I shall not dwell upon my grief. It would be painful, and it would
serve no purpose. The spring of 1871 was a very dark and dismal spring
to me. It was as though a part--the best part--of myself had been taken
from me. To go on living in the same old house, where everything spoke
to me of her, where every nook and corner had its association with her,
where every chair and table recalled her to me, yet not to hear her
voice, nor see her face, nor feel her presence any more, and to realize
that she had gone from me forever--I need not tell you how hard it was,
nor how my heart ached, nor how utterly lonesome and desolate I felt. I
need not tell you how big and bleak and empty the old house seemed.
Sometimes, though, I could not believe that it was really true, that she
had really died. It was too dreadful. I could not help thinking that it
must be some mistake, some hideous delusion. I would start from my sleep
in the middle of the night, and feel sure that it must have been a bad
dream, that she must have come back, that she was even now in bed in her
room. Then, full of hope, I would get up and go to see. All my pain
was suddenly and cruelly renewed when I found her bed cold and empty.
I would throw myself upon it, and bury my face in the coverlet, and
abandon myself to a passionate outburst of tears and sobs, calling aloud
for her: “_Grand'-mère, grand'mere, O ma grand'mère chérie!_” I almost
expected that she would hear me, and be moved to pity for me, and come
back.
One night, when I was lying thus upon her bed, in the dark, and
calling for her, I felt all at once the clutch of a strong hand upon my
shoulder. It terrified me unspeakably. My heart gave a great jump, and
stopped its beating. My limbs trembled, and a cold sweat broke out all
over my body. I could not see six inches before my face. Who, or rather
what, could my invisible captor be? Some grim and fearful monster of the
darkness? A giant--a vampire--an ogre--or, at the very least, a burglar!
All this flashed through my mind in a fraction of a second. Then I heard
the voice of my Uncle Peter: “What do you mean, you young beggar, by
raising such a hullaballoo at this hour of the night, and waking people
up? Get off to your bed now, and in the morning I'll talk to you.” And
though I suspected that “I'll talk to you” signified “I'll give you a
good sound thrashing,” I could have hugged my Uncle Peter, so great was
my relief to find that it was he, and no one worse.
Surely enough, next morning after breakfast, he led me to his room,
and there he administered to me one of the most thorough and energetic
thrashings I ever received from him. But now I had nobody to pet me
and make much of me after it; and all that day I felt the awful
friendlessness of my position more keenly than I had ever felt it
before.
“I have but one friend in the whole world,” I thought, “and he is so
far, so far away. If I could only somehow get across the ocean, to
France, to Paris, to his house, and live with him! He would be so good
to me, and I should be so happy!” And I looked up at his sword hanging
upon my wall, and longed for the hour when I should touch the hand that
had once wielded it.
I must not forget to tell you here of a little correspondence that I
had with this distant friend of mine. A day or two after the funeral I
approached my Uncle Peter, and, summoning all my courage, inquired,
“Are you going to write to Uncle Florimond, and let him know?”
“What?” he asked, as if he had not heard, though I had spoken quite
distinctly. That was one of his disagreeable, disconcerting ways--to
make you repeat whatever you had to say. It always put me out of
countenance, and made me feel foolish and embarrassed.
“I wanted to know whether you were going to write and tell Uncle
Florimond,” I explained with a quavering voice.
By way of retort, he half-shut his eyes, and gave me a queer, quizzical
glance, which seemed to be partly a sneer, and partly a threat. He kept
it up for a minute or two, and then he turned his back upon me, and went
off whistling. This I took to be as good as “No” to my question. “Yet,”
I reflected, “somebody ought to write and tell him. It is only fair to
let him know.” And I determined that I would do so myself; and I did.
I wrote him a letter; and then I rewrote it; and then I copied it; and
then I copied it again; and at last I dropped my final copy into the
post-box.
About five weeks later I got an answer from him. In a few simple
sentences he expressed his great sorrow; and then he went on: “And, now,
my dear little nephew, by this mutual loss thou and I are brought closer
together; and by a more tender mutual affection we must try to comfort
and console each other. For my part, I open to thee that place in my
heart left vacant by the death of my sainted sister; and I dare to hope
that thou wilt transfer to me something of thy love for her. I attend
with impatience the day of our meeting, which, I tell myself, if the
Lord spares our lives, must arrive as soon as thou art big enough to
leave thy home and come to me in France. Meanwhile, may the good God
keep and bless thee, shall be the constant prayer of thy Uncle de la
Bourbonnaye.”
This letter touched me very deeply.
After reading it I came nearer to feeling really happy than I had come
at any time before since she died.
I must hasten over the next year. Of course, as the weeks and months
slipped away, I gradually got more or less used to the new state of
things, and the first sharp edge of my grief was dulled. The hardest
hours of my day were those spent at table with Uncle Peter--alone with
him, in a silence broken only by the clinking of our knives and forks.
These were very hard, trying hours indeed. The rest of my time I passed
out of doors, in the company of Sam Budd, our gardener's son, and the
other village boys. What between swimming, fishing, and running the
streets with them, I contrived to amuse myself after a fashion. Yet, for
all that, the year I speak of was a forlorn, miserable year for me; I
was far from being either happy or contented. My first violent anguish
had simply given place to a vague, continuous sense of dissatisfaction
and unrest, like a hunger, a craving, for something I could not name.
That something was really--love: though I was not wise enough to know
as much at the time. A child's heart--and, for that matter, a grown-up
man's--craves affection as naturally as his stomach craves food; I did
not have it; and that was why my heart ached and was sick. I wondered
and wondered whether my present mode of life was going to last forever;
I longed and longed for change. Somehow to escape, and get across the
ocean to my Uncle Florimond, was my constant wish; but I saw no means of
realizing it. Once in a while I would think, “Suppose I write to him
and tell him how wretched I am, and ask him to send for me?” But then a
feeling of shame and delicacy restrained me.
Another thing that you will easily see about this year, is that it
must have been a very unprofitable one for me from the point of view
of morals. My education was suspended; no more study, no more 'lessons.
Uncle Peter never spoke of sending me to school; and I was too young and
ignorant to desire to go of my own accord. Then, too, I was without any
sort of refining or softening influence at home; Julia, our cook, being
my single friend there, and my uncle's treatment of me serving only to
sour and harden me. If, therefore, at the end of the year in question I
was by no manner of means so nice a boy as I had been at the beginning
of it, surely there was little cause for astonishment. Indeed, I imagine
the only thing that kept me from growing altogether rough and wild and
boisterous, was my thought of Uncle Florimond, and my ambition to be the
kind of lad that I believed he would like to have me.
And now I come to an adventure which, as it proved, marked the point of
a new departure in my affairs.
It was early in April, 1872. There had been a general thaw, followed by
several days of heavy rain; and the result was, of course, a freshet.
Our little river, the Yantic, had swollen to three--in some places even
to four--times its ordinary width; and its usually placid current had
acquired a tremendous strength and speed. This transformation was the
subject of endless interest to us boys; and every day we used to go and
stand upon the bank, and watch the broad and turbulent rush of water
with mingled wonder, terror and delight. It was like seeing an old
friend, whom we had hitherto regarded as a quite harmless and rather
namby-pamby sort of chap, and been fearlessly familiar with, suddenly
display the power and prowess of a giant, and brandish his fists at us,
crying, “Come near me at your peril!” Our emotions sought utterance
in such ejaculations as “My!” “Whew!” and “Jimminy!” and Sam Budd was
always tempting me with, “Say, Gregory, stump ye to go in,” which was
very aggravating. I hated to have him dare me.
Well, one afternoon--I think it was on the third day of the
freshet--when Sam and I made our customary pilgrimage down through
Captain Josh Abingdon's garden to the water's edge, fancy our surprise
to behold a man standing there and fishing. Fishing in that torrent! It
was too absurd for anything; and instantly all our wonder transferred
itself from the stream to the fisherman, at whom we stared with eyes
and mouths wide open, in an exceedingly curious and ill-bred manner. He
didn't notice us at first; and when he did, he didn't seem to mind
our rudeness the least bit. He just looked up for a minute, and calmly
inspected us; and then he gave each of us a solemn, deliberate wink, and
returned his attention to his pole, which, by the way, was an elaborate
and costly one, jointed and trimmed with metal. He was a funny-looking
man; short and stout, with a broad, flat, good-natured face, a thick
nose, a large mouth, and hair as black and curling as a negro's.
He wore a fine suit of clothes of the style that we boys should have
called cityfied; and across his waistcoat stretched a massive golden
watch-chain, from which dangled a large golden locket set with precious
stones.
Presently this strange individual drew in his line to examine his bait;
and then, having satisfied himself as to its condition, he attempted to
make a throw. But he threw too hard. His pole slipped from his grasp,
flew through the air, fell far out into the water, and next moment
started off down stream at the rate of a train of steam-cars. This was a
sad mishap. The stranger's face expressed extreme dismay, and Sam and I
felt sorry for him from the bottom of our hearts. It was really a
great pity that such a handsome pole should be lost in such a needless
fashion.
But stay! All at once the pole's progress down stream ceased. It had
got caught by an eddy, which was sweeping it rapidly inward and upward
toward the very spot upon the shore where we stood. Would it reach land
safely, and be recovered? We waited, watching, in breathless suspense.
Nearer it came--nearer--nearer! Our hopes were mounting very high
indeed. A smile lighted the fisherman's broad face. The pole had
now approached within twenty feet of the bank. Ten seconds more, and
surely--But again, stay! Twenty feet from the shore the waters formed
a whirlpool. In this whirlpool for an instant the pole remained
motionless. Then, after a few jerky movements to right and left, instead
of continuing its journey toward the shore, it began spinning round and
round in the circling current. At any minute it might break loose and
resume its course down stream; but for the present there it was, halting
within a few yards of us--so near, and yet so far.
Up to this point we had all kept silence. But now the fisherman broke
it with a loud, gasping sigh. Next thing I heard was Sam Budd's voice,
pitched in a mocking, defiant key, “Say, Gregory, stump ye to go in.” I
looked at Sam. He was already beginning to undress.
No; under the circumstances--with that man as a witness--I could not
refuse the challenge. My reputation, my character, was at stake. I knew
that the water would be as cold as ice; I knew that the force of its
current involved danger to a swimmer of a sort not to be laughed at. Yet
my pride had been touched, my vanity had been aroused. I could not allow
Sam Budd to “stump” me with impunity, and then outdo me. “You do, do
you?” I retorted. “Well, come on.” And stripping off my clothes in a
twinkling, I plunged into the flood, Sam following close at my heels.
As cold as ice! Why, ice was nowhere, compared to the Yantic River in
that first week of April. They say extremes meet. Well, the water was so
cold that it seemed actually to scald my skin, as if it had been boiling
hot. But never mind. The first shock over, I gritted my teeth to keep
them from chattering, and struck boldly out for the whirlpool, where the
precious rod was still spinning round and round. Of course, in order to
save myself from being swept down below it, I had to aim diagonally at a
point far above it.
The details of my struggle I need not give. Indeed, I don't believe I
could give them, even if it were desirable that I should. My memory of
the time I spent in the water is exceedingly confused and dim. Intense
cold; desperately hard work with arms and legs; frantic efforts to get
my breath; a fierce determination to be the first to reach that pole
no matter at what hazard; a sense of immense relief and triumph when,
suddenly, I realized that success had crowned my labors--when I felt
the pole actually in my hands; then a fight to regain the shore; and
finally, again, success!
Yes, there I stood upon the dry land, safe and sound, though panting
and shivering from exhaustion and cold. I was also rather dazed and
bewildered; yet I still had enough of my wits about me to go up to the
fisherman, and say politely, “Here, sir, is your pole.” He cried in
response--and I noticed that he pronounced the English language in a
very peculiar way--“My kracious! You was a brave boy, Bubby. Hurry up;
dress; you catch your death of cold standing still there, mitout no
clodes on you, like dot. My koodness! a boy like you was worth a tousand
dollars.”
[Illustration: 0061]
Suddenly it occurred to me to wonder what had become of Sam. I had not
once thought of him since my plunge into the water. I suppose the reason
for this forgetfulness was that my entire mind, as well as my entire
body, had been bent upon the work I had in hand. But now, as I say,
it suddenly occurred to me to wonder what had become of him; and a
sickening fear lest he might have got drowned made my heart quail.
“O, sir!” I demanded, “Sam--the other boy--where is he? Has anything
happened to him? Did he--he didn't--he didn't get drowned?”
“Drownded?” repeated the fisherman. “Well, you can bet he didn't. He's
all right. There he is--under dot tree over there.”
He pointed toward an apple-tree, beneath which I descried Sam Budd,
already nearly dressed. As Sam's eyes met mine, a very sheepish look
crept over his face, and he called out, “Oh! I gave up long ago.”
Well, you may just guess how proud and victorious I felt to hear this
admission from my rival's lips.
The fisherman now turned his attention to straightening out his tackle,
which had got into a sad mess during its bath, while I set to putting on
my things. Pretty soon he drew near to where I stood, and, surveying me
with a curious glance, “Well, Bubby, how you feel?” he asked.
“Oh! I feel all right, thank you, sir; only a little cold,” I answered.
“Well, Bubby, you was a fine boy,” he went on. “Well, how old was you?”
“I'm twelve, going on thirteen.”
“My kracious! Is dot all? Why, you wasn't much older as a baby; and yet
so tall and strong already. Well, Bubby, what's your name?”
“Gregory Brace.”
“Krekory Prace, hey? Well, dot's a fine name. Well; you live here in
Nawvich, I suppose--yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe your papa was in business here?”
“No, sir; my father is dead.”
“Oh! is dot so? Well, dot's too bad. And so you was a half-orphan, yes?”
“No, sir; my mother is dead, too.”
“You don't say so! Well, my kracious! Well, den you was a whole orphan,
ain't you? Well, who you live with?”
“I live with my uncle, sir--Judge Brace.”
“Oh! so your uncle was a judge. Well, dot's grand. Well, you go to
school, I suppose, hey?”
“No, sir; I don't go to school.”
“You don't go to school? Oh! then, maybe you was in business already,
yes.”
“O, no, sir! I'm not in business.”
“You don't go to school, and you wasn't in business; well, what you do
mit yourself all day long, hey?”
“I play.”
“You play! Well, then you was a sort of a gentleman of leisure, ain't
you? Well, dot must be pretty good fun--to play all day. Well, Bubby,
you ever go to New York?”
“No, sir; I've never been in New York. Do you live in New York, sir?”
“Yes, Bubby, I live in New York when I'm at home. But I'm shenerally on
the road, like I was to-day. I'm what you call a trummer; a salesman for
Krauskopf, Sollinger & Co., voolens. Here's my card.”
He handed me a large pasteboard card, of which the following is a
copy:--
[Illustration: 0068]
“Yes,” he went on, “dot's my name, and dot's my address. And when you
come to New York you call on me there, and I'll treat you like a buyer.
I'll show you around our establishment, and I'll give you a dinner by a
restaurant, and I'll take you to the theayter, and then, if you want it,
I'll get you a chop.”
“A chop?” I queried. “What is a chop?”
“What is a chop! Why, if you want to go into business, you got to get a
chop, ain't you? A chop was an embloyment; and then there was chop-lots
also.” At this I understood that he meant a job. “Yes, Bubby, a fine boy
like you hadn't oughter be doing nodings all day long. You'd oughter go
into business, and get rich. You're smart enough, and you got enerchy. I
was in business already when I was ten years old, and I ain't no smarter
as you, and I ain't got no more enerchy. Yes, Bubby, you take my advice:
come down to New York, and I get you a chop, and you make your fortune,
no mistake about it. And now, Bubby, I want to give you a little present
to remember me by.”
He drew a great fat roll of money from his waistcoat pocket, and offered
me a two-dollar bill.
“O, no! I thank you, sir,” I hastened to say. “I don't want any money.”
“O, well! this ain't no money to speak of, Bubby; only a two-tollar
pill. You just take it, and buy yourself a little keepsake. It von't
hurt you.”
“You're very kind, sir; but I really can't take it, thank you.” And it
flashed through my mind: “What would Uncle Florimond think of me, if I
should accept his money?”
“Well, dot's too bad. I really like to make you a little present, Bubby.
But if you was too proud, what you say if I give it to the other boy,
hey?”
“Oh! to Sam--yes, I think that would be a very good idea,” I replied.
So he called Sam--_Sem_ was the way he pronounced it--and gave him
the two-dol-lar bill, which Sam received without the faintest show of
compunction.
“Well, I got to go now,” the fisherman said, holding out his hand.
“Well, good-by, Bubby; and don't forget, when you come to New York, to
give me a call. Well, so-long.”
Sam and I watched him till he got out of sight. Then we too started for
home.
At the time, my talk with Mr. Solomon D. Marx did not make any especial
impression on me; but a few days later it came back to me, the subject
of serious meditation. The circumstances were as follows:--
We had just got through our supper, and Uncle Peter had gone to his
room, when all at once I heard his door open, and his voice, loud and
sharp, call, “Gregory!”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, my heart in a flutter; and to myself I thought,
“O, dear, what can be the matter now?”
“Come here, quick!” he ordered.
I entered his room, and saw him standing near his table, with a
cigar-box in his hand.
“You young rascal,” he began; “so you have been stealing my cigars!”
This charge of theft was so unexpected, so insulting, so untrue, that,
if he had struck me a blow between the eyes, it could not have taken me
more aback. The blood rushed to my face; my whole frame grew rigid, as
if I had been petrified. I tried to speak; but my presence of mind had
deserted me; I could not think of a single word.
“Well?” he questioned. “Well? ''
“I--I--I”--I stammered. Scared out of my wits, I could get no further.
“Well, have you nothing to say for yourself?”
“I--I did--I didn't--do it,” I gasped. “I don't know what you mean.”
“What!” he thundered. “You dare to lie to me about it! You dare to steal
from me, and then lie to my face! You insufferable beggar! I'll teach
you a lesson.” And, putting out his hand, he took his rattan cane from
the peg it hung by on the wall.
“Oh! really and truly, Uncle Peter,” I protested, “I never stole a thing
in all my life. I never saw your cigars. I didn't even know you had any.
Oh! you--you're not going to whip me, when I didn't do it?”
“Why, what a barefaced little liar it is! Egad! you do it beautifully. I
wouldn't have given you credit for so much cleverness.” He said this in
a sarcastic voice, and with a mocking smile. Then he frowned, and his
voice changed. “Come here,” he snarled, his fingers tightening upon the
handle of his cane.
A great wave of anger swept over me, and brought me a momentary flush of
courage. “No, sir; I won't,” I answered, my whole body in a tremor.
Uncle Peter started. I had never before dared to defy him. He did not
know what to make of my doing so now. He turned pale. He bit his lip.
His eyes burned with a peculiarly ugly light. So he stood, glaring at
me, for a moment. Then, “You--won't,” he repeated, very low, and pausing
between the words. “Why, what kind of talk is this I hear? Well, well,
my fine fellow, you amuse me.”
I was standing between him and the door. I turned now, with the idea of
escaping from the room. But he was too quick for me. I had only just got
my hand upon the latch, when he sprang forward, seized me by the collar
of my jacket, and, with one strong pull, landed me again in the middle
of the floor.
“There!” he cried. “Now we'll have it out. I owe you four: one for
stealing my cigars; one for lying to me about it; one for telling me you
wouldn't; and one for trying to sneak out of the room. Take this, and
this, and this.”
With that he set his rattan cane in motion; nor did he bring it to a
stand-still until I felt as though I had not one well spot left upon my
skin.
“Now, then, be off with you,” he growled; and I found myself in the hall
outside his door.
I dragged my aching body to my room, and sat down at my window in the
dark. Never before had I experienced such a furious sense of outrage.
Many and many a time I had been whipped, as I thought, unjustly; but
this time he had added insult to injury; he had accused me of stealing
and of lying; and, deaf to my assertion of my innocence, he had punished
me accordingly. I seriously believe that I did not mind the whipping
in itself half so much as I minded the shameful accusations that he had
brought against me. “How long, how long,” I groaned, “has this got to
last? Shall I never be able to get away--to get to France, to my Uncle
Florimond? If I only had some money--if I had a hundred dollars--then
all my troubles would be over and done with. Surely, a hundred dollars
would be enough to take me to the very door of his house in Paris.” But
how--how to obtain such an enormous sum? And it was at this point that
my conversation with Mr. Solomon D. Marx came back to me:--
“Why, go to New York! Go into business! You'll soon earn a hundred
dollars. Mr. Marx said he would get you a job. Start for New York
to-morrow.”
This notion took immediate and entire possession of my fancy, and I
remained awake all night, building glittering air-castles upon it as
a foundation. The only doubt that vexed me was, “What will Uncle Peter
say? Will he let me go?” The idea of going secretly, or without his
consent, never once entered my head. “Well, to-morrow morning,” I
resolved, “I will speak with him, and ask his permission. And if he
gives it to me--hurrah! And if he doesn't--O, dear me, dear me!”
To cut a long story short, when, next morning, I did speak with him, and
ask his permission, he, to my infinite joy, responded, “Why, go, and be
hanged to you. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
In my tin savings bank, I found, I had nine dollars and sixty-three
cents. With this in my pocket; with the sword of my Uncle Florimond as
the principal part of my luggage; and with a heart full of strange and
new emotions, of fear and hope, and gladness and regret, I embarked that
evening upon the Sound steamboat, City of Lawrence, for the metropolis
where I have ever since had my home; bade good-by to my old life, and
set sail alone upon the great, awful, unknown sea of the future.