The Story of a Child eBook

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.