CHAPTER V.
My mother!--I have already mentioned her two or three times in the
course of this recital, but without stopping to speak of her at
length. It seems that at first she was no more to me than a natural
and instinctive refuge where I ran for shelter from all terrifying and
unfamiliar things, from all the dark forebodings that had no real
cause.
But I believe she took on reality and life for the first time in the
burst of ineffable tenderness which I felt when one May morning she
entered my room with a bouquet of pink hyacinths in her hand; she
brought in with her as she came a ray of sunlight.
I was convalescing from one of the maladies peculiar to children,--
measles or whooping cough, I know not which,--and I had been ordered
to remain in bed and to keep warm. By the rays of light that filtered
in through the closed shutters I divined the springtime warmth and
brightness of the sun and air, and I felt sad that I had to remain
behind the curtains of my tiny white bed; I wished to rise and go out;
but most of all I had a desire to see my mother.
The door opened and she entered, smiling. Ah, I remember it so well! I
recall so distinctly how she looked as she stood upon the threshold of
the door. And I remember that she brought in with her some of the
sunlight and balminess of the spring day.
I see again the expression of her face as she looked at me; and I hear
the sound of her voice, and recall the details of her beloved dress
that would look funny and old-fashioned to me now. She had returned
from her morning shopping, and she wore a straw hat trimmed with
yellow roses and a shawl of lilac barege (it was the period of the
shawl) sprinkled with tiny bouquets of violets. Her dark curls (the
poor beloved curls to-day, alas! so thin and white) were at this time
without a gray hair. There was about her the fragrance of the May day,
and her face as it looked that morning with its broad brimmed hat is
still distinctly present with me. Besides the bouquet of pink
hyacinths, she had brought me a tiny watering-pot, an exact imitation
in miniature of the crockery ones so much used by the country people.
As she leaned over my bed to embrace me I felt as if every wish was
gratified. I no longer had a desire to weep, nor to rise from my bed,
nor to go out. She was with me and that sufficed--I was consoled,
tranquillized, and re-created by her gracious presence.
I was, I think, a little more than three years old at this time, and
my mother must have been about forty-two years of age; but I had not
the least notion of age in regard to her, and it had never occurred to
me to wonder whether she was young or old; nor did I realize until a
later time that she was beautiful. No, at this period that she was her
own dear self was enough; to me she was in face and form a person so
apart and so unique that I would not have dreamed of comparing her
with any one else. From her whole being there emanated such a
joyousness, security and tenderness, and so much goodness that from
thence was born my understanding of faith and prayer.
I would that I could speak hallowed words to the first blessed form
that I find in the book of memory. I would it were possible that I
could greet my mother with words filled with the meaning I wish to
convey. They are words which cause bountiful tears to flow, but tears
fraught with I know not how much of the sweetness of consolation and
joy, words that are ever, and in spite of everything, filled with the
hope of an immortal reunion.
And since I have touched upon this mystery that has had such an
influence upon my soul, I will here set down that my mother alone is
the only person in the world of whom I have the feeling that death
cannot separate me. With other human beings, those whom I have loved
with all my heart and soul, I have tried to imagine a hereafter, a
to-morrow in which there shall be no to-morrow; but no, I cannot!
Rather I have always had a horrible consciousness of our nothingness--
dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Because of my mother alone have I been
able to keep intact the faith of my early days. It still seems to me
that when I have finished playing my poor part in life, when I no
longer run in the overgrown paths that lead to the unattainable, when
I am through amusing humanity with my conceits and my sorrows, I will
go there where my mother, who has gone before me, is, and she will
receive me; and the smile of serenity that she now wears in my memory
will have become one of triumphant realization.
True, I see that distant region only dimly, and it has no more
substance than a pale gray vision; my words, however intangible and
elusive, give too definite a form to my dreamy conceptions. But still
(I speak as a little child, with the child's faith), but still I
always think of my mother as having, in that far off place, preserved
her earthly aspect. I think of her with her dear white curls and the
straight lines of her beautiful profile that the years may have
impaired a little, but which I still find perfect. The thought that
the face of my mother shall one day disappear from my eyes forever,
that it is no more than combined elements subject to disintegration,
and that she will be lost in the universal abyss of nothingness, not
only makes my heart bleed, but it causes me to revolt as at something
unthinkable and monstrous; it cannot be! I have the feeling that there
is about her something which death cannot touch.
My love for my mother (the only changeless love of my life) is so free
from all material feeling that that alone gives me an inexplicable
hope, almost gives me a confidence in the immortality of the soul.
I cannot very well understand why the vision of my mother near my bed
of sickness should that morning have impressed me so vividly, for she
was nearly always with me. It all seems very mysterious; it is as if
at that particular moment she was for the first time revealed to me.
And why among the treasured playthings of my childhood has the tiny
watering-pot taken on the value and sacred dignity of a relic? So much
so indeed, that when I am far distant on the ocean, in hours of
danger, I think of it with tenderness, and see it in the place where
it has lain for years, in the little bureau, never opened, mixed in
with broken toys; and should it disappear I would feel as if I had
lost an amulet that could not be replaced.
And the simple shawl of lilac barege, found recently among some old
clothing laid aside to be given to the poor, why have I put it away as
carefully as if it were a priceless object? Because in its color (now
faded), in its quaint Indian pattern and tiny bouquets of violets, I
still find an emanation from my mother; I believe that I borrow
therefrom a holy calm and sweet confidence that is almost a faith. And
mingled in with the other feelings there is perhaps a melancholy
regret for those May mornings of long ago that seemed so much brighter
than are those of to-day.
Truly I fear this book, the most personal I have ever written, will
weary many.
In transcribing these memories in the calm of middle life, so
favorable to reverie, I had constantly present in my thought the
lovely queen to whom I would dedicate this book; it is as if I were
writing her a long letter with the full assurance of being understood
in all those sacred matters to which words give but an inadequate
expression.
Perhaps you will understand also, my dear unknown readers, who with
kindly sympathy have followed me thus far; and all those who cherish,
or who have been cherished by their mothers will not smile at the
childish things written down here.
But this chapter will certainly seem ridiculous to those who are
strangers to an all absorbing love, they will not be able to imagine
that I have a deep pity to exchange for their cynical smiles.
