My Double

It is not often that I trouble the readers of this magazine, but I do so now at my wife's insistence. She feels, she says, that a duty to society remains unfulfilled until I explain why I needed a double and how he ruined me. She is sure that intelligent people cannot understand the public pressure that drives a man to employ such a substitute. And while I suspect she privately thinks my fortunes will never be restored, she clings to a faint hope that, like another Rasselas, I may teach a lesson to future publics, though we perish. Thanks to my double's behavior, or rather to the public pressure that compelled me to hire him, I now have ample leisure to write this account.

I am, or rather was, a minister of the Sandemanian connection, settled in the lively, bustling town of Naguadavick, on one of the finest water-powers in Maine. We liked to call it a Western town in the heart of New England's civilization.

A charming place it was and is. I had a spirited, brave young parish, and it seemed we might enjoy all the joy of eventful living to our hearts' content.

Alas, how little we knew on the day of my ordination and during those blissful moments of early housekeeping! To be the confidential friend in a hundred families, cutting the social trifle, as my friend Haliburton says, "from the top of the whipped syllabub to the bottom of the sponge-cake which is the foundation"—to keep pace with the thought of the age in one's study, and on Sunday to weave that thought into the active life of an active town, and to make both infinite with glimpses of eternal glory—such an exquisite prospect seemed before me. There was plenty to do, and it was all so real and grand. If only that vision could have lasted!

The truth is, the vision was not a delusion, nor was it bright enough. Had I been left to do my own work, the vision would have fulfilled itself and given rise to new glories. The misery, as Polly and I soon discovered, was that, besides the vision and the common human failures—like breaking the old pitcher that came over on the Mayflower, or putting into the fire the alpenstock with which her father climbed Mont Blanc—besides these, there were foisted upon us a heap of humbugs, inherited from some unknown past, in which I was expected to perform public functions, much like the third row of supernumeraries standing behind the Sepoys in the spectacle of the Cataract of the Ganges. These were the duties one performs as a member of a social class, wholly distinct from what one does as oneself. What invisible power imposed these duties on me is hard to say, but such power existed.

Within a year I found I was living two lives: one real, one merely functional—one for my beloved parish, the other for a vague public I cared nothing about. Everyone seemed to think this second life would eventually bring great results to somebody somewhere.

Driven to distraction by this duality, I first read Dr. Wigan on the Duality of the Brain, hoping I could train one side of my head to handle outside jobs and the other to manage my real duties. Richard Greenough once told me that in studying for his statue of Franklin, he found the left side of the great man's face philosophical and reflective, the right side humorous and smiling. Indeed, the bronze statue shows this: the eastern profile is the statesman Franklin, the western is Poor Richard. But Dr. Wigan did not delve into such subtleties, and my experiment failed. It was then, at my wife's suggestion, that I resolved to find a double.

Fortune smiled at first. That summer we were vacationing at Stafford Springs.

One day we drove to the great Monson House to enjoy the amusements of the place. As we passed through one of the large halls, destiny caught up with me. I saw my man.

He was unshaven, wore no spectacles, and was dressed in a green baize roundabout and faded blue overalls, worn at the knees. But I saw at once he was my height, five feet four and a half. He had black hair, rubbed off by his hat, as was mine. He stooped when walking; so did I. His hands were large, like mine. And the choicest gift of fate: not a strawberry mark on his left arm, but a cut from a brick over his right eye, slightly affecting his eyebrow. Reader, I have the same mark! My fate was sealed.

A few words with Mr. Holley, an inspector, settled everything. Dennis Shea was a harmless, amiable fellow, of the shiftless class, who had been trapped by marrying a mute wife, then ironing in the laundry. Before I left Stafford, I had hired them both for five years. We applied to Judge Pynchon, the probate judge at Springfield, to change Dennis's name to Frederic Ingham. We explained—truthfully—that an eccentric gentleman wished to adopt Dennis under this new name. The judge never imagined Dennis might be over fourteen. And so, to shorten the preface, when we returned to my parsonage that night, there entered Mrs. Ingham, her new mute laundress, myself, and my double, who now bore the name Frederic Ingham by as good right as I.

Oh, the fun we had the next morning shaving his beard to my pattern, cutting his hair to match, and teaching him to wear gold-bowed spectacles! They were actually electroplate, with plain glass, for his eyes were excellent. Over four afternoons I taught him four stock speeches, which I found would suffice for the supernumerary line. Though good-natured, he was very shiftless, and teaching him was like pulling teeth. But by the end of the week he could deliver with my easy air: 1. "Very well, thank you. And you?" for casual greetings. 2. "I am very glad you liked it." 3. "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time." 4. "I agree, in general, with my friend on the other side of the room."

At first I feared a great expense in clothing him. But it soon proved that whenever he was out, I stayed home.

During his bright period, I avoided the awful pageants requiring a dress coat and white tie, and so lived cheaply in my dressing gowns, like another Thalaba. Polly declared we never spent so little on tailoring. Dennis lived in his wife's room over the kitchen, appearing only when I needed him. If we were interrupted, no one guessed he was Frederic Ingham. People assumed the minister's Irishman worked in a factory village.

I launched him by sending him to a meeting of the Enlightenment Board, which had seventy-four members, requiring sixty-seven for a quorum. Membership was determined by old Judge Dudley's will; as pastor, I was automatically a member. We had held four frustrating meetings, each four hours long, trying to gather a quorum. Finally, at the fifth, I sent Dennis. He entered as the sixty-seventh man, greeted with applause. He had missed his way, but managed. The board then amended the by-laws and gave away some western property. He voted with the minority as instructed. I won renown as a sensible man, and Dennis returned home, amazed at how the world is governed. He cut a few of my parishioners, but his glasses were off, and I am known to be nearsighted.

Next, I sent him to the exhibition of the New Coventry Academy, where he had a speaking part. As trustees, we were expected to attend these exhibitions, but sitting through three long July days in the chapel was tedious. Dennis, having succeeded at the board, went. He arrived early, dined at the chairman's right hand, and when called upon, delivered line three. The girls were charmed; they thought Mr. Ingham was handsome and a dear. He attended for two more days, earning praise for the trustees' meals. Soon, six academy girls began attending our church, though that didn't last.

After this, he represented me at numerous commencements and conventions, always voting with the minority, and I rose in everyone's esteem. Previously criticized for aloofness, I was now praised as reliable and punctual, though I had not changed—my double had.

Dennis's vote was invaluable at ferry stockholders' meetings, which my wife disliked. She transferred her shares to me, but I soon disliked them more. Dennis loved the meetings, though he was initially scared on the ferryboat.

Thus far, no difficulties. Dennis, being shiftless, was content to follow instructions. But he came to prefer these sociable events to another, more tedious duty. Our brother Dr. Fillmore had insisted that ministers attend each other's services, and so I had to send Dennis to hear every colleague preach—which he begged to avoid. Only this did he ever object to, but I insisted, knowing the value of such meetings.

Polly, more daring than I, risked Dennis at a party given by Governor Gorges. I hated the thought of going, but Polly suggested I should accompany her for the initial introductions, then Dennis could take over. We trained him that afternoon and drove to the party. I made a grand entrance, chatted with the governor and the ladies, then slipped out, leaving Dennis to take my place. He entered the salon, was introduced to Dr. Ochterlong, and made a hash of conversation, saying inappropriate phrases. Yet he charmed Mrs. Jeffries, whom he took down to supper, though his remarks confused her. The evening was a comedy of errors, but Polly laughed heartily, saying it was worth every penny.

We always called him Dennis at home, though his legal name was now Frederic Ingham. When election day came, only one Frederic Ingham was on the voting list. Busy with letters, I sent Dennis to vote, giving him instructions. He did well, gaining popularity, and soon Frederic Ingham was elected to the legislature—whether it was I or Dennis, I never knew. I sent Dennis to Augusta to take his seat, where he proved a valuable member, serving on committees and voting with the minority. On occasion, when he was needed at home for chores, I went myself, once delivering an admired speech.

But this arrangement could not last. After nearly a year of success, Dennis overreached and undid me.

It happened at a county meeting for a movement organized by a well-meaning but ineffective man I shall call Isaacs. He had arranged a meeting to encourage children to hold their knives and forks properly, and he wanted me to speak. I refused, not believing in the cause, but Isaacs persuaded Polly to promise that I would at least sit on the platform. I reluctantly agreed, though I felt uneasy. I sent Dennis with strict orders to keep silent.

But at the meeting, there was a lack of speakers.

Governor Gorges, who had come late, introduced several speakers, but they were absent. The crowd became restless, and some cried out for Ingham. The governor, thinking to placate them, called on Mr. Ingham, who was sitting on the platform. Dennis, flattered, rose and delivered line three, but the crowd urged him to continue.

Emboldened, he tried line two, then line four, and finally line one, all in a ridiculous sequence. The audience grew bewildered, then angry. A boy in the gallery shouted insults. Dennis's Irish temper flared, and he began swearing and challenging anyone to fight. He seized the governor's cane and brandished it, and it took several men to remove him from the hall.

The town concluded that the Reverend Frederic Ingham had lost all self-control, perhaps through intoxication. In truth, I have never touched a drop in fifteen years. But the damage was done. My double had ruined my reputation.

The next morning we left town quietly. We settled on the minister's lot in a remote township, where I serve as the first minister to a tiny congregation—my wife and our little daughter. We live on corn in summer and bear meat in winter. I work steadily on my scholarly treatise, hoping to publish it next year. We are happy, but the world thinks we are undone.

Thus ends the tale of my double, and how he undid me.