DOI issue:
Harland, Henry: Two sketches
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.20196#0143
By Henry Harland 137
called to dinner. It was hard that evening to apply myself to
my school-books. Before I went to bed I paid them a parting
visit; they were huddled together in their nest of cotton-wool,
sleeping soundly. And I was up at an unheard-of hour next
morning, to have a bout with them before going to school. I
found Alexandre, in his nightcap and long white apron, occupied
with the soins de proprete, as he Said. He cleaned out the cage,
put in fresh food and water, and then, pointing to the fat old
couple, the grandparents, who stopped lazily abed, sitting up and
rubbing their noses together, whilst their juniors scampered merrily
about their affairs, " Tiens ! On dirait Monsieur et Madame
Denis," he cried. I feit the appositeness of his allusion ; and the
old couple were forthwith officially denominated Monsieur and
Madame Denis, for their resemblance to the hero and heroine of
the song—though which was Monsieur, and which Madame, I'tn
not sure that I ever clearly knew.
It was a little after this that I was taken for the first time in
my life to the play. I fancy the theatre must have been the Porte
St. Martin ; at any rate, it was a theatre in the Boulevard, and
towards the East, for I remember the long drive we had to reach
it. And the piece was The Count of Monte Cristo. In my
memory the adventure shines, of course, as a vague blur of light
and joy ; a child's first visit to the play, and that play The Count
of Monte Cristo! It was all the breath-taking pleasantness of
romance made visible, audible, actual. A vague blur of light and
joy, from which only two details separate themselves. First, the
prison scene, and an aged man, with a long white beard, moving a
great stone from the wall; then—the figure of Mercedes. I went
home terribly in love with Mercedes. Surely there are no such
grandes passions in maturer life as those helpless, inarticulate ones
we burn in secret with before our teens ; surely we never love
again
called to dinner. It was hard that evening to apply myself to
my school-books. Before I went to bed I paid them a parting
visit; they were huddled together in their nest of cotton-wool,
sleeping soundly. And I was up at an unheard-of hour next
morning, to have a bout with them before going to school. I
found Alexandre, in his nightcap and long white apron, occupied
with the soins de proprete, as he Said. He cleaned out the cage,
put in fresh food and water, and then, pointing to the fat old
couple, the grandparents, who stopped lazily abed, sitting up and
rubbing their noses together, whilst their juniors scampered merrily
about their affairs, " Tiens ! On dirait Monsieur et Madame
Denis," he cried. I feit the appositeness of his allusion ; and the
old couple were forthwith officially denominated Monsieur and
Madame Denis, for their resemblance to the hero and heroine of
the song—though which was Monsieur, and which Madame, I'tn
not sure that I ever clearly knew.
It was a little after this that I was taken for the first time in
my life to the play. I fancy the theatre must have been the Porte
St. Martin ; at any rate, it was a theatre in the Boulevard, and
towards the East, for I remember the long drive we had to reach
it. And the piece was The Count of Monte Cristo. In my
memory the adventure shines, of course, as a vague blur of light
and joy ; a child's first visit to the play, and that play The Count
of Monte Cristo! It was all the breath-taking pleasantness of
romance made visible, audible, actual. A vague blur of light and
joy, from which only two details separate themselves. First, the
prison scene, and an aged man, with a long white beard, moving a
great stone from the wall; then—the figure of Mercedes. I went
home terribly in love with Mercedes. Surely there are no such
grandes passions in maturer life as those helpless, inarticulate ones
we burn in secret with before our teens ; surely we never love
again