The Typewriter's Tale Read online

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  typewriter

  1 A writing-machine […];

  2 One who does typewriting, esp. as a regular occupation.

  Oxford English Dictionary

  She found her ladies, in short, almost always in communication with her gentlemen, and her gentlemen with her ladies, and she read into the immensity of their intercourse stories and meanings without end.

  Henry James, ‘In the Cage’

  From its inception the typewriter was imagined as a technology that would be especially liberating for women …

  Secretaries are, on the one hand, tools – ideally meant to function as unmediating recorders of another’s thought, like the dictating machines they themselves employ. On the other hand, secretaries are, as mediums, never themselves unmediating.

  Pamela Thurschwell, Literature, Technology and Magical Thinking, 1880–1920. Cambridge UP, 2001

  Of course, the great theoretic interest of these automatic performances, whether speech or writing, consists in the questions they awaken as to the boundaries of our individuality. One of their most constant peculiarities is that the writing and speech announce themselves as from a personality other than the natural one of the writer, and often convince him, at any rate, that his organs are played upon by someone not himself.

  William James, ‘Notes on Automatic Writing’, 1889

  Dearest H – The episode of the message so exactly hitting your mental condition is very queer. There is something back there that shows that minds communicate, even those of the dead with those of the living, but the costume, so to speak, and the accessories of fact, are all symbolic and due to the medium’s stock of automatisms – what it all means I don’t know but it means at any rate that the world that our ‘normal’ consciousness makes use of is only a fraction of the whole world in which we have our being.

  William James, letter to Henry James, 6 April 1906

  What I mean to try for is the observation of that strange moment when the vaguely adumbrated characters whose adventures one is preparing to record are suddenly there, themselves, in the flesh, in possession of one, and in command of one’s voice and hand … what I want to try to capture is an impression of the elusive moment when these people who haunt my brain actually begin to speak within me with their own voices … as soon as the dialogue begins, I become merely a recording instrument, and my hand never hesitates because my mind has not to choose, but only to set down what these stupid or intelligent, lethargic or passionate, people say to each other in a language, and with arguments, that appear to be all their own.

  Edith Wharton, A Backward Glance

  The persons who project, and would fain construct, Channel tunnels know nothing of the art of war, its surprises, stratagems, disappointments and catastrophes … There are some things of such supreme importance that they impose absolute certainty as their only sufficient and adequate safeguard. Nature has provided us with that certainty by placing a barrier of waves between the ambition of Continental conquerors and the liberties of England.

  The Standard, June 1890, quoted by Alice James, The Diary of Alice James

  Chapter One

  8th November 1907

  The worst part of taking dictation was the waiting.

  ‘She found herself for a moment looking up at him from as far below as…’

  She waited, Frieda Wroth, watching his broad back retreat to the far end of the room; turning, he resumed the slow tread down the length of the room. She reflected, not for the first time, on the piquancy of her situation, transmitting, through efficient fingers, the emanations of a writer celebrated for his sympathetic recording of just such disregarded lives as hers. Mr James himself had never shown any apprehension of this quiet enough irony: however preternaturally attuned his sensibilities were to the muffled chord of despair as sounded in the elliptical intercourse of his characters, in her he took for granted, apparently, a prompt attention and a cheerful readiness to assist merely mechanically at the slow processes of his deliberations and contemplations.

  It had not occurred to her, in presenting herself for this position, that she would be treated quite so much as an undistinguished and indistinguishable appurtenance of the Remington she operated. It was not a matter of her working conditions – these were as pleasant as he knew how to make them – it was, really, only the metaphysical implications of her identity as a typewriter. She could not have formulated any confident theory on the nature and function of the human spirit, but she knew instinctively that it could not have been intended to serve as the animating principle for a machine. There were times when she veritably envied Mr James’s fictional characters for the consideration he bestowed upon them, the vivid identities he invented for them, next to which her own pure functionality seemed abjectly utilitarian. To him she did not represent a potential or real subject: she was the typewriter, appointed to that task and confined to that identity.

  Mr James paused in front of the fireplace, often but not always a prelude to utterance. Encouraged to ‘read something’ while he ruminated, she could yet never altogether concentrate on her book, anxious lest in her absorption she might miss the first fine utterance of his deliberations, as she had once done, to his evident but unexpressed irritation. Generally the most equable of men, he tolerated no interruption of his train of expression: for such a slow-moving vehicle, it was surprisingly prone to breakdowns. She thus preferred to amuse herself by trying to predict the outcome of his rumination, though so far she had succeeded only once, when the elusive word had turned out to be thing. This time, since it was a simile he was hunting, she knew only that when it came it would be almost exactly the opposite of what she anticipated, but she tried nevertheless to pre-empt this perversity: from as far below as … a mountaineer all strainingly shading his eyes against the vertiginous slope of Mont Blanc?… an adventurer beneath some tower sung in legend in which a golden-haired princess is incarcerated?

  ‘… as the point from which the school-child, comma, with eyes raised to the wall, comma, gazes at the particoloured map of the world. Full stop.’ He resumed his slow, deliberate dictation and she clattered obediently after him, then halted, while he resumed his treading of the carpet. At the window he paused, a slight bow on his part signalling his acknowledgement of a passerby possibly unaware of the courtesy being extended from the window projecting above the street. His politeness was such that it did not insist on a sentient object: Frieda had once, during a walk on Camber Sands, seen him doffing his hat to a passing ship in mid-Channel.

  In the midst of such courtesy and consideration – the chocolate bars left on her machine in the course of his perambulations, the flowers sent to her room whenever George Gammon could spare any of the profusion from the garden – it seemed ungrateful to want for more. In undertaking the task of translating the inspirations of genius into legible characters, it had not been her idea, naturally, that genius should defer to her conveni
ence; but she had dared to hope that it might in a manner share with her the secret of composition, afford her on rare but precious occasions a glimpse into the furnace of art blazing fiercely under the great brow. Subsequent experience had rendered her sceptical of the temperature of that conflagration: it was not, intellectually speaking, a glow at which one could warm one’s frozen fingers; one could but marvel that so much light should produce so little heat.

  She had ended by asking herself what then she had expected, a question that she at various times answered variously – amongst which variety, however, a family resemblance could be discerned in the form of a small ungrateful subjectivity, a consciousness of a hunger unappeased, like some orphan in legend obstinately refusing to feast on the banquet spread before her by a prince. She was, in short, conscious of being just sweetly disregarded, a state which until recently she would have found preferable, at least, to some others – more particularly to the chronic regard of Mr Dodds, whose placid but persistent courtship she had been fleeing in betaking herself to this small seaside town so far from Bayswater. It was in that unimpeachable part of London that Mr Dodds dispensed his medicines from an apothecary’s shop smelling always of tincture of iodine. There hovered about his presence, even in the Kensington Gardens where he took her on fine Sundays, the spectre of tincture of iodine. It was with her a moot point whether she was just where she was most in pursuit of enlightenment or in flight from tincture of iodine.

  For the moment, however, this question had to yield before the resumption of the slow and yet fluent dictation: ‘Yes, it was a warmth, comma, it was a special…’

  Gift? Grace?

  ‘… benignity, comma, that had never yet dropped on her from any one, comma, and she wouldn’t for the first few moments have known how to describe it or even quite what to do with it… My dear Fullerton!’ The keys of her machine were still rattling, lagging slightly behind the voice, but her eyes were free to take in the sight of the novelist spreading his arms in welcome, a gesture that she had witnessed at the front door of Lamb House, but had not expected to see in the Garden Room. For Mr James to allow, much less welcome, anybody into the inner retreat of his genius was not so much unusual as unprecedented, and his young employee would have been at a loss to account for this deviation from custom had her wonder not been much more actively engaged in contemplating the cause and occasion of it. Of the man standing in the doorway extending in turn his arms to the novelist, it would have been possible to say many things, but none of them as simplifyingly, comprehensively true as that he was beautiful. Frieda had never before thought of men as beautiful. Mr Dodds, she had been told by her mother, was a fine figure of a man, and Mr Dodds was in the habit of stealing glances at himself in the mirror behind the counter of his apothecary’s shop with a complacency suggesting that he shared her mother’s high opinion; but he had never inspired in her anything other than a guilty but unrepentant sense of not being able to share the public estimate, such as she remembered cherishing on behalf of an aged aunt whom others affected to find Wonderful for her Age, and whom she had found simply Difficult. Mr Dodds was not particularly wonderful for his age, that age being hardly more advanced than her own; but he had Done Very Well for Himself, which was the same thing, morally speaking, in that it placed him beyond light-minded censure, and was assumed to render the size of his nose, which was considerable, irrelevant.

  This newcomer, whom Frieda gathered to have returned very recently from America, and who was now with lively self-deprecation apologising for violating the sanctuary of sanctuaries, needed no such excuse for his nose or any other feature. One could admire him without consulting a list of his virtues and accomplishments. She wondered indeed whether he had any virtues and accomplishments: it seemed to her that to look like that was to be able to dispense with such things. The blue brilliance of his glance, the strong, humorous lines of the mouth, the very agility of the hands, spoke of a nature quick rather than solid (Mr Dodds was celebrated in Chelsea and Bayswater for his solidity), a temperament attuned to the enjoyment of others rather than to the cultivation of the self. She would have been at a loss to estimate the age of the visitor: next to Mr James he looked very young, too young to have been a friend of the older man’s for as long as their mutual familiarity suggested. It was likely, then, that he was not as young as he seemed, and even this reflection enhanced rather than detracted from the interest he evoked in the young woman: anybody, in their allotted time, could be young; to have lived and yet to have retained the freshness of youth was a far rarer achievement. All this Frieda took in, as they say, at first sight; or so it seemed to her later in recalling his so unexpected entry into, as it were, her life.

  The two men were too deeply involved in the intricacies of establishing how gratified Mr James was at this proof of the confidence placed in him by his friend, to register the presence of a female typewriter; but having at some length settled the matter, her employer, with his habitual courtesy, introduced the newcomer to the young woman as his ‘very good friend, Mr Morton Fullerton,’ adding, as if in self-evident explanation, ‘Mr Fullerton is from Paris.’

  The blue glance was turned upon her, and Frieda felt that she had never been looked at before: he seemed to be taking in not so much an impression of her as an impression of her impression of him, to register by some preternatural agency the confusion which prevented her from making any but the most conventional response to the introduction. There seemed little of force or originality to be said for the advantages of inhabiting the French capital, and Frieda did not make the attempt.

  Mr James, perhaps conscious of a certain blankness in his amanuensis, apparently thought that more information would stimulate her to a more intelligent response. ‘Mr Fullerton is the Paris correspondent for The Times,’ he informed her. ‘You will often have read his dispatches.’ Then, as this still left her mutely gaping, he elaborated: ‘The trial of the unfortunate Captain Dreyfus now, no doubt you followed that? That was the work of my friend Fullerton.’

  The visitor laughed. ‘My dear Henry, I only reported the case, I didn’t conduct it.’

  Mr James was insistent. ‘Ah, but to report so unflinchingly, so … so heroically, must have played its little part in the outcome of that tangled affair.’

  Upon this Mr Fullerton turned to Frieda. ‘You see, Miss Wroth, what it is to have friends who are determined to cast one in the heroic mould!’

  His tone was jocular, but to Frieda’s sense or fancy there was in the short glance that passed between them more than the acknowledgment of a common social situation: there was the recognition of a shared plight. Through the gaiety of his manner she discerned a consciousness of being confined to a role he found uncongenial, of, in a manner of speaking, also taking dictation.

  That, however, was for later reflection. Mr James meanwhile had moved on, and was addressing her with just the slightest blush of consciousness. ‘Miss Wroth, since our labours have been so pleasantly interrupted, I find I need not detain you any longer today. Let us declare this a half-holiday in honour of Mr Fullerton’s visit.’

  She glanced at her watch. It was only twelve o’clock, almost two hours short of Mr James’s usual time; furthermore, in the past, on such rare occasions as he had terminated his dictation early, he had always had revisions for her to type. She sensed that the visit was of such import to Mr James that he did not want the distraction of a typewriter rattling away in the Garden Room, an apprehension that Frieda was rational enough not to take personally. Mr James was once again addressing his favoured guest: ‘Great as is my pleasure, Fullerton, in seeing you here so long before you were expected, I do regret the loss of the little ceremony of awaiting you at the station. Rye Station has rather a grand little air about it, don’t you think, as if it were forever expecting to welcome visiting royalty?’

  ‘Ah, then I thoughtlessly forewent the brass band and the schoolgirls’ choir that you doubtless had organised against my arrival. I can offer no excuse other than
my haste to see you. My ship docked at Liverpool several hours early; so, sacrificing your convenience to my impatience, I took the first train from Charing Cross.’

  The two men passed into the garden discussing the relative merits of the Campania and the Lusitania, and Frieda gathered her effects for her premature return to her lodgings. To get to the street she had to pass through the door set into the wall separating the garden from the desultory traffic of West Street. She had at first, in her ignorance, passed through the house to reach the street, but had gradually become conscious of the unspoken disapproval of Mrs Paddington, Mr James’s housekeeper. The privilege of unlimited access to the house, Frieda was to discover, was jealously guarded, as part of an implication of distinctions and boundaries, differences subtle but strong between ‘living in’ servants and ‘living out’: to be the latter was to be a kind of tradesperson, like the coal merchant who stayed only long enough to deliver his wares and then return to his proper setting. Thus, as neither guest nor servant, Frieda moved within firmly if not explicitly drawn margins.

  Before unlocking the street door, Frieda paused for a moment to take in, as she often did, the beauty of the garden, which now, in the mild November sunshine, was a blend of mellow tones and soft accents. Her eyes wandered from the varied hues of the vegetation to the rich brick of the house and the old wall enclosing the garden; and then came to rest on the prodigious guest, now arrested on the lawn in conversation with his host. In the sunshine his hair shone a deep black, and when he suddenly laughed, startlingly in the still space of the walled garden, the sound was as a declaration of youth. As she put her hand on the doorknob, she looked back; and she found that he had turned and was regarding her with an expression which she had experienced only once before, on the Underground in London. On that occasion it had compelled her to leave the train at the next station; it now made her open the door quickly and escape into the street.