Of the two children only one was drawing—it was I. The other, a friend invited over for the day, an exceptional thing, was watching me with great attention. With some difficulty (trusting me meantime) he followed the fantastic movements of my pencil whose intention I took care to explain to him at some length. And my oral interpretation2 was necessary, for I was busy executing two drawings that I entitled respectively, “The Happy Duck” and “The Unhappy Duck.”
The room in which we were seated must have been furnished about the year 1805, at the time of the marriage of my now-very-old grandmother, who still occupied it, and who this evening was seated in the chair of the Directory period; she was singing to herself and she took no notice of us.
My memories of my grandmother are indistinct for her death occurred shortly after this time; but as I will never again, in the course of this recital3, have a more vivid impression of her, I will here insert what I know of her history.
It seems that in the stress of all sorts of troubles she had been a brave and noble mother. After reverses that were so general in those days, after losing her husband at the Battle of Trafalgar, and her elder son at the shipwreck4 of the Medusa, she went resolutely5 to work to educate her younger son, my father, until such time as he should be able to support himself. At about her eightieth year (which was not far distant when I came into the world) the senility of second childhood had set in; at that time I knew nothing about the tragedy of the loss of memory and I could not realize the vacancy6 of her mind and soul.
She would often stand for a long time before a mirror and talk in a most amiable7 way to her own reflection, which she called, “my good neighbor” or “my dear neighbor.” It was also her mania8 to sing with a most excessive ardor9 the Marseillaise, the Parisiennes, the “Song of Farewell,” and all the noble songs of the transition time, which had been the rage in her young womanhood.
During these exciting times she had lived quietly, and had occupied herself entirely10 with her household cares and her son's education. For that reason it seems the more singular that from her disordered mind, just about as it was to take its journey into complete darkness and to become disintegrated11 through death, there should come this tardy12 echo of that tempestuous13 time.
I enjoyed listening to her very much and often I would laugh, but without any irreverence14, and I never was the least afraid of her. She was extremely lovely and had delicate and regular features, and her expression was very sweet. Her abundant hair was silver-gray, and upon her cheeks there was a color similar to that of a faded rose leaf, a color which the old people of that generation often retained into extreme old age. I remember that she usually wore a red cashmere shawl about her shoulders, and that she always had on an old-fashioned cap trimmed with green ribbons. There was something very modest and gentle and pleasing about her still graceful15 little body.
Her room, where I liked to come to play because it was so large and sunny, was furnished as simply as a Presbyterian parsonage: the waxed walnut16 furniture was of the Directory period, the large bed had a canopy17 of thick, red, cotton stuff and the walls were painted an ochre yellow; and upon them in gilt18 frames, slightly
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