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he was apt to have a stick of candy or a handful of peanuts or other
desirable luxury in his pocket for any of his little friends he met
with。 He had that wholesome； happy look； so uncommon in our arid
countrymen；a look hardly to be found except where figs and oranges
ripen in the open air。 A kindly climate to grow up in； a religion
which takes your money and gives you a stamped ticket good at Saint
Peter's box office； a roomy chest and a good pair of lungs in it； an
honest digestive apparatus； a lively temperament； a cheerful
acceptance of the place in life assigned to one by nature and
circumstance；these are conditions under which life may be quite
comfortable to endure； and certainly is very pleasant to contemplate。
All these conditions were united in Paolo。 He was the easiest；
pleasantest creature to talk with that one could ask for a companion。
His southern vivacity； his amusing English； his simplicity and
openness； made him friends everywhere。
It seemed as if it would be a very simple matter to get the history
of his master out of this guileless and unsophisticated being。 He
had been tried by all the village experts。 The rector had put a
number of well…studied careless questions； which failed of their
purpose。 The old librarian of the town library had taken note of all
the books he carried to his master； and asked about his studies and
pursuits。 Paolo found it hard to understand his English； apparently；
and answered in the most irrelevant way。 The leading gossip of the
village tried her skill in pumping him for information。 It was all
in vain。
His master's way of life was peculiar；in fact； eccentric。 He had
hired rooms in an old…fashioned three…story house。 He had two rooms
in the second and third stories of this old wooden building： his
study in the second； his sleeping…room in the one above it。 Paolo
lived in the basement； where he had all the conveniences for cooking；
and played the part of chef for his master and himself。 This was
only a part of his duty； for he was a man…of…all…work； purveyor；
steward； chambermaid；as universal in his services for one man as
Pushee at the Anchor Tavern used to be for everybody。
It so happened that Paolo took a severe cold one winter's day； and
had such threatening symptoms that he asked the baker； when he
called； to send the village physician to see him。 In the course of
his visit the doctor naturally inquired about the health of Paolo's
master。
〃Signor Kirkwood well；molto bene；〃 said Paolo。 〃Why does he keep
out of sight as he does？〃 asked the doctor。
〃He always so；〃 replied Paolo。 〃Una antipatia。〃
Whether Paolo was off his guard with the doctor； whether he revealed
it to him as to a father confessor； or whether he thought it time
that the reason of his master's seclusion should be known； the doctor
did not feel sure。 At any rate； Paolo was not disposed to make any
further revelations。 Una antipatia；an antipathy；that was all the
doctor learned。 He thought the matter over； and the more he
reflected the more he was puzzled。 What could an antipathy be that
made a young man a recluse！ Was it a dread of blue sky and open air；
of the smell of flowers； or some electrical impression to which be
was unnaturally sensitive？
Dr。 Butts carried these questions home with him。 His wife was a
sensible； discreet woman； whom he could trust with many professional
secrets。 He told her of Paolo's revelation； and talked it over with
her in the light of his experience and her own； for she had known
some curious cases of constitutional likes and aversions。
Mrs。 Butts buried the information in the grave of her memory； where
it lay for nearly a week。 At the end of that time it emerged in a
confidential whisper to her favorite sister…in…law； a perfectly safe
person。 Twenty…four hours later the story was all over the village
that Maurice Kirkwood was the subject of a strange； mysterious；
unheard…of antipathy to something； nobody knew what； and the whole
neighborhood naturally resolved itself into an unorganized committee
of investigation。
IV
What is a country village without its mysterious personage？ Few are
now living who can remember the advent of the handsome young man who
was the mystery of our great university town 〃sixty years since；〃
long enough ago for a romance to grow out of a narrative； as Waverley
may remind us。 The writer of this narrative remembers him well； and
is not sure that he has not told the strange story in some form or
other to the last generation； or to the one before the last。 No
matter： if he has told it they have forgotten it；that is； if they
have ever read it； and whether they have or have not； the story is
singular enough to justify running the risk of repetition。
This young man； with a curious name of Scandinavian origin； appeared
unheralded in the town； as it was then； of Cantabridge。 He wanted
employment； and soon found it in the shape of manual labor； which he
undertook and performed cheerfully。 But his whole appearance showed
plainly enough that he was bred to occupations of a very different
nature； if； in deed； he had been accustomed to any kind of toil for
his living。 His aspect was that of one of gentle birth。 His hands
were not those of a laborer； and his features were delicate and
refined； as well as of remarkable beauty。 Who he was； where he came
from； why he had come to Cantabridge； was never clearly explained。
He was alone； without friends； except among the acquaintances he had
made in his new residence。 If he had any correspondents； they were
not known to the neighborhood where he was living。 But if he had
neither friends nor correspondents； there was some reason for
believing that he had enemies。 Strange circumstances occurred which
connected themselves with him in an ominous and unaccountable way。 A
threatening letter was slipped under the door of a house where he was
visiting。 He had a sudden attack of illness； which was thought to
look very much like the effect of poison。 At one time he
disappeared； and was found wandering； bewildered； in a town many
miles from that where he was residing。 When questioned how he came
there； he told a coherent story that he had been got； under some
pretext； or in some not incredible way； into a boat； from which； at a
certain landing…place； he had escaped and fled for his life； which he
believed was in danger from his kidnappers。
Whoever his enemies may have been；if they really existed；he did
not fall a victim to their plots； so far as known to or remembered by
this witness。
Various interpretations were put upon his story。 Conjectures were as
abundant as they were in the case of Kaspar Hauser。 That he was of
good family seemed probable； that he was of distinguished birth； not
impossible； that he was the dangerous rival of a candidate for a
greatly coveted position in one of the northern states of Europe was
a favorite speculation of some of the more romantic young persons。
There was no dramatic ending to this story；at least none is
remembered by the present writer。
〃He left a name；〃 like the royal Swede； of whose lineage he may have
been for aught that the village people knew； but not a name at which
anybody 〃grew pale；〃 for he had swindled no one； and broken no
woman's heart with false vows。 Possibly some withered cheeks may
flush faintly as they recall the handsome young man who came before
the Cantabridge maidens fully equipped for a hero of romance when the
century was in its first quarter。
The writer has been reminded of the handsome Swede by the incidents
attending the advent of the unknown and interesting stranger who had
made his appearance at Arrowhead Village。
It was a very insufficient and unsatisfactory reason to assign for
the young man's solitary habits that he was the subject of an
antipathy。 For what do we understand by that word？ When a young
lady screams at the sight of a spider； we accept her explanation that
she has a natural antipathy to the creature。 When a person expresses
a repugnance to some wholesome article of food； agreeable to most
people； we are satisfied if he gives the same reason。 And so of
various odors； which are pleasing to some persons and repulsive to
others。 We do not pretend to go behind the fact。 It is an
individual； and it may be a family； peculiarity。 Even between
different personalities there is an instinctive elective dislike as
well as an elective affinity。 We are not bound to give a reason why
Dr。 Fell is odious to us any more than the prisoner who peremptorily
challenges a juryman is bound to say why he does it； it is enough
that he 〃does not like his looks。〃
There was nothing strange； then； that Maurice Kirkwood should have
his special antipathy； a great many other people have odd likes and
dislikes。 But it was a very curious thing that this antipathy shoul