It was always a matter of wonder to Vandover that
he was able to recall so little of his past life.
With the exception of the most recent events he could
remember nothing connectedly. What he at first
imagined to be the story of his life, on closer inspection
turned out to be but a few disconnected incidents
that his memory had preserved with the greatest capriciousness,
absolutely independent of their importance. One
of these incidents might be a great sorrow, a tragedy,
a death in his family; and another, recalled with
the same vividness, the same accuracy of detail, might
be a matter of the least moment.
A certain one of these wilful fillips of memory would
always bring before him a particular scene during
the migration of his family from Boston to their new
home in San Francisco, at a time when Vandover was
about eight years old.
It was in the depot of one of the larger towns in
western New York. The day had been hot and after
the long ride on the crowded day coach the cool shadow
under the curved roof of the immense iron vaulted depot
seemed very pleasant. The porter, the brakeman
and Vandover’s father very carefully lifted
his mother from the car. She was lying back on
pillows in a long steamer chair. The three men
let the chair slowly down, the brakeman went away,
but the porter remained, taking off his cap and wiping
his forehead with the back of his left hand, which
in turn he wiped against the pink palm of his right.
The other train, the train to which they were to change,
had not yet arrived. It was rather still; at
the far end of the depot a locomotive, sitting back
on its motionless drivers like some huge sphinx crouching
along the rails, was steaming quietly, drawing long
breaths. The repair gang in greasy caps and spotted
blue overalls were inspecting the train, pottering
about the trucks, opening and closing the journal-boxes,
striking clear notes on the wheels with long-handled
hammers.
Vandover stood close to his father, his thin legs
wide apart, holding in both his hands the satchel
he had been permitted to carry. He looked about
him continually, rolling his big eyes vaguely, watching
now the repair-gang, now a huge white cat dozing on
an empty baggage truck.
Several passengers were walking up and down the platform,
staring curiously at the invalid lying back in the
steamer chair.
The journey was too much for her. She was very
weak and very pale, her eyelids were heavy, the skin
of her forehead looked blue and tightly drawn, and
tiny beads of perspiration gathered around the corners
of her mouth. Vandover’s father put his
hand and arm along the back of the chair and his sick
wife rested against him, leaning her head on his waistcoat
over the pocket where he kept his cigars and pocket-comb.
They were all silent.
