The moonlight revealed to me a marble-white human hand. Well, maybe I
wasn’t embarrassed! But then that changed to a creepy feeling again, and
I thought I’d try the counting again. I don’t know how many hours or
weeks it was that I lay there counting hard. But the moonlight crept up
that white arm, and it showed me a lead face and a terrible wound over
the heart.
I could scarcely say that I was terror-stricken or anything like that.
But somehow his eyes interested me so that I went right out of the
window. I didn’t need the sash. But it seemed easier to take it than
leave it behind.
Now, let that teach you a lesson–I don’t know just what it is. But at
seventy years old I find that memory of peculiar value to me. I have
been unconsciously guided by it all these years. Things that seemed
pigeon-holed and remote are a perpetual influence. Yes, you’re taught in
so many ways. And you’re so felicitously taught when you don’t know it.
Here’s something else that taught me a good deal.
When I was seventeen I was very bashful, and a sixteen-year-old girl came
to stay a week with us. She was a peach, and I was seized with a
happiness not of this world.
One evening my mother suggested that, to entertain her, I take her to the
theatre. I didn’t really like to, because I was seventeen and sensitive
about appearing in the streets with a girl. I couldn’t see my way to
enjoying my delight in public. But we went.
I didn’t feel very happy. I couldn’t seem to keep my mind on the play.
I became conscious, after a while, that that was due less to my lovely
company than my boots. They were sweet to look upon, as smooth as skin,
but fitted ten time as close. I got oblivious to the play and the girl
and the other people and everything but my boots until–I hitched one
partly off. The sensation was sensuously perfect: I couldn’t help it. I
had to get the other off, partly. Then I was obliged to get them off
altogether, except that I kept my feet in the legs so they couldn’t get
away.
From that time I enjoyed the play. But the first thing I knew the
curtain came down, like that, without my notice, and–I hadn’t any boots
on. What’s more, they wouldn’t go on. I tugged strenuously. And the
people in our row got up and fussed and said things until the peach and I
simply had to move on.
We moved–the girl on one arm and the boots under the other.
We walked home that way, sixteen blocks, with a retinue a mile long:
Every time we passed a lamp-post, death gripped one at the throat. But
we, got home–and I had on white socks.
If I live to be nine hundred and ninety-nine years old I don’t suppose I
could ever forget that walk. I, remember, it about as keenly as the
chagrin I suffered on another occasion.
At one time in our domestic history we had a colored butler who had a
failing. He could never remember to ask people who came to the door to
state their business. So I used to suffer a good many calls
unnecessarily.
One morning when I was especially busy he brought me a card engraved with
a name I did not know. So I said, “What does he wish to see me for?” and
Sylvester said, “Ah couldn’t ask him, sah; he, wuz a genlinun.” “Return
instantly,” I thundered, “and inquire his mission. Ask him what’s his
game.” Well, Sylvester returned with the announcement that he had
lightning-rods to sell. “Indeed,” said I, “things are coming to a fine
pass when lightning-rod ,agents send up engraved cards.” “He has
pictures,” added Sylvester. “Pictures, indeed! He maybe peddling
etchings. Has he a Russia leather case?” But Sylvester was too
frightened to remember. I said; “I am going down to make it hot for that
upstart!”
I went down the stairs, working up my temper all the way. When I got to
the parlor I was in a fine frenzy concealed beneath a veneer of frigid