HIS ENTRANCE INTO THE WORLD
It has always been rather interesting to me to remember that he first
presented himself in an impenetrable disguise. It was a disguise
sufficiently artful to have disarmed the most wary. I, who am not at
all a far-sighted person, was completely taken in by him. I saw nothing
to warrant in the slightest degree any suspicion that he had descended
to earth with practical intentions; that he furtively cherished plans
of making himself into the small hero of a book, the picturesque
subject of illustrations, the inspiration of a fashion in costume, the
very _jeune premier_ in a play over which people in two continents
would laugh and cry.
Perhaps, in periods before he introduced himself to his family that
morning of April 5, 1876, in a certain house in Paris, he may have
known all this, and laid out his little plans with adroitness and
deliberation; but when I first examined him carefully, as he lay on
my arm, looking extremely harmless and extremely fast asleep in his
extremely long nightgown, he did not bear at all the aspect of a crafty
and designing person; he only looked warm and comfortable, and quite
resigned to his situation.
He had been clever enough to disguise himself as a baby—a quite new
baby, in violet powder and a bald head and a florid complexion. He
had even put on small, indefinite features and entirely dispensed
with teeth, besides professing inability to speak, a fastidious
simplicity of taste in the matter of which limited him to the most
innocuous milk diet. But beneath this disguise there he lurked, the
small individual who, seven years later—apparently quite artlessly and
unconsciously—presented his smiling, ingenuous little face to the big
world, and was smiled back upon by it—Little Lord Fauntleroy. He was a
quite unromantic little person. Only a prejudiced maternal parent could
have picked him out from among seventy-five other babies of the same
age; but somehow we always felt that he had a tiny character of his
own, and somehow it was always an amusing little character, and one’s
natural tendency was to view him in rather a jocular light.
In the first place, he had always been thought of as a little girl.
It was the old story of “Your sister, Betsey Trotwood;” and when he
presented himself, with an unflinching firmness, in the unexpected
character of a little boy, serious remonstrance was addressed to him.
“This habit you have contracted of being a little boy,” his mamma said
to him, “is most inconvenient. Your name was to be Vivien. ‘Vivien’
is Early English, and picturesque and full of color; Vivian, which is
a boy’s name, I don’t think so much of. It sounds like a dandy, and
reminds me of Vivian Grey; but, after the way you have behaved, it is
about all I can do for you, because I am too tired of thinking of names
to be equal to inventing anything else.”
If it had not been for his disguise, and his determination not to be
betrayed into the weakness of speech, it is quite possible he might
have responded:
“If you will trust the matter to me, I will manage to reconcile you to
the name, and make you feel there is some consolation for the fact that
I preferred to be myself, instead of Vivien. Just give me time.”
We were, of course, obliged to give him time, and he wasted none
of it. One of the favorite jokes was that he was endeavoring to
ingratiate himself with us, and by a strict attention to business to
merit future patronage. We felt it very clever of him to elect to do
this quietly; to occupy the position he had chosen for himself with
such unobtrusiveness that no one could possibly object to him. This
might really have been the deepest craft. To have proved one’s self
an individual to whom no one can object on any pretext, is really an
enormous step in the direction of gaining a foothold. It is quite
possible that he realized that the step he had taken had been somewhat
premature; that to introduce himself to a family absorbed in study and
foreign travel, and an elder brother aged eighteen months, had not
been entirely discreet, and that a general decorum of manner would
be required to obliterate the impression that he had been somewhat
inconsiderate.
His elder brother had decided to become a stately beauty, and after
some indeterminate months had set up as premonitory symptoms large
brown eyes, a deepening golden tinge of hair, and a distinguished and
gracefully exclusive demeanor. His opinion of the new-comer was that
he was an interloper. I think his private impression was that he was
vulgar, also that he was fatuous and unnecessary. He used to stand
by his nurse’s knee when she held the intruder, and regard her with
haughty reflection from under his eyelids. She had hitherto been his
sole property, and her defection seemed to him to denote inferior taste
and instability of character. On one occasion, after standing by her
in disapproving silence for some time, while he alternately looked at
her and then at the white bundle on her knee, he waved his hand toward
the grate, remarking, with more dignity of demeanor than clearness of
enunciation:
“F’ow him in ’er fire!”
We were sure that the new member of the family appreciated the
difficulty of his position. We wondered if he had understood when he
had heard us refer to him as the “Little Calamity.” After a few days’
acquaintance with him we were afraid he had, and felt a delicacy in
using the term, which we had at first thought rather a good joke.
Dear Little Calamity, how often we have spoken of that misnomer since!
From his first hour his actions seemed regulated by the peaceful
resolve never to be in the way, and never to make any one uncomfortable.
The unvarying serenity with which he devoted himself to absorbing as
much nourishment as his small system would hold, and then sleeping
sweetly for hours and most artistically assimilating it, was quite
touching.
“Look at him,” his mamma would say. “He is trying to insinuate himself.
He intends to prove that he is really an addition, and that no family
should be without him. But no family can have him,” she burst forth in
a very short time, “no family but ours. Nobody is rich enough to buy
him. He has made his own price, and it is five hundred thousand million
dollars!” When he had selected her as a parent he had probably observed
that she was a susceptible person—peculiarly susceptible to the special
variety of charms he had to offer. He had analyzed her weakness and his
strength, and had known she was a fitting victim for his seductive arts.
The unflinchingness with which he applied himself to the fine art of
infant fascination was really worth reflecting upon. At thirty there
are numerous methods by which a person may prove that he is worthy
of affection and admiration; at three months his charms and virtues
are limited to a good digestion, a tendency to somnolence, and an
unobtrusive temper. The new arrival did not obtrude upon us any
ostentatiously novel attractions. He merely applied himself to giving
his family the most superior specimens of the meritorious qualities his
tender age was entitled to. He never complained of feeling unwell, he
was generally asleep, and when he was awake he would lie upon his back
without revolt for a much longer period than is submitted to usually
by persons of his months. And when he did so he invariably wore the air
of being engaged in sweet-tempered though profound reflection.
[Illustration: FAUNTLEROY’S WELCOME INTO THE WORLD: “F’OW HIM IN ’ER
FIRE!”]
He had not seemed to regret being born in Paris, but he seemed
agreeably impressed by America when he was taken there at the age of
six weeks. Feeling himself restored to a land of republican freedom, he
began to feel at liberty to unfold his hitherto concealed resources.
He began by giving less time to sleep and more to agreeable, though
inarticulate, conversation. He began to sit up and look around him
with soft, shadowy, and peculiarly thoughtful eyes. The expression—the
dear little dreamy, reflective expression—of his eyes was his most
valuable possession. It was a capital. It attracted the attention of
his immediate relatives and ensnared them into discussing his character
and wondering what he was thinking of. His eyes were brown, and having
heard their color remarked on in a complimentary manner, he, with great
artistic presence of mind, stealthily applied himself to developing
upon his hitherto bald head golden hair with a curl in it.
It was his mamma who first discovered this. She was lying upon a grassy
slope, playing with him, and holding him up in the sunlight at arm’s
length; she saw in the brightness a sort of faint little nimbus of gold
crowning him.
“Oh, the Lammie day!” she cried out. (“Lammie day” is not in the
dictionary; it was a mere maternal inspiration.) “See what he is doing
now! He is putting out a lovely little golden fuzz all over his head,
and there is a tiny curl at the ends—like little duck-tails! He has
asked somebody or something, perhaps a fairy, what kind of hair I
like with brown eyes, and he is doing it on purpose.” It seemed not
improbable that, on inquiring into her character before selecting her,
he had grounded himself thoroughly in the matter of her tastes, and had
found that an insistent desire for a certain beauty in the extremely
young was one of her weaknesses also.
From his earliest hours he considered her. He had not anticipated
walking alone at nine months old, but in their intimate moments he
discovered she had really set her heart upon his doing so.
“Your brother walked alone beautifully when he was nine months old,”
she would remark, “and if you wait until you are ten months old I shall
feel that you have dishonored your family and brought my reddish hair
with sorrow to the grave.”
This being the case, he applied himself to making determined, if slow,
little pilgrimages upon the carpet on his hands and knees. His reward
was that the first time he essayed this he was saluted with cries of
adulation and joy, notwithstanding the fact that his attempt was
rather wabbly in character, and its effect was marred by his losing his
balance and rolling over in a somewhat ignominious manner.
“He is creeping!” his mamma said. “He has begun to creep! He is going
to walk as soon as Lionel did!” and everything available in the form
of an audience was gathered together in the room, to exult with
acclamations over the enrapturing spectacle of a small thing dragging
its brief white frock and soft plump body, accompanied and illumined by
a hopeful smile, over a nursery carpet.
“He is so original!” his unprejudiced parent exclaimed, with fine
discrimination. “He’s creeping, of course, and babies have crept
before, but he gives it a kind of air, as if he had invented it, and
yet was quite modest.”
Her discrimination with regard to his elder brother had been quite as
fine. There were even persons who regarded her as being prejudiced by
undue affection. It has never been actually proved that the aspirant
for pedestrian honors had privately procured a calendar and secreted
it for daily reference as to the passage of time, but if this were not
the case, it was really by a rather singular coincidence that the day
before his ninth month was completed he arrested his creeping over the
carpet, and, dragging himself up by a chair to a standing position,
covered himself with glory by staggering, flushed, uncertain, but
triumphant, at least six steps across the floor unaided and alone.
He was snatched up and kissed until he was breathless. He was ruffled
and tumbled with delightful little shakes and ecstatic little hugs.
He bore it all with the modest composure of a conqueror, who did not
deign trivial airs and graces. His cheeks were warm and pink; he made
no remark whatever, but there was in his eyes a soft, coy little smile
which only a person of his Machiavellian depth of character could have
accomplished. By that time, by adroit machinations and an unbounded
knowledge of human weakness, he had assured his position in the
respectable family of which he had chosen to become a member. It would
have been impossible to oust him, or to work upon the feelings of his
relatives in any such manner as would have induced them to listen for
a moment to any animadversions upon his conduct. His eyelashes, his
indefinite features, his totter, his smile, were considered to become
matters of the most thrilling national importance. On the magnificent
occasion when he first decided to follow his mamma up-stairs, and
consequently applied himself to the rather prolonged and serious
athletic task of creeping up step by step on his dusty little hands and
soft knees, and electrifying her by confronting her, when she turned
and saw him, with a sweetly smiling and ardent little upturned face—on
that occasion it seemed really that it could only be by the most
remarkable oversight that there were not columns of editorials on the
subject in the London _Times_.
“They wrote about the passing of bills in Parliament,” his parent
remarked, “and about wars and royal marriages; why don’t they touch on
things of really vital importance?” It was at this period of existence
that his papa was frequently distracted in moments of deep absorption
in scientific subjects, by being implored to leave his essay upon
astigmatism and revert his attention upon his offspring.
“Don’t waste him!” he was besought. “He could not possibly keep up this
degree of fascination always. He might grow out of it, and then just
think how you would feel when you reflected that you had read medical
books when you might have been watching him pretending to be looking at
pictures. He ought to be economized every moment!”
But the most charming feature of his character was that his knowledge
of the possession of glittering accomplishments, which were
innumerable, never betrayed him into forgetting that his attitude
toward the entire world was one of the most perfect good-fellowship.
When he was spoken to, he smiled; when he was kissed, even by
unprepossessingly familiar persons, he always comported himself with
graceful self-control and dignity. The trying fact, which I am sure was
more apparent to no one than to himself, that there were individuals
whose idea of entertaining him was to make blatant idiots of
themselves, was never resented by him openly. When they uttered strange
sounds, and poked his soft cheeks, or tumbled him about in an unseemly
manner, it was his habit to gaze at them with deep but not disdainful
curiosity and interest, as if he were trying to be just toward them and
explain to himself their point of view.
“It really must be rather fatiguing to him not to be able to express
himself,” was his mamma’s opinion. “He has evidently so many opinions
in reserve.”
He was so softly plump, he was so sweet-tempered, he was so pretty! One
forgot all about his Early English sister Vivien. It was as if she had
never been contemplated for a moment. The word “calamity” was artfully
avoided in conversation. One felt unworthy, and rather blushed if one
caught sight of it in literature. When he invented a special little
habit of cuddling up to his mamma in a warm, small heap, and in his
sleep making for her a heavenly downy necklace of both his arms, with
his diminutive palms locked together to hold her prisoner through the
night, she began to feel it quite possible that his enslaving effect
upon her might be such as to enfeeble an intellect even of the most
robust. But she knew him by this time well enough to realize that it
would be useless to rebel, and that she might as well succumb.
She succumbed more and more as the days went by. But she also observed
that everybody else succumbed. While making the most of his mental
charms and graces he gave a great deal of attention to his physical
attractions. It was believed that he concentrated his attention upon
his hair. He encouraged it to develop from the golden fuzz into a
golden silk, from the tiny duck-tails to shining rings, from rings to a
waving aureole, from the aureole to an entrancing mop of yellow, which
tumbled over his forehead and gave his up-looking eyes a prettiness of
expression.
And how like him it was to make a point of never objecting to have this
wayward, though lovely, growth brushed! What a _supplice_ he might
have made of the ceremony for his family if he had resented it and
rebelled! But, on the contrary, it was believed that he seized upon the
opportunity offered by it to gild the refined gold of his amiability
of disposition, as it were. Speaking as a person with some knowledge
of the habits of the extremely young, I should say that there may be
numbers of maternal parents who will scarcely believe that one of the
most enchanting hours of the day was a certain time in the morning,
when he leaned against his mamma’s knee and gave himself up to engaging
conversation while his tangles were being taken out. He made not the
slightest objection to being curled and brushed and burnished up and
made magnificent. His soft, plump body rested confidingly against the
supporting knee, and while the function proceeded he devoted himself to
agreeable remark and analytical observation.
There was an expression of countenance it was his habit to wear at
such times which was really a matter of the finest art. It combined
philosophic patience, genial leniency, and a sweet determination to
make the very best of a thing, which was really beautiful to behold.
It was at these times that a series of nursery romances, known as “The
Hair-Curling Series,” was invented and related. They were notable
chiefly for good, strong, dramatic coloring, and their point was the
illustration of the useful moral that little boys with a great deal of
beautiful curly hair are naturally rewarded—if they are always good
when it is brushed—by delightful adventures, such as being played with
by fairies and made friends with by interesting wild animals, whose
ravenous propensities are softened to the most affectionate mildness
by the sight of such high-mindedness in tender youth. There was one
story, known as “The Good Wolf,” which lasted for months, and was a
never-ending source of delight, as it rejoiced in features which could
be varied to adapt themselves to any circumstance or change of taste in
playthings. It was the laudable habit of the good wolf to give presents
to little boys who were deserving, besides taking them delightful rides
in a little sleigh, and one could vary the gifts and excursions to an
unlimited extent. Another, known as “The Mournful Story of Benny,” was
a fearful warning, but ended happily, and as it was not of a personal
nature was not disapproved of, and was listened to with respectful and
sympathizing interest, though “The Good Wolf” was preferred.
A delightfully intelligent little expression and an occasional dear
little gurgling laugh when the best points were made, convinced me that
the point of view of the listener was an appreciation of the humor
between the lines quite as clear, in a four-year-old way, as that of
the relater of the incidents. He revelled in the good wolf and was
concerned by the misfortunes of Benny, who had brought tragedy upon
himself by being so lost to all sense of virtue as to cut off his
curls, but he knew they were highly colored figures, and part of a
subtile and delightful joke.
But long before this he had learned to talk, and it was then that we
were introduced to the treasures of his mind.
What was the queer little charm which made every one like him so much,
which made every one smile when he looked at them, which made every one
listen when he spoke, which made arms quite involuntarily close around
his small body when he came within reach?
The person who made the closest study of his character devoted five or
six years to it before she was quite sure what this charm consisted
in. Then she decided that it was formed of a combination of fortunate
characteristics which might have lost all their value of fascination
but for their being illumined by the warmth and brightness of a purely
kind little heart, full of friendliness to the whole world.
He was pretty, but many little boys were pretty; he was quaint and
amusing, but so are many scores. The difference between this one tiny
individuality and others was that he seemed to have been born without
sense of the existence of any barrier between his own innocent heart
and any other.
I think it had never occurred to him that any one could possibly
be unfriendly or unloving to him. He was a perfectly human little
thing, not a young cherub, but a rational baby, who made his frocks
exceedingly dirty, and rejoiced sweetly in the making of mud pies. But,
somehow, his radiant smile of belief in one’s sympathy, even with his
mud pies, minimized the trouble of contending with the earthly features
of him.
His opinion evidently was that the world was made of people who
loved him and smiled if they saw him, of things one could play with
and stories one could listen to, and of friends and relations who
were always ready to join in the play and tell the stories. He went
peacefully to the curl-brushing ordeal, perhaps because of this
confiding sureness that any hand that dealt with him would touch him
tenderly. He never doubted it.
One morning, before he was three years old, he trotted into the
dining-room with a beautifully preoccupied expression, evidently on
business thoughts intent. The breakfast was over, but his mamma was
still sitting at the table, reading.
She heard the tiny pattering of feet coming down the hall before he
entered. She had thought him with his nurse, but he appeared to be
returning from some unusual expedition to the front door, which, as it
was a warm, early summer morning, stood open.
She was always curious about his mental processes, and so, when he
trotted to the table with his absorbed air, and stood upon his tiptoes,
making serious efforts to gain possession of a long loaf of French
bread, she regarded him with interest—he was so little, and the roll of
bread was so long, and his intentions to do something practical with it
were so evident. Somehow, one of his allurements was that he was always
funny, and he was so purely because his small point of view was always
so innocently serious.
“What does mamma’s baby want?” she asked. He looked at her with an
air of sweet good faith, and secured the bread, tucking it in all its
dignity of proportion under the very shortest possible arm.
“Lady,” he said, “lady, f’ont door—want b’ead,” and he trotted off,
with a simple security in the sense of doing the right and only
admissible thing, which it was reposeful to behold.
His mamma left her book hurriedly and trotted after him. Such a quaint
baby figure he was, with the long French roll under his arm! And he
headed straight for the front door.
Standing upon the top step was an exceedingly dilapidated and
disreputable little negro girl with an exceedingly dirty and broken
basket on her arm. This basket was intended to contain such scraps of
food as she might beg for. She was grinning a little, and at the same
time looking a little anxious, as the baby came toddling to her, the
sun on his short curls, the loaf under his short arm.
[Illustration: HIS INITIAL ACT OF CHARITY: “LADY,” HE SAID, “LADY,
F’ONT DOOR—WANT B’EAD”]
He dropped the loaf into her basket with sweet friendliness.
“B’ead, lady,” he said. And as she scurried away he turned to smile at
his approaching mamma with the confidence of a two-year-old angel.
“Lady, b’ead,” he remarked succinctly, and the situation was explained.
The dirty little colored girl was a human thing in petticoats,
consequently she was a lady. His tender mind saw no other conclusion
to be arrived at. She had expressed a desire for bread. On his mamma’s
breakfast table there was a beautiful long loaf. Of course it must be
given to her. The question of demand and supply was so easily settled;
so he trotted after the bread. The mere circumstances of short legs and
short arms did not deter a spirit like his.
And it was this simple and unquestioning point of view which made him
adorable.
CHAPTER II
IN WHITE FROCK AND SASH
In the drawing-room, in full war-paint of white frock and big sash, he
was the spirit of innocent and friendly hospitality, in the nursery
he was a brilliant entertainment, below stairs he was the admiration
and delight of the domestics. The sweet temper which prompted him to
endeavor to sustain agreeable conversation with the guest who admired
him led him, also, to enter into friendly converse with the casual
market-man at the back door, and to entertain with lively anecdote and
sparkling repartee the extremely stout colored cook in the kitchen.
He endeavored to assist her in the performance of her more arduous
culinary duties, and by his sympathy and interest sustained her in
many trying moments. When he was visiting her department chuckles and
giggles might be heard issuing from the kitchen when the door was
opened. Those who heard them always knew that they were excited by the
moral or social observations or affectionate advice and solace of the
young but distinguished guest.
“Me an’ Carrie made that pudding,” he would kindly explain, at dinner.
“It’s a very good pudding. Carrie’s such a nice cook. She lets me help
her.”
And his dimples would express such felicity, and his eyes beam from
under his tumbling love-locks with such pleasure, at his confidence
in the inevitable rapture of his parents at the announcement of his
active usefulness, that no one possessed sufficient strength of mind to
correct the grammatical structure of his remarks.
There is a picture—not one of Mr. Birch’s—which I think will always
remain with me. It is ten years since I saw it, but I see it still.
It is the quaint one of a good-looking, stout, colored woman climbing
slowly up a back staircase with a sturdy little fellow on her back, his
legs astride her spacious waist, his arms clasped round her neck, his
lovely mop of yellow hair tumbling over her shoulder, upon which his
cheek affectionately and comfortably rests.
It does not come within the province of cooks to toil up-stairs with
little boys on their backs, especially when the little boys have stout
little legs of their own, and are old enough to wear Jersey suits and
warlike scarfs of red, but in this case the carrying up-stairs was an
agreeable ceremony, partly jocular and wholly affectionate, engaged
in by two confidants, and the bearer enjoyed it as much as did her
luxurious burden.
“We’re friends, you know,” he used to say. “Carrie’s my friend, and
Dan’s my friend. Carrie’s such a kind cook, and Dan’s such a nice
waiter.”
That was the whole situation in a nutshell. They were his friends, and
they formed together a mutual admiration society.
His conversation with them we knew was enriched by gems of valuable and
entertaining information. Among his charms was his desire to acquire
information, and the amiable readiness with which he imparted it to
his acquaintances. We gathered that while assisting in the making of
pudding he was lavish in the bestowal of useful knowledge. Intimate
association and converse with him had revealed to his mamma that
there was no historical, geographical, or scientific fact which might
not be impressed upon him in story form, and fill him with rapture.
Monsoons and typhoons, and the crossing of the Great Desert on camels,
he found absorbing; the adventures of Romulus and Remus, and their
good wolf, and the founding of Rome, held him spellbound. He found the
vestal virgins and their task of keeping up the sacred fires in the
temple sufficiently interesting to be made into a species of dramatic
entertainment during his third year. It was his habit to creep out of
his crib very early in the morning, and entertain himself agreeably in
the nursery until other people got up. One morning his mamma, lying in
her room, which opened into the nursery, heard a suspicious sound of
unlawful poking at the fire.
“Vivvie,” she said, “is that you?”
The poking ceased, but there was no reply. Silence reigned for a few
moments, and then the sound was heard again.
“Vivian,” said his anxious parent, “you are not allowed to touch the
fire.”
Small, soft feet came pattering hurriedly into the room; round the
footboard of the bed a ruffled head and seriously expostulatory little
countenance appeared.
“Don’t you know,” he said, with an air of lenient remonstrance, “don’t
you _know_ I’s a westal wirgin?”
It would be impossible to explain him without relating anecdotes. Is
there not an illustration of the politeness of his demeanor and the
grace of his infant manners in the reply renowned in his history,
made at the age of four, when his mamma was endeavoring to explain
some interesting point in connection with the structure of his small,
plump body? It was his habit to ask so many searching questions that
it was necessary for his immediate relatives to endeavor to render
their minds compact masses of valuable facts. But on this occasion
his inquiries had led him into such unknown depths as were beyond
him for the moment—only for the moment, of course. He listened to the
statement made, his usual engaging expression of delighted interest
gradually becoming tinged with polite doubtfulness. When the effort at
explanation was at an end he laid his hand upon his mamma’s knee with
apologetic but firm gentleness.
“Well, you see,” he said, “of course you know I _believe_ you, dearest”
(the most considerate stress was laid upon the “believe”), “but,
_ascuse_ me,” with infinite delicacy, “_ascuse_ me, I do _not_ think it
is true.”
The tender premonitory assurance that his confidence was unimpaired,
even though he was staggered by the statement made, was so
affectionately characteristic of him, and the apologetic grace of the
“ascuse me, dearest,” was all his own.
There might be little boys who were oblivious of, and indifferent
to, the attractions of simoons, who saw no charm in the interior
arrangements of camels, and were indifferent to the strata of the
earth, but in his enterprising mind such subjects wakened the liveliest
interest, and a little habit he had, of suddenly startling his family
by revealing to them the wealth of his store of knowledge, by making
casual remarks, was at once instructive and enlivening.
“A camel has ever so many stomachs,” he might sweetly announce, while
sitting in his high chair and devoting himself to his breakfast, the
statement appearing to evolve itself from dreamy reflection. “It fills
them with water. Then it goes across the desert and carries things.
Then it isn’t thirsty.”
He was extremely pleased with the camel, and was most exhaustive in his
explanations of him. It was not unlikely that Carrie and Dan might have
passed a strict examination on the subject of incidents connected with
the crossing of the Great Desert. He also found his bones interesting,
and was most searching in his inquiries as to the circulation of his
blood. But he had been charmed with his bones from his first extremely
early acquaintance with them, as witness an incident of his third year,
which is among the most cherished by his family of their recollections
of him.
He sat upon his mamma’s knee before the nursery fire, a small, round,
delightful thing, asking questions. He had opened up the subject of
his bones by discovering that his short, plump arm seemed built upon
something solid, which he felt at once necessary to investigate.
“It is a little bone,” his mamma said, “and there is one in your other
arm, and one in each of your legs. Do you know,” giving him a caressing
little shake, “if I could see under all the fat on your little body I
should find a tiny, weenty skeleton?”
He looked up enraptured. His dimples had a power of expressing delight
never equalled by any other baby’s dimples. His eyes and his very curls
themselves seemed somehow to have something to do with it.
“If you did,” he said, “if you did, _would you give it to me to play
with_?”
He was a very fortunate small person in the fact that nature had been
extremely good to him in the matter of combining his mental sweetness
and quaintness with the great charm of physical picturesqueness. All
his little attitudes and movements were picturesque. When he stood
before one to listen he fell unconsciously into some quaint attitude;
when he talked he became ingenuously dramatic; when he sat down to
converse he mentally made a droll or delightful and graceful little
picture of himself. His childish body was as expressive as his glowing
little face. Any memory of him is always accompanied by a distinct
recollection of the expression of his face, and some queer or pretty
position which seemed to be part of his mental attitude. When he wore
frocks his habit of standing with his hands clasped behind his back in
the region of a big sash, and his trick of sitting down with a hand
upon each of the plump knees a brevity of skirt disclosed, were things
to be remembered; when he was inserted into Jersey suits and velvet
doublet and knickerbockers, his manly little fashion of standing hands
upon hips, and sitting in delicious, all unconsciously æsthetic, poses
were positively features of his character. What no dancing-master could
have taught him, his graceful childish body fell into with entire
naturalness, merely because he was a picturesque small person in both
body and mind.
Could one ever forget him as he appeared one day at the seaside, when
coming up from the beach with his brief trousers rolled up to his
stalwart little thighs? He stood upon the piazza, spade and bucket in
hand, looking with deep, sympathetic interest at a male visitor who
was on the point of leaving the house. This visitor was a man who had
recently lost his wife suddenly. He was a near relative of a guest in
the house, and the young friend of all the world had possibly heard
his bereavement discussed. But at six years old it is not the custom
of small boys to concern themselves about such events. It seems that
this one did, however, though the caller was not one of his intimates.
He stood apart for a few moments, looking at him with a tenderly
reflective countenance. His mamma, seeing his absorption, privately
wondered what he was thinking of. But presently he transferred both
spade and bucket to one hand, and came forward, holding out the other.
I do not think anything could have been quainter and more sweet than
the kind little face which uplifted itself to the parting guest.
“Mr. Wenham,” he said, “I’m _very_ sorry for you, Mr. Wenham, about
your wife being dead. I’m very sorry for you. I know how you must miss
her.”
Even the sympathy of six years old does not go for nothing. There was a
slight moisture in Mr. Wenham’s eyes as he shook the small, sandy hand,
and his voice was not quite steady as he answered, “Thank you, Vivvie,
thank you.”
It was when he was spending the summer at this place that he made the
acquaintance of the young lady whose pony he regarded as a model of
equine strength and beauty. It was the tiniest possible pony, whose
duty it was to draw a small phaeton containing a small girl and her
governess. But I was told it was a fine sight to behold the blooming
little gentleman caller standing before this stately equipage, his
hands on his hips, his head upon one side, regarding the steed with
quite the experienced air of an aged jockey.
“That’s a fine horse,” he said. “You see, it’s got plenty of muscle.
What I like is a horse with plenty of muscle.”
[Illustration: “I’M VERY SORRY FOR YOU, MR. WENHAM, ABOUT YOUR WIFE
BEING DEAD”]
And when we drove away from the cottage at the end of the summer, I
myself perhaps a shade saddened, as one often is by the thought that
the days of sunshine and roses are over, he put his small hand in mine
and looked up at me wistfully.
“We liked that little house, didn’t we, dearest?” he said. “We will
always like it, won’t we?”
“Do you know my friend Mrs. Wilkins?” he inquired one day, when he was
still small enough to wear white frocks, and not old enough to extend
his explorations further than the part of the quiet street opposite the
house he lived in.
“And who is your friend Mrs. Wilkins?” his mamma inquired.
“She is a very nice lady that saw me through her window when I was
playing on the pavement, and we talked to each other, and she asked
me to come into her house. She’s such a kind lady, and she paints
beautiful cups and saucers. She’s my friend. And her cook is a nice
lady too. She lives in the basemen’ and she talks to me through the
window. She likes little boys. I have two friends in that house.”
“My friend Mrs. Wilkins” became one of his cherished intimates. His
visits to her were frequent and prolonged.
“I’ve just been to see my friend Mrs. Wilkins,” he would say; or, “My
friend Mrs. Wilkins’s husband is very kind to me. We go to his store,
and he gives me oranges.”
It is not improbable that he also painted china during his calls upon
his friend Mrs. Wilkins. It is certain that, if he did not otherwise
assist, his attitude was that of an enthusiastic admirer of the art.
That his conversation with the lady embraced many subjects, we have
evidence in an anecdote frequently related with great glee by those to
whom the incident was reported. I myself was not present during the
ingenuous summing up of the charm of social life, but I have always
mentally seen him taking his part in the scene in one of his celebrated
conversational attitudes, in which he usually sat holding his plump
knee in a manner which somehow seemed to express deep, speculative
thought.
“Are you in society, Mrs. Wilkins?” he inquired, ingenuously.
“What _is_ being in society, Vivvie?” Mrs. Wilkins replied, probably
with the intention of drawing forth his views.
“It’s—well—there are a great many carriages, you know, and a great many
ladies come to see you. And they say, ‘How _are_ you, Mrs. Burnett?
So glad to find you at home.’ Gabble, gabble, gabble, gabble. ‘_Good_
morning!’ And they go away. That’s it.”
I am not quite sure that I repeat the exact phrasing, but the idea is
intact, and the point which inspired the hearers with such keen joy was
that he had absolutely no intention of making an unfriendly criticism.
He was merely painting an impressionist’s picture. On his own part he
was fond of society. It delighted him to be allowed to come into the
drawing-room on the days when his mamma was “at home.” This function
impressed him as an agreeable festivity. As he listened to the “gabble,
gabble, gabble,” he beamed with friendly interest. He admired the
ladies, and regarded them as beautiful and amiable. It was his pleasure
to follow the departing ones into the hall and render them gallant
assistance with their wraps.
“I like ladies, dearest,” he would say. “They are so pretty.”
At what age he became strongly imbued with the stanchest Republican
principles, it would be difficult to say. He was an unflinching
Republican.
“My dearest Mamma,” he wrote me in one of the splendid epistolary
efforts of his earliest years, “I am sorry that I have not had time
to write to you before. I have been so occupied with the presidential
election. The boys in my school knock me down and jump on me because
they want me to go Democrat. But I am still a strong Republican. I
send you a great many hugs and kisses.
“Your obedient and humble son and servant,
“VIVIAN.”
He was given to inventing picturesque terminations to his letters, and
he seemed particularly pleased with the idea of being my humble or
obedient son and servant. The picture the letter brought to my mind of
a flushed and tumbled but stanch little Republican engaged in a sort of
kindergarten political tussle with equally flushed and tumbled little
Democrats wore an extremely American aspect. Figuratively speaking,
he plunged into the thick of the electioneering fray. He engaged in
political argument upon all available occasions. Fortunately for his
peace of mind, Carrie and Dan favored the Republican party. Dan took
him to see Republican torchlight processions, and held him upon his
shoulders while he waved his small hat, his hair flying about his
glowing face while he shouted himself hoarse. No unworthy party cry
of “’Rah for Hancock!” went unanswered by the clarion response. At
the sound of such a cry in the street the nursery windows flew open
with a bang, and two ecstatic Republicans (himself and brother) almost
precipitated themselves into space, shouting “’Rah for Garfield!”
Without such precautions he felt his party would be lost. I think he
was six when he discovered that he was a supporter of the movement
in favor of female suffrage. It was rather a surprise to us when this
revealed itself, but his reasons were of such a serious and definite
nature that they were arguments not to be refuted.
[Illustration: “ARE YOU IN SOCIETY, MRS. WILKINS?”]
When he gave them he was leaning against a window-ledge in a room in a
seaside home, his hands in his red sash, his countenance charming with
animation.
“I believe they ought to be allowed to vote if they like it,” he said,
“’cause what should we do if there were no ladies? Nobody would have
any mothers or any wives.”
“That is true,” his maternal audience encouraged him by saying. “The
situation would be serious.”
“And nobody could grow up,” he proceeded. “When any one’s a baby, you
know, he hasn’t any teeth, and he can’t eat bread and things. And if
there were no ladies to take care of him when he was very first born
he’d die. I think people ought to let them vote if they want to.”
This really seemed so to go to the root of things that the question
appeared disposed of.
One laughed and laughed at him. All his prettiness was quaint, and so
innocent that its unconsciousness made one smile. Only sometimes—quite
often—while one was smiling one was queerly touched and stirred.
What a picture of a beautiful, brave little spirit, aflame with young
fervor, he was the day I went into a room and found him reading for the
first time in his brief life the story of the American Revolution!
He sat in a large chair, one short leg tucked under him, a big book on
his knee, his love-locks tumbling over his ecstasied child face. He
looked up, glowing, when I entered. His cheeks were red, his eyes were
beautiful.
“Dearest,” he said, “dearest, listen. _Here’s_ a brave man, here’s a
brave man! This is what he says, ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’”
It was somehow so movingly incongruous—this “pretty page with dimpled
chin” stirred so valiantly by his “liberty or death.” I kissed his
golden thatch, laughing and patting it, but a little lump was in my
throat.
Where did he learn—faithful and tender heart—to be such a lover as he
was? Surely no woman ever had such a lover before! What taught him
to pay such adorable childish court, and to bring the first-fruits
of every delight to lay upon one shrine? In the small garden where
he played—a toddling thing, accumulating stains of grass and earth
in truly human fashion on his brief white frock—the spring scattered
sparsely a few blue violets. How he applied himself to searching for
them, to gather them with pretty laboriousness until he had collected
a small, warm handful, somewhat dilapidated before it was large enough
to be brought up-stairs in the form of a princely floral gift!
It is nearly fourteen years since they were first laid at my feet—these
darling little grubby handfuls of exhausted violets—but I can hear
yet the sound of the small feet climbing the staircase, stoutly but
carefully, the exultant voice shouting at intervals all the way up from
the first flight: “Sweet dearest! Sweet de-ar-est! I got somefin’ for
you! Please le’ me in.”
So many beautiful names had been tried by turns by himself and brother,
but they found “sweetest” and “sweet dearest” the most satisfactory.
Finally they decided upon “dearest” as combining and implying the
sentiment they were inspired by.
There was in a certain sacred workroom at the top of the house a
receptacle known as the “treasure drawer.” It was always full of
wonderful things, rich gifts brought carefully and with lavish
generosity from the grass in the back yard, from dust heaps, from the
street, from anywhere; bits of glass or pebble, gorgeous advertising
cards, queerly shaped twigs or bits of wood, pictures out of papers,
small, queer toys, possessing some charm which might make them valuable
to an appreciative maternal relative. And just before they were
presented I always heard the small feet on the stairs, the knock on the
door, and the delightful, confiding voice outside: “Please, may I come
in? I’ve brought a treasure for you, dearest.”
We always spoke of them as “treasures.” They seemed so beautiful and
valuable to the donor, that love brought them at once as a gift to
love, and the recipient saw them with his eyes.
The very first bud which appeared on the oldfashioned rose-bushes at
the back of the house was watched for and discovered when it was a
tiny, hard, green thing.
“There’s a bud,” he would say, “and I’m watching till it is a rose, so
that I can give it to you.”
There is nothing so loving as a child who is loved. What valuable
assistance he rendered in the matter of toilet! How charmed he was with
any pretty new thing! How delighted to be allowed to put on slippers
or take them off, to stand by the dressing-table and hand pins, and
give the benefit of his admiring advice. And how adorable it was to
come home late from a party and find the pincushion adorned with a
love-letter, scrawled boldly in lead pencil and secured by a long pin.
In conjunction with his brother—who was the troubadour of love from his
infancy, and who has a story of his own—he invented the most delightful
surprises for those late returns. Sometimes pieces of candy wrapped in
paper awaited the arrival, sometimes _billets doux_, sometimes singular
rhymes courageously entitled “A Valentine.” The following was the fine
flower of all:
“MY MAMA
“O my swetest little mama,
Sweteness that can ne’er be told
Dwells all decked in glory behind thy bosom folds.
In love and tender sweteness
Thy heart has no compare
And as through the path of sorrow
Thy heart goes wangering on
Thow always lend a helping hand
To all who are alone.
“ESEX ESSEX.”
“What does ‘Essex’ mean, darling?” I asked.
“I don’t know what it means,” he said, sweetly, “and I didn’t spell it
right at first. But, you know, when any one writes poetry they nearly
always put another name at the end, and I thought Essex would do.” He
was so desirous of making it complete!
CHAPTER III
IN BOYHOOD AND NOW
As a travelling companion what a success he was! How he made friends in
the train, at railway stations, on steamers! How, if one lost sight of
him for a moment, he invariably reappeared full of delight, with the
information that he had “found a friend.”
As I was struggling in the usual manner up the crowded gangway of an
ocean steamer on one occasion, his flushed and radiant countenance
appeared over the rail, where he had climbed.
“Dearest, dearest,” he said, “I’ve found a friend. He’s a French
gentleman and can’t speak English.” He had found him on the tug, and
they had apparently sworn eternal amity between the wharf and the
steamer, though how this had been accomplished I was never quite able
to determine, as he had only just begun to attack valiantly a verb
or so of the first conjugation. But with the assistance of “donner,”
“aller,” “aimer,” and a smile like his, nothing was impossible.
His circle of acquaintances during an ocean voyage was choice and
large. And one languid passenger, lying in her steamer chair with
cushions behind her and fur robes over her, was never passed without
the affectionate, inquiring smiles of a protector, and at intervals
through all the day he presented himself to “look after” her.
“Are you all right, dearest?” he would say. “Do you want your feet
tucked in? Did the deck steward bring you your lunch? Are your cushions
comfortable?” And these matters being attended to he would kiss her
gayly and run off to explore engines, or gather valuable information
about walking-beams.
On several occasions he and his brother made some rather long railroad
journeys alone. It was quite safe to send them. If they had not been
able to take care of themselves, half the world would have taken care
of them. Conductors conversed with them, passengers were interested in
them, and they arrived at the end of their travels laden with tribute.
After one such journey, taken together between Washington and Boston,
with what joy they performed their toilets through an entire summer
with the assistance of a large box of wonderful soaps and perfumes,
sent to them by an acquaintance made _en voyage_.
“He was Lionel’s friend,” Vivian explained. “I think he said he was a
drummer. He was so nice to us. My friend that I made was a professor
in a college, I believe, and he gave me this to remember him by.”
“This” was a pretty nugget of gold, and was accompanied by a card on
which the donor had written the most affectionately kind things of the
pleasure he had had in his brief acquaintance with his young travelling
companion, whose _bonne mine_ he should not soon forget.
One could always be quite sure that he would give no trouble during a
journey, that he would always be ready to perform any service, that no
railroad nor ocean boat official could withstand him when he presented
himself with a smiling request.
It is easy to call to mind, at any moment, some memory of him, his face
flushed, his hair damp on his forehead, his eyes courageous, as he
struggled with something too big for him, he had felt it his duty to
take charge of, as he swayed with the crowd down the gangway of some
steamer at Southampton or some _paquebot_ at Calais.
“It is too heavy for you, darling,” one would say. “You look so hot.
Let me carry it.”
“Oh, no,” would be his valiant answer. “I’m all right, dearest. It’s
rather a warm day, but a boy doesn’t mind being warm.”
Even foreign languages did not appall him.
“I’m only a little boy, you know,” he would say, cheerfully. “It
doesn’t matter if it does sound funny, just so that they understand
me. I like to talk to them.”
So he conversed with Annunciata in the kitchen, and Luigi in the
dining-room, as it had been his habit to converse with Carrie and Dan
years before, for by this time his love-locks had been cropped and had
changed to brown, but he still remained the same charming and engaging
little person.
“Boys are sometimes a great trouble,” commented Luigi, in referring to
him and his brother, “but these—they are little _signorini_.”
Fauntleroy had “occurred” nearly four years before the time when he
exhausted all the resources of the Paris Exposition, but it was still
Fauntleroy, though a taller one, in schoolboy suit and Eton collar, and
shorn of his _boucles blondes_, who marched off at nine o’clock every
morning for two weeks, and spent the day exploring the treasures of the
exhibition. Sometimes he was quite alone, sometimes he had appointments
with some “friends” he had made in the passage from New York to
Havre—three interesting men whose connection with the electrical
exhibit inspired him with admiration and delight. My impression is that
they did not speak French, and that it enraptured him to place his
vocabulary at their disposal.
“They are so kind to me, dearest,” he said, just as he had said it at
three years old, when he visited his “friend Mrs. Wilkins.”
“It must be an entertaining spectacle,” I often thought, “to see him
walk into the restaurant quite unattended, order his little _déjeuner à
la fourchette_, dispose of it in dignified solitude at a small table,
and present the _garçon_ with a _pourboire_ as if he were forty. I
should like to be a spectator from afar. No doubt the waiters know him
and make jocular remarks among themselves.”
But it was when he was only seven that Fauntleroy really occurred. He
had been so amusing and interesting that summer, and I had reflected
upon him so much! Every few days I heard some delightful anecdote about
him, or saw him do something incomparably quaint. What led me most into
speculation was the effect he invariably produced upon people, touching
little fascinations he exercised.
“Do you know, I never saw a child like him!” said a clever man of the
world who had spent an hour talking to him.
And, curiously enough, it was exactly the idea expressed by an old
colored aunty years before. “Dat chile,” she said, “he suttanly
ain’t like no other chile. ’Tain’t jest dat he’s smart—though cose
he’s smart, smart as they make ’em. It’s sump’n else. An’ he’s the
frien’liest little human I ever seed—he suttanly is!”
I had been ill that year and the year before it, and of that illness
I have many memories which are beautiful and touching things. One is
of many disturbed and weary nights, when the door of my room opened
quietly and a little figure entered—such an adorable little figure,
in a white nightgown, and with bright hair, tumbled by sleep, falling
about a serious, small face.
“I’ve come to take care of you, dearest,” he would say, with his
indescribable protecting and comforting air. “I’ll sit by you and make
you go to sleep.”
And somehow there seemed to emanate from his childish softness a sort
of soothing which could not have been put into words.
It was his special province to put me to sleep when I was restless. He
assumed it as a sacred duty, and had the utmost confidence in his power
to do it.
“I’ll put you to sleep,” he would say. “I will just sit by you and hold
your hand and make you quiet.”
How long had he sat by me on that one night which I shall always
remember? I do not know. But he had been so quiet, and had sat holding
my hand so long, that I could not find it in my heart to let him
know that the charm had not worked and that I was not really asleep.
I pretended that I was, lying very still, and breathing with soft
regularity.
He stayed quite a long time after I knew he thought I was quiet for the
night, he was so determined to be quite sure that nothing would disturb
me. At last he began with the most cautious softness to take his hand
away. When he had been a baby I had sometimes laid him down to sleep
with just such cautious movement. How gradually and softly the small
fingers released themselves one by one, how slowly, with what infinite
precaution of slowness, the warm, kind little palm was detached from
mine. Then there was a mysterious, careful movement, and I knew he was
leaving his chair. I dared not open my eyes for fear he would see me,
and be heartbroken because I was awake. What was he doing? There were
no footsteps, and yet he was moving a little—a very little, it seemed.
And the movement was so slow, and interrupted by such pauses, that the
length of time it lasted added to my curiousness. What idea had he
been inspired by? Whatsoever he was doing he was putting his entire
soul into, and he should not be crushed by the thought that it was all
in vain. When I could hear that he had reached the door I opened an
eye very cautiously. The opening of the door was as clever and quiet
as the mysterious movement. It was opened only a little, there was
more careful movement, and then it was drawn to. But though I had been
looking directly at the slip of light I had not seen him. Somehow he
had passed through without coming within my line of vision.
I lay mystified. The incomprehensibleness of it gave me something to
think about. His room was near my own, and I knew that he went to it
and got into bed. I knew, also, that he would be asleep as soon as his
curly head touched the pillow.
He had been asleep perhaps an hour when his brother came in. He had
been spending the evening at the house of a friend. He was usually a
tender and thoughtful thing himself, but this night the excitement of
festivity had intoxicated him and made him forgetful. He came up the
staircase and ran into the bedroom with a childish rush.
Exactly what happened I could only guess at. I had reason to suppose
that my young protector and medical attendant was wakened with some
extra sense of flurry taking place. He evidently sat up in bed in
reproachful despair.
“What have I done?” said his brother. “What is the matter?”
I heard tears in the plaintive little voice that answered—actual tears.
“Oh!” he said, “I know you’ve wakened her! I know you have! It was so
hard to get her to sleep. And at last I did, and then I was so afraid
of wakening her that I went down on the floor and crawled out of the
room on my hands and knees. And I think it took an hour.”
“Darling,” I murmured, in the drowsiest possible tone, when he crept
into the room to look at me, “I’ve had a lovely sleep, and I’m going
to sleep again. You made me so quiet.” But with the most serious
difficulty I restrained myself from clutching him in my arms with a
force which would have betrayed to him all my adoring duplicity.
It was things such as these I remembered when he was so deliciously
amusing, and I heard stories of him every day.
Sometimes, when swinging in my hammock on the piazza, I caught sight
of him flying on his small bicycle down the tree-shaded avenue,
a delightful, animated picture, his strong, graceful child body
beautifully defined in his trim, closefitting Jersey suit, his red
scarf and fez brilliant touches of color, his waving, flying hair
brightened to gold as he darted through the sunshine and into the
shade. I used to say to myself: “He is so good to look at! He is so
pretty! That is why every one likes him so.” And then, when I heard him
say some quaint thing which was an actual delight through its droll
ingenuousness, I said: “It is because he is so amusing!”
So I studied him day after day, often trying to imagine the effect
his fearless candor and unsophisticated point of view would have upon
certain persons who did not know his type.
I was convalescing from my long illness, and had plenty of time to
amuse myself with such speculations. He was such a patriotic young
American; he was so engaged in an impending presidential election
at the time; his remarks were so well worth hearing. I began, among
other fancies about him, to imagine his making them with that frankly
glowing face to conservative English people. He had English blood in
his veins, and things more unheard-of had occurred than that, through a
combination of circumstances, he might be surrounded by things very new
to him.
“When a person is a duke,” he had said to me once, “what makes him
one? What has he done?” His opinion evidently was that dukedoms were a
species of reward for superhuman sweetness of character and brilliant
intellectual capacity. I began to imagine the interest that would be
awakened in his mind by the contemplation of ducal personages.
It amused me to analyze the subject of what his point of view would be
likely to be. I knew it would be productive of immense entertainment to
his acquaintances. I was sure that the duke would be subjected to sweet
but searching cross-questioning, and that much lively interest would
be felt in the subject of coronets. He would regard them as a species
of eccentric hat. What questions he would ask, what enthusiasm he would
display, when he was impressed by things beautiful or stately and
interesting! Would he seem “a cheeky little beggar” to less republican
minds than his own? I asked myself this curiously. But no, I was sure
he would not. He would be so simple; he would expect such splendor of
mind and of noble friendliness that the hypothetical duke would like
him as Dan and Carrie did, and he would end by saying “My friend the
Duke of Blankshire,” as affectionately as he had said “My friend the
milkman.”
It was only a thread of fancy for a while, but one day I had an idea.
“I will write a story about him,” I said. “I will put him in a
world quite new to him, and see what he will do. How shall I bring
a small American boy into close relationship with an English
nobleman—irascible, conservative, disagreeable? He must live with him,
talk to him, show him his small, unconscious, republican mind. He will
be more effective if I make him a child who has lived in the simplest
possible way. Eureka! Son of younger son, separated from ill-tempered
noble father because he has married a poor young American beauty.
Young father dead, elder brothers dead, boy comes into title! How it
would amaze him and bewilder him! Yes, there it is, and Vivian shall
be he—just Vivian, with his curls and his eyes, and his friendly, kind
little soul. Little Lord Something-or-other. What a pretty title—Little
Lord ——, Little Lord —— what?”
[Illustration: THE REAL FAUNTLEROY LISTENING TO THE STORY OF THE IDEAL
FAUNTLEROY]
And a day later it was Little Lord Fauntleroy. A story like that is
easily written. In part, it was being lived before my eyes.
“I can wash myself quite well, thank you,” he said, scrubbing
vigorously one day. “I can do it quite well, dearest, if some one will
just ’zamine the corners.”
He had always spoken very clearly, but there were a few words his
pronunciation of which endeared them inexpressibly to me. On the
evening of the day before “Fauntleroy” spent his first morning with
“Lord Dorincourt” he brought into my room a parlor base-ball game to
show me.
It was a lovely thing to see his delight over it, and to note the care
with which he tried to make all technical points clear to an interested
but unintelligent parent. What vigorous little attitudes he threw
himself into when he endeavored to show me how the ball was thrown in
the real game!
“I’m afraid that I am a very stupid little mammy,” I said. “What does
the first base do? And what is the pitcher for? I’m very dull, you
see.”
“Oh, no!” he said. “No, you’re not, dearest. It’s me, you know. I’m
afraid that I’m not a very good ’splainer. And besides, you are a lady,
you know, and ladies don’t play base-ball.”
Almost every day I recorded something he had said or suggested.
And how delightful it was to read the manuscript to him and his
brother! He used to sit in a large arm-chair holding his knee, or with
his hands in his pockets.
“Do you know,” he said to me once, “I like that boy! There’s one thing
about him, he never forgets about dearest.”
When the first appearance of the false claimant occurred, he turned
quite pale; so did his brother.
“Oh, dearest!” they gasped, “why did you do that? Oh, don’t do it!”
“What will he do?” the occupant of the arm-chair asked. “Won’t he,
dearest, be the Earl’s boy any more?”
“‘That other boy,’ said Fauntleroy tremulously to Lord Dorincourt, the
next day, ‘he will have to—to be your boy now—as I was—won’t he?’”
‘No,’ answered the Earl, and he said it so fiercely that Cedric quite
jumped.
“‘Shall I be your boy even if I’m not going to be an earl?’ he said.
‘Shall I be your boy just as I was before?’”
But it was a real little heart that had beaten at the thought.
* * * * *
He has been considered such an ideal little person—Cedric Errol, Lord
Fauntleroy—and he was so real after all. Perhaps it is worth while
explaining that he was only a simple, natural thing—a child, whose
great charm was that he was the innocent friend of the whole world.
I have reason to believe that an impression exists that the passage of
years has produced no effect whatever on the great original, that he
has still waving golden hair, and wears black velvet doublets and broad
collars of lace. This is an error. He is sixteen. He plays foot-ball
and tennis, and battles sternly with Greek. He is anxious not to
“flunk” in geometry, and his hair is exceedingly short and brown. He
has a fine sense of humor, and his relatives consider it rather a good
joke to present him to intimates, as he appears before them, looking
particularly cheerful and robust, in the words first heard by Havisham:
“This is—‘Little Lord Fauntleroy.’”
But there are things which do not change with the darkening of golden
hair and the passage of boyish years.
Charles Scribner’s Sons’
New and Standard Books for Young Readers for 1897-98 ...
MRS. BURNETT’S
FAMOUS JUVENILES
An entirely new edition of Mrs. Burnett’s famous juveniles from new
plates, with all the original illustrations. Bound in a beautiful new
cloth binding designed by R. B. Birch, and sold at very much reduced
prices.
LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY
TWO LITTLE PILGRIMS’ PROGRESS
SARA CREWE and LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH AND OTHER STORIES (in one vol.)
PICCINO AND OTHER CHILD STORIES
GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER
_Five Volumes, 12mo, each, $1.25_
The original editions can still be supplied at the former prices:
=LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.= Beautifully illustrated by REGINALD B.
BIRCH. Square 8vo, $2.00.
=TWO LITTLE PILGRIMS’ PROGRESS.= A STORY OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL. By
Mrs. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. Illustrated by REGINALD B. BIRCH.
Uniform with “Fauntleroy,” etc. Square 8vo, $1.50.
=SARA CREWE=; OR, WHAT HAPPENED AT MISS MINCHIN’S. Richly and fully
illustrated by REGINALD B. BIRCH. Square 8vo, $1.00.
=LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH=, AND OTHER STORIES. With 12 full-page
drawings by REGINALD B. BIRCH. Square 8vo, $1.50.
=GIOVANNI AND THE OTHER=: CHILDREN WHO HAVE MADE STORIES. With 9
full-page illustrations by REGINALD B. BIRCH. Square 8vo, $1.50.
=PICCINO=, AND OTHER CHILD STORIES. Fully illustrated by REGINALD B.
BIRCH. Square 8vo, $1.50.
_SCRIBNER’S BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG_
G. A. HENTY’S POPULAR STORIES FOR BOYS
New Volumes for 1897-98. Each, crown 8vo, handsomely Illustrated, $1.50.
Mr. Henty, the most popular writer of Books of Adventure in England,
adds three new volumes to his list this fall—books that will delight
thousands of boys on this side who have become his ardent admirers
=WITH FREDERICK THE GREAT.= A TALE OF THE SEVEN YEARS’ WAR. With 12
full-page illustrations. 12mo, $1.50.
This story, more than any other of Mr. Henty’s, follows closely the
historic lines, and no better description of the memorable battles of
Rossbach, Leuthen, Prague, Zorndorf, Hochkirch, and Torgau can be found
anywhere than is given in this volume. Through the historic part there
runs the record of the daring and hazardous adventures of the hero, so
that the charm of romance is given to the whole narrative. It is one of
the most important volumes Mr. Henty has written.
=A MARCH ON LONDON.= A STORY OF WAT TYLER’S RISING. With 8 full-page
illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON. 12mo, $1.50.
This book weaves together, in a most interesting way, the story of Wat
Tyler’s rebellion under King Richard, the civil war in Flanders which
occurred soon after, and the ill-planned attack upon the French led
by the Bishop of Norfolk. The whole story is singularly interesting,
covering as it does a period of history which is but little known and
which is well worth narrating.
=WITH MOORE AT CORUNNA.= A STORY OF THE PENINSULAR WAR. With 12
full-page illustrations by WAL. PAGET. 12mo, $1.50.
A bright Irish lad, Terence O’Connor, is living with his widowed
father, Captain O’Connor of the Mayo Fusiliers, with the regiment,
at the time when the Peninsular War against Napoleon began. Under
the command of Sir John Moore, he shared in the same marching and
sharp fighting which that expedition experienced up to the battle of
Corunna. By his bravery and great usefulness, in spite of his youth, he
received a commission as colonel in the Portuguese army, and during the
remainder of the war rendered great services, being mentioned twice in
the general orders of the Duke of Wellington. The whole story is full
of exciting military experiences and gives a most careful and accurate
account of the conduct of the campaigns.
MR. HENTY’S OTHER BOOKS
Each volume with numerous illustrations; handsomely bound. Olivine
edges. 12mo. $1.50.
“Mr. Henty’s books never fail to interest boy readers. Among writers
of stories of adventure he stands in the very first rank.”—_Academy_,
London.
“No country nor epoch of history is there which Mr. Henty does not
know, and what is really remarkable is that he always writes well and
interestingly. Boys like stirring adventures, and Mr. Henty is a master
of this method of composition.”—_New York Times._
=AT AGINCOURT.= A TALE OF THE WHITE HOODS OF PARIS. With 12 full-page
illustrations by WAL. PAGET.
=COCHRANE THE DAUNTLESS.= A TALE OF THE EXPLOITS OF LORD COCHRANE
IN SOUTH AMERICAN WATERS. With 12 full-page illustrations by W. H.
MARGETSON.
=ON THE IRRAWADDY.= A STORY OF THE FIRST BURMESE WAR. With 8 full-page
illustrations by W. H. OVEREND.
=THROUGH RUSSIAN SNOWS.= A STORY OF NAPOLEON’S RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.
With 8 full-page illustrations by W. H. OVEREND.
=A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE CROSS.= A TALE OF THE SIEGE OF RHODES. With 12
full-page illustrations by RALPH PEACOCK.
=THE TIGER OF MYSORE.= A STORY OF THE WAR WITH TIPPOO SAID. With 12
full-page illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON.
=IN THE HEART OF THE ROCKIES.= A STORY OF ADVENTURE IN COLORADO.
=WHEN LONDON BURNED.= A STORY OF RESTORATION TIMES AND THE GREAT FIRE.
=WULF THE SAXON.= A STORY OF THE NORMAN CONQUEST.
=ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S EVE.= A TALE OF THE HUGUENOT WARS.
=THROUGH THE SIKH WAR.= A TALE OF THE CONQUEST OF THE PUNJAUB.
=A JACOBITE EXILE.= BEING THE ADVENTURES OF A YOUNG ENGLISHMAN IN THE
SERVICE OF CHARLES XII. OF SWEDEN.
=CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST.= A STORY OF ESCAPE FROM SIBERIA.
=BERIC THE BRITON.= A STORY OF THE ROMAN INVASION.
=IN GREEK WATERS.= A STORY OF THE GRECIAN WAR OF INDEPENDENCE
[1821-1827].
=THE DASH FOR KHARTOUM.= A TALE OF THE NILE EXPEDITION.
=REDSKIN AND COWBOY.= A TALE OF THE WESTERN PLAINS.
=HELD FAST FOR ENGLAND.= A TALE OF THE SIEGE OF GIBRALTAR.
SOME OF THE NEWEST BOOKS
=WILL SHAKESPEARE’S LITTLE LAD.= By IMOGEN CLARK. With illustrations
and cover design by R. B. Birch. 12mo, $1.50.
A story, full of warm color and brisk movement, of Stratford life in
Shakespeare’s day, the local atmosphere being reflected with rare
fidelity, and the hero, the poet’s son, being drawn with sympathy and
charm.
=CHILD POEMS.= By EUGENE FIELD. With an introduction by KENNETH GRAHAME
and profusely illustrated by CHARLES ROBINSON. Uniform with Robert
Louis Stevenson’s “Child’s Garden of Verses,” also illustrated by
Charles Robinson. 12mo, $1.50.
=THE STEVENSON SONG BOOK.= VERSES FROM “A CHILD’S GARDEN,” by ROBERT
LOUIS STEVENSON. With music by various composers. A companion volume to
the Field-DeKoven song book printed last year. Large 8vo, $2.00.
=AN OLD-FIELD SCHOOL GIRL.= By MARION HARLAND. With 8 full-page
illustrations. 12mo, $1.25.
=LORDS OF THE WORLD.= By ALFRED J. CHURCH. A STORY OF THE FALL OF
CARTHAGE AND CORINTH. With 12 full-page illustrations by RALPH PEACOCK.
12mo, $1.50.
The scene of this story centres in the overthrow and destruction of
Carthage by the Romans. The story is full of valuable historical
details and the interest never flags.
=HEROES OF OUR NAVY.= By MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL. Illustrated. 12mo. _In
press._
Never has this entertaining writer been more felicitous than in the
present volume.
=THE LAST CRUISE OF THE MOHAWK.= By W. J. HENDERSON. Illustrated by
HARRY EDWARDS. 12mo, $1.25.
The book is crowded with dramatic incident—mutiny, shipwreck,
Farragut’s great fight in Mobile Bay—and the narrative is as simple as
the events and characters are entertaining.
KIRK MUNROE’S STIRRING TALES
_THE WHITE CONQUEROR SERIES_
WITH CROCKETT AND BOWIE
THE WHITE CONQUERORS
AT WAR WITH PONTIAC
THROUGH SWAMP AND GLADE
Each, illustrated, 12mo, $1.25. The complete set, 4 vols., in a box,
$5.00.
_JUST PUBLISHED_
=WITH CROCKETT AND BOWIE=; OR, FIGHTING FOR THE LONE STAR FLAG. A TALE
OF TEXAS. With 8 full-page illustrations by VICTOR PÉRARD.
The story is of the Texas revolution in 1835, when American Texans
under Sam Houston, Bowie, Crockett, and Travis, fought for relief
from the intolerable tyranny of the Mexican Santa Ana. The hero, Rex
Hardin, son of a Texas ranchman, and graduate of an American military
school, takes a prominent part in the heroic defense of the Alamo,
the terrible scenes at Golead, and the final triumph at San Jacinto.
The historical side of the story has been carefully studied and its
localities rendered familiar by a special trip to Texas undertaken by
the author for that purpose within a year.
_PREVIOUS VOLUMES_
=THROUGH SWAMP AND GLADE.= A TALE OF THE SEMINOLE WAR. With 8 full-page
illustrations by VICTOR PÉRARD. 12mo, $1.25.
In this new story Mr. Munroe opens to view an exceedingly interesting
period of American history—the period of the Seminole War in Florida.
Coacoochee, the hero of the story, is a young Indian of noble birth,
the son of Philip, the chieftain of the Seminoles. He is a boy at
the time of the beginning of the Seminole troubles and grows up to
lead his tribe in the long struggle which resulted in the Indians
being driven from the north of Florida down to the distant southern
wilderness. It is full of strange adventure, of stirring incident and
rapid action, and it is a true and faithful picture of a period of
history little known to young readers.
=AT WAR WITH PONTIAC=; OR, THE TOTEM OF THE BEAR. A TALE OF REDCOAT AND
REDSKIN. With 8 full-page illustrations by J. FINNEMORE. 12mo, $1.25.
A story of old days in America when Detroit was a frontier town and
the shores of Lake Erie were held by hostile Indians under Pontiac.
The hero, Donald Hester, goes in search of his sister Edith, who
has been captured by the Indians. Strange and terrible are his
experiences; for he is wounded, taken prisoner, condemned to be
burned, and contrives to escape. In the end there is peace between
Pontiac and the English, and all things terminate happily for the
hero. One dares not skip a page of this enthralling story.
=THE WHITE CONQUERORS.= A TALE OF TOLTEC AND AZTEC. With 8 full-page
illustrations by W. S. STACEY. 12mo, $1.25.
This story deals with the Conquest of Mexico by Cortes and his
Spaniards, the “White Conquerors,” who, after many deeds of valor,
pushed their way into the great Aztec kingdom and established their
power in the wondrous city where Montezuma reigned in barbaric
splendor.
BOOKS BY WILLIAM HENRY FROST
_JUST PUBLISHED_
=THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE.= Illustrated and cover designed by S.
R. BURLEIGH. 12mo, $1.50.
Mr. Frost’s volumes of folk-lore stories have achieved a deserved
popularity, and this last one, dealing with the ever-fascinating theme
of the Round Table and its knights, is equal to either of his earlier
books.
_MR. FROST’S FORMER BOOKS_
=THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR.= STORIES FROM THE LAND OF THE ROUND TABLE.
Illustrated by S. R. BURLEIGH. 12mo, $1.50.
Mr. Frost has had the happy idea of making a journey to the different
places connected with the Arthurian romances by history or legend, and
of relating the ever new Round Table Tales on their sites, to the same
little girl, now somewhat older, to whom he told his charming Wagner
stories.
=THE WAGNER STORY BOOK.= FIRELIGHT TALES OF THE GREAT MUSIC DRAMAS.
Illustrated by SIDNEY R. BURLEIGH. 12mo, $1.50.
“A successful attempt to make the romantic themes of the music drama
intelligible to young readers. The author has full command of his
subject, and the style is easy, graceful, and simple.”—_Boston Beacon._
ROBERT GRANT’S TWO BOOKS FOR BOYS
=JACK HALL=; OR, THE SCHOOL DAYS OF AN AMERICAN BOY. Illustrated by F.
G. ATTWOOD. 12mo, $1.25.
“A better book for boys has never been written. It is pure, clean, and
healthy, and has throughout a vigorous action that holds the reader
breathlessly.”—_Boston Herald._
=JACK IN THE BUSH=; OR, A SUMMER ON A SALMON RIVER. Illustrated by F.
T. MERRILL. 12mo, $1.25.
“A clever book for boys. It is the story of the camp life of a lot of
boys, and is destined to please every boy reader. It is attractively
illustrated.”—_Detroit Free Press._
THE KANTER GIRLS
=By MARY L. B. BRANCH=. Illustrated by HELEN M. ARMSTRONG. Square 12mo,
$1.50.
The adventures of Jane and Prue, two small sisters, among different
peoples of the imaginative world—dryads, snow-children, Kobolds,
etc.—aided by their invisible rings, their magic boat, and their
wonderful birds, are described by the author with great naturalness
and a true gift for story-telling. The numerous illustrations are very
attractive, and in thorough sympathy with the text.
SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE’S HISTORICAL BOOKS
_JUST ISSUED_
THE BORDER WARS OF NEW ENGLAND
COMMONLY CALLED KING WILLIAM’S AND QUEEN ANNE’S WARS. By SAMUEL ADAMS
DRAKE. With 58 illustrations and maps. 12mo, $1.50.
Mr. Drake has made a consecutive, entertaining narrative of the border
wars which the French and Indians waged against the English settlers
in New England during the reigns of King William and Queen Anne. The
story is full of adventurous interest and is told with that minute
attention to suggestive and instructive details which have been the
distinguishing feature of Mr. Drake’s other books. The illustrations,
many of them from photographs of historic spots and of buildings still
standing, are of exceptional interest.
_FORMER VOLUMES_
=THE MAKING OF THE OHIO VALLEY STATES.= 1660-1837. Illustrated. 12mo,
$1.50.
=THE MAKING OF VIRGINIA AND THE MIDDLE COLONIES.= 1578-1701.
Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
=THE MAKING OF NEW ENGLAND.= 1580-1643. With 148 illustrations and with
maps. 12mo, $1.50.
=THE MAKING OF THE GREAT WEST.= 1812-1853. With 145 illustrations and
with maps. 12mo, $1.50.
STORIES OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND HISTORY BY HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN
WRIGHT
_A NEW VOLUME JUST ISSUED_
=CHILDREN’S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE.=—1860-1896. 12mo, $1.25.
Miss Wright here continues the attractive presentation of literary
history begun in her “Children’s Stories in English Literature,” taking
up the literary figures that have appeared since the time of the civil
war, and treating their works and personalities in a simple manner,
interesting to young readers.
=CHILDREN’S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE.=—1660-1860. 12mo, $1.25.
=CHILDREN’S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.= Two volumes: TALIESIN TO
SHAKESPEARE—SHAKESPEARE TO TENNYSON. 12mo, each, $1.25.
=CHILDREN’S STORIES OF THE GREAT SCIENTISTS.= With portraits. 12mo,
$1.25.
=CHILDREN’S STORIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY.= Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.
=CHILDREN’S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS.= Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.
THREE BOOKS OF SPORTS AND GAMES
=THE AMERICAN BOY’S BOOK OF SPORT.= OUT-DOOR GAMES FOR ALL SEASONS. By
DANIEL C. BEARD. With over 300 illustrations by the author. 8vo, $2.50.
This is an entirely new book by Mr. Beard, containing altogether
new matter of great interest to all young lovers of sport. It is a
companion volume to the author’s well-known “American Boy’s Handy
Book,” of which over twenty-five thousand copies have been sold, and
will undoubtedly rival that famous work in popularity as it does in
interest.
=THE AMERICAN BOY’S HANDY BOOK=; OR, WHAT TO DO AND HOW TO DO IT. By
DANIEL C. BEARD. With 360 illustrations by the author. Square 8vo,
$2.00.
“The book has this great advantage over its predecessors, that most of
the games, tricks, and other amusements described in it are new. It
treats of sports adapted to all seasons of the year; it is practical,
and it is well illustrated.”—_New York Tribune._
=THE AMERICAN GIRL’S HANDY BOOK.= By LENA and ADELIA B. BEARD. With
over 500 illustrations by the authors. Square 8vo, $2.00.
“I have put it in my list of good and useful books for young people,
as I have many requests for advice from my little friends and their
anxious mothers. I am most happy to commend your very ingenious and
entertaining book.”—LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
THOMAS NELSON PAGE’S TWO BOOKS
=AMONG THE CAMPS=; OR, YOUNG PEOPLE’S STORIES OF THE WAR. With 8
full-page illustrations. Square 8vo, $1.50.
“They are five in number, each having reference to some incident
of the Civil War. A vein of mingled pathos and humor runs through
them all, and greatly heightens the charm of them. It is the early
experience of the author himself, doubtless, which makes his pictures
of life in a Southern home during the great struggle so vivid and
truthful.”—_The Nation._
=TWO LITTLE CONFEDERATES.= With 8 full-page illustrations by KEMBLE and
REDWOOD. Square 8vo, $1.50.
“Mr. Page was ‘raised’ in Virginia, and he knows the ‘darkey’ of the
South better than any one who writes about them. And he knows ‘white
folks,’ too, and his stories, whether for old or young people, have
the charm of sincerity and beauty and reality.”—_Harper’s Young
People._
EDWARD EGGLESTON’S TWO POPULAR BOOKS
=THE HOOSIER SCHOOL-BOY.= Illustrated. 12mo, $1.00.
“‘The Hoosier School-Boy’ depicts some of the characteristics of
boy-life years ago on the Ohio; characteristics, however, that
were not peculiar to that section. The story presents a vivid and
interesting picture of the difficulties which in those days beset the
path of the youth aspiring for an education.”—_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
=QUEER STORIES FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.= 12mo, $1.00.
“A very bright and attractive little volume for young readers. The
stories are fresh, breezy, and healthy, with a good point to them and
a good, sound American view of life and the road to success. The book
abounds in good feeling and good sense, and is written in a style of
homely art.”—_Independent._