure he remembered very
well. He undertook the task with alacrity, but after two mornings' work
he advised me to discharge her. Dictating to her, he said, was like
talking into a tin spout with nobody at the other end. Somebody might
come if you shouted long enough, but this was tiresome.




VIII.

THE MALARIAL ADJUNCT.


The fifth applicant on Walkirk's list had a morning to herself. So soon
as she entered my study I hoped that she would suit me, and I had not
talked with her ten minutes before I decided that she would. Her
personality was exceedingly agreeable; she was neither too young nor too
old. She expressed herself with a good-humored frankness which I liked,
and appeared to be of a very practical turn of mind. She was a practiced
stenographer, was accustomed to write from dictation and to read aloud,
could correct proof, and had some admirable references. Her abilities
appeared so excellent, and her demeanor was so agreeable to me, that I
engaged her.

"I am very happy indeed, Mr. Vanderley," she said, with the pretty
dimpled smile which had so frequently shown itself in the course of our
conversation, "that you have given me this position. I am sure that I
shall like it, and I shall try very hard to make my work satisfactory. I
shall come up every morning in the nine o'clock train, as you desire;
and I shall be obliged to bring my husband with me, but this will not in
any way interfere with my work. He is suffering from a malarial disease,
and is subject to periods of faintness, so that it would be impossible
for me to leave him for the whole morning; but he can sit outside
anywhere, under a tree, or perhaps somewhere in the house if it happens
to rain. He is perfectly contented if he has a comfortable place to sit
in. He is not able to attend to any business, and as I now have to be
the bread-winner I am most deeply grateful for this work which you have
given me. I am sure that the little trip in and out of town will do him
good, and as I shall buy commutation tickets it will not be expensive.
He came with me this morning, and if you will excuse me I will bring him
in and introduce him." And without waiting for any remark from me she
left the room, and shortly returned with the malarial subject. He was an
extremely mild-mannered man, of light weight and sedate aspect. The few
words in which he indicated his gratification with his wife's engagement
suggested to me the need of sulphate of quinia.

This revelation of a malarial adjunct to the labors of myself and this
very agreeable lady greatly surprised me, and, I must admit, threw me
back from that condition of satisfaction in which I had found myself
upon engaging her; and yet I could think of no reasonable objection to
make. The lady had promised that he should not be in the way, and the
most I could say, even to myself, was that the arrangement did not
appear attractive to me. Of course, with no reason but a chaotic
distaste, I would not recede from my agreement, and deprive this worthy
lady of the opportunity of supporting herself and her husband; and the
two departed, to return on the following day prepared to labor and to
wait.

I inquired of Walkirk, I fear with some petulance, if he had known of
the incumbrance attached to this candidate; and he replied that she had
informed him that she was married, but he had no idea she intended to
bring her husband with her. He was very sorry that this was necessary,
but in his judgment the man would not live very long.

My grandmother was greatly pleased when I told her of the arrangement I
had made to assist a devoted wife to support an invalid husband. She
considered it a most worthy and commendable action, and she was rejoiced
that such an opportunity had been afforded me. She would do what she
could to make the poor man comfortable while his wife was at work; and
if he had any sense at all, and knew what was to his advantage, he would
be very careful not to interfere with her duties.

The next morning the couple appeared, and the lady was ensconced in the
anteroom to my study, which I had fitted up for the use of my secretary,
where, through the open window in front of her, she could see her
husband, seated in a rocking-chair, under a wide-spreading apple-tree.
By his side was a table, on which lay the morning paper and some books
which my grandmother had sent out to him. For a time she gave him also
her society, but, as she subsequently informed me, she did not find him
responsive, and soon concluded that he would be happier if left to his
reflections and the literature with which she had provided him.

As an amanuensis I found my new assistant everything that could be
desired. She wrote rapidly and correctly, never asked me to repeat,
showed no nervousness at the delays in my dictation, and was ready to
write the instant I was ready to speak. She was quick and intelligent in
looking up synonyms, and appeared perfectly at home in the dictionary.
But in spite of these admirable qualifications, I did not find myself,
that morning, in a condition favorable to my best literary work.
Whenever my secretary was not actually writing she was looking out of
the window; sometimes she would smile and nod, and on three occasions,
while I was considering, not what I should say next, but whether or not
I could stand this sort of thing, she went gently to the window, and
asked the invalid, in a clear whisper, intended to be entirely
undisturbing, how he was getting on and if he wanted anything.

Two days after this the air was damp and rain threatened, and the
malarial gentleman was supplied with comfortable quarters in the back
parlor. I do not know whether or not he liked this better than sitting
under a tree, but I am sure that the change did not please his wife. She
could not look at him, and she could not ask him how he was getting on
and if he wanted anything. I could see that she was worried and fidgety,
although endeavoring to work as faithfully and steadily as usual. Twice
during a break in the dictation she asked me to excuse her for just one
minute, while she ran into the parlor to take a peep at him.

The next day it rained, and there seemed every probability that we
should have continued wet weather, and that it would be days before the
malarial one could sit under the apple-tree. Therefore I looked the
situation fairly in the face. It was impossible for me to dictate to a
nervous, anxious woman, whose obvious mental condition acted most
annoyingly upon my nerves, and I suggested that she bring her husband
into her room, and let him sit there while she worked. With this
proposition my secretary was delighted.

"Oh, that will be charming!" she cried. "He will sit just as still as a
mouse, and will not disturb either of us, and I shall be able to see how
he feels without saying a word."

For four days the malarial gentleman, as quiet as a mouse, sat by my
secretary's window, while she wrote at the table, and I walked up and
down my study, or threw myself into one chair or another, endeavoring to
forget that that man was sitting by the window; that he was trying his
best not to do anything which might disturb me; that he did not read, or
write, or occupy his mind in any way; that he heard every word I
dictated to his wife without indicating that he was not deaf, or that he
was capable of judging whether my words were good, bad, or unworthy of
consideration. Not only did I endeavor not to think of him, but I tried
not to see either him or his wife. The silent, motionless figure of the
one, and the silent but animated and vivacious figure of the other,
filled with an eager desire to do her work properly, with a bubbling and
hearty love for her husband, and an evident joyousness in the fact that
she could love, work, and watch, all at the same time, drove from my
mind every thought of travel or foreign experiences. Without the
malarial husband I should have asked for no better secretary; but he
spoiled everything. He was like a raw oyster in a cup of tea.