Tracks Of A Rolling Stone, Henry J. Coke [kiss me liar novel english txt] 📗
- Author: Henry J. Coke
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Quantity Of Snuff Up Their Noses And Under Their Finger-
Nails. The Ladies Did A Good Deal Of Shopping, And We
Finished Off At The Flower Market By The Madeleine, Where I,
Through The Agency Of Mademoiselle Aglae, Bought Plants For
'Maman.' This Gave 'Maman' Un Plaisir Inoui, And Me Too; For
The Dear Old Lady Always Presented Me With A Stick Of Barley-
Sugar In Return. As I Never Possessed A Sou (Miss Aglae Kept
Account Of All My Expenses And Disbursements) I Was Strongly
In Favour Of Buying Plants For 'Maman.'
I Loved The Garden. It Was Such A Beautiful Garden; So
Beautifully Kept By Monsieur Benoit, And Withered Old Mere
Michele, Who Did The Weeding And Helped Rose Once A Week In
The Laundry. There Were Such Pretty Trellises, Covered With
Chapter 3 Pg 18Roses And Clematis; Such Masses Of Bright Flowers And Sweet
Mignonette; Such Tidy Gravel Walks And Clipped Box Edges;
Such Floods Of Sunshine; So Many Butterflies And Lizards
Basking In It; The Birds Singing With Excess Of Joy. I Used
To Fancy They Sang In Gratitude To The Dear Old Marquise, Who
Never Forgot Them In The Winter Snows.
What A Quaint But Charming Picture She Was Amidst This
Quietude, - She Who Had Lived Through The Reign Of Terror:
Her Mob Cap, Garden Apron, And Big Gloves; A Trowel In One
Hand, A Watering-Pot In The Other; Potting And Unpotting; So
Busy, Seemingly So Happy. She Loved To Have Me With Her, And
Let Me Do The Watering. What A Pleasure That Was! The
Scores Of Little Jets From The Perforated Rose, The Gushing
Sound, The Freshness And The Sparkle, The Gratitude Of The
Plants, To Say Nothing Of One's Own Wet Legs. 'Maman' Did
Not Approve Of My Watering My Own Legs. But If The Watering-
Pot Was Too Big For Me How Could I Help It? By And By A
Small One Painted Red Within And Green Outside Was Discovered
In Bourg-La-Reine, And I Was Happy Ever Afterwards.
Much Of My Time Was Spent With The Children And Nurses Of The
Family Which Occupied The Chateau. The Costume Of The Head
Nurse With Her High Normandy Cap (Would That I Had A Female
Pen For Details) Invariably Suggested To Me That She Would
Make Any English Showman's Fortune, If He Could Only Exhibit
Her Stuffed. At The Cottage They Called Her 'La Grosse
Normande.' Not Knowing Her By Any Other Name, I Always So
Addressed Her. She Was Not Very Quick-Witted, But I Think
She A Little Resented My Familiarity, And Retaliated By
Comparisons Between Her Compatriots And Mine, Always In A
Tone Derogatory To The Latter. She Informed Me As A Matter
Of History, Patent To All Nurses, That The English Race Were
Notoriously Bow-Legged; And That This Was Due To The Vicious
Practice Of Allowing Children To Use Their Legs Before The
Gristle Had Become Bone. Being Of An Inquiring Turn Of Mind,
I Listened With Awe To This Physiological Revelation, And
With Chastened And Depressed Spirits Made A Mental Note Of
Our National Calamity. Privately I Fancied That The Mottled
And Spasmodic Legs Of Achille - Whom She Carried In Her Arms
- Or At Least So Much Of The Infant Pelides' Legs As Were Not
Enveloped In A Napkin, Gave Every Promise Of Refuting Her
Generalisation.
One Of My Amusements Was To Set Brick Traps For Small Birds.
At Holkham In The Winter Time, By Baiting With A Few Grains
Of Corn, I And My Brothers Used, In This Way, To Capture
Robins, Hedge-Sparrows, And Tits. Not Far From The Chateau
Was A Large Osier Bed, Resorted To By Flocks Of The Common
Sparrow. Here I Set My Traps. But It Being Summer Time, And
(As I Complained When Twitted With Want Of Success) French
Birds Being Too Stupid To Know What The Traps Were For, I
Never Caught A Feather. Now This Osier Bed Was A Favourite
Game Covert For The Sportsmen Of The Chateau; And What Was My
Chapter 3 Pg 19Delight And Astonishment When One Morning I Found A Dead Hare
With Its Head Under The Fallen Brick Of My Trap. How
Triumphantly I Dragged It Home, And Showed It To Rose And
Auguste, - Who More Than The Rest Had 'Mocked Themselves' Of
My Traps, And Then Carried It In My Arms, All Bloody As It
Was (I Could Not Make Out How Both Its Hind Legs Were Broken)
Into The Salon To Show It To The Old Marquise. Mademoiselle
Henriette, Who Was There, Gave A Little Scream (For Effect)
At Sight Of The Blood. Everybody Was Pleased. But When I
Overheard Rose's Sotto Voce To The Marquise: 'Comme Ils Sont
Gentils!' I Indignantly Retorted That 'It Wasn't Kind Of The
Hare At All: It Was Entirely Due To My Skill In Setting The
Traps. They Would Catch Anything That Put Its Head Into
Them. Just You Try.'
How Severe Are The Shocks Of Early Disillusionment! It Was
Not Until Long After The Hare Was Skinned, Roasted, Served As
Civet And As Puree That I Discovered The Truth. I Was Not At
All Grateful To The Gentlemen Of The Chateau Whose Dupe I Had
Been; Was Even Wrath With My Dear Old 'Maman' For Treating
Them With Extra Courtesy For Their Kindness To Her Petit
Cheri.
That Was A Happy Summer. After It Was Ended, And It Was Time
For Me To Return To England And Begin My Education For The
Navy I Never Again Set Eyes On Larue, Or That Charming Nest
Of Old Ladies Who Had Done Their Utmost To Spoil Me. Many
And Many A Time Have I Been To Paris, But Nothing Could Tempt
Me To Visit Larue. So It Is With Me. Often Have I
Questioned The Truth Of The Nessun Maggior Dolore Than The
Memory Of Happy Times In The Midst Of Sorry Ones. The
Thought Of Happiness, It Would Seem, Should Surely Make Us
Happier, And Yet - Not Of Happiness For Ever Lost. And Are
Not The Deepening Shades Of Our Declining Sun Deepened By
Youth's Contrast? Whatever Our Sweetest Songs May Tell Us
Of, We Are The Sadder For Our Sweetest Memories. The Grass
Can Never Be As Green Again To Eyes Grown Watery. The Lambs
That Skipped When We Did Were Long Since Served As Mutton.
And If
Die Fusse Tragen Mich So Muthig Nicht Empor
Die Hohen Stufen Die Ich Kindisch Ubersprang,
Why, I Will Take The Fact For Granted. My Youth Is Fled, My
Friends Are Dead. The Daisies And The Snows Whiten By Turns
The Grave Of Him Or Her - The Dearest I Have Loved. Shall I
Chapter 3 Pg 20Make A Pilgrimage To That Sepulchre? Drop Futile Tears Upon
It? Will They Warm What Is No More? I For One Have Not The
Heart For That. Happily Life Has Something Else For Us To
Do. Happily 'Tis Best To Do It.
Chapter 4 Pg 21
The Passage From The Romantic To The Realistic, From The
Chimerical To The Actual, From The Child's Poetic
Interpretation Of Life To Life's Practical Version Of Itself,
Is Too Gradual To Be Noticed While The Process Is Going On.
It Is Only In The Retrospect We See The Change. There Is
Still, For Yet Another Stage, The Same And Even Greater
Receptivity, - Delight In New Experiences, In Gratified
Curiosity, In Sensuous Enjoyment, In The Exercise Of Growing
Faculties. But The Belief In The Impossible And The Bliss Of
Ignorance Are Seen, When Looking Back, To Have Assumed Almost
Abruptly A Cruder State Of Maturer Dulness. Between The
Public Schoolboy And The Child There Is An Essential
Difference; And This In A Boy's Case Is Largely Due, I Fancy,
To The Diminished Influence Of Woman, And The Increased
Influence Of Men.
With Me, Certainly, The Rough Usage I Was Ere Long To Undergo
Materially Modified My View Of Things In General. In 1838,
When I Was Eleven Years Old, My Uncle, Henry Keppel, The
Future Admiral Of The Fleet, But Then A Dashing Young
Commander, Took Me (As He Mentions In His Autobiography) To
The Naval Academy At Gosport. The Very Afternoon Of My
Admittance - As An Illustration Of The Above Remarks - I Had
Three Fights With Three Different Boys. After That The 'New
Boy' Was Left To His Own Devices, - Qua 'New Boy,' That Is;
As An Ordinary Small Boy, I Had My Share. I Have Spoken Of
The Starvation At Dr. Pinkney's; Here It Was The Terrible
Bullying That Left Its Impress On Me - Literally Its Mark,
For I Still Bear The Scar Upon My Hand.
Most Boys, I Presume, Know The Toy Called A Whirligig, Made
By Stringing A Button On A Loop Of Thread, The Twisting And
Untwisting Of Which By Approaching And Separating The Hands
Causes The Button To Revolve. Upon This Design, And By
Substituting A Jagged Disk Of Slate For The Button, The
Senior 'Bull-Dogs' (We Were All Called 'Burney's Bull-Dogs')
Constructed A Very Simple Instrument Of Torture. One Big Boy
Chapter 4 Pg 22
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