Upon a map of the world I had my parents point out
to me the route of his journey, a journey which would
take about five months. To me his return belonged
to an inconceivable and unreal future; and, most strange
of all, what spoiled for me the pleasure of his home-coming,
was that I at that time would be twelve or thirteen
years of age—almost a big boy in fact.
Unlike most other children,—especially
unlike those of to-day—who are eager to
become men and women as speedily as possible, I had
a terror of growing up, which became more and more
accentuated as I grew older. I argued about it
to myself, and I wrote about it, and when any one asked
me why I had such a feeling I answered, since I could
not think of a better reason: “It seems
to me that it will be very wearisome to be a man.”
I believe that it is an extremely singular state of
mind, an altogether unique one perhaps, this shrinking
away from life at its very beginning; I was not able
to see a horizon before me: I could not picture
my future to myself as so many can; before me there
was nothing but impenetrable darkness, a great leaden
curtain shut off my view.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“Cakes, cakes, my good hot cakes!” Thus,
in a plaintive voice, sang the old woman peddler who
regularly, upon winter evenings, during the first
ten or twelve years of my life, passed under our window.—When
I think of those bygone days I hear again her insistent
refrain.
It is with the memory of Sundays that the song of
the “good hot cakes” is most closely associated;
for upon that evening, having no duties to perform
in the way of lessons, I sat with my parents in the
parlor upon the ground floor which overlooked the
street; therefore, when almost upon the stroke of
nine, the poor old woman passed along the sidewalk,
and her sonorous chant broke into the stillness of
the frosty night I was near enough to hear her distinctly.
She presaged the coming of cold weather as swallows
announce the advent of the spring. After a succession
of cool autumnal days, the first time we heard her
song we would say: “Well, we may conclude
that winter is really here.”
This parlor where we sat together seemed a very immense
room to me. It was simply and tastefully furnished
and arranged: the walls and the woodwork were
brown, decorated with strips of gold: the furniture,
dating from the time of Louis Philippe, was upholstered
in red velvet; the family portraits were in severe
black and gold frames; in the centre of the table,
in the place of honor, there was a large Bible that
had been printed in the sixteenth century. This
was a precious heirloom that had come down to us from
our Huguenot ancestors who had, at that time, been
persecuted for their faith. We had baskets and
vases of flowers disposed about the room, a custom
which then was not so usual as it is now.
