Short Fiction by Herman Melville (leveled readers txt) 📕

at her needlework. He stayed rather late; and after abundance of superfine discourse, all the while retaining his hat and cane, made his profuse adieus, and with repeated graceful bows proceeded to depart, after fashion of courtiers from the Queen, and by so doing, opening a door at random, with one hand placed behind, very effectually succeeded in backing himself into a dark pantry, where he carefully shut himself up, wondering there was no light in the entry. After several strange noises as of a cat among the crockery, he reappeared through the same door, looking uncommonly crestfallen, and, with a deeply embarrassed air, requested my daughter to designate at which of the nine he should find exit. When the mischievous Anna told me the story, she said it was surprising how unaffected and matter-of-fact the young gentleman’s manner was after his reappearance. He was more candid than ever, to be sure; having inadvertently thrust his white kids into an open drawer of Havana sugar, under the impression, probably, that being what they call “a sweet fellow,” his route might possibly lie in that direction.

Another inconvenience resulting from the chimney is, the bewilderment of a guest in gaining his chamber, many strange doors lying between him and it. To direct him by fingerposts would look rather queer; and just as queer in him to be knocking at every door on his route, like London’s city guest, the king, at Temple-Bar.

Now, of all these things and many, many more, my family continually complained. At last my wife came out with her sweeping proposition⁠—in toto to abolish the chimney.

“What!” said I, “abolish the chimney? To take out the backbone of anything, wife, is a hazardous affair. Spines out of backs, and chimneys out of houses, are not to be taken like frosted lead pipes from the ground. Besides,” added I, “the chimney is the one grand permanence of this abode. If undisturbed by innovators, then in future ages, when all the house shall have crumbled from it, this chimney will still survive⁠—a Bunker Hill monument. No, no, wife, I can’t abolish my backbone.”

So said I then. But who is sure of himself, especially an old man, with both wife and daughters ever at his elbow and ear? In time, I was persuaded to think a little better of it; in short, to take the matter into preliminary consideration. At length it came to pass that a master-mason⁠—a rough sort of architect⁠—one Mr. Scribe, was summoned to a conference. I formally introduced him to my chimney. A previous introduction from my wife had introduced him to myself. He had been not a little employed by that lady, in preparing plans and estimates for some of her extensive operations in drainage. Having, with much ado, exhorted from my spouse the promise that she would leave us to an unmolested survey, I began by leading Mr. Scribe down to the root of the matter, in the cellar. Lamp in hand, I descended; for though upstairs it was noon, below it was night.

We seemed in the pyramids; and I, with one hand holding my lamp over head, and with the other pointing out, in the obscurity, the hoar mass of the chimney, seemed some Arab guide, showing the cobwebbed mausoleum of the great god Apis.

“This is a most remarkable structure, sir,” said the master-mason, after long contemplating it in silence, “a most remarkable structure, sir.”

“Yes,” said I complacently, “everyone says so.”

“But large as it appears above the roof, I would not have inferred the magnitude of this foundation, sir,” eyeing it critically.

Then taking out his rule, he measured it.

“Twelve feet square; one hundred and forty-four square feet! Sir, this house would appear to have been built simply for the accommodation of your chimney.”

“Yes, my chimney and me. Tell me candidly, now,” I added, “would you have such a famous chimney abolished?”

“I wouldn’t have it in a house of mine, sir, for a gift,” was the reply. “It’s a losing affair altogether, sir. Do you know, sir, that in retaining this chimney, you are losing, not only one hundred and forty-four square feet of good ground, but likewise a considerable interest upon a considerable principal?”

“How?”

“Look, sir!” said he, taking a bit of red chalk from his pocket, and figuring against a whitewashed wall, “twenty times eight is so-and-so; then forty-two times thirty-nine is so-and-so⁠—ain’t it, sir? Well, add those together, and subtract this here, then that makes so-and-so,” still chalking away.

To be brief, after no small ciphering, Mr. Scribe informed me that my chimney contained, I am ashamed to say how many thousand and odd valuable bricks.

“No more,” said I fidgeting. “Pray now, let us have a look above.”

In that upper zone we made two more circumnavigations for the first and second floors. That done, we stood together at the foot of the stairway by the front door; my hand upon the knob, and Mr. Scribe hat in hand.

“Well, sir,” said he, a sort of feeling his way, and, to help himself, fumbling with his hat, “well, sir, I think it can be done.”

“What, pray, Mr. Scribe; what can be done?”

“Your chimney, sir; it can without rashness be removed, I think.”

“I will think of it, too, Mr. Scribe,” said I, turning the knob and bowing him towards the open space without, “I will think of it, sir; it demands consideration; much obliged to ye; good morning, Mr. Scribe.”

“It is all arranged, then,” cried my wife with great glee, bursting from the nighest room.

“When will they begin?” demanded my daughter Julia.

“Tomorrow?” asked Anna.

“Patience, patience, my dears,” said I, “such a big chimney is not to be abolished in a minute.”

Next morning it began again.

“You remember the chimney,” said my wife.

“Wife,” said I, “it is never out of my house and never out of my mind.”

“But when is Mr. Scribe to begin to pull it down?” asked Anna.

“Not today, Anna,” said I.

“When, then?” demanded Julia, in alarm.

Now, if this chimney of mine was, for size, a sort of belfry, for dingdonging at me about it,