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COWARD OR HERO?
[Illustration: COWARD OR HERO?]
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COWARD OR HERO?
_TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH_
BY
MRS. SALE BARKER
[Illustration:Decoration]
_WITH TWENTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS_
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK: 9, LAFAYETTE PLACE
1884
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_UNIFORM IN SIZE AND PRICE WITH THIS VOLUME._
-------
ADVENTURES IN INDIA.
By W. H. G. KINGSTON. With Coloured Frontispiece and 36
Illustrations.
THE HOLIDAY ALBUM FOR BOYS.
By HENRY FRITH. With 92 Illustrations.
BEING A BOY.
By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER.
HIS OWN MASTER.
By J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
FRIEND OR FOE.
By the Rev. H. C. ADAMS.
THE BOY CAVALIERS.
By the Rev. H. C. ADAMS.
UNAC THE INDIAN.
With Coloured Frontispiece and 23 Illustrations.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
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CHAPTER PAGE
I THE CAPTAIN’S INDIGNATION 13
II MY NOSE 16
III COLONEL BOISSOT’S SYSTEM 18
IV GOOD RESOLUTIONS 23
V I SEE A MONSTER 25
VI FRIMOUSSE 29
VII MONTÉZUMA AND CROQUEMITAINE 32
VIII THE COLONEL’S HORSE 36
IX CHILDREN SHOULD CONFIDE IN THEIR PARENTS 39
X MONTÉZUMA’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS 41
XI DARING EXPLOITS 47
XII THE INTOLERANCE OF THE LITTLE BANTAM 51
XIII HAVE I A VOCATION? 53
XIV AN ANXIOUS QUESTION HAPPILY SETTLED 56
XV A PROJECTED BATTLE 59
XVI MY PROJECT IS DEFERRED 62
XVII SCIENTIFIC REFLECTIONS ON MY NOSE MADE 67
BY DR. LOMBALOT
XVIII I DISCOVER THAT I DO NOT POSSESS THE 71
BUMP OF COMBATIVENESS
XIX THE BANTAM CEASES TO TROUBLE ME 75
XX MISS PORQUET’S SCHOOL 78
XXI A FRIEND.—PRISONER’S BASE 85
XXII STUDIES.—SCHOOLBOY TALK 88
XXIII A DREADFUL ADVENTURE 91
XXIV DON’T LET MARC KNOW 94
XXV “THE BOY WHO HAS BEEN SO ILL” 99
XXVI MARC’S FRIENDSHIP FOR ME 101
XXVII PLANS FOR THE HOLIDAYS 105
XXVIII THE PROSPECT OF GOING TO COLLEGE 108
XXIX AT BOIS-CLAIR 110
XXX ULYSSES MAKES HIS APPEARANCE 116
XXXI SAD NEWS FOR ME 119
XXXII I GO TO COLLEGE.—A PUPIL CALLED 121
BORNIQUET
XXXIII MY NOSE STILL TROUBLES ME 126
XXXIV “AZOR! AZOR!” 128
XXXV THE THEORY OF SELF-DEFENCE 134
XXXVI STILL A COWARD 137
XXXVII INCONSISTENCY 141
XXXVIII MY PARENTS’ DEVOTION TO ME 143
XXXXIX A HUNTING COAT OF FORMER DAYS 146
XL THE EFFECT OF THE NEW COAT ON MY 149
CHARACTER
XLI THE BEETLE 155
XLII A FIGHT AT LAST 160
XLIII MY FATHER IS SATISFIED 163
XLIV EXTREMES ARE BAD 166
XLV A LAST CHAPTER, WRITTEN BY ANOTHER HAND 171
[Illustration: Decoration]
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LIST OF PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.
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PAGE
COWARD OR HERO? _Frontispiece_
“IT WAS FRIMOUSSE, OUR GREAT CAT” 27
“HE MADE A SUDDEN SPRING, AND CAME WITH A BANG 45
AGAINST THE BARS”
“THE DOCTOR STARED AT MY NOSE” 63
“A GREAT BOY OF ELEVEN, RATHER A STUPID FELLOW” 79
“I UTTERED A PIERCING CRY” 95
“I COULD NOT BEAR TO SEE A COW COMING UP TO ME” 111
“HULLO, LOOK AT AZOR!” 131
“WITH THAT COAT A NEW ERA IN MY LIFE BEGAN” 151
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[Illustration:Decoration]
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COWARD OR HERO?
------------------
I.
THE CAPTAIN’S INDIGNATION.
“NOW then! What is the matter?” asked my father in a sharp tone,
impatiently throwing down the newspaper.
“Nothing, papa,” I answered, but in a trembling voice.
“Nothing, you say? Then why did you pull down the blind? Why did you
hurry away from the window? And why, sir, has your nose turned white?
What is there to be seen in the street to frighten you like that?”
The tears rushed to my eyes, and I began to sob, as I replied, “It isn’t
in the street, it’s opposite.”
My father jumped up so quickly from his chair that it fell with a loud
noise on the polished floor of our little dining-room. As to me, I was
more dead than alive: my father’s fits of impatience terrified me. And
on these occasions I would stare at him, and look so stupid, that I used
to make him more angry than ever.
He went to the window, pulled up the blind, and looked at the opposite
house. There, at the window, stood a little boy of about my own age, who
was always watching to see me come to the window of our house in order
that he might make hideous faces and put out his tongue at me across the
street.
My father turned round: he stood with his arms tightly folded on his
chest; he looked at me from head to foot, and then he said in a sneering
voice full of scorn:—“So that is what frightened you! You unfortunate
creature, you will never be fit for anything as long as you live. A
great boy of eight years old! the son of a soldier, and of a brave
soldier, I flatter _myself_. Here am I burdened with a boy as timid as a
hare, yes a regular hare, to bring up. You may well be ashamed, sir.
Thirty years’ service! Five campaigns! Eight wounds! to come to this; to
come to bringing up a boy who is afraid of his own shadow! Hide
yourself, miserable child,” he went on, “for I am ashamed of you. How
shall I have the face to walk about the town; to meet people that I know
who will say; ‘How goes it, captain? How goes it with you?’ What am I to
answer to these inquiries, sir? _What_ am I to say?”
“I don’t know,” sobbed I.
“Ah! you don’t know; but I know too well. I must answer ‘You are very
kind, and I thank you; I am well, but I occupy my leisure hours in
educating a coward! And that coward, sir, is my own son.’ Yes, my own
son. And your nose! where did you get that nose, sir?”
------------------
II.
MY NOSE.
FROM my earliest infancy the principal and dominant—too dominant—feature
in my face, was an immense nose.
Now that this organ is a little disguised by a thick moustache, my
friends, to flatter me, compare it to an eagle’s beak. But when I had no
moustache, my companions who had no wish to flatter me, compared it to
the beak of a Toucan. Unfortunately for me this was only too good a
comparison, and, what was worse than all, when I was frightened (which
alas! happened very often) my nose turned very pale.
“Now then,” would my father exclaim, “there’s that miserable nose of
yours turned white again: rub it, do, so as to give it a little colour.”
I was such a simple little fellow, that I used seriously to follow my
father’s advice, given in derision, and I would fall to rubbing my poor,
large nose most furiously: labour wasted! it turned pale just the same.
My father went on reading the newspaper which he had thrown down as I
have described; and I did not stir; I did not sit down nor did I dare go
out of the room, but I remained sulking in the corner.
I say sulking, because I can find no other word to describe the state
that my father’s fits of anger put me into. Anyone who had come into the
room and seen me in that corner would have said, “Here is a sulky little
boy!” But no, I was not really sulky; I felt very much hurt that my
father should speak so harshly to me to cure me of a fault which wounded
my own self-respect as much as it did his. I was not sulky then, only
deeply distressed; but all sorts of contradictory thoughts passed
through my head, and I knew neither how to utter nor explain them: I
remained silent and uncomfortable, and people made the mistake of
thinking me sulky.
I grieved over my father’s reprimand, and pondered sadly while he read
the newspaper. I asked myself, “How is it that other little boys can
help being cowards?”
I then made up my mind that for the future I _would_ be brave; yet I
could not help feeling an inward consciousness that, when the
opportunity came for me to show courage, I should only play the coward
again. I endured real torture that hour I passed in the corner, and was
finding my trouble insupportable, when suddenly the door opened to admit
my father’s old friend Colonel Boissot.
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III.
COLONEL BOISSOT’S SYSTEM.
COLONEL BOISSOT was an old brother-in-arms of my father, who, like him,
had retired from the army, and settled down to a quiet life at Loches.
After the first few words of welcome and politeness had passed, my
father asked the colonel, if he happened to know of any animal that was
more timid than a hare.
[Illustration:Decoration]
“An animal more timid than a hare?” replied the colonel thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said my father.
“By Jove, certainly!” answered the colonel, “a frog is more cowardly,
because in the old fable of La Fontaine we are told that the frogs were
afraid of a hare.”
[Illustration]
“Very well,” said my father, pointing at me with the newspaper, “there
you see a frog then; I have only to put him in a glass bottle with a
little ladder, to act as a barometer,” and as he uttered these words, he
looked at me with a vexed and mortified expression, and made me a sign
to go out of the room.
The colonel looked at me, with his great round eyes wide open, and
making a slight grimace, asked, “Is he——”
“Good gracious! yes,” replied my father with a deep sigh. The colonel
whistled softly, as he looked at my father, and he rolled his eyes back
to me with an astonished expression in them, pretended or real. This
warlike man felt surprised, apparently, to find a coward in the son of a
brother-in-arms. All the time he stared at me I did not dare to move.
At last he shook his head several times and said, grinding his teeth the
while, “You know, Bicquerot, I belong to the old school. For such
fancies as these (for they are pure fancies), I know but of one remedy,”
and he made suggestive and disagreeable movements with his cane as if
chastising an imaginary coward.
“Oh, no!” my father answered quickly, “no, the remedy would be worse
than the malady. And think, too, of his mother: she, the poor dear
mother, would go mad. No! no! certainly not.”
“You are wrong,” drily replied the advocate of violent measures, “it is
an infallible remedy.”
“That is possible,” said my father; “but _I_ could never resort to it.”
Then turning to me he said in a more gentle tone of voice, “Now go, my
poor boy, run and find your mother.”
There was something so sad, so touching in the tone of my father’s
voice, the expression of his face was so kind, that if the odious
colonel had not been present I should have thrown my arms round his neck
and kissed him.
But I dared not, and as I awkwardly shut the door after me, with
trembling hands, I again heard these words issue, one by one, from
between the clenched teeth of the terrible colonel: “_Bicquerot, you are
wrong._”
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IV.
GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
BUT no! my father was not wrong; for I loved him with all my heart, in
spite of his fits of anger, and I would never have deceived him in
anything. If he had beaten me, I felt that I could never have loved him
so much again. I should, most likely, have become a liar like Robert
Boissot. For, after all, the old school system had not succeeded so well
with him. It is true that when his father was present, he was all that
could be desired in a boy; one would have thought he was on parade too,
because of his soldier-like bearing. But when his father turned his
back, matters were, indeed, very different. He spoke of the colonel in
the most disrespectful way; and I will not repeat here the dreadful
untruths which he would utter without the slightest shame. It is true I
was a coward, but they might have killed me outright, before I would
have said the things of my parents, that he said of his. And he would
laugh while he said them! Actually laugh.
Before his father, the colonel, this boy would pretend to be most
friendly to me: he would call me his “dear good little Paul.” If I had
dared I would have called him a liar before everybody; for when his
father was not there, he would take me into a corner, and make the most
hideous faces at me, and pull my poor long nose, till I cried;
threatening at the same time, if I told anyone, that he would squeeze me
to death in the doorway.
Was not this cowardice? but of a different kind from mine, and surely a
far worse kind. “Ah! if I dared to do things, if I could only get over
the nervous trembling and that stupid imagination of mine which showed
me dangers in every direction!” I said this to myself as I walked slowly
down stairs; I did not hurry myself, because my eyes were red, and I was
anxious my mother should not see that I had been crying, for I knew it
would worry her.
These are the questions I asked myself as I reached the last step:—“In a
small house like this, where I know every corner, why do I fancy that
somebody is always hiding to pounce out upon me? why do I fancy this
when I really know that there is no one and nothing to frighten me? Why
do I fancy always that there are strange beasts lurking in the shadows
which will jump out upon me to pinch and bite, and prick and scratch me,
or perhaps, which is almost worse, place a great hairy paw upon my neck,
or look at me with great dreadful eyes? Why am I so silly as to fancy
all this? But now, for the future, I am resolved I will never be so
foolish again.”
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V.
I SEE A MONSTER.
POUF! Bang! At that moment something black, light, and at the same time
enormously large, some shapeless yet undoubtedly ferocious creature,
passed within a foot of my face with the speed of lightning. It touched
the ground without making the least sound, seemed to roll over in the
half-dark corridor, and then suddenly disappeared at the little door
leading into the garden.
I tried to scream, but my voice failed me: I trembled from head to foot;
my legs gave way and I involuntarily sat down on the last step of the
staircase, and covered my face with my hands, not to see again that
horrible thing! Without doubt it would return. It was hiding somewhere,
I was sure. What might it not do to me? I waited in an agony, my eyes
firmly closed. Just then the door of the kitchen opened, and my mother,
greatly surprised, asked me what I was doing there.
I told her all.
[Illustration: “IT WAS FRIMOUSSE, OUR GREAT CAT.” ]
As I did so she raised her head, saw the door of the meat-safe open, and
said: “The creature that has frightened you so dreadfully was still more
frightened by you! It was Frimousse, our great cat, who had come to
steal some meat, which I am sorry to see she has done, and when she
heard you coming she was put to flight in a great hurry. Now, see,” said
my kind mother, smiling. “Satisfy yourself; the cat has carried off the
piece of beef which remained from luncheon. Look, there is the empty
dish! Don’t be frightened any more, my dear little boy, but now come
with me: when Mrs. Puss has behaved in this naughty way, I always know
where to find her. Come along, you must see her for yourself.”
I answered “Yes” to all my mother said, but in my heart I believed she
was mistaken. That horrible creature that passed me was too large, too
shapeless, to be our cat.
------------------
VI.
FRIMOUSSE.
MY mother, taking me by the hand, led me with her into the kitchen, and
gave me a glass of sugar-and-water to help me to recover myself. She
then showed me Frimousse, who had taken refuge on the roof of a little
shed at the end of the garden, and the naughty cat was there eating
greedily her stolen meal. While devouring the meat, she kept jerking her
head first to the right, then to the left, as if she found it rather
tough. At the same time she looked at us, or rather at me, with a
menacing and defiant expression.
“You see now that it was naughty Frimousse,” said my mother, in her
loving, caressing voice; “don’t you, my darling boy? You are quite sure
now that there was nothing to frighten you, are you not?”
“Yes, mamma, I do see it: I was a silly boy,” I replied.
My reason, the fact of seeing the cat eating the stolen meat, my
mother’s assertion, everything told me clearly enough that it was
Frimousse that had frightened me so: still in spite of all, something
within me seemed to deny the fact. Was it possible that Frimousse, our
cat that I knew so well, could have appeared so enormous?
Well, it was just possible perhaps; and now I began to fancy that there
was something very strange about that cat. While she was eating, what
fierce looks she gave me! Certainly there seemed something unnatural and
odd—dreadful too—about her. And those strange glances which she gave me!
Surely it was against _me_ that she cherished spiteful feelings! Then
another idea came into my head: perhaps this cat, who gave me such
vicious looks, was not a real cat? Perhaps, I thought, she has the
power, at times, to take the shape of that fearful, that horrible
creature which I saw on the staircase.
If I had explained these foolish thoughts to my mother, I knew
beforehand how silly she would have thought me, and what she would have
answered. I knew also, beforehand that her answer would not convince me.
Oh! how terrible it was! Still, I preferred to say nothing, and I kept
my thoughts to myself to torment me.
------------------
VII.
MONTÉZUMA AND CROQUEMITAINE.
I THINK I know partly how this unfortunate and unhealthy state of mind
began with me: this painful habit of seeing something extraordinary and
terrible in the most simple matters, and of peopling the house with
unearthly and mischievous beings. I think it came about in this way:—
When I was quite little, I used often to be given in charge to my
father’s orderly. He was a brave and honest fellow, and very fond of me.
His name was Montamat, but everyone called him Montézuma. Unfortunately
for me he possessed far more imagination than judgment.
Whenever I was naughty or unreasonable, he would call for Croquemitaine;
and as he was a ventriloquist you may suppose it was not long before a
conversation commenced with _this_ extraordinary person, who used to
reply to the questions asked of him from the dark, mysterious, and
fearful regions of the kitchen chimney sometimes; or sometimes from the
bottom of my porridge bowl, or again sometimes from the inside of a
drawer in the table close to where my little chair was placed. As I
believed most implicitly in Croquemitaine’s existence, Montézuma made me
do exactly as he liked by this means. Just fancy! here was a man who
appeared to me to be on the most intimate terms with a mysterious and
supernatural being! A man who could summon this being at will, and, at a
single word, send him off again about his business, just at the moment
when, almost mad with anguish, I feared, yet longed, to see the
mysterious being appear to me.
Our discussions would always end in the same way when I had been
naughty.
“Now will you do it again?” Montézuma would ask in a stern voice.
“Oh, no! no! my good Montézuma,” I would cry, “I will never, never do so
any more.”
“Then, Croquemitaine,”—Montézuma would say in a gentle voice,—“you can
go away, we will not give you our little Paul to-day; for he has
promised to be a good boy.”
[Illustration:Decoration]
“All right! all right! I shall have him the next time,” a most terrible
gruff voice would answer. And repeating “all right” a good many times,
the voice sounding less and less distinct and further away each time,
Croquemitaine would depart for that occasion.
As I grew bigger Croquemitaine came less frequently. I believe that
Montézuma got tired of always employing the same means of keeping me in
order. Still I did not lose my faith in this supernatural being. Very
often, when the furniture creaked, or the wind whistled down the chimney
or in the passages; when the porridge-pot boiled over, and made strange
grumbling sounds, I felt that there was something more than usual in
these noises; something very strange and mysterious. Then my heart would
beat violently, and Montézuma bursting out laughing would cry, “Ah! ah!
ah! how white your nose has turned!”
“But,” would I reply in a piteous tone of voice, “I have not been
naughty.”
“That you know best!” Montézuma would answer sententiously. “What does
your conscience say?”
------------------
VIII.
THE COLONEL’S HORSE.
THE tormentor chosen by Montézuma to succeed Croquemitaine, was the
horse belonging to the colonel of my father’s regiment. It was a
beautiful white horse with a splendid mane, and a grand thick tail which
swept the ground. When he stamped and snorted, and turned his graceful
head from side to side, he looked so intelligent, that I easily believed
everything that Montézuma told me about him. This marvellous horse,
according to Montézuma, knew all that passed, and repeated it to the
colonel; also, if I did not take care, all my particular misdeeds to my
father. For instance, Montézuma would say, “So you won’t eat your soup?”
“No! I won’t eat my soup! and pray, what of that?” I would reply.
“Very well,” was the answer, “the colonel’s horse will tell your father
to-morrow on parade!”
I would have eaten my soup if it had been boiling, rather than expose
myself to the tale-bearing of that white horse. I learnt, little by
little—as Montézuma found me more difficult to manage—all sorts of
horrible peculiarities belonging to the colonel’s terrible horse. I
heard that he would bite most cruelly all little boys who refused to go
to bed at eight o’clock, who kicked their father’s orderly, or who
preferred to sail their boats on the pond in the Palais Royal (where
Montézuma did _not_ happen to meet his friends) to taking a walk in the
Jardin des Plantes (where Montézuma always met his friends). It seemed,
according to Montézuma, that this much-to-be-dreaded animal had devoured
the little son of the master shoemaker, because he fought with his
schoolmistress: nothing had been found of this unfortunate but his
shoes, his cap, and a letter in which he declared that he thought he
quite deserved his fate.
With a sigh of anguish I would anxiously ask, “And what did his mamma
say?”
Montézuma replied, “She was in great grief.”
“I will never kick you again, Montézuma,” would I cry. “Oh! pray of the
horse not to eat me, because it would make mamma so sad.”
“Very well; this time you are safe,” Montézuma then gravely replied.
“But remember, if you ever do so again, he will not listen to my
entreaties.”
With what an eye of curiosity and distrust did I gaze upon that
anthropophagus of a horse, when I was taken to reviews. If I was placed
near the colonel, curvetting in pride at the head of the regiment on his
splendid white charger, I was seized with a terrible panic.
“Let us go further, Montézuma. Oh! do come away!” I used to pray, “he
knows me, he is looking at me!”
“Don’t be afraid; while you are with me, and I do not sign to him, he
will say and do nothing,” replied Montézuma.
“But,” I persisted, “don’t you see how he looks at me, and how he shakes
his head? What does he mean?”
“Well, he means,” answered Montézuma, “he just means, ‘I have my eye on
you: you must remember that, and take care how you behave.’”
------------------
IX.
CHILDREN SHOULD CONFIDE IN THEIR PARENTS.
ALL these things terrified me greatly, and yet, to tell the truth, I
took a secret pleasure in them. It was an unhealthy excitement, but even
men sometimes find, like children, a strange pleasure in what is
alarming and mysterious. Much good may it do them!
Montézuma would have been wicked to put all these ideas in my head if he
had known the harm they did me. But he had no idea of it, poor fellow!
He must, however, have been rather ashamed of these inventions of his,
because he never said a word about them before my father or mother. And
I, without his bidding me keep silence, said not one word either, about
the matter, except to him. It was a secret between us. One discovers
when one is very young, I am afraid, the charm of forbidden pleasure, or
at least, of mysteries, and it was certainly a great pleasure to me to
have this secret of the white horse’s powers between Montézuma and
myself.
Still it was a great misfortune for me that I did not tell all to my
father and mother; they would have put a stop to these foolish fancies
and mad terrors, which little by little destroyed my spirit, and turned
me into the unfortunate coward I became.
People who have children entrusted to them, or who are constantly with
them, should make a rule that they shall never be frightened by stories
of giants and ogres, or supernatural beings, or in the foolish yet
terrible way in which Montézuma used to terrify me.
One cannot tell the effect these fears may have upon children: can never
guess the mischief that may be done. When once my father had retired
from the army I was no longer under the influence of Montézuma. I no
longer believed in Croquemitaine, and had even lost faith in the
colonel’s horse; but though the actual belief was gone, the pernicious
influence remained, and I was always building up fresh terrors on the
ashes of the old ones.
------------------
X.
MONTÉZUMA’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
MONTÉZUMA had the most wonderfully flexible face I ever saw. He could
literally do anything he liked with it. For instance, he would lengthen
his features, raise his eyebrows, and half shut his eyes, and there you
had before you the living image of Lieutenant Hardel, the thinnest and
most miserable looking officer of the regiment. Then, in an instant, he
would puff out his cheeks, half bury his head between his shoulders, and
opening his big eyes, roll them about in a terrible manner, and at that
moment you beheld an exact copy of Major Taillepain. When he began these
representations, which were performed for me, and me only, I could
scarcely contain myself for joy. At each change of countenance, I would
clap my hands and cry out, “Again, again, Montézuma! Again, please,
again!”
[Illustration:Decoration]
He, too, would get quite excited over his own performances, and after
having imitated the faces of all those he chose to mimic, he would begin
making grimaces of so terrible and strange a nature, that I would be
seized with horror. It seemed to me as if it could not be Montézuma
standing before me: that fantastic and hideous face that I beheld—now
furious, now jeering, and now surely the face of some strange
animal—could no longer be his; and, almost beside myself with fear, I
trembled all over. Then I used to have a sort of hysterical fit, crying
and laughing at once, and I would implore of Montézuma not to do it any
more. And he would then have his own natural face again in a moment, and
taking me up, kiss me heartily.
In time, these performances which frightened me so dreadfully, yet which
I could not help asking Montézuma constantly to repeat, had the effect
of putting the strangest ideas into my head about the similarity of the
human and animal physiognomy. I began to discover, from this time,
different and strange expressions in the faces of the animals that I
happened to meet with. In some I would read a threatening or spiteful
expression, in others an expression of mockery or fun, which they, of
course, never really wore.
I remember, in particular, one of the monkeys in the Jardin des Plantes,
who, as a monkey was singularly ugly, and as a greedy monkey, showed
singular eagerness to partake of some cakes which we had brought with
us. From quite a long way off he saw them, and came towards the bars of
his cage at a curious, loose, half-dislocated trot. When we had just
reached the cage, and he was within a few paces of us on the other side,
he made a sudden spring, and came with a bang against the bars. Oh! how
frightened I was! I thought he was jumping into my face! I shut my eyes
in terror, and when I opened them, there he was close to me, and I saw
him rolling his eyes and grinding his teeth, and grinning at me. I
thought I had never seen so spiteful a face! I dreamed of him that
night; and the impression left upon my mind by the sight of that horrid
monkey was so strong, that three years afterwards, I actually—before my
father, of whom I stood in some awe—was seized with nervous terror at
the sight of an ugly little neighbour, who stood at his window opposite,
making faces at me, and putting out his tongue.
[Illustration: “HE MADE A SUDDEN SPRING, AND CAME WITH A BANG
AGAINST THE BARS.”]
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XI.
DARING EXPLOITS.
MY mother, naturally extremely timid, scarcely ever dared to differ from
my father; but still she bravely took my part when he would attack me
too severely on the unfortunate subject of my cowardice. My father would
always be softened by her in the end. But as a last protest he would
shrug his shoulders and say:—“Very well, my dear; but pray dress him,
then, like a little girl, and set him to work to hem handkerchiefs.”
[Illustration:Decoration]
Hem handkerchiefs! In his eyes this was the most dire insult that could
be offered to a coward. But I, who had but little pride in me, I should
have been more than contented to be turned into a girl, and sit and hem
handkerchiefs. I should in that case never have to leave my mother, and
I should not have the disagreeable prospect of college looming in the
future.
I had a great love of dolls; my mother and I used to make up the most
delightful rag dolls together. I used generally to hide them most
carefully away when I had finished playing with them. Sometimes, though,
I had the misfortune to leave one about: my father, then finding it,
would turn and twist it with the end of his cane; wearing on his face,
the while, an expression of the greatest contempt. Then—with a dexterity
which I should have admired if it had not been exercised at the expense
of my poor doll—he would toss it up into the air and send it flying,
with a twist of his cane, right out of the window.
My paternal love for my outraged child would then seem to give me some
courage—for I had to brave more than one danger to recover my dolly. If
the doll fell in the street I would fly downstairs, and opening the
hall-door a little way, put my head out to reconnoitre, and—after being
quite sure that there were no carriages in sight to drive over me and
crush me, nor curs to run after me and bite me, nor boys about to pelt
me with peas out of their popguns—I risked it, and recovering my
treasure from the street, would retreat, breathless and excited, at the
idea of dangers which I _might_ have met with.
If the doll happened to fall into the garden, I would first go and look
out of the kitchen window—for from there I could see the goings and
comings of a certain little bantam-cock belonging to us. This funny
little fowl, which was no bigger than my two fists, was of a most
quarrelsome disposition. Directly he saw me coming he would run up as
fast as he could, and then standing right in front of me, firmly planted
on his two horrid little feet, he would stare at me, turning his head
from side to side, first with the right eye and then with the left,
twitching his little comb about with rapid jerks. Why did he come? What
did he want with me? I had never done anything to him! Had he only then
discovered, like others, that I was a coward, and merely amused himself
(being a facetious sort of fowl) by making me afraid of him?
When he was at the bottom of the garden, occupied with his own affairs
in some corner, I would seize the opportunity, and gliding softly,
softly to where my dolly lay, I would carry it off in triumph before he
had time to follow me. Sometimes though, he would only pretend to be
pre-occupied, and in reality watch me out of the corner of his wicked
little eyes, and suddenly shoot out from his corner right up to the
door, when I, scarcely outside as yet, would make a rapid and
ignominious retreat inside the house again. Sometimes I have made as
many as ten ineffectual attempts to get out at the door, without
counting the various stratagems which I was obliged to have recourse to
when once outside before I could recover my lost property.
------------------
XII.
THE INTOLERANCE OF THE LITTLE BANTAM.
WHEN I did not play with my dolls, I made little chapels and altars in
all the corners of the house. I made myself a chasuble out of my
mother’s apron, and I sang away, as loudly as ever I could, all the
hymns I knew by heart, and many that I composed for the occasion. My
father said nothing to this, because he thought that, after all, a child
must amuse itself in some way; however, I generally chose the days when
he was out, and my _grands services_ took place always when he went out
fishing. On those days I felt I was free, gay, and happy. I sang my most
beautiful anthems, composed of any words that came into my head,
terminating in _us_ or _um_; and the house resounded with the noise of
my bell.
But the procession, consisting of myself alone, did not go beyond the
different rooms and the kitchen. I did not go into the loft, because who
ever heard of a grand imposing ceremony taking place in a loft? I would,
however, have gladly gone into the garden to ask a blessing upon our
rose trees, and the one apricot tree which grew there, but which never
had any apricots on it; only the notorious intolerance of that little
bantam-cock prevented the procession venturing out of doors.
When I met my mother, as I marched about the passages in pomp, she would
smile kindly at me, and kiss me as I passed. Then I would whisper in her
ear, “Mamma, I should like to be a priest.”
“And why not, my darling,” would be her reply, “if it is your vocation?”
------------------
XIII.
HAVE I A VOCATION?
ONE day when my father came home from fishing he went into the kitchen,
where my mother was making some cakes, and remained there talking
earnestly with her for some time. While this conversation was going on I
appeared upon the scene dressed up in my surplice, for I was just in the
middle of one of my grandest processions. As I was about to enter the
kitchen I was rooted to the spot by these words, which I heard
proceeding from my father’s lips.
“You say, my dear, that he talks of becoming a priest: the fact is he
knows neither what he is talking about nor what he wishes. You must not
suppose that because a child arranges little chapels in the corners of
rooms, pretends he is joining in a religious procession, and wears his
mother’s apron as a surplice, that he is therefore fitted to be a priest
when he grows up. You might just as well say that a boy must become a
soldier because he puts a feather in his cap and plays the drum all day;
and then,” he went on in a melancholy tone of voice, “Paul would
certainly be a worthy priest to offer to God’s service! Priest, do you
say?” Then exclaimed my father bitterly, “No; a priest, like a soldier,
must ever be ready to sacrifice his own life. A priest must think
nothing of danger or suffering, if he incurs either for the good of
others! A priest must be ready at any hour of the day or night to visit
and solace those dying from pestilence. However contagious an illness
may be, no priest may shrink from visiting those stricken down with it,
at the risk of his own life. Do you think Paul has a vocation for this?”
My mother hung her head and said nothing. Alas! what could she have
said? My father’s words were wise indeed. As for me, I stood motionless
in the shadow of the dark corridor, with my little bell in my hand. I
listened to all that was said, standing there too distressed to remember
that I ought not to listen to my father and mother’s conversation when
they were unconscious of my presence.
“You see, my dear,” my father continued in a more gentle voice, “a man
requires courage in whatever position he may be placed and in whatever
profession he may choose. But the duty of a priest is to give others
courage when they fail in it, and how can he do that if he is wanting in
it himself? He must set others the example. No, our boy is less fitted
to be a priest than anything else; for a priest _must_ be courageous,
and his courage must be of the highest order. But mind, I would not, for
anything in the world, prevent our unfortunate son from following his
vocation, if he really had one. I will not deny that I had hoped he
might become a soldier, because I was one myself; but alas! I have had
to give up that hope.” And he repeated slowly, in a sad tone of voice,
“Yes, I have given it up!”
The bell fell from my hand: at the noise it made, both my father and
mother turned round and discovered me. “Ah! you are there,” said my
father, looking sadly at me. “It is as well, perhaps, that you heard
what I said. At all events it _is_ said, and you have heard it. However,
I did not intend you should do so, my poor boy!” he exclaimed as he
kissed my forehead. “But you will understand some day why I have at
times seemed severe with you.”
“Kiss papa,” said my mother, “and try to remember what you have heard.
You are very young, you have time to profit by his words. You may yet do
better. I am pleased with his progress in his lessons,” she went on,
addressing my father in a conciliatory tone, “I have taught him all I
can, he knows, as much as I do.”
------------------
XIV.
AN ANXIOUS QUESTION HAPPILY SETTLED.
THESE words of my mother, intended to settle matters happily, at once
raised another cloud on my horizon.
“Well then,” answered my father, “if you have taught him all you can, we
must send him to college. Now then, little man, don’t let me see your
nose turn white.”
College! word odious to my ears, and terrible to my imagination. Robert
Boissot, was he not at college? I could judge from this sample of a
schoolboy how horrid all the rest must be. What awful things had that
boy told me about his companions, who set their masters at nought and
fought such terrible fights that they almost tore each other to pieces.
At this fearful thought I instinctively put up my hand to my nose. If I
took that poor nose to school, should I ever bring it back again?
My mother sighed as she answered my father. “I have thought, dear, that
it would be hard upon our boy to send him at once to college. The
college boys are so rough and inclined to bully the little ones: you
see, too, Paul has really not been accustomed to play with boys at all.”
“And whose fault is that?” said my father.
“I know, I know,” answered my poor mother; “but all I would say is,
don’t you think it would be better to send him first to Miss Porquet’s
school? It is so near us; there are not many pupils, and nearly all are
younger than Paul. Miss Porquet is very gentle and at the same time very
firm. And the boys at that school are not always having those dreadful
quarrels and fights which they have at the college. She teaches Latin to
several of the children, for instance to one little boy whose mother I
know, and who told me yesterday that he was getting on extremely well.”
“Very well,” replied my father, “let us settle it so, that he goes to
Miss Porquet’s school first. And now, my poor little Paul, you must try
to be brave. Fight against this terrible cowardice. Little by little, if
you struggle hard, you will be able to overcome your foolish fears. If
you try each day to be a little more courageous, you will at length find
you are as brave as anyone else. Things don’t come all at once. It is
only by striving hard that you can acquire a virtue or overcome a
weakness.”
I promised my father to do all I could to overcome my cowardice. My
mother kissed me fondly in the passage and whispered in my ear, “Poor
darling!”
------------------
XV.
A PROJECTED BATTLE.
I WENT to bed that night with the best intentions in the world, and with
my head resting on the pillow I formed thousands of projects, one more
daring than the other, so that I might show my parents how much I loved
them and how hard I tried to please them. When my mother came up to tuck
me into my little bed, as she did every night, and stooped over me to
kiss me, I threw my arms round her neck and drawing her quite close
whispered in her ear: “I do so love you!”
[Illustration:Decoration]
“Darling little fellow!” she answered, resting her cheek against mine.
I was so excited that I could not go to sleep for a long time. I kept
turning over in my mind a most daring project, a most audacious deed
which I was determined to perform. Yes, I was determined I would walk
into the garden the next day and beard the little bantam-cock. How
surprised he would be to see me come up to him without the least fear.
Ah! it would be his turn to be afraid now. Yes, I would just open the
door leading from the corridor, open it quite wide! then I would walk up
to the apricot tree: walk straight up to it without hurrying, or
trembling. Then he would come up to me; I should just appear as if I did
not see he was there. Then what would he do? He would most likely fly at
me. Very well, let him; but I would raise my hand at the moment he began
his attack, and I would give him such a blow with my fist that he would
not forget it in a hurry. But then, perhaps he would give me a terrible
peck, the vicious little horror! Pooh, what of that? I could easily
prevent it!
Having come to this conclusion, I at last fell asleep. My plan was to
get up early the next morning without making any noise; to go downstairs
and into the garden before anyone was about, for I did not wish people
to witness my exploit. I was determined to try if I could not carry my
project out with courage and success; but I could not be quite sure how
matters would turn out, so I would rather have my first battle over
without a witness.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, it was broad daylight. I jumped
out of bed, said my prayers, and dressed as fast as I could.
------------------
XVI.
MY PROJECT IS DEFERRED.
FROM the staircase, down which I bounded two or three steps at a time, I
could hear the cock-a-doodle-doo of my enemy. His shrill voice seemed to
pierce through one’s head, it was such a self-satisfied, such a
confident tone of voice, that as I listened I seemed to hesitate in my
design of bearding the little cock. However, after a moment I regained
my courage, and I said to him—just as if he could hear me,—“Hollo, Mr.
Cock, in five minutes you won’t hold your cockscomb quite so high!”
As valour need not altogether exclude prudence, I thought it wise to
take my father’s fishing-rod with me. And I drew my cap well down over
my eyes.
As I entered the kitchen I found my mother already there; she was
engaged in picking lentils and removing the little pebbles which clung
to them.
“Are you going out fishing?” she asked laughingly.
“No, mamma, I was only going—” Then it occurred to me that I had
determined I would not tell anybody of my audacious project—that my
intended victory over the bantam was to be a profound secret until I was
the undoubted conqueror. I bit my tongue and prudently cut the sentence
short. As I never told a lie, I did not give a word of explanation.
“Put down the fishing-rod,” said my mother without paying any attention
to my evident embarrassment; “take off your cap, and come and help me.”
I hastened to obey her, and, to tell the truth, I am ashamed to say I
felt some satisfaction in putting off for a day or two, the duty, which
I had imposed upon myself, of teaching a lesson to that impudent little
cock. He, in the meantime, seemed to crow over my infirmity of purpose,
for his cock-a-doodle-doo sounded more loudly than ever all over the
place. “Ah!” said I to myself, “you will lose nothing by waiting; you
would certainly have caught it by this time, I can tell you, if I had
not been kept in.” At that moment my mother went out of the kitchen.
Instigated by a feeling of curiosity to see what was going on inside the
kitchen—or, perhaps, with a baser motive of crowing over me, the little
bantam suddenly flew on the ledge outside the kitchen window, and
putting his head first on one side, and then the other, looked
impertinently through the panes of glass into the kitchen.
“Take that!” cried I; and seizing a handful of lentils, I threw them
against the window. It sounded like a shower of hail. The bantam gave a
hoarse scream of terror, flapped his wings, and disappeared. The rascal,
I have not a doubt, paid the chickens off for the fright I caused him,
as I heard them uttering piercing cries soon afterwards.
I carefully picked up the lentils, and set to work cleaning them again,
feeling quite pleased with my exploit.
------------------
XVII.
SCIENTIFIC REFLECTIONS ON MY NOSE MADE BY DR. LOMBALOT.
“THAT is very nicely done,” said my mother, on her return to the
kitchen. “You are a good helpful little boy; and now go and put on your
best suit for breakfast, as somebody is coming.”
This somebody was Dr. Lombalot, the old surgeon-major of my father’s
former regiment. When he retired from the army he settled at Tours. He
was to arrive by an early train.
“He is a great original,” said my mother, “but your father likes him
very much.”
He was indeed an original! He had all sorts of theories upon various
subjects and systems of doing things, which he always made out must be
right. For instance, he never ate a boiled egg like the rest of the
world, and he proved that the rest of the world was wrong in the way it
ate them. “Omelettes, yes, Ma’am, omelettes,” said he, looking at my
mother across the breakfast table, “omelettes ought to be done in a
certain particular way known only to myself; but I am willing to give
the receipt”—here he made a little bow to my mother,—“and you should
_always_ pour in the oil before the vinegar in making a salad,”—here he
twinkled his eye maliciously at my father, who was mixing a salad, and
had just poured in the vinegar first.
One of his theories was, he informed us, that neither men nor boys
should wear braces. And then he announced that people should always walk
upstairs backwards, so as not to get out of breath. Here I unfortunately
swallowed some coffee the wrong way, and choked myself, because I was
bursting with laughter; the doctor wiped his spectacles, and putting
them on, stared at my nose, which I felt turn pale.
“And phrenology?” said my father hastily, wishing to divert his
attention, “you still study phrenology?”
[Illustration: “THE DOCTOR STARED AT MY NOSE.”]
The doctor did not appear to hear the question, his eyes were fixed on
my unfortunate nose. At last he uttered the words “_Remarkably_
strange!”
“What is strange?” enquired my father. The doctor did not at once reply:
lifting up his right hand, he held it before him, moving it first
further and then nearer to him, as if he was trying to get an exact
point of sight to suit him. When he held it still, the back was towards
me, and it hid half his face. His eyes peeped over it as if he was
looking over a wall or as if he was plunged in water to the tip of his
nose.
We all gazed at him in great surprise and some consternation. As for
him, he quietly continued his operations, figuratively pulling me to
pieces: his eyes became quite small, and puckers and wrinkles appeared
at the corners.
“Not the least affinity,” said he, in a few seconds, “between the
different features in that face. I take the nose” (here he made a sort
of telescope with his closed fist), “a warlike nose! I hide it” (he hid
himself again behind his wall until I saw only his two eyes), “and I see
a meek forehead, and a timid eye. I look at them altogether again” (here
the wall disappeared), “and what a strange contrast is before me! That
martial nose and that timid physiognomy! that poor face! which is quite
ashamed to have such a nose attached to it, a nose almost.... What was I
going to say? however, no matter. It is just as if you saw a gentle,
peaceable, good-natured shop-keeper giving his arm in the street to some
violent, insolent blusterer. Absurd contrast! a caricaturist would be
delighted to meet with that boy!”
“But,” said my father impatiently, “do tell us something about
phrenology!”
------------------
XVIII.
I DISCOVER THAT I DO NOT POSSESS THE BUMP OF COMBATIVENESS.
THE doctor looked grave as he answered: “My dear Bicquerot, if you ask
that question seriously, I will reply. But if you are only joking, pray
don’t do so any more. It is too serious a subject to laugh at.”
My father having declared that he was not joking at all, the doctor
looked round him in a suspicious manner and lowered his voice as he
said, “I have discovered things that would make your hair stand on end
if I disclosed them to you. I have discovered a real science, an
infallible science——”
“Then,” said my father, “do you seriously believe that our character and
destiny in the world depend upon the form and size of the bumps on our
skulls?”
“Yes; I do believe it,” answered the doctor with the air of a resigned
and misunderstood genius, as he folded his hands in front of him. “Yes,
I do believe it: O Bicquerot!” he repeated.
“Well, I confess,” began my father.
“Thirty years’ experiences, thirty years of study and researches, have I
spent!” cried the doctor, “and have at last found the truth! Here, read
this,”—he felt in the side pocket of his coat and pulled out a yellow
pamphlet—“read this, I say, and the scales will drop from your eyes.”
“However, doctor, look here,” my father again tried to begin.