The Professors House | Page 5

to be such a frequent thing that the priest spoke against it
only last Sunday."
"Did he, indeed? Why, what could he say? Seems such a personal matter."
"Well, he said it was getting to be a scandal in the Church, and a priest couldn't go to see
a pious woman any more without finding switches and rats and transformations lying
about her room, and it was disgusting."
"Goodness gracious, Augusta! What business has a priest going to see a woman in the
room where she takes off these ornaments -- or to see her without them?"
Augusta grew red, and tried to look angry, but her laugh narrowly missed being a giggle.
"He goes to give them the Sacrament, of course, Professor! You've made up your mind to
be contrary today, haven't you?"
"You relieve me greatly. Yes, I suppose in cases of sudden illness the hair would be lying
about where it was lightly taken off. But as you first quoted the priest, Augusta, it was
rather shocking. You'll never convert me back to the religion of my fathers now, if you're
going to sew in the new house and I'm going to work on here. Who is ever to remind me
when it's All Souls' day, or Ember day, or Maundy Thursday, or anything?"
Augusta said she must be leaving. St. Peter heard her well-known tread as she descended
the stairs. How much she reminded him of, to be sure! She had been most at the house in
the days when his daughters were little girls and needed so many clean frocks. It was in
those very years that he was beginning his great work; when the desire to do it and the
difficulties attending such a project strove together in his mind like Macbeth's two spent
swimmers -- years when he had the courage to say to himself: "I will do this dazzling,
this beautiful, this utterly impossible thing!"
During the fifteen years he had been working on his Spanish Adventures in North
America, this room had been his centre of operations. There had been delightful
excursions and digressions; the two Sabbatical years when he was in Spain studying
records, two summers in the Southwest on the trail of his adventurers, another in Old
Mexico, dashes to France to see his foster-brothers. But the notes and the records and the
ideas always came back to this room. It was here they were digested and sorted, and
woven into their proper place in his history.
Fairly considered, the sewing-room was the most inconvenient study a man could
possibly have, but it was the one place in the house where he could get isolation,
insulation from the engaging drama of domestic life. No one was tramping over him, and
only a vague sense, generally pleasant, of what went on below came up the narrow
stairway. There were certainly no other advantages. The furnace heat did not reach the
third floor. There was no way to warm the sewing-room, except by a rusty, round gas
stove with no flue -- a stove which consumed gas imperfectly and contaminated the air.
To remedy this, the window must be left open -- otherwise, with the ceiling so low, the
air would speedily become unfit to breathe. If the stove were turned down, and the
window left open a little way, a sudden gust of wind would blow the wretched thing out

altogether, and a deeply absorbed man might be asphyxiated before he knew it. The
Professor had found that the best method, in winter, was to turn the gas on full and keep
the window wide on the hook, even if he had to put on a leather jacket over his
working-coat. By that arrangement he had somehow managed to get air enough to work
by.
He wondered now why he had never looked about for a better stove, a newer model; or
why he had not at least painted this one, flaky with rust. But he had been able to get on
only by neglecting negative comforts. He was by no means an ascetic. He knew that he
was terribly selfish about personal pleasures, fought for them. If a thing gave him delight,
he got it, if he sold his shirt for it. By doing without many so-called necessities he had
managed to have his luxuries. He might, for instance, have had a convenient electric
drop-light attached to the socket above his writing table. Preferably he wrote by a faithful
kerosene lamp which he filled and tended himself. But sometimes he found that the
oil-can in the closet was empty; then, to get more, he would have had to go down through
the house to the cellar, and on his way he would almost surely become interested in what
the children