Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (25 page)

 
          
           
I expected to find little Gus; but, to my great confusion, a tall being with a
beaver in his hand rose to meet me, looking so big and handsome and generally
imposing that I could not recover myself for several minutes, and mentally
wailed for my combs, feeling like an untidy simpleton.

 
          
           
I don't know whether he thought me a little cracked or not, but he was very
friendly and pleasant, and told me his plans, and hoped I would make another
visit, and smoothed his beaver, and let me see his tail-coat, and behaved
himself like a dear, conceited, clever boy. He did not allude to our
love-passages, being shy, and I blessed him for it; for really, I don't know
what rash thing I might have done under the exciting circumstances. Just as he
was going, however, he forgot his cherished hat for a minute, put out both
hands, and said heartily, with his old boyish laugh,—

 
          
           
'Now you will come, and we'll go boating and berrying, and all the rest of it
again, won't we?'

 
          
           
The blue eyes were full of fun and feeling, too, I fancied, as I blushingly
retired behind my locks and gave the promise. But I never went, and never saw
my little lover any more, for in a few weeks he was dead of a fever, brought on
by too much study,—and so ended the sad history of my fourth boy.

 
          
           
After this, for many years, I was a boyless being; but was so busy I did not feel
my destitute condition till I went to the hospital during the war, and found my
little sergeant. His story has been told elsewhere, but the sequel to it is a
pleasant one, for Baby B. still writes to me now and then, asks advice about
his future, and gladdens me with good news of his success as a business man in
Kansas
.

 
          
           
As if to atone for the former dearth, a sudden shower of most superior boys
fell upon me, after I recovered from my campaign. Some of the very best sort it
was my fortune to know and like—real gentlemen, yet boys still—and jolly times
they had, stirring up the quiet old town with their energetic society.

 
          
           
There was W., a stout, amiable youth, who would stand in the middle of a
strawberry patch with his hands in his pockets and let us feed him luxuriously.
B., a delightful scapegrace, who came once a week to confess his sins, beat his
breast in despair, vow awful vows of repentance, and then cheerfully
depart
to break every one of them in the next twenty-four
hours. S., the gentle-hearted giant; J., the dandy; sober, sensible B.; and E.,
the young knight without reproach or fear.

 
          
           
But my especial boy of the batch was A.—proud and cold and shy to other people,
sad and serious sometimes when his good heart and tender conscience showed him
his short-comings, but so grateful for sympathy and a kind word.

 
          
           
I could not get at him as easily as I could the other lads, but, thanks to
Dickens, I found him out at last.

 
          
           
We played Dolphus and Sophy Tetterby in the 'Haunted Man,' at one of the school
festivals; and during the rehearsals I discovered that my Dolphus was—permit
the expression, oh, well-bred readers!—a trump. What fun we had to be sure,
acting the droll and pathetic scenes together, with a swarm of little Tetterbys
skirmishing about us! From that time he has been my Dolphus and I his Sophy,
and my yellow-haired laddie don't forget me, though he has a younger Sophy now,
and some small Tetterbys of his own. He writes just the same affectionate
letters as he used to do, though I, less faithful, am too busy to answer them.

 
          
           
But the best and dearest of all my flock was my Polish boy, Ladislas Wisniewski—two
hiccoughs and a sneeze will give you the name perfectly. Six years ago, as I
went down to my early breakfast at our Pension in Vevey, I saw that a stranger
had arrived. He was a tall youth, of eighteen or twenty, with a thin,
intelligent face, and the charmingly polite manners of a foreigner. As the
other boarders came in, one by one, they left the door open, and a draught of
cold autumn air blew in from the stone corridor, making the new-comer cough,
shiver, and cast wistful glances towards the warm corner by the stove. My place
was there, and the heat often oppressed me, so I was glad of an opportunity to
move.

 
          
           
A word to Madame Vodoz effected the change; and at dinner I was rewarded by a
grateful smile from the poor fellow, as he nestled into his warm seat, after a
pause of surprise and a flush of pleasure at the small kindness from a
stranger. We were too far apart to talk much, but, as he filled his glass, the
Pole bowed to me, and said low in French—

 
          
           
'I drink the good health to Mademoiselle.'

 
          
           
I returned the wish, but he shook his head with a sudden shadow on his face, as
if the words meant more than mere compliment to him.

 
          
           
'That boy is sick and needs care. I must see to him,' said I to myself, as I
met him in the afternoon, and observed the military look of his blue and white
suit, as he touched his cap and smiled pleasantly. I have a weakness for brave
boys in blue, and having discovered that he had been in the late Polish Revolution,
my heart warmed to him at once.

 
          
           
That evening he came to me in the salon, and expressed his thanks in the
prettiest broken English I ever heard. So simple, frank, and grateful was he
that a few words of interest won his little story from him, and in half an hour
we were friends. With his fellow-students he had fought through the last
outbreak, and suffered imprisonment and hardship rather than submit, had lost
many friends, his fortune and his health, and at twenty, lonely, poor, and ill,
was trying bravely to cure the malady which seemed fatal.

 
          
           
'If I recover myself of this affair in the chest, I teach the music to acquire
my bread in this so hospitable country. At Paris, my friends, all two, find a
refuge, and I go to them in spring if I die not here. Yes, it is solitary, and
my memories are not gay, but I have my work, and the good God remains always to
me, so I content myself with much hope, and I wait.'

 
          
           
Such genuine piety and courage increased my respect and regard immensely, and a
few minutes later he added to both by one of the little acts that show
character better than words.

 
          
           
He told me about the massacre, when five hundred Poles were shot down by
Cossacks in the market-place, merely because they sung their national hymn.

 
          
           
'Play me that forbidden air,' I said, wishing to judge of his skill, for I had
heard him practising softly in the afternoon.

 
          
           
He rose willingly, then glanced about the room and gave a little shrug which
made me ask what he wanted.

 
          
           
'I look to see if the Baron is here. He is Russian, and to him my national air
will not be pleasing.'

 
          
           
'Then play it. He dare not forbid it here, and I should rather enjoy that
little insult to your bitter enemy,' said I, feeling very indignant with
everything Russian just then.

 
          
           
'Ah, mademoiselle, it is true we are enemies, but we are also gentlemen,'
returned the boy, proving that
he
at
least was one.

 
          
           
I thanked him for his lesson in politeness, and as the Baron was not there he
played the beautiful hymn, singing it enthusiastically in spite of the danger
to his weak lungs. A true musician evidently, for, as he sung his pale face
glowed, his eyes shone, and his lost vigor seemed restored to him.

 
          
           
From that evening we were fast friends; for the memory of certain dear lads at
home made my heart open to this lonely boy, who gave me in return the most
grateful affection and service. He begged me to call him 'Varjo,' as his mother
did. He constituted himself my escort, errand-boy, French teacher, and private
musician, making those weeks indefinitely pleasant by his winning ways, his
charming little confidences, and faithful friendship.

 
          
           
We had much fun over our lessons, for I helped him about his English. With a
great interest in free
America
,
and an intense longing to hear about our war, the barrier of an unknown tongue
did not long stand between us.

 
          
           
Beginning with my bad French and his broken English, we got on capitally; but
he outdid me entirely, making astonishing progress, though he often slapped his
forehead with the despairing exclamation,—

 
          
           
'I am imbecile! I never can will shall to have
learn
this beast of English!'

 
          
           
But he did, and in a month had added a new language to the five he already
possessed.

 
          
           
His music was the delight of the house; and he often gave us little concerts
with the help of Madame Teiblin, a German St. Cecilia, with a cropped head and
a gentlemanly sack, cravat, and collar. Both were enthusiasts, and the longer
they played the more inspired they got. The piano vibrated, the stools creaked,
the candles danced in their sockets, and every one sat mute while the four
white hands chased one another up and down the keys, and the two fine faces
beamed with such ecstasy that we almost expected to see instrument and
performers disappear in a musical whirlwind.

 
          
           
Lake Leman
will never seem
so
lovely again as when Laddie and I roamed about its shores, floated on its
bosom, or laid splendid plans for the future in the sunny garden of the old
chateau. I tried it again last year, but the charm was gone, for I missed my
boy with his fun, his music, and the frank, fresh affection he gave his 'little
mamma,' as he insisted on calling the lofty spinster who loved him like
half-a-dozen grandmothers rolled into one.

 
          
           
December roses blossomed in the gardens then, and Laddie never failed to have a
posy ready for me at dinner. Few evenings passed without 'confidences' in my
corner of the salon, and I still have a pile of merry little notes which I used
to find tucked under my door. He called them chapters of a great history we
were to write together, and being a '
polisson
'
he illustrated it with droll pictures, and a funny mixture of French and
English romance.

 
          
           
It was very pleasant, but like all pleasant things in this world of change it
soon came to an end. When I left for
Italy
we jokingly agreed to meet in
Paris
the next May, but neither really felt that we should ever meet again, for
Laddie hardly expected to outlive the winter, and I felt sure I should soon be
forgotten. As he kissed my hand there were tears in my boy's eyes, and a choke
in the voice that tried to say cheerfully—

 
          
           
'
Bon voyage
, dear
and good little mamma.
I do not say adieu, but
au revoir
.'

 
          
           
Then the carriage rolled away, the wistful face vanished, and nothing remained
to me but the memory of Laddie, and a little stain on my glove where a drop had
fallen.

 
          
           
As I drew near Paris six months later, and found myself wishing that I might
meet Varjo in the great, gay city, and wondering if there was any chance of my
doing it, I never dreamed of seeing him so soon; but, as I made my way among
the crowd of passengers that poured through the station, feeling tired,
bewildered, and homesick, I suddenly saw a blue and white cap wave wildly in
the air, then Laddie's beaming face appeared, and Laddie's eager hands grasped
mine so cordially that I began to laugh at once, and felt that Paris was almost
as good as home.

 
          
           
'Ah, ha!
behold
the little
mamma, who did not think to see again her bad son! Yes, I am greatly glad that
I make the fine surprise for you as you come all weary to this place of noise.
Give to me the billets, for I am still mademoiselle's servant and go to find
the coffers.'

 
          
           
He got my trunks, put me into a carriage, and as we rolled merrily away I asked
how he chanced to meet me so unexpectedly. Knowing where I intended to stay, he
had called occasionally till I notified Madame D. of the day and hour of my
arrival, and then he had come to 'make the fine surprise.' He enjoyed the joke
like a true boy, and I was glad to see how well he looked, and how gay he
seemed.