CHAPTER II.
As if it were yesterday I recall the evening when I suddenly
discovered that I could run and jump; and I remember that I was
intoxicated by the delicious sensation almost to the point of falling.
This must have been at about the commencement of my second winter. At
the sad hour of twilight I was in the dining-room of my parents'
house, which room had always seemed a very vast one to me. At first, I
was quiet, made so, no doubt, by the influence of the environing
darkness, for the lamp was not yet lighted. But as the hour for dinner
approached, a maid-servant came in and threw an armful of small wood
into the fireplace to reanimate the dying fire. Immediately there was
a beautiful bright light, and the leaping flames illuminated
everything, and waves of light spread to the far part of the room
where I sat. The flames danced and leaped with a twining motion ever
higher and higher and more gayly, and the tremulous shadows along the
wall ran to their hiding-places--oh! how quickly I arose overwhelmed
with admiration for I recollect that I had been sitting at the feet of
my great-aunt Bertha (at that time already very old) who half dozed in
her chair. We were near a window through which the gray night
filtered; I was seated upon one of those high, old-fashioned foot-
stools with two steps, so convenient for little children who can from
that vantage ground put their heads in grandmother's or grand-aunt's
lap, and wheedle so effectually.
I arose in ecstasy, and approached the flames; then in the circle of
light which lay upon the carpet I began to walk around and around and
to turn. Ever faster and faster I went, until suddenly I felt an
unwonted elasticity run through my limbs, and in a twinkling I
invented a new and amusing style of motion; it was to push my feet
very hard against the floor, and then to lift them up together
suddenly for a half second. When I fell, up I sprang and recommenced
my play. Bang! Bang! With every increasing noise I went against the
floor, and at last I began to feel a singular but agreeable giddiness
in my head. I knew how to jump! I knew how to run!
I am convinced that that is my earliest distinct recollection of great
joyousness.
"Dear me! What is the matter with the child this evening?" asked my
great-aunt Bertha, with some anxiety. And I hear again the unexpected
sound of her voice.
But I still kept on jumping. Like those tiny foolish moths which of an
evening revolve about the light of a lamp, I went around in the
luminous circle which widened and retracted, ever taking form from the
wavering light of the flames. And I remember all of this so vividly
that my eyes can still see the smallest details of the texture of the
carpet which was the scene of the event. It was of durable stuff
called home-spun, woven in the country by native weavers. (Our house
was still furnished as it had been in my maternal grandmother's time,
as she had arranged it after she had quitted the Island, and come to
the mainland.--A little later I will speak of this Island which had
already a mysterious attraction for my youthful imagination.--It was a
simple country house, notable for its Huguenot austerity; and it was a
home where immaculate cleanliness and extreme order were the sole
luxuries.)
In the circle of light, which grew ever more and more narrow, I still
jumped; but as I did so I had thoughts that were of an intensity not
habitual with me. At the same time that my tiny limbs discovered their
power, my spirit also knew itself; a burst of light overspread my mind
where dawning ideas still showed forth feebly. And it is without doubt
to the inner awakening that this fleeting moment of my life owes its
existence, owes undoubtedly its permanency in memory. But vainly I
seek for the words, that seem ever to escape me, through which to
express my elusive emotions. . . . Here in the dining-room I look
about and see the chairs standing the length of the wall, and I am
reminded of the aged grandmother, grand-aunts and aunts who always
come at a certain hour and seat themselves in them. Why are they not
here now? At this moment I would like to feel their protecting
presence about me. Probably they are upstairs in their rooms on the
second floor; between them and me there is the dim stairway, the
stairway that I people with shadowy beings the thought of which makes
me tremble. . . . And my mother? I would wish most especially for her,
but I know that she has gone out, gone out into the long streets which
in my imagination have no end. I had myself gone to the door with her
and had asked her: "When returnest thou?" And she had promised me that
she would return speedily. Later they told me that when I was a child
I would never permit any members of the family to leave the house to
go walking or visiting without first obtaining their assurance of a
speedy homecoming. "You will come back soon?" I would say, and I
always asked the question anxiously, as I followed them to the door.
My mother had departed, and it gave my heart a feeling of heaviness to
know that she was out. Out in the streets! I was content not to be
there where it was cold and dark, where little children so easily lost
their way,--how snug it was to be within doors before the fire that
warmed me through and through; how nice it was to be at home! I had
never realized it until this evening--doubtless it was my first
distinct feeling of attachment to hearth and home, and I was sadly
troubled at the thought of the immense, strange world lying beyond the
door. It was then that I had, for the first time, a conscious
affection for my aged aunts and grand-aunts, who cared for me in
infancy, whom I longed to have seated around me at this dim, sad,
twilight hour.
In the meantime the once bright and playful flames had died down, the
armful of wood was consumed, and as the lamp was not lighted, the room
was quite dark. I had already stumbled upon the home-spun carpet, but
as I had not hurt myself, I recommenced my amusing play. For an
instant I thought to experience a new but strange joy by going into
the shadowy and distant recesses of the room; but I was overtaken
there by an indefinable terror of something which I cannot name, and I
hastily took refuge in the dim circle of light and looked behind me
with a shudder to see whether anything had followed me from out of
those dark corners. Finally the flames died away entirely, and I was
really afraid; aunt Bertha sat motionless upon her chair, and although
I felt that her eyes were upon me I was not reassured. The very
chairs, the chairs ranged about the room, began to disquiet me because
their long shadows, that stretched behind them exaggerating the height
of ceiling and length of wall, moved restlessly like souls in the
agonies of death. And especially there was a half-open door that led
into a very dark hall, which in its turn opened into a large empty
parlor absolutely dark. Oh! with what intensity I fixed my eyes upon
that door to which I would not for the world have turned my back!
This was the beginning of those daily winter-evening terrors which in
that beloved home cast such a gloom over my childhood.
What I feared to see enter that door had no well defined form, but the
fear was none the less definite to me: and it kept me standing
motionless near the dead fire with wide open eyes and fluttering
heart. When my mother suddenly entered the room by a different door,
oh! how I clung to her and covered my face with her dress: it was a
supreme protection, the sanctuary where no harm could reach me, the
harbor of harbors where the storm is forgotten. . . .
At this instant the thread of recollection breaks, I can follow it no
farther.
