As if it were yesterday I recall the evening when I suddenly discovered
that I could run and jump; and I remember that I was intoxicated by the
delicious sensation almost to the point of falling.
This must have been at about the commencement of my second winter. At
the sad hour of twilight I was in the dining-room of my parents' house,
which room had always seemed a very vast one to me. At first, I was
quiet, made so, no doubt, by the influence of the environing darkness,
for the lamp was not yet lighted. But as the hour for dinner approached,
a maid-servant came in and threw an armful of small wood into the
fireplace to reanimate the dying fire. Immediately there was a beautiful
bright light, and the leaping flames illuminated everything, and waves
of light spread to the far part of the room where I sat. The flames
danced and leaped with a twining motion ever higher and higher and
more gayly, and the tremulous shadows along the wall ran to their
hiding-places--oh! how quickly I arose overwhelmed with admiration for
I recollect that I had been sitting at the feet of my great-aunt Bertha
(at that time already very old) who half dozed in her chair. We were
near a window through which the gray night filtered; I was seated
upon one of those high, old-fashioned foot-stools with two steps, so
convenient for little children who can from that vantage ground put
their heads in grandmother's or grand-aunt's lap, and wheedle so
effectually.
I arose in ecstasy, and approached the flames; then in the circle of
light which lay upon the carpet I began to walk around and around and to
turn. Ever faster and faster I went, until suddenly I felt an unwonted
elasticity run through my limbs, and in a twinkling I invented a new and
amusing style of motion; it was to push my feet very hard against the
floor, and then to lift them up together suddenly for a half second.
When I fell, up I sprang and recommenced my play. Bang! Bang! With every
increasing noise I went against the floor, and at last I began to feel a
singular but agreeable giddiness in my head. I knew how to jump! I knew
how to run!
I am convinced that that is my earliest distinct recollection of great
joyousness.
“Dear me! What is the matter with the child this evening?” asked my
great-aunt Bertha, with some anxiety. And I hear again the unexpected
sound of her voice.
But I still kept on jumping. Like those tiny foolish moths which of an
evening revolve about the light of a lamp, I went around in the luminous
circle which widened and retracted, ever taking form from the wavering
light of the flames. And I remember all of this so vividly that my eyes
can still see the smallest details of the texture of the carpet which
was the scene of the event. It was of durable stuff called home-spun,
woven in the country by native weavers. (Our house was still furnished
as it had been in my maternal grandmother's time, as she had arranged
it after she had quitted the Island, and come to the mainland.--A
little later I will speak of this Island which had already a mysterious
attraction for my youthful imagination.--It was a simple country house,
notable for its Huguenot austerity; and it was a home where immaculate
cleanliness and extreme order were the sole luxuries.)
In the circle of light, which grew ever more and more narrow, I still
jumped; but as I did so I had thoughts that were of an intensity not
habitual with me. At the same time that my tiny limbs discovered their
power, my spirit also knew itself; a burst of light overspread my mind
where dawning ideas still showed forth feebly. And it is without doubt
to the inner awakening that this fleeting moment of my life owes its
existence, owes undoubtedly its permanency in memory. But vainly I seek
for the words, that seem ever to escape me, through which to express my
elusive emotions. . . . Here in the dining-room I look about and see the
chairs standing the length of the wall, and I am reminded of the aged
grandmother, grand-aunts and aunts who always come at a certain hour
and seat themselves in them. Why are they not here now? At this moment I
would like to feel their protecting presence about me. Probably they are
upstairs in their rooms on the second floor; between them and me there
is the dim stairway, the stairway that I people with shadowy beings the
thought of which makes me tremble. . . . And my mother? I would wish
most especially for her, but I know that she has gone out, gone out into
the long streets which in my imagination have no end. I had myself gone
to the door with her and had asked her: “When returnest thou?” And she
had promised me that she would return speedily. Later they told me that
when I was a child I would never permit any members of the family to
leave the house to go walking or visiting without first obtaining their
assurance of a speedy homecoming. “You will come back soon?” I would
say, and I always asked the question anxiously, as I followed them to
the door.
My mother had departed, and it gave my heart a feeling of heaviness to
know that she was out. Out in the streets! I was content not to be there
where it was cold and dark, where little children so easily lost their
way,--how snug it was to be within doors before the fire that warmed me
through and through; how nice it was to be at home! I had never realized
it until this evening--doubtless it was my first distinct feeling of
attachment to hearth and home, and I was sadly troubled at the thought
of the immense, strange world lying beyond the door. It was then that
I had, for the first time, a conscious affection for my aged aunts and
grand-aunts, who cared for me in infancy, whom I longed to have seated
around me at this dim, sad, twilight hour.
In the meantime the once bright and playful flames had died down, the
armful of wood was consumed, and as the lamp was not lighted, the room
was quite dark. I had already stumbled upon the home-spun carpet, but as
I had not hurt myself, I recommenced my amusing play. For an instant I
thought to experience a new but strange joy by going into the shadowy
and distant recesses of the room; but I was overtaken there by an
indefinable terror of something which I cannot name, and I hastily took
refuge in the dim circle of light and looked behind me with a shudder
to see whether anything had followed me from out of those dark corners.
Finally the flames died away entirely, and I was really afraid; aunt
Bertha sat motionless upon her chair, and although I felt that her eyes
were upon me I was not reassured. The very chairs, the chairs ranged
about the room, began to disquiet me because their long shadows, that
stretched behind them exaggerating the height of ceiling and length
of wall, moved restlessly like souls in the agonies of death. And
especially there was a half-open door that led into a very dark hall,
which in its turn opened into a large empty parlor absolutely dark. Oh!
with what intensity I fixed my eyes upon that door to which I would not
for the world have turned my back!
This was the beginning of those daily winter-evening terrors which in
that beloved home cast such a gloom over my childhood.
What I feared to see enter that door had no well defined form, but
the fear was none the less definite to me: and it kept me standing
motionless near the dead fire with wide open eyes and fluttering heart.
When my mother suddenly entered the room by a different door, oh! how
I clung to her and covered my face with her dress: it was a supreme
protection, the sanctuary where no harm could reach me, the harbor of
harbors where the storm is forgotten. . . .
At this instant the thread of recollection breaks, I can follow it no
farther.