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.
It was always a delicious moment for me when we left the dining-room
and went into the parlor, for the latter room had an air of great
peace and comfort; and when all the family were seated there in a
circle, mother, grandmother and aunts, I began to skip about noisily
in their midst from very joy at being surrounded by so many loved
ones; and I waited impatiently for them to begin the little games
which they were in the habit of playing with me early in the evening.
Our neighbors, the D----'s, came to see us every Sunday; it was a
time-honored custom in our two families, between whom there existed a
friendship that had its inception in the country generations before
our time; it was a friendship which had been handed down to us as a
precious heritage. At about eight o'clock, when I recognized their
ring, I jumped for joy, and I could not restrain myself from running
to the street door to meet them, for Lucette, my dear friend, always
came with her parents.
Alas! how sad is my reverie when I think of the beloved and venerated
forms of those who surrounded me upon those happy Sunday evenings; the
majority of them have passed away, and their faces, when I seek to
recall them, are dim and misty--some are altogether lost from memory.
Then friends and relatives would begin to play, for the purpose of
giving me pleasure, the little games of which I was so fond; they
played "Marriage," "My Lady's Toilet," "The Horned Knight," and "The
Lovely Shepherdess." Everybody took part in them, even the old people,
and my grand aunt Bertha, the eldest of all, was irresistibly droll.
The refrain became louder rapidly, for the singer trotted along with
short, quick steps, and very soon she was under our window, where she
kept repeating her song in a shrill, cracked voice.
When they would allow me to do so, it was my greatest pleasure to run
to the door, followed by an indulgent aunt, not so much for the
purpose of buying the cakes, however, for they were coarse and
unpalatable, as to stop the old woman and talk with her.
The poor old peddler would approach with a courtesy, proud of being
called, and standing with one foot upon the threshold she would
present her basket for our inspection. Her neat dress was set off by
the white linen sleeves that she always wore. While she uncovered her
basket I would look longingly, like a caged wild-bird, far down the
cold and deserted streets.
I liked to breathe in great draughts of the icy air, to look hastily
into the black night lying beyond the door, and then to run back into
the warm and comfortable parlor,--meantime, the monotonous refrain
grew fainter and fainter as it died away into the mean streets that
lay close to the ramparts and the harbor. The old woman's route was
always the same, and my thoughts followed her with a singular interest
as long as the song continued.
I felt a great pity for the poor old woman still wandering about in
the cold night, while we were snug and warm at home; but mingled with
that feeling there was another sentiment so confused and vague that I
give it too much importance, even though I touch upon it never so
lightly. It was this: I had a sort of restless curiosity to see those
squalid streets through which the old peddler went so bravely, and to
which I had never been taken. These streets, that I saw from the
distance, were deserted in the day time, but there in the evening,
from time immemorial, sailors made merry; sometimes the sound of their
singing was so loud that we could hear it as we sat in our parlor.
What could be going on there? What was the nature of that fun, the
echo of whose din we heard so distinctly? How did they amuse
themselves, these sailors, who had but newly come over the sea from
distant countries where the sun was always hot? What life was careless
and simple and free as theirs!
My emotions lose their force when I endeavor to interpret them, and my
words seem very inept. But I know that seeds of trouble, and seeds of
hope (to develop how I could not guess) were at about this time
planted in my little being. When, with my cakes in my hand, I re-
entered the parlor where the family sat talking together quietly, I
felt for a quick, almost inappreciable, moment suffocated and
imprisoned.
At half-past nine, because of me seldom later, tea was served, and
with it we had thin slices of bread, spread with the most delicious
butter, and cut with the care one gives to very few things in these
days.
Then at about eleven o'clock, after a reading from the Bible and a
prayer, we retired.
As I lay in my little white bed I was always more restless Sunday
nights than at any other time. Immediately ahead of me there was the
prospect of Mr. Ratin whom morning would surely bring, and he was
always a most painful sight to me after a respite; also I was full of
regret because Sunday was over, always over so quickly!--and I felt a
great weariness when I thought of the many lessons it would be
necessary for me to prepare before Sunday came again. Sometimes, as I
lay there, I would hear the songs the sailors sung as they passed in
the distant lands and noble ships; and a sort of dull and indefinite
longing took possession of me and I felt as if I would like to be out
of doors myself in search of pleasurable and exciting adventure. I
hungered to be in the bracing wintry night air, or in one of those
foreign lands where the sun beats down with tropical warmth; I yearned
to be out and singing like them, as loud as possible, just for the joy
of being alive.
