Chapter 3: In the Cellar

She was peeling potatoes in the kitchen when I entered;—she did it as daintily, as leisurely as though she were a young princess preparing pomegranates—But this sort of simile wouldn’t do and I promptly pulled myself together, frowning.

Hearing me she looked up with a rather sweet confused little smile as though aroused from thoughts intimate but remote. Doubtless she was thinking of some peasant suitor somewhere—some strapping, yodling, ham-fisted, bull-necked mountaineer——

“I have come to confer with you on business,” said I, forestalling with a courteous gesture any intention she might have had to arise out of deference to my presence. I admit I observed no such intention. On the contrary she remained undisturbed, continuing leisurely her culinary occupation, and regarding me with that engaging little half-smile which seemed to be a permanent part of her expression—I pulled myself together.

“My child,” said I pleasantly, “what is your name?”

“Thusis,” she replied.

“Thusis? Quite unusual, —hum-hum—quite exotic. And then—hum-hum!—what is the remainder of your name, Thusis?”

“There isn’t any more, Monsieur.”

“Only Thusis?”

“Only Thusis.”

“You’re—hum-hum!—very young, aren’t you, Thusis?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You cook very well.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, Thusis,” I said, “I suppose when Mr. Schmitz engaged you to come up here, he told you what are the conditions and what vexatious problems confront me.”

“Yes, he did tell me.”

“Very well; that saves explanations. It is evident, of course, that if I am expected to board and feed any riff-raff tourist who comes to Schwindlewald I must engage more servants.”

“Oh, yes, you’ll have to.”

“Well, where the deuce am I to find them? Haven’t you any friends who would perhaps like to work here?”

“I have a sister,” she said.

“Can you get her to come?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine. She can do the rooms. Could you get another girl to wait on table?”

“I have a friend who is a very good cook——”

“You’re good enough!——”

“Oh, no!” she demurred, with her enchanting smile, “but my friend, Josephine Vannis, is an excellent cook. Besides I had rather wait on table—with Monsieur’s permission.”

I said regretfully, remembering the omelette, “Very well, Thusis. Now I also need a farmer.”

“I know a young man. His name is Raoul Despres.”

“Fine! And I want to buy some cows and goats and chickens——”

“Raoul will cheerfully purchase what stock Monsieur requires.”

“Thusis, you are quite wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she said, lifting her dark-fringed gray eyes, the odd little half-smile in the curling corners of her lips. It was extraordinary how the girl made me think of my photograph upstairs.

“What is your sister’s name?” I inquired—hoping I was not consciously making conversation as an excuse to linger in my cook’s kitchen.

“Her name is Clelia.”

“Clelia? Thusis? Very unusual names—hum-hum!—and nothing else—no family name. Well—well!”

“Oh, there was a family name of sorts. It doesn’t matter; we never use it.” And she laughed.

It was not what she said—not the sudden charm of her fresh young laughter that surprised me; it was her effortless slipping from French into English—and English more perfect than one expects from even the philologetically versatile Swiss.

“Are you?” I asked curiously.

“What, Mr. O’Ryan?”

“Swiss?”

Thusis laughed and considered me out of her dark-fringed eyes.

“We are Venetians—very far back. In those remote days, I believe, my family had many servants. That, perhaps, is why my sister and I make such good ones—if I may venture to say so. You see we know by inheritance what a good servant ought to be.”

The subtle charm of this young girl began to trouble me; her soft, white symmetry, the indolent and youthful grace of her, and the disturbing resemblance between her and my photograph all were making me vaguely uneasy.

“Thusis,” I said, “you understand of course that if I am short of servants you’ll have to pitch in and help the others.”

“Of course,” she replied simply.

“What do you know how to do?”

“I understand horses and cattle.”

“Can you milk?”

“Yes. I can also make butter and cheese, pitch hay, cultivate the garden, preserve vegetables, wash, iron, do plain and fancy sewing——”

I suppose the expression of my face checked her. We both laughed.

“Doubtless,” I said, “you also play the piano and sing.”

“Yes, I—believe so.”

“You speak French, German, English—and what else?”

“Italian,” she admitted.

“In other words you have not only an education but several accomplishments.”

“Yes. But in adversity one must work at whatever offers. Necessitas non habet legem,” she added demurely. That was too much for my curiosity.

“Who are you, Thusis?” I exclaimed.

“Your maid-of-all-work,” she said gravely—a reproof that made me redden in the realization of my own inquisitiveness. And I resolved never again to pry into her affairs which were none of my bally business as long as she made a good servant.

“I’m sorry,” said I. “I’ll respect your privacy hereafter. So get your sister and the other girl and the man you say is a good farmer——”

“I told them in Berne that you’d need them. They ought to arrive this evening.”

“Thusis,” I said warmly, “you’re a wonder. Go ahead and run my establishment if you are willing. You know how things are done in this country. You also know that I don’t care a rap about this place and that I’m only here marking time until the Swiss Government permits me to sell out and get out.”

“Do you wish to leave the entire responsibility of this place to me, Mr. O’Ryan?”

“You bet I do! How about it, Thusis? Will you run this joint and look out for any stray tourists and keep the accounts and wait on table? And play the piano between times, and sing, and converse in four languages——”

We both were laughing now. I asked her to name her monthly compensation and she mentioned such a modest salary that I was ashamed to offer it. But she refused more, explaining that the Swiss law regulated such things.

So that subject being settled and her potatoes pared and set to soak, she picked up a youthful onion with the careless grace of a queen selecting a favorite pearl.

“I hope you will like my soup to-night,” said this paragon of servants.

I was for a moment conscious of a naïve desire to sit there in the kitchen and converse with her—perhaps even read aloud to her to relieve the tedium of her routine. Then waking up to the fact that I had no further business in that kitchen, I arose and got myself out.

Smith, lolling in his chair by the fountain with half a dozen empty Moselle bottles in a row on the grass beside his chair, was finishing another Norse Saga as I approached:

—The farmer then to that young man did say:

“O treat my daughter kindly,

Don’t you do her any harm,

And I will leave you in my will

My house and barn and farm;—

My hay in mows,

My pigs and cows,

My wood-lot on the hill,

And all the little chick-uns in the ga-arden!”

The city guy he laffed to scorn

What that old man did say:

“Before I bump you on the bean

Go chase yourself away.

Beat it! you bum blackmailing yap!

I never kissed your daughter’s map

Nor thought of getting gay!

I’m here on my vacation

And I ain’t done any harm,

I do not want your daughter, Bill,

Nor house and barn and farm,

Nor hay in mows

Nor pigs and cows

Nor wood-lot on the hill.

Nor all them little chick-uns in the ga-arden!”

Them crool words no sooner said

Than Jessie fetched a sob:

“I’ll shoot you up unless we’re wed!”

Sez she—”You prune-fed slob!

Get busy with the parson——”

Here Smith caught sight of me and ceased his saga.

“Yes,” I said, “you’re a Norwegian all right. Three cheers for King Haakon!”

“You speak in parables, O’Ryan.”

“You behave in parabolics. I don’t care. I like you. I shall call you Shan.”

“Your companionship also is very agreeable to me, Michael. Sit down and have one on yourself.”

We exchanged bows and I seated myself.

“By the way,” I remarked carelessly, “her name is Thusis.” And I filled my glass and took a squint at its color. Not that I knew anything about Moselle.

“What else is her name?” he inquired.

“She declines to answer further. Thusis seems to be her limit.”

“I told you she was a mystery!” he exclaimed with lively interest. “What else did she say to you, Michael?”

“Her sister is coming to-night. Also a lady-friend named Josephine Vannis; and a farmer of sorts called Raoul Despres.”

“Take it from me,” said Smith, “that if truth is stranger than fiction in these days, this red-haired girl called Thusis is no more Swiss than you are!”

“No more of a peasant than you are a Norwegian,” I nodded.

“And whoinhell,” he inquired, keeping his countenance, “ever heard of a South American named O’Ryan?”

“It’s a matter of Chilean history, old top.”

“Oh, yes, I know. But the essence of the affair is that an Irish family named O’Ryan have, for several generations, merely been visiting in Chili. Now one of ‘em’s in Switzerland as close to the big shindy as he can get without getting into it. And, the question is this: how long before he pulls a brick and starts in?”

“Chili is neutral——”

“Ireland isn’t. Sinn Fein or Fusiliers—which, Michael?”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said I, virtuously. “I’m no fighter. There’s no violence in me. If I saw a fight I’d walk the other way. There’s none of that kind of Irish blood in me.”

“No. And all your family in the army or navy. And you practically a Yankee——”

I stared at him and whistled the Chilean anthem.

“That’s my reply,” said I. “Yours is:

“My girl’s a corker,

She’s a New Yorker——”

“What piffle you talk, you poor prune,” said this typical Norwegian.

So we filled our glasses to our respective countries, and another round to that jolly flag which bears more stars and stripes than the Chilean ensign.