help me out of my very wet macintosh? As I hesitated, I was aware that I was dripping all over the black-and-white tiles of shining marble in the entrance hall.
It all seemed so unlike Miss Petherbridge’s secretarial bureau. Never before had a client greeted me. Instead, there had always been time to settle myself, to put away my street things and take on the appearance of calm assurance and competence that Miss Petherbridge had taught us girls. But as Mr. James hung my coat and umbrella on the hall stand, I wondered: Whatever was I to do about my wet galoshes? Pull them off right there, in that beautiful entrance hall? Mr. James noticed my discomfort and led me to the kitchen and to the chair where apparently he himself removed his muddy foot-wear; there was a paper spread, and so I was able to pull off my galoshes and collect myself, for the moment, while he spoke to his housekeeper. He introduced me to Mrs. Paddington and then went on to give her instructions for his lunch—to be ready at one-thirty, a moment that seemed endlessly in the future.
Mr. James then led the way back to the hall and up the front stairs to the large corner room where we would be working. I wondered again how it would be to work with Mr. James in such close quarters. Lamb House did not seem to be very large, and it looked as though Mr. James’ own bedroom was right across the hall from the room where we were to work. Quite convenient for him, I thought, when he had an idea for something in the middle of the night, but it did seem somewhat improper.
“We call this the Green Room,” Mr. James announced as he preceded me into the room, “from the colour of the paint on the wainscotting.” He went to one of the windows and pulled back the heavy curtains, making the room much brighter, much more welcoming. Hesitantly, anxiously, I waited, hardly able to take it all in as he waved towards a large cloth-covered, lumpish mound on a dark metal stand set up conveniently at the end of a large desk.
He went on, “I am not quite ready for you, so please make yourself comfortable. Arrange things for your convenience, have a look around at my books, whatever you like,” and then he turned away and began sorting through a large pile of papers.
I avoided approaching the dread machine and instead turned and looked around at the graceful room with tall, curtained windows on two sides and the sounds of the rain streaming down outside. I liked the small fire already glowing in the tile-rimmed fireplace. There was an easy chair placed nearby and two large writing desks, one set before the window, one against the wall. Every other bit of wall was filled with waist-high bookcases. I went closer to where the light fell on the titles. There were books by Edith Wharton, George Bernard Shaw, Joseph Conrad, Turgenev, other Russians, the French—everyone.
I could not resist—I took down one delicious novel, then another, only to be amazed to discover that each one had been signed by its famous author, dedicated, and autographed with effusive notes for Mr. James; his collection was immense and personal at the same time. I was delighted to come upon a book by Paul Bourget, someone I had always wanted to read. As I turned the curious pages, with their texture like felt and the ruffled edges where they had been torn with a paper knife, their thick weight and pale ink pressed deep, and the soft words, it all seemed so different from our crisp, English-made books. I tried my French on the first paragraph and was glad to see I could read it—Oh, thank you, Mlle. Brun.
I was startled by the sound of a metal clang against the grate; Mr. James was leaning over the fire and giving it a poke, which only made the sullen flames disappear. He looked up as if appealing for help and found me guiltily trying to stuff Bourget’s book with its bright yellow wrapper back onto the shelf, afraid it might not seem proper for me to be looking at such writings. Mr. James, in an expansive gesture with the poker, waved me on as if he wanted me to keep the book.
“Oh, good. Good old Paul Bourget, I see. Perhaps you can use my books here to help you through the pauses in dictation. Sometimes I can’t go straight through a piece of writing but, instead, must think for a bit. The man who first took my dictation would read the newspaper during the intervals. My dear Miss Weld would knit while she waited for me. You don’t knit, do you, Miss Bosanquet?”
“No, I never could—I didn’t have the patience.”
“Well, then, please help yourself to any of my books at any time, and you can read through the intervals. Now, tell me, what do you think of my machine?” He left the poker and walked to the mysterious, cloth-covered mound. As he swept off the cover with a flourish, I was startled to see how shining and new, how large and complicated this Remington looked. It was not at all like the old model I had practised on back at Miss Petherbridge’s. I went over to it and said in my best business voice, “It’s fine, sir, such a new one.” I tried touching a key, and it flew up alarmingly.
Mr. James brought a plain wooden chair over for me. “Well, we might as well begin and see how it goes.” He pointed to a large stack of fresh, white paper on the writing desk. “Here is the paper. I don’t pretend to have the slightest idea how this glorious machinery works. Please take your time getting ready for me to begin. I’ve written out for myself what we will be doing today, so let me know when you’re ready.”
I moved the chair to what seemed the best angle for hearing him, sat down, and began by tucking two pieces of his beautiful, heavy paper between the rollers. Everything was different, but I knew that with my good understanding of machines, I could do this. I looked for the tab key and the space bar—at least they were in the right place. The rollers moved silently, and the return lever was not the same as on the machine I knew. But, yes, I could do this.
“Yes, I’m ready.”
“At the top, please put Capital V, Volume, Capital I. New Line—the widest space between the lines, if you please, Double Double Space.”
There was a pause while I struggled to find the lever that adjusted the lines. Finally, I had to stand up and walk around the machine to look and feel blindly, desperately, until I located the lever on the far side. Mr. James was still waiting patiently for me, a sheaf of paper in hand. He cleared his throat and in his warm, clear voice slowly began to dictate:
“All Capitals, PREFACE, Double Space, Capital I I profess a certain vagueness of remembrance in respect to the origin and growth of Quotation, Capital T “The Capital T Tragic Capital M Muse Comma, End Quotation,” which appeared in the Quotation, Capital A “Atlantic Capital M Monthly End Quotation” again Comma, beginning Capital J January 1-8-8-9 and . . .”
Here, there was a pause in the tapping of my keys while I hunted for the numbers 8 and 9. I had not practised numbers, and they did not come easily to my hand. There!—But he had gone on.
“I’m sorry, sir.” I interrupted the flow. “Could you please go back?—I lost some of the words . . .”
“Go back? Where? What?”
“I stopped at the date, at 1889.”
“Oh, yes, I see. Well, I will slow down, I must not rush you along so—this is your first day. I hope it will come easier when you are more accustomed to the machine.” And he went back again: “January 1-8-8-9 and running on Comma, in-or-din-ate-ly Comma, several months beyond its proper twelve—”
Mr. James stopped his pacing to look at me. I glanced up, waiting for a full stop or more words. Was that to be the end of his long first sentence?
He went on. “Full Stop. Capital I If it be ever of interest and profit . . .”
Oh! This was a new sentence—Or was he talking to me?
“. . . to put one’s finger” (I began typing furiously to catch up)
