For her sake all women are sacred to me, even the lowest and most
depraved and God-forsaken. They always found a helping friend in _her_.
How can I pay a fitting tribute to one so near to me--nearer than any
woman can ever have been to any man?
I know her mind as I know my own! No two human souls can ever have
interpenetrated each other as ours have done, or we should have heard of
it. Every thought she ever had from her childhood to her death has been
revealed--every thought of mine! Living as we did, it was inevitable.
The touch of a finger was enough to establish the strange circuit, and
wake a common consciousness of past and present, either hers or mine.
And oh, how thankful am I that some lucky chance has preserved me,
murderer and convict as I am, from anything she would have found it
impossible to condone!
I try not to think that shyness and poverty, ungainliness and social
imbecility combined, have had as much to do as self-restraint and
self-respect in keeping me out of so many pitfalls that have been fatal
to so many men better and more gifted than myself.
I try to think that her extraordinary affection, the chance result of a
persistent impression received in childhood, has followed me through
life without my knowing it, and in some occult, mysterious way has kept
me from thoughts and deeds that would have rendered me unworthy, even in
her too indulgent eyes.
Who knows but that her sweet mother's farewell kiss and blessing, and
the tender tears she shed over me when I bade her good-bye at the avenue
gate so many years ago, may have had an antiseptic charm? Mary! I have
followed her from her sickly, suffering childhood to her girlhood--from
her half-ripe, gracefully lanky girlhood to the day of her retirement
from the world of which she was so great an ornament. From girl to woman
it seems like a triumphal procession through all the courts of
Europe--scenes the like of which I have never even dreamed--flattery and
strife to have turned the head of any princess! And she was the simple
daughter of a working scientist and physician--the granddaughter of
a fiddler.
Yet even Austrian court etiquette was waived in favor of the child of
plain Dr. Seraskier.
What men have I seen at her feet--how splendid, handsome, gallant,
brilliant, chivalrous, lordly, and gay! And to all, from her, the same
happy geniality--the same kindly, laughing, frolicsome, innocent gayety,
with never a thought of self.
M. le Major was right--"elle avait toutes les intelligences de la tête
et du coeur." And old and young, the best and the worst, seemed to love
and respect her alike--and women as well as men--for her perfect
sincerity, her sweet reasonableness.
And all this time I was plodding at my dull drawing-board in
Pentonville, carrying out another's designs for a stable or a pauper's
cottage, and not even achieving that poor task particularly well!
It would have driven me mad with humiliation and jealousy to see this
past life of hers, but we saw it all hand in hand together--the magical
circuit was established! And I knew, as I saw, how it all affected her,
and marvelled at her simplicity in thinking all this pomp and splendor
of so little consequence.
And I trembled to find that what space in her heart was not filled by
the remembrance of her ever-beloved mother and the image of her father
(one of the noblest and best of men) enshrined the ridiculous figure of
a small boy in a white silk hat and an Eton jacket. And that small
boy was I!
Then came a dreadful twelvemonth that I was fain to leave a blank--the
twelvemonth during which her girlish fancy for her husband lasted--and
then her life was mine again forever!
And _my_ life!
The life of a convict is not, as a rule, a happy one; his bed is not
generally thought a bed of roses.
Mine was!
If I had been the most miserable leper that ever crawled to his wattled
hut in Molokai, I should also have been the happiest of men, could sleep
but have found me there, and could I but sleeping have been the friend
of sleeping Mary Seraskier. She would have loved me all the more!
She has filled my long life of bondage with such felicity as no monarch
has ever dreamed, and has found her own felicity in doing so. That poor,
plodding existence I led before my great misadventure, and have tried to
describe--she has witnessed almost every hour of it with passionate
interest and sympathy, as we went hand in hand together through each
other's past. She would at any time have been only too glad to share it,
leaving her own.
I dreaded the effect of such a sordid revelation upon one who had lived
so brilliantly and at such an altitude. I need have had no fear! Just as
she thought me an "angelic hero" at eight years old, she remained
persuaded all through her life that I was an Apollo--a misunderstood
genius--a martyr!
I am sick with shame when I think of it. But I am not the first unworthy
mortal on whom blind, undiscriminating love has chosen to lavish its
most priceless treasures. Tarapatapoum is not the only fairy who has
idealized a hulking clown with an ass's head into a Prince Charming;
the spectacle, alas! is not infrequent. But at least I have been humbly
thankful for the undeserved blessing, and known its value. And,
moreover, I think I may lay claim to one talent: that of also knowing by
intuition when and where and how to love--in a moment--in a
flash--and forever!
Twenty-five years!
It seems like a thousand, so much have we seen and felt and done in that
busy enchanted quarter of a century. And yet how quickly the time
has sped!
And now I must endeavor to give some account of our wonderful inner
life--_à deux_--a delicate and difficult task.
There is both an impertinence and a lack of taste in any man's laying
bare to the public eye--to any eye--the bliss that has come to him
through the love of a devoted woman, with whose life his own has
been bound up.
The most sympathetic reader is apt to be repelled by such a
revelation--to be sceptical of the beauties and virtues and mental gifts
of one he has never seen; at all events, to feel that they are no
concern of his, and ought to be the subject of a sacred reticence on the
part of her too fortunate lover or husband.
The lack of such reticence has marred the interest of many an
autobiography--of many a novel, even; and in private life, who does not
know by painful experience how embarrassing to the listener such tender
confidences can sometimes be? I will try my best not to transgress in
this particular. If I fail (I may have failed already), I can only plead
that the circumstances are quite exceptional and not to be matched; and
that allowances must be made for the deep gratitude I owe and feel over
and above even my passionate admiration and love.
For the next three years of my life has nothing to show but the
alternation of such honeymooning as never was before with a dull but
contented prison life, not one hour of which is worth recording, or even
remembering, except as a foil to its alternative.
It had but one hour for me, the bed hour, and fortunately that was an
early one.
Healthily tired in body, blissfully expectant in mind, I would lie on my
back, with my hands duly crossed under my head, and sleep would soon
steal over me like balm; and before I had forgotten who and what and
where I really was, I would reach the goal on which my will was intent,
and waking up, find my body in another place, in another garb, on a
couch by an enchanted window, still with my arms crossed behind my
head--in the sacramental attitude.
Then would I stretch my limbs and slip myself free of my outer life, as
a new-born butterfly from the durance of its self-spun cocoon, with an
unutterable sense of youth and strength and freshness and felicity; and
opening my eyes I would see on the adjacent couch the form of Mary, also
supine, but motionless and inanimate as a statue. Nothing could wake her
to life till the time came: her hours were somewhat later, and she was
still in the toils of the outer life I had just left behind me.
And these toils, in her case, were more complicated than in mine.
Although she had given up the world, she had many friends and an immense
correspondence. And then, being a woman endowed with boundless health
and energy, splendid buoyancy of animal spirits, and a great capacity
for business, she had made for herself many cares and occupations.
She was the virtual mistress of a home for fallen women, a reformatory
for juvenile thieves, and a children's convalescent hospital--to all of
which she gave her immediate personal superintendence, and almost every
penny she had. She had let her house in Hampshire, and lived with a
couple of female servants in a small furnished house on Campden Hill.
She did without a carriage, and went about in cabs and omnibuses,
dressed like a daily governess, though nobody could appear more regally
magnificent than she did when we were together.
She still kept her name and title, as a potent weapon of influence on
behalf of her charities, and wielded it mercilessly in her constant raid
on the purse of the benevolent Philistine, who is fond of great people.
All of which gave rise to much comment that did not affect her
equanimity in the least.
She also attended lectures, committees, boards, and councils; opened
bazaars and soup kitchens and coffee taverns, etc. The list of her
self-imposed tasks was endless. Thus her outer life was filled to
overflowing, and, unlike mine, every hour of it was worth record--as I
well know, who have witnessed it all. But this is not the place in which
to write the outer life of the Duchess of Towers; another hand has done
that, as everybody knows.
Every page henceforward must be sacred to Mary Seraskier, the "fée
Tarapatapoum" of "Magna sed Apta" (for so we had called the new home
and palace of art she had added on to "Parva sed Apta," the home of her
childhood).
To return thither, where we left her lying unconscious. Soon the color
would come back to her cheeks, the breath to her nostrils, the pulse to
her heart, and she would wake to her Eden, as she called it--our common
inner life--that we might spend it in each other's company for the next
eight hours.
Pending this happy moment, I would make coffee (such coffee!), and smoke
a cigarette or two; and to fully appreciate the bliss of _that_ one must
be an habitual smoker who lives his real life in an English jail.
When she awoke from her sixteen hours' busy trance in the outer world,
such a choice of pleasures lay before us as no other mortal has ever
known. She had been all her life a great traveller, and had dwelt in
many lands and cities, and seen more of life and the world and nature
than most people. I had but to take her hand, and one of us had but to
wish, and, lo! wherever either of us had been, whatever either of us had
seen or heard or felt, or even eaten or drunk, there it was all over
again to choose from, with the other to share in it--such a hypnotism of
ourselves and each other as was never dreamed of before.
Everything was as life-like, as real to us both, as it had been to
either at the actual time of its occurrence, with an added freshness and
charm that never belonged to mortal existence. It was no dream; it was a
second life, a better land.
We had, however, to stay within certain bounds, and beware of
transgressing certain laws that we discovered for ourselves, but could
not quite account for. For instance, it was fatal to attempt exploits
that were outside of our real experience; to fly, or to jump from a
height, or do any of these non-natural things that make the charm and
wonder of ordinary dreams. If we did so our true dream was blurred, and
became as an ordinary dream--vague, futile, unreal, and untrue--the
baseless fabric of a vision. Nor must we alter ourselves in any way;
even to the shape of a finger-nail, we must remain ourselves; although
we kept ourselves at our very best, and could choose what age we should
be. We chose from twenty-six to twenty-eight, and stuck to it.
Yet there were many things, quite as impossible in real life, that we
could do with impunity--most delightful things!
For instance, after the waking cup of coffee, it was certainly
delightful to spend a couple of hours in the Yosemite Valley, leisurely
strolling about and gazing at the giant pines--a never-palling source of
delight to both of us--breathing the fragrant fresh air, looking at our
fellow-tourists and listening to their talk, with the agreeable
consciousness that, solid and substantial as we were to each other, we
were quite inaudible, invisible, and intangible to them. Often we would
dispense with the tourists, and have the Yosemite Valley all to
ourselves. (Always there, and in whatever place she had visited with her
husband, we would dispense with the figure of her former self and him, a
sight I could not have borne.)
When we had strolled and gazed our fill, it was delightful again, just
by a slight effort of her will and a few moments' closing of our eyes,
to find ourselves driving along the Via Cornice to an exquisite garden
concert in Dresden, or being rowed in a gondola to a Saturday Pop at St.
James's Hall. And thence, jumping into a hansom, we would be whisked
through Piccadilly and the park to the Arc de Triomphe home to "Magna
sed Apta," Rue de la Pompe, Passy (a charming drive, and not a bit too
long), just in time for dinner.
A very delicious little dinner, judiciously ordered out of _her_
remembrance, not _mine_ (and served in the most exquisite little
dining-room in all Paris--the Princesse de Chevagné's): "huîtres
d'Ostende," let us say, and "soupe à la bonne femme," with a "perdrix
aux choux" to follow, and pancakes, and "fromage de Brie;" and to drink,
a bottle of "Romané Conti;" without even the bother of waiters to change
the dishes; a wish, a moment's shutting of the eyes--_augenblick_! and
it was done--and then we could wait on each other.
After my prison fare, and with nothing but tenpenny London dinners to
recollect in the immediate past, I trust I shall not be thought a gross
materialist for appreciating these small banquets, and in such company.
(The only dinner I could recall which was not a tenpenny one, except the
old dinners of my childhood, was that famous dinner at Cray, where I had
discovered that the Duchess of Towers was Mimsey Seraskier, and I did
not eat much of _that_.)
Then a cigarette and a cup of coffee, and a glass of curaçoa; and after,
to reach our private box we had but to cross the room and lift
a curtain.
And there before us was the theatre or opera-house brilliantly lighted,
and the instruments tuning up, and the splendid company pouring in:
crowned heads, famous beauties, world-renowned warriors and statesmen,
Garibaldi, Gortschakoff, Cavour, Bismarck, and Moltke, now so famous,
and who not? Mary would point them out to me. And in the next box Dr.
Seraskier and his tall daughter, who seemed friends with all that
brilliant crowd.
Now it was St. Petersburg, now Berlin, now Vienna, Paris, Naples, Milan,
London--every great city in turn. But our box was always the same, and
always the best in the house, and I the one person privileged to smoke
my cigar in the face of all that royalty, fashion, and splendor.
Then, after the overture, up went the curtain. If it was a play, and the
play was in German or Russian or Italian, I had but to touch Mary's
little finger to understand it all--a true but incomprehensible thing.
For well as I might understand, I could not have spoken a word of
either, and the moment that slight contact was discontinued, they might
as well have been acting in Greek or Hebrew, for _me_.
But it was for music we cared the most, and I think I may say that of
music during those three years (and ever after) we have had our glut.
For all through her busy waking life Mary found time to hear whatever
good music was going on in London, that she might bring it back to me at
night; and we would rehear it together, again and again, and _da capo_.
It is a rare privilege for two private individuals, and one of them a
convict, to assist at a performance honored by the patronage and
presence of crowned heads, and yet be able to encore any particular
thing that pleases them. How often have we done that!
[Illustration]
Oh, Joachim! oh, Clara Schumann! oh, Piattil--all of whom I know so
well, but have never heard with the fleshly ear! Oh, others, whom it
would be invidious to mention without mentioning all--a glorious list!
How we have made you, all unconscious, repeat the same movements over
and over again, without ever from you a sign of impatience or fatigue!
How often have we summoned Liszt to play to us on his own favorite
piano, which adorned our own favorite sitting-room! How little he knew
(or will ever know now, alas!) what exquisite delight he gave us!
Oh, Pattit, Angelina! Oh, Santley and Sims Reeves! Oh, De Soria,
nightingale of the drawing-room, I wonder you have a note left!
And you, Ristori, and you, Salvini, et vous, divine Sarah, qui débutiez
alors! On me dit que votre adorable voix a perdu un peu de sa première
fraîcheur. Cela ne m'étonne pas! Bien sûr, nous y sommes pour
quelque chose!
* * * * *
And then the picture-galleries, the museums, the botanical and
zoological gardens of all countries--"Magna sed Apta" had space for them
all, even to the Elgin Marbles room of the British Museum, which I
added myself.
What enchanted hours have we spent among the pictures and statues of the
world, weeding them here and there, perhaps, or hanging them
differently, or placing them in what we thought a better light! The
"Venus of Milo" showed to far greater advantage in "Magna sed Apta" than
at the Louvre.
And when busied thus delightfully at home, and to enhance the delight,
we made it shocking bad weather outside; it rained cats and dogs, or
else the north wind piped, and snow fell on the desolate gardens of
"Magna sed Apta," and whitened the landscape as far as eye could see.
Nearest to our hearts, however, were many pictures of our own time, for
we were moderns of the moderns, after all, in spite of our efforts of
self-culture.
There was scarcely a living or recently living master in Europe whose
best works were not in our possession, so lighted and hung that even the
masters themselves would have been content; for we had plenty of space
at our command, and each picture had a wall to itself, so toned as to do
full justice to its beauty, and a comfortable sofa for two
just opposite.
But in the little room we most lived in, the room with the magic window,
we had crowded a few special favorites of the English school, for we had
so much foreign blood in us that we were more British than John Bull
himself--_plus royalistes que le Roi_.
There was Millais's "Autumn Leaves," his "Youth of Sir Walter Raleigh,"
his "Chill October"; Watts's "Endymion," and "Orpheus and Eurydice";
Burne-Jones's "Chant d'Amour," and his "Laus Veneris"; Alma-Tadema's
"Audience of Agrippa," and the "Women of Amphissa"; J. Whistler's
portrait of his mother; the "Venus and Aesculapius," by E. J. Poynter;
F. Leighton's "Daphnephoria"; George Mason's "Harvest Moon"; and
Frederic Walker's "Harbor of Refuge," and, of course, Merridew's
"Sun-God."
While on a screen, designed by H. S. Marks, and exquisitely decorated
round the margin with golden plovers and their eggs (which I adore),
were smaller gems in oil and water-color that Mary had fallen in love
with at one time or another. The immortal "Moonlight Sonata," by
Whistler; E, J. Poynter's exquisite "Our Lady of the Fields" (dated
Paris, 1857); a pair of adorable "Bimbi" by V. Prinsep, who seems very
fond of children; T. R. Lamont's touching "L'Après Dîner de l'Abbé
Constantin," with the sweet girl playing the old spinet; and that
admirable work of T. Armstrong, in his earlier and more realistic
manner, "Le Zouave et lâ Nounou," not to mention splendid rough sketches
by John Leech, Charles Keene, Tenniel, Sambourne, Furniss, Caldecott,
etc.; not to mention, also, endless little sketches in silver point of a
most impossibly colossal, blackavised, shaggy-coated St. Bernard--signed
with the familiar French name of some gay troubadour of the pencil, some
stray half-breed like myself, and who seems to have loved his dog as
much as I loved mine.
Then suddenly, in the midst of all this unparalleled artistic splendor,
we felt that a something was wanting. There was a certain hollowness
about it; and we discovered that in our case the principal motives for
collecting all these beautiful things were absent.
1. We were not the sole possessors.
2. We had nobody to show them to.
3. Therefore we could take no pride in them.
[Illustration: THE NURSERY SCHOOL-ROOM.]
And found that when we wanted bad weather for a change, and the joys of
home, we could be quite as happy in my old school-room, where the
squirrels and the monkey and the hedgehog were, with each of us on a
cane-bottomed arm-chair by the wood-fire, each roasting chestnuts for
the other, and one book between us, for one of us to read out loud; or,
better still, the morning and evening papers she had read a few hours
earlier; and marvellous to relate, she had not even _read_ them when
awake! she had merely glanced through them carefully, taking in the
aspect of each column one after another, from top to bottom--and yet she
was able to read out every word from the dream-paper she held in her
hands--thus truly chewing the very cud of journalism!
This always seemed to us, in a small but practical way, the most
complete and signal triumph of mind over matter we had yet achieved.
Not, indeed, that we could read much, we had so much to talk about.
Unfortunately, the weak part of "Magna sed Apta" was its library.
Naturally it could only consist of books that one or the other of us had
read when awake. She had led such an active life that but little leisure
had been left her for books, and I had read only as an every-day young
man reads who is fond of reading.
However, such books as we _had_ read were made the most of, and so
magnificently bound that even their authors would have blushed with
pride and pleasure had they been there to see. And though we had little
time for reading them over again, we could enjoy the true bibliophilous
delight of gazing at their backs, and taking them down and fingering
them and putting them carefully back again.
In most of these treats, excursions, festivities, and pleasures of the
fireside, Mary was naturally leader and hostess; it could scarcely have
been otherwise.
There was once a famous Mary, of whom it was said that to know her was a
liberal education. I think I may say that to have known Mary Seraskier
has been all that to me!
But now and then I would make some small attempt at returning her
hospitality.
We have slummed together in Clerkenwell, Smithfield, Cow Cross,
Petticoat Lane, Ratcliffe Highway, and the East India and West
India docks.
She has been with me to penny gaffs and music-halls; to Greenwich Fair,
and Cremorne and Rosherville gardens--and liked them all. She knew
Pentonville as well as I do; and my old lodgings there, where we have
both leaned over my former shoulder as I read or drew. It was she who
rescued from oblivion my little prophetic song about "The Chime," which
I had quite forgotten. She has been to Mr. Lintot's parties, and found
them most amusing--especially Mr. Lintot.
And going further back into the past, she has roamed with me all over
Paris, and climbed with me the towers of Notre Dame, and looked in vain
for the mystic word [Greek: Anagkae]!
But I had also better things to show, untravelled as I was.
She had never seen Hampstead Heath, which I knew by heart; and Hampstead
Heath at any time, but especially on a sunny morning in late October, is
not to be disdained by any one.
Half the leaves have fallen, so that one can see the fading glory of
those that remain; yellow and brown and pale and hectic red, shining
like golden guineas and bright copper coins against the rich, dark,
business-like green of the trees that mean to flourish all the winter
through, like the tall slanting pines near the Spaniards, and the old
cedar-trees, and hedges of yew and holly, for which the Hampstead
gardens are famous.
Before us lies a sea of fern, gone a russet-brown from decay, in which
are isles of dark green gorse, and little trees with little scarlet and
orange and lemon-colored leaflets fluttering down, and running after
each other on the bright grass, under the brisk west wind which makes
the willows rustle, and turn up the whites of their leaves in pious
resignation to the coming change.
Harrow-on-the-Hill, with its pointed spire, rises blue in the distance;
and distant ridges, like receding waves, rise into blueness, one after
the other, out of the low-lying mist; the last ridge bluely melting into
space. In the midst of it all gleams the Welsh Harp Lake, like a piece
of sky that has become unstuck and tumbled into the landscape with its
shiny side up.
On the other side, all London, with nothing but the gilded cross of St.
Paul's on a level with the eye; it lies at our feet, as Paris used to do
from the heights of Passy, a sight to make true dreamers gaze and think
and dream the more; and there we sit thinking and dreaming and gazing
our fill, hand in hand, our spirits rushing together.
Once as we sat we heard the clatter of hoofs behind us, and there was a
troop of my old regiment out exercising. Invisible to all but ourselves,
and each other, we watched the wanton troopers riding by on their meek
black chargers.
First came the cornet--a sunny-haired Apollo, a gilded youth, graceful
and magnificent to the eye--careless, fearless, but stupid, harsh, and
proud--an English Phébus de Châteaupers--the son of a great contractor;
I remembered him well, and that he loved me not. Then the rank and file
in stable jackets, most of them (but for a stalwart corporal here and
there) raw, lanky youths, giving promise of much future strength, and
each leading a second horse; and among them, longest and lankiest of
them all, but ruddy as a ploughboy, and stolidly whistling _"On revient
toujours à ses premiers amours,"_ rode my former self--a sight (or
sound) that seemed to touch some tender chord in Mary's nature, where
there were so many, since it filled her eyes with tears.
[Illustration]
To describe in full a honey-moon filled with such adventures, and that
lasted for three years, is unnecessary. It would be but another
superficial record of travel, by another unskilled pen. And what a pen
is wanted for such a theme! It was not mere life, it was the very cream
and essence of life, that we shared with each other--all the toil and
trouble, the friction and fatigue, left out. The necessary earthly
journey through time and space from one joy to another was omitted,
unless such a journey were a joy in itself.
For instance, a pleasant hour can be spent on the deck of a splendid
steamer, as it cleaves its way through a sapphire tropical sea, bound
for some lovely West Indian islet; with a good cigar and the dearest
companion in the world, watching the dolphins and the flying-fish, and
mildly interesting one's self in one's fellow-passengers, the captain,
the crew. And then, the hour spent and the cigar smoked out, it is well
to shut one's eyes and have one's self quietly lowered down the side of
the vessel into a beautiful sledge, and then, half smothered in costly
furs, to be whirled along the frozen Neva to a ball at the Winter
Palace, there to valse with one's Mary among all the beauty and chivalry
of St. Petersburg, and never a soul to find fault with one's valsing,
which at first was far from perfect, or one's attire, which was not that
of the fashionable world of the day, nor was Mary's either. We were
aesthetic people, and very Greek, who made for ourselves fashions of our
own, which I will not describe.
[Illustration:]
Where have we not waltzed together, from Buckingham Palace downward? I
confess I grew to take a delight in valsing, or waltzing, or whatever it
is properly called; and although it is not much to boast of, I may say
that after a year or two no better dancer than I was to be found in
all Vienna.
And here, by the way, I may mention what pleasure it gave me (hand in
hand with Mary, of course, as usual) to renew and improve my
acquaintance with our British aristocracy, begun so agreeably many years
ago at Lady Cray's concert.
Our British aristocracy does not waltz well by any means, and lacks
lightness generally; but it may gratify and encourage some of its
members to hear that Peter Ibbetson (ex-private soldier, architect and
surveyor, convict and criminal lunatic), who has had unrivalled
opportunities for mixing with the cream of European society, considers
our British aristocracy quite the best-looking, best-dressed, and
best-behaved aristocracy of them all, and the most sensible and the
least exclusive--perhaps the most sensible _because_ the least
exclusive.
It often snubs, but does not altogether repulse, those gifted and
privileged outsiders who (just for the honor and glory of the thing) are
ever so ready to flatter and instruct and amuse it, and run its
errands, and fetch and carry, and tumble for its pleasure, and even to
marry such of its "ugly ducklings" (or shall we say such of its
"unprepossessing cygnets?") as cannot hope to mate with birds of their
own feather.
For it has the true English eye for physical beauty.
Indeed, it is much given to throw the handkerchief--successfully, of
course--and, most fortunately for itself, beyond the pale of its own
narrow precincts--nay, beyond the broad Atlantic, even, to the land
where beauty and dollars are to be found in such happy combination.
Nor does it disdain the comeliness of the daughters of Israel, nor their
shekels, nor their brains, nor their ancient and most valuable blood. It
knows the secret virtue of that mechanical transfusion of fluids
familiar to science under the name of "endosmoses" and "exosmoses" (I
hope I have spelled them rightly), and practises the same. Whereby it
shows itself wise in its generation, and will endure the longer, which
cannot be very long.
Peter Ibbetson (etc., etc.), for one, wishes it no manner of harm.
* * * * *
But to return. With all these temptations of travel and amusement and
society and the great world, such was our insatiable fondness for "the
pretty place of our childhood" and all its associations, that our
greatest pleasure of all was to live our old life over again and again,
and make Gogo and Mimsey and our parents and cousins and M. le Major go
through their old paces once more; and to recall _new_ old paces for
them, which we were sometimes able to do, out of stray forgotten bits of
the past; to hunt for which was the most exciting sport in the world.
Our tenderness for these beloved shades increased with familiarity. We
could see all the charm and goodness and kindness of these dear fathers
and mothers of ours with the eyes of matured experience, for we were
pretty much of an age with them now; no other children could ever say as
much since the world began, and how few young parents could bear such a
scrutiny as ours.
Ah! what would we not have given to extort just a spark of recognition,
but that was impossible; or to have been able to whisper just a word of
warning, which would have averted the impending strokes of inexorable
fate! They might have been alive now, perhaps--old indeed, but honored
and loved as no parents ever were before. How different everything would
have been! Alas! alas!
And of all things in the world, we never tired of that walk through the
avenue and park and Bois de Boulogne to the Mare d'Auteuil; strolling
there leisurely on an early spring afternoon, just in time to spend a
midsummer hour or two on its bank, and watch the old water-rat and the
dytiscus and the tadpoles and newts, and see the frogs jump; and then
walking home at dusk in the school-room of my old home; and then back to
war, well-lighted "Magna sed Apta" by moonlight through the avenue on
New Year's Eve, ankle-deep in snow; all in a few short hours.
Dream winds and dream weathers--what an enchantment! And all real!
Soft caressing rains that do not wet us if we do not wish them to; sharp
frosts that brace but never chill; blazing suns that neither scorch
nor dazzle.
Blustering winds of early spring, that seem to sweep right through these
solid frames of ours, and thrill us to the very marrow with the old
heroic excitement and ecstasy we knew so well in happy childhood, but
can no longer feel now when awake!
Bland summer breezes, heavy with the scent of long lost French woods and
fields and gardens in full flower; swift, soft, moist equinoctial gales,
blowing from the far-off orchards of Meudon, or the old market gardens
of Suresnes in their autumnal decay, and laden, we do not know why, with
strange, mysterious, troubling reminiscence too subtle and elusive to be
expressed in any tongue--too sweet for any words! And then the dark
December wind that comes down from the north, and brings the short,
early twilights and the snow, and drives us home, pleasantly shivering,
to the chimney-corner and the hissing logs--_chez nous!_
It is the last night of an old year--_la veille du jour de l'an_.
Ankle-deep in snow, we walk to warm, well-lighted "Magna sed Apta," up
the moonlit avenue. It is dream snow, and yet we feel it crunch beneath
our feet; but if we turn to look, the tracks of our footsteps have
disappeared--and we cast no shadows, though the moon is full!
M. le Major goes by, and Yverdon the postman, and Père François, with
his big sabots, and others, and their footprints remain--and their
shadows are strong and sharp!
They wish each other the compliments of the season as they meet and
pass; they wish us nothing! We give them _la bonne année_ at the tops of
our voices; they do not heed us in the least, though our voices are as
resonant as theirs. We are wishing them a "Happy New Year," that dawned
for good or evil nearly twenty years ago.
Out comes Gogo from the Seraskiers', with Mimsey. He makes a snowball
and throws it. It flies straight through me, and splashes itself on Père
François's broad back. "Ah, ce polisson de Monsieur Gogo ... attendez un
peu!" and Père François returns the compliment--straight through me
again, as it seems; and I do not even feel it! Mary and I are as solid
to each other as flesh and blood can make us. We cannot even touch these
dream people without their melting away into thin air; we can only hear
and see them, but that in perfection!
There goes that little André Corbin, the poulterer's son, running along
the slippery top of Madame Pelé's garden wall, which is nearly ten
feet high.
"Good heavens," cries Mary, "stop him! Don't you remember? When he gets
to the corner he'll fall down and break both his legs!"