a mortal antipathy-第13章

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store　clothes　that　look　a　little　too　fine；outside。　　Wait　till

washing…day　comes！〃



The　good　lady　had　her　own　standards　for　testing　humanity；　and　they

were　not　wholly　unworthy　of　consideration；　they　were　quite　as　much　to

be　relied　on　as　the　judgments　of　the　travelling　phrenologist；　who

sent　his　accomplice　on　before　him　to　study　out　the　principal

personages　in　the　village；　and　in　the　light　of　these　revelations

interpreted　the　bumps；　with　very　little　regard　to　Gall　and　Spurzheim；

or　any　other　authorities。



Even　with　the　small　amount　of　information　obtained　by　the　search

among　his　papers　and　effects；　the　gossips　of　the　village　had

constructed　several　distinct　histories　for　the　mysterious　stranger。

He　was　an　agent　of　a　great　publishing　house；　a　leading　contributor　to

several　important　periodicals；　the　author　of　that　anonymously

published　novel　which　had　made　so　much　talk；　the　poet　of　a　large

clothing　establishment；　a　spy　of　the　Italian；　some　said　the　Russian；

some　said　the　British；　Government；　a　proscribed　refugee　from　some

country　where　he　had　been　plotting；　a　school…master　without　a　school；

a　minister　without　a　pulpit；　an　actor　without　an　engagement；　in

short；　there　was　no　end　to　the　perfectly　senseless　stories　that　were

told　about　him；　from　that　which　made　him　out　an　escaped　convict　to

the　whispered　suggestion　that　he　was　the　eccentric　heir　to　a　great

English　title　and　estate。



The　one　unquestionable　fact　was　that　of　his　extraordinary　seclusion。

Nobody　in　the　village；　no　student　in　the　University；　knew　his

history。　　No　young　lady　in　the　Corinna　Institute　had　ever　had　a　word

from　him。　　Sometimes；　as　the　boats　of　the　University　or　the　Institute

were　returning　at　dusk；　their　rowers　would　see　the　canoe　stealing

into　the　shadows　as　they　drew　near　it。　　Sometimes　on　a　moonlight

night；　when　a　party　of　the　young　ladies　were　out　upon　the　lake；　they

would　see　the　white　canoe　gliding　ghost…like　in　the　distance。　　And　it

had　happened　more　than　once　that　when　a　boat's　crew　had　been　out　with

singers　among　them；　while　they　were　in　the　midst　of　a　song；　the　white

canoe　would　suddenly　appear　and　rest　upon　the　water；not　very　near

them；　but　within　hearing　distance；and　so　remain　until　the　singing

was　over；　when　it　would　steal　away　and　be　lost　sight　of　in　some　inlet

or　behind　some　jutting　rock。



Naturally　enough；　there　was　intense　curiosity　about　this　young　man。

The　landlady　had　told　her　story；　which　explained　nothing。　　There　was

nobody　to　be　questioned　about　him　except　his　servant；　an　Italian；

whose　name　was　Paolo；　but　who　to　the　village　was　known　as　Mr。　Paul。



Mr。　Paul　would　have　seemed　the　easiest　person　in　the　world　to　worm　a

secret　out　of。　　He　was　good…natured；　child…like　as　a　Heathen　Chinee；

talked　freely　with　everybody　in　such　English　as　he　had　at　command；

knew　all　the　little　people　of　the　village；　and　was　followed　round　by

them　partly　from　his　personal　attraction　for　them；　and　partly　because

he　was　apt　to　have　a　stick　of　candy　or　a　handful　of　peanuts　or　other

desirable　luxury　in　his　pocket　for　any　of　his　little　friends　he　met

with。　　He　had　that　wholesome；　happy　look；　so　uncommon　in　our　arid

countrymen；a　look　hardly　to　be　found　except　where　figs　and　oranges

ripen　in　the　open　air。　　A　kindly　climate　to　grow　up　in；　a　religion

which　takes　your　money　and　gives　you　a　stamped　ticket　good　at　Saint

Peter's　box　office；　a　roomy　chest　and　a　good　pair　of　lungs　in　it；　an

honest　digestive　apparatus；　a　lively　temperament；　a　cheerful

acceptance　of　the　place　in　life　assigned　to　one　by　nature　and

circumstance；these　are　conditions　under　which　life　may　be　quite

comfortable　to　endure；　and　certainly　is　very　pleasant　to　contemplate。

All　these　conditions　were　united　in　Paolo。　　He　was　the　easiest；

pleasantest　creature　to　talk　with　that　one　could　ask　for　a　companion。

His　southern　vivacity；　his　amusing　English；　his　simplicity　and

openness；　made　him　friends　everywhere。



It　seemed　as　if　it　would　be　a　very　simple　matter　to　get　the　history

of　his　master　out　of　this　guileless　and　unsophisticated　being。　　He

had　been　tried　by　all　the　village　experts。　　The　rector　had　put　a

number　of　well…studied　careless　questions；　which　failed　of　their

purpose。　　The　old　librarian　of　the　town　library　had　taken　note　of　all

the　books　he　carried　to　his　master；　and　asked　about　his　studies　and

pursuits。　　Paolo　found　it　hard　to　understand　his　English；　apparently；

and　answered　in　the　most　irrelevant　way。　　The　leading　gossip　of　the

village　tried　her　skill　in　pumping　him　for　information。　　It　was　all

in　vain。



His　master's　way　of　life　was　peculiar；in　fact；　eccentric。　　He　had

hired　rooms　in　an　old…fashioned　three…story　house。　　He　had　two　rooms

in　the　second　and　third　stories　of　this　old　wooden　building：　his

study　in　the　second；　his　sleeping…room　in　the　one　above　it。　　Paolo

lived　in　the　basement；　where　he　had　all　the　conveniences　for　cooking；

and　played　the　part　of　chef　for　his　master　and　himself。　　This　was

only　a　part　of　his　duty；　for　he　was　a　man…of…all…work；　purveyor；

steward；　chambermaid；as　universal　in　his　services　for　one　man　as

Pushee　at　the　Anchor　Tavern　used　to　be　for　everybody。



It　so　happened　that　Paolo　took　a　severe　cold　one　winter's　day；　and

had　such　threatening　symptoms　that　he　asked　the　baker；　when　he

called；　to　send　the　village　physician　to　see　him。　　In　the　course　of

his　visit　the　doctor　naturally　inquired　about　the　health　of　Paolo's

master。



〃Signor　Kirkwood　well；molto　bene；〃　said　Paolo。　　〃Why　does　he　keep

out　of　sight　as　he　does？〃　asked　the　doctor。



〃He　always　so；〃　replied　Paolo。　　〃Una　antipatia。〃



Whether　Paolo　was　off　his　guard　with　the　doctor；　whether　he　revealed

it　to　him　as　to　a　father　confessor；　or　whether　he　thought　it　time

that　the　reason　of　his　master's　seclusion　should　be　known；　the　doctor

did　not　feel　sure。　　At　any　rate；　Paolo　was　not　disposed　to　make　any

further　revelations。　　Una　antipatia；an　antipathy；that　was　all　the

doctor　learned。　　He　thought　the　matter　over；　and　the　more　he

reflected　the　more　he　was　puzzled。　　What　could　an　antipathy　be　that

made　a　young　man　a　recluse！　　Was　it　a　dread　of　blue　sky　and　open　air；

of　the　smell　of　flowers；　or　some　electrical　impression　to　which　be

was　unnaturally　sensitive？



Dr。　Butts　carried　these　questions　home　with　him。　　His　wife　was　a

sensible；　discreet　woman；　whom　he　could　trust　with　many　professional

secrets。　　He　told　her　of　Paolo's　revelation；　and　talked　it　over　with

her　in　the　light　of　his　experience　and　her　own；　for　she　had　known

some　curious　cases　of　constitutional　likes　and　aversions。



Mrs。　　Butts　buried　the　information　in　the　grave　of　her　memory；　where

it　lay　for　nearly　a　week。　　At　the　end　of　that　time　it　emerged　in　a

confidential　whisper　to　her　favorite　sister…in…law；　a　perfectly　safe

person。　　Twenty…four　hours　later　the　story　was　all　over　the　village

that　Maurice　Kirkwood　was　the　subject　of　a　strange；　mysterious；

unheard…of　antipathy　to　something；　nobody　knew　what；　and　the　whole

neighborhood　naturally　resolved　itself　into　an　unorganized　committee

of　investigation。









IV



What　is　a　country　village　without　its　mysterious　personage？　　Few　are

now　living　who　can　remember　the　advent　of　the　handsome　young　man　who

was　the　mystery　of　our　great　university　town　〃sixty　years　since；〃

long　enough　ago　for　a　romance　to　grow　out　of　a　narrative；　as　Waverley

may　remind　us。　　The　writer　of　this　narrative　remembers　him　well；　and

is　not　sure　that　he　has　not　told　the　strange　story　in　some　form　or

other　to　the　last　generation；　or　to　the　one　before　the　last。　　No

matter：　if　he　has　told　it　they　have　forgotten　it；that　is；　if　they

have　ever　read　it；　and　whether　they　have　or　have　not；　the　story　is

singular　enough　to　justify　running　the　risk　of　repetition。



This　young　man；　with　a　curious　name　of　Scandinavian　origin；　appeared

unheralded　in　the　town；　as　it　was　then；　of　Cantabridge。　　He　wanted

employment；　and　soon　found　it　in　the　shape　of　manual　labor；