CHAPTER XXII.
During the course of the winter which followed my visit to the Long-
Beach a great change took place in our family--my brother departed for
his first campaign.
He was, as I have said, about fourteen years older than I. I had had
very little time to become acquainted with him, to attach myself to
him, for his preparation for his vocation made it necessary for him to
be away from home a great deal. I scarcely ever went into his room
where, scattered upon the table, there was an appalling number of
large books. This room was pervaded with the strong odor of tobacco;
and I dared not go near it for fear that I would meet his comrades,
young officers, or students like himself. I had heard, also, that he
was not always well-behaved, that sometimes he did not come in until
very late at night, and that often my father had found it necessary to
give him a serious talking to; secretly I greatly disapproved of his
conduct.
But his approaching departure strengthened my affection, and caused me
extreme sorrow.
He was going to Polynesia, to Tahiti, almost to the end of the world,
and he expected to be away four years. To me that seemed an almost
endless absence, for it represented half of my own age.
I watched, with the greatest interest, the preparations that he made
for his voyage. The iron-bound trunks were packed with care. He
wrapped the gilt-embroidered uniform and his sword in a quantity of
tissue paper, and put them away with the same care one bestows upon a
mummy when it is relaid in its metal case. All of these things
augmented the impression that I had of the distance and dangers of the
long voyage about to be undertaken by my brother.
A sort of melancholy rested upon every one in the house, which became
deeper and more and more noticeable as the day for the separation drew
near. At our meals we were more silent; advice from my father and
assurances from my brother was the substance of most of the
conversations, and I listened meditatively without saying a word.
The day before my brother left he confided to my care--and I was
greatly honored to have him do so--the many fragile little things that
he had upon his mantel-piece; these he bade me guard faithfully until
his return.
He then made me a present of a handsome gilt edged, illustrated book
entitled, "A Voyage in Polynesia." It was the only book that in my
early childhood I had an affection for, and I constantly turned its
pages with eager pleasure. In the front of it there was an engraving
of a very pretty dark woman who, crowned with reeds, was sitting
gracefully under a palm tree. Under this picture was printed:
"Portrait of her Majesty, Pomare IV., Queen of Tahiti." Further over
in the book there was a picture of two beautiful maidens, with naked
shoulders and crowned heads, standing at the edge of the sea, and this
was entitled: "Two Young Tahitian Girls upon the Beach."
Upon the day of my brother's departure, at the last hour, the
preparations being over, and the large trunks closed and locked, we
gathered in the parlor as solemnly as if we had come together for a
funeral. A chapter of the Bible was read and then we had family
prayers. . . . Four years! and during that time the width of the earth
between us and our loved one!
I recall particularly my mother's face during the farewell scene; she
was seated in an arm chair beside my brother. After the prayer she had
upon her face an infinitely sweet, but wistful smile, and an
expression of submissive trust; but suddenly an unexpected change came
over her features, and in spite of her efforts at self-control her
tears flowed. I had never before seen my mother weep, and it caused me
the greatest anguish.
The first few days after his departure I had a feeling of sadness, and
I missed him greatly; often and often I went into his room, and the
little treasures which he had confided to my care were as sacred as
holy relics.
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.
