Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (26 page)

 
          
           
'You are better?' I said.

 
          
           
'I truly hope so. The winter was good to me and I cough less. It is a small
hope, but I do not enlarge my fear by a sad face. I yet work and save a little
purse, so that I may not be
a heaviness
to those who
have the charity to finish me if I fall back and yet die.'

 
          
           
I would not hear of that, and told him he looked as well and happy as if he had
found a fortune.

 
          
           
He laughed, and answered with his fine bow, 'I have. Behold, you come to make
the fête for me. I find also here my friends Joseph and Napoleon. Poor as
mouses of the church, as you say, but brave
boys,
and
we work together with much gaiety.'

 
          
           
When I asked if he had leisure to be my guide about
Paris
,
for my time was short and I wanted to see
everything
;
he pranced, and told me he had promised himself a holiday, and had planned many
excursions the most wonderful, charming, and gay. Then, having settled me at
Madame's, he went blithely away to what I afterwards discovered were very poor
lodgings, across the river.

 
          
           
Next day began the pleasantest fortnight in all my year of travel. Laddie
appeared early, elegant to behold, in a new hat and buff gloves, and was
immensely amused because the servant informed me that my big son had arrived.

 
          
           
I believe the first thing a woman does in
Paris
is to buy a new bonnet. I did, or rather stood by and let 'my son' do it in the
best of French, only whispering when he proposed gorgeous
chapeaus
full of flowers and feathers, that I could not afford it.

 
          
           
'Ah!
we
must make our economies, must we? See, then,
this modest, pearl-colored one, with the crape rose. Yes, we will have that,
and be most elegant for the Sunday promenade.'

 
          
           
I fear I should have bought a pea-green hat with a yellow plume if he had urged
it, so wheedlesome and droll were his ways and words. His good taste saved me,
however, and the modest one was sent home for the morrow, when we were to meet
Joseph and Napoleon and go to the concert in the Tuileries garden.

 
          
           
Then we set off on our day of sight-seeing, and Laddie proved himself an
excellent guide. We had a charming trip about the enchanted city, a gay lunch
at a café, and a first brief glimpse of the Louvre. At dinner-time I found a
posy at my place; and afterward Laddie came and spent the evening in my little
salon, playing to me, and having what he called 'babblings and pleasantries.' I
found that he was translating 'Vanity Fair' into Polish, and intended to sell
it at home. He convulsed me with his struggles to put cockney English and slang
into good Polish, for he had saved up a list of words for me to explain to him.
Hay-stack and bean-pot were among them, I remember; and when he had mastered
the meanings he fell upon the sofa exhausted.

 
          
           
Other days like this followed, and we led a happy life together: for my twelve
years' seniority made our adventures quite proper, and I fearlessly went
anywhere on the arm of my big son. Not to theatres or balls, however, for
heated rooms were bad for Laddie, but pleasant trips out of the city in the
bright spring weather, quiet strolls in the gardens, moonlight concerts in the
Champs Elysées; or, best of all, long talks with music in the little red salon,
with the gas turned low, and the ever-changing scenes of the Rue de Rivoli
under the balcony.

 
          
           
Never were pleasures more cheaply purchased or more thoroughly enjoyed, for our
hearts were as light as our purses, and our 'little economies' gave zest to our
amusements.

 
          
           
Joseph and Napoleon sometimes joined us, and I felt in my element with the
three invalid soldier boys, for Napoleon still limped with a wound received in
the war, Joseph had never recovered from his two years' imprisonment in an
Austrian dungeon, and Laddie's loyalty might yet cost him his life.

 
          
           
Thanks to them, I discovered a joke played upon me by my '
polisson
'. He told me to call him 'ma drogha,' saying it meant 'my
friend,' in Polish. I innocently did so, and he seemed to find great pleasure
in it, for his eyes always laughed when I said it. Using it one day before the
other lads, I saw a queer twinkle in their eyes, and suspecting mischief,
demanded the real meaning of the words. Laddie tried to silence them, but the
joke was too good to keep, and I found to my dismay that I had been calling him
'my darling' in the tenderest manner.

 
          
           
How the three rascals shouted, and what a vain struggle it was to try and
preserve my dignity when Laddie clasped his hands and begged pardon, explaining
that jokes were necessary to his health, and he never meant me to know the full
baseness of this 'pleasantrie!' I revenged myself by giving him some bad
English for his translation, and telling him of it just as I left
Paris
.

 
          
           
It was not all fun with my boy, however; he had his troubles, and in spite of
his cheerfulness he knew what heartache was. Walking in the quaint garden of
the
Luxembourg
one day, he confided to me the little romance of his life. A very touching
little romance as he told it, with eloquent eyes and voice and frequent pauses
for breath. I cannot give his words, but the simple facts were these:—

 
          
           
He had grown up with a pretty cousin, and at eighteen was desperately in love
with her. She returned his affection, but they could not be happy, for her
father wished her to marry a richer man. In
Poland
,
to marry without the consent of parents is to incur lasting disgrace; so
Leonore obeyed, and the young pair parted. This had been a heavy sorrow to
Laddie, and he rushed into the war, hoping to end his trouble.

 
          
           
'Do you ever hear from your cousin?' I asked, as he walked beside me, looking
sadly down the green aisles where kings and queens had loved and parted years
ago.

 
          
           
'I only know that she suffers still, for she remembers. Her husband submits to
the Russians, and I despise him as I have no English to tell;' and he clenched
his hands with the flash of the eye and sudden kindling of the whole face that
made him handsome.

 
          
           
He showed me a faded little picture, and when I tried to comfort him, he laid
his head down on the pedestal of one of the marble queens who guard the walk,
as if he never cared to lift it up again.

 
          
           
But he was all right in a minute, and bravely put away his sorrow with the
little picture. He never spoke of it again, and I saw no more shadows on his
face till we came to say good-bye.

 
          
           
'You have been so kind to me, I wish I had something beautiful to give you,
Laddie,' I said, feeling that it would be hard to get on without my boy.

 
          
           
'This time it is for always; so, as a parting souvenir, give to me the sweet
English good-bye.'

 
          
           
As he said this, with a despairing sort of look, as if he could not spare even
so humble a friend as myself, my heart was quite rent within me, and,
regardless of several prim English ladies, I drew down his tall head and kissed
him tenderly, feeling that in this world there were no more meetings for us.
Then I ran away and buried myself in an empty railway carriage, hugging the
little cologne bottle he had given me.

 
          
           
He promised to write, and for five years he has kept his word, sending me from
Paris
and
Poland
cheery, bright letters in English, at my desire, so that he might not forget. Here
is one as a specimen.

 
          
           
'My Dear and Good Friend,—
What
do you think of me that
I do not write so long time? Excuse me, my good
mamma,
for I was so busy in these days I could not do this pleasant thing. I write
English without the fear that you laugh at it, because I know it is more
agreeable to read the own language, and I think you are not
excepted
of this rule. It is good of me, for the expressions of love and regard, made
with faults,
take
the funny appearance; they are
ridicule
, and instead to go to the
heart, they make the laugh. Never mind, I do it.

 
          
           
'You cannot imagine yourself how
stupide
is
Paris
when you are gone. I fly
to my work, and make no more fêtes,—it is too sad alone. I tie myself to my
table and my Vanity (not of mine, for I am not vain, am I?). I wish some
chapters to finish themselfs
vite
,
that I send them to Pologne and know the end. I have a little question to ask
you (of Vanity as always). I cannot translate this, no one of
dictionnaires
makes me the words, and I
think it is
jargon de prison
, this
little period. Behold:—

 
          
           
Mopy, is that your snum?
 
 Nubble your dad and gully the dog,
&c.
 
 

 
          
           
'So funny things I cannot explain myself, so I send to you, and you reply
sooner than without it, for you have so kind interest in my work you do not
stay to wait. So this is a little hook for you to make you write some words to
your son who likes it so much and is fond of you.

 
          
           
'My doctor tells me my lungs are soon to be re-established; so you may imagine
yourself how glad I am, and of more courage in my future. You may one day see
your Varjo in Amerique, if I study commerce as I wish. So then the last time of
seeing ourselves is
not
the last. Is
that to please you? I suppose the grand
histoire
is finished,
n'est
ce
pas
? You will then send it to me care of M. Gryhomski Austriche, and he
will give to me in clandestine way at Varsovie, otherwise it will be
confiscated at the frontier by the stupide Russians.

 
          
           
'Now we are dispersed in two sides of world far apart, for soon I go home to
Pologne and am no more "
juif errant
."
It is now time I work at my life in some useful way, and I do it.

 
          
           
'As I am your
grand fils
, it is
proper that I make you my compliment of happy Christmas and New Year, is it
not? I wish for you so many as they may fulfil long human life. May this year
bring you more and more good hearts to love you (the only real happiness in the
hard life), and may I be as now, yours for always,

 
          
           
'Varjo.'
 
 

 
          
           
A year ago he sent me his photograph and a few lines. I acknowledged the
receipt of it, but since then not a word has come, and I begin to fear that my
boy is dead. Others have appeared to take his place, but they don't suit, and I
keep his corner always ready for him if he lives. If he is dead, I am glad to
have known so sweet and brave a character, for it does one good to see even as
short-lived and obscure a hero as my Polish boy, whose dead December rose embalms
for me the memory of Varjo, the last and dearest of my boys.

 
          
           
It is hardly necessary to add, for the satisfaction of inquisitive little
women, that Laddie was the original of Laurie, as far as a pale pen-and-ink
sketch could embody a living, loving boy.