A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich Boston And New York Houghton Mifflin Company Copyright, 1873, 1885, and 1901 One morning as I was passing through Boston Common, which lies betweenmy home and my office, I met a gentleman lounging along The Mall. Iam generally preoccupied when walking, and often thread my way throughcrowded streets without distinctly observing any one. But this man'sface forced itself upon me, and a singular face it was. His eyes werefaded, and his hair, which he wore long, was flecked with gray. His hairand eyes, if I may say so, were sixty years old, the rest of him notthirty. The youthfulness of his figure, the elasticity of his gait, andthe venerable appearance of his head were incongruities that drew morethan one pair of curious eyes towards him, He excited in me the painfulsuspicion that he had got either somebody else's head or somebody else'sbody. He was evidently an American, at least so far as the upper partof him was concerned--the New England cut of countenance isunmistakable--evidently a man who had seen something of the world, butstrangely young and old. Before reaching the Park Street gate, I had taken up the thread ofthought which he had unconsciously broken; yet throughout the day thisold young man, with his unwrinkled brow and silvered locks, glided inlike a phantom between me and my duties. The next morning I again encountered him on The Mall. He was restinglazily on the green rails, watching two little sloops in distress, whichtwo ragged ship-owners had consigned to the mimic perils of the Pond. The vessels lay becalmed in the middle of the ocean, displaying atantalizing lack of sympathy with the frantic helplessness of the ownerson shore. As the gentleman observed their dilemma, a light came into hisfaded eyes, then died out leaving them drearier than before. I wonderedif he, too, in his time, had sent out ships that drifted and drifted andnever came to port; and if these poor toys were to him types of his ownlosses. "That man has a story, and I should like to know it, " I said, halfaloud, halting in one of those winding paths which branch off fromthe pastoral quietness of the Pond, and end in the rush and tumult ofTremont Street. "Would you?" exclaimed a voice at my side. I turned and faced Mr. H------, a neighbor of mine, who laughed heartily at finding me talkingto myself. "Well, " he added, reflectingly, "I can tell you this man'sstory; and if you will match the narrative with anything as curious, Ishall be glad to hear it. " "You know him, then?" "Yes and no. That is to say, I do not know him personally; but I knowa singular passage in his life. I happened to be in Paris when he wasburied. " "Buried!" "Well, strictly speaking, not buried; but something quite like it. Ifyou 've a spare half hour, " continued my friend H------, "we 'll sit onthis bench, and I will tell you all I know of an affair that made somenoise in Paris a couple of years ago. The gentleman himself, standingyonder, will serve as a sort of frontispiece to the romance--a full-pageillustration, as it were. " The following pages contain the story Which Mr. H------ related tome. While he was telling it, a gentle wind arose; the miniature sloopsdrifted feebly about the ocean; the wretched owners flew from pointto point, as the deceptive breeze promised to waft the barks to eithershore; the early robins trilled now and then from the newly fringedelms; and the old young man leaned on the rail in the sunshine, littledreaming that two gossips were discussing his affairs within twentyyards of him. ***** Three persons were sitting in a _salon_ whose one large windowoverlooked the Place Vendôme. M. Dorine, with his back half turned onthe other two occupants of the apartment, was reading the Journal desDébats in an alcove, pausing from time to time to wipe his glasses, andtaking scrupulous pains not to glance towards the lounge at his right, on which were seated Mile. Dorine and a young American gentleman, whosehandsome face rather frankly told his position in the family. There wasnot a happier man in Paris that afternoon than Philip Wentworth. Lifehad become so delicious to him that he shrunk from looking beyondto-day. What could the future add to his full heart, what might it nottake away? The deepest joy has always something of melancholy in it--apresentiment, a fleeting sadness, a feeling without a name. Wentworthwas conscious of this subtile shadow that night, when he rose from thelounge and thoughtfully held Julie's hand to his lip for a moment beforeparting. A careless observer would not have thought him, as he was, thehappiest man in Paris. M. Dorine laid down his paper, and came forward. "If the house, " hesaid, "is such as M. Cherbonneau describes it, I advise you to closewith him at once. I would accompany you, Philip, but the truth is, I amtoo sad at losing this little bird to assist you in selecting a cage forher. Remember, the last train for town leaves at five. Be sure not tomiss it; for we have seats for Sardou's new comedy to-morrow night. Byto-morrow night, " he added laughingly, "little Julie here will be an oldlady--it is such an age from now until then. " The next morning the train bore Philip to one of the loveliest spotswithin thirty miles of Paris. An hour's walk through green lanesbrought him to M. Cherbonueau's estate. In a kind of dream the young manwandered from room to room, inspected the conservatory, the stables, thelawns, the strip of woodland through which a merry brook sang to itselfcontinually, and, after dining with M. Cherbonneau, completed thepurchase, and turned his steps towards the station just in time to catchthe express train. As Paris stretched out before him, with its lights twinkling in theearly dusk, and its spires and domes melting into the evening air, itseemed to Philip as if years had elapsed since he left the city. Onreaching Paris he drove to his hôtel, where he found several letterslying on the table. He did not trouble himself even to glance at theirsuperscriptions as he threw aside his travelling surtout for a moreappropriate dress. If, in his impatience to return to Mile. Dorine, the cars had appearedto walk, the fiacre, which he had secured at the station appeared tocreep. At last it turned into the Place Vendôme, and drew up before M. Dorine's hôtel. The door opened as Philip's foot touched the first step. The valet silently took his cloak and hat, with a special deference, Philip thought; but was he not now one of the family? "M. Dorine, " said the servant slowly, "is unable to see Monsieur atpresent. He wishes Monsieur to be shown up to the salon. " "Is Mademoiselle"-- "Yes, Monsieur. " "Alone?" "Alone, Monsieur, " repeated the man, looking curiously at Philip, whocould scarcely repress an exclamation of pleasure. It was the first time that such a privilege had been accorded him. His interviews with Julie had always taken place in the presence of M. Dorine, or some member of the household. A well-bred Parisian girl hasbut a formal acquaintance with her lover. Philip did not linger on the staircase; with a light heart, he went upthe steps, two at a time, hastened through the softly lighted hall, in which he detected the faint scent of her favorite flowers, andstealthily opened the door of the salon. The room was darkened. Underneath the chandelier stood a slim blackcasket on trestles. A lighted candle, a crucifix, and some white flowerswere on a table near by. Julie Dorine was dead. When M. Dorine heard the sudden cry that rang through the silent house, he hurried from the library, and found Philip standing like a ghost inthe middle of the chamber. It was not until long afterwards that Wentworth learned the details ofthe calamity that had befallen him. On the previous night Mile. Dorinehad retired to her room in seemingly perfect health, and had dismissedher maid with a request to be awakened early the next morning. At theappointed hour the girl entered the chamber. Mile. Dorine was sitting inan arm-chair, apparently asleep. The candle in the _bougeoir_ had burntdown to the socket; a book lay half open on the carpet at her feet. Thegirl started when she saw that the bed had not been occupied, and thather mistress still wore an evening dress. She rushed to Mile. Dorine'sside. It was not slumber; it was death. Two messages were at once despatched to Philip, one to the station atG------, the other to his hôtel. The first missed him on the road, thesecond he had neglected to open. On his arrival at M. Dorine's house, the valet, under the supposition that Wentworth had been advised ofMile. Dorine's death, broke the intelligence with awkward cruelty, byshowing him directly to the salon. Mile. Dorine's wealth, her beauty, the suddenness of her death, and the romance that had in some wayattached itself to her love for the young American drew crowds towitness the funeral ceremonies, which took place in the church in theRue d'Aguesseau. The body was to be laid in M. Dorine's tomb, in thecemetery of Montmartre. This tomb requires a few words of description. First there was a gratingof filigraned iron; through this you looked into a small vestibule orhall, at the end of which was a massive door of oak opening upon a shortflight of stone steps descending into the tomb. The vault was fifteenor twenty feet square, ingeniously ventilated from the ceiling, butunlighted. It contained two sarcophagi: the first held the remains ofMadame Dorine, long since dead; the other was new, and bore on one sidethe letters J. D. , in monogram, interwoven with fleurs-de-lis. The funeral train stopped at the gate of the small garden that enclosedthe place of burial, only the immediate relatives follow-ing thebearers into the tomb. A slender wax candle, such as is used in Catholicchurches, burnt at the foot of the uncovered sarcophagus, casting a dimglow oyer the centre of the apartment, and deepening the shadows whichseemed to huddle together in the corners. By this flickering light thecoffin was placed in its granite shell, the heavy slab laid over itreverently, and the oaken door swung on its rusty hinges, shuttingout the uncertain ray of sunshine that had ventured to peep in on thedarkness. M. Dorine, muffled in his cloak, threw himself on the back seat of thelandau, too abstracted in his grief to observe that he was the onlyoccupant of the vehicle. There was a sound of wheels grating on thegravelled avenue, and then all was silence again in the cemetery ofMontmartre. At the main entrance the carriages parted company, dashingoff into various streets at a pace that seemed to express a sense ofrelief. The rattle of wheels had died out of the air when Philip opened hiseyes, bewildered, like a man abruptly roused from slumber. He raisedhimself on one arm and stared into the surrounding blackness. Wherewas he? In a second the truth flashed upon him. He had been left in thetomb! While kneeling on the farther side of the stone box, perhapshe had fainted, and during the last solemn rites his absence had beenunnoticed. His first emotion was one of natural terror. But this passed as quicklyas it came. Life had ceased to be so very precious to him; and if itwere his fate to die at Julie's side, was not that the fulfilment of thedesire which he had expressed to himself a hundred times that morning?What did it matter, a few years sooner or later? He must lay down theburden at last. Why not then? A pang of self-reproach followed theythought. Could he so lightly throw aside the love that had bent over hiscradle. The sacred name of mother rose involuntarily to his lips. Wasit not cowardly to yield up without a struggle the life when he shouldguard for her sake? Was it not his duty to the living and the dead toface the difficulties of his position, and overcome them if it werewithin human power? With an organization as delicate as a woman's he had that spirit which, however sluggish in repose, leaps with a kind of exultation to measureits strength with disaster. The vague fear of the supernatural, that would affect most men in asimilar situation, found no room in his heart. He was simply shut in achamber from which it was necessary that he should obtain release withina given period. That this chamber contained the body of the woman heloved, so far from adding to the terror of the case, was a circumstancefrom which he drew consolation. She was a beautiful white statue now. Her soul was far hence; and if that pure spirit could return, would itnot be to shield him with her love? It was impossible that the placeshould not engender some thought of the kind. He did not put the thoughtentirely from him as he rose to his feet and stretched out his hands inthe darkness; but his mind was too healthy and practical to indulge longin such speculations. Philip, being a smoker, chanced to have in his pocket a box of_allumettes_. After several ineffectual essays, he succeeded in ignitingone against the dank wall, and by its momentary glare perceived that thecandle had been left in the tomb. This would serve him in examining thefastenings of the vault. If he could force the inner door by any means, and reach the grating, of which he had an indistinct recollection, hemight hope to make himself heard. But the oaken door was immovable, assolid as the wall itself, into which it fitted air-tight. Even if hehad had the requisite tools, there were no fastenings to be removed; thehinges were set on the outside. Having ascertained this, Philip replaced the candle on the floor, andleaned against the wall thoughtfully, watching the blue fan of flamethat wavered to and fro, threatening to detach itself from the wick. "Atall events, " he thought, "the place is ventilated. " Suddenly he sprangforward and extinguished the light. His existence depended on that candle! He had read somewhere, in someaccount of shipwreck, how the survivors had lived for days upon afew candles which one of the passengers had insanely thrown into thelong-boat. And here he had been burning away his very life! By the transient illumination of one of the tapers, he looked at hiswatch. It had stopped at eleven--but eleven that day, or the precedingnight? The funeral, he knew, had left the church at ten. How many hourshad passed since then? Of what duration had been his swoon? Alas! itwas no longer possible for him to measure those hours which crawl likesnails by the wretched, and fly like swallows over the happy. He picked up the candle, and seated himself on the stone steps. He wasa sanguine man, but, as he weighed the chances of escape, the prospectappalled him. Of course he would be missed. His disappearance under thecircumstances would surely alarm his friends; they would institute asearch for him; but who would think of searching for a live man inthe cemetery of Montmartre? The préfet of police would set a hundredintelligences at work to find him; the Seine might be dragged, _lesmisérables_ turned over at the Morgue; a minute description of him wouldbe in every detective's pocket; and he--in M. Dorine's family tomb! Yet, on the other hand, it was here, he was last seen; from this pointa keen detective would naturally work up the case. Then might not theundertaker return for the candlestick, probably not left by design? Or, again, might not M. Dorine send fresh wreaths of flowers, to take theplace of those which now diffused a pungent, aromatic odor throughoutthe chamber? Ah! what unlikely chances! But if one of these things didnot happen speedily, it had better never happen. How long could he keeplife in himself? With his pocket-knife Wentworth cut the half-burned candle into fourequal parts. "To-night, " he meditated, "I will eat the first of thesepieces; to-morrow, the second; to-morrow evening, the third; the nextday, the fourth; and then--then I 'll wait!" He had taken no breakfast that morning, unless a cup of coffee canbe called a breakfast. He had never been very hungry before. He wasravenously hungry now. But he postponed the meal as long as practicable. It must have been near midnight, according to his calculation, when hedetermined to try the first of his four singular repasts. The bit ofwhite-wax was tasteless; but it served its purpose. His appetite for the time appeased, he found a new discomfort. Thehumidity of the walls, and the wind that crept through the unseenventilator, chilled him to the bone. To keep walking was his onlyresource. A kind of drowsiness, too, occasionally came over him. It took all hiswill to fight it off. To sleep, he felt, was to die, and he had made uphis mind to live. The strangest fancies flitted through his head as he groped up and downthe stone floor of the dungeon, feeling his way along the wall to avoidthe sepulchres. Voices that had long been silent spoke words that hadlong been forgotten; faces he had known in childhood grew palpableagainst the dark. His whole life in detail was unrolled before him likea panorama; the changes of a year, with its burden of love and death, its sweets and its bitternesses, were epitomized in a single second. Thedesire to sleep had left him, but the keen hunger came again. "It must be near morning now, " he mused; "perhaps the sun is justgilding the towers of Notre Dame; or, may be, a dull, drizzling rain isbeating on Paris, sobbing on these mounds above me. Paris! it seems likea dream. Did I ever walk in its gay boulevards in the golden air? Oh, the delight and pain and passion of that sweet human life!" Philip became conscious that the gloom, the silence, and the cold weregradually conquering him. The feverish activity of his brain brought ona reaction. He grew lethargic; he sunk down on the steps, and thoughtof nothing. His hand fell by chance on one of the pieces of candle;he grasped it and devoured it mechanically. This revived him. "Howstrange, " he thought, "that I am not thirsty. Is it possible thatthe dampness of the walls, which I must inhale with every breath, hassupplied the need of water? Not a drop has passed my lips for two days, and still I experience no thirst. That drowsiness, thank Heaven, hasgone. I think I was never wide awake until this hour. It would be ananodyne like poison that could weigh down my eyelids. No doubt the dreadof sleep has something to do with this. " The minutes were like hours. Now he walked as briskly as he dared upand down the tomb; now he rested against the door. More than once he wastempted to throw himself upon the stone coffin that held Julie, and makeno further struggle for his life. Only one piece of candle remained. He had eaten the third portion, notto satisfy hunger, but from a precautionary motive he had taken it as aman takes some disagreeable drug upon the result of which hangs safety. The time was rapidly approaching when even this poor substitute fornourishment would be exhausted. He delayed that moment. He gave himselfa long fast this time. The half-inch of candle which he held in his handwas a sacred thing to him. It was his last defence against death. Finally, with such a sinking at heart as he had not known before, heraised it to his lips. Then he paused, then he hurled the fragmentacross the tomb, then the oaken door was flung open, and Philip, withdazzled eyes, saw M. Dorine's form sharply defined against the blue sky. When they led him out, half blinded, into the broad daylight, M. Dorinenoticed that Philip's hair, which a short time since was as black as acrow's wing, had actually turned gray in places. The man's eyes, too, had faded; the darkness had dimmed their lustre. "And how long was he really confined in the tomb?" I asked, as Mr. H------ concluded the story. "_Just one hour and twenty minutes!_" replied Mr. H------, smilingblandly. As he spoke, the Lilliputian sloops, with their sails all blown outlike white roses, came floating bravely into port, and Philip Wentworthlounged by us, wearily, in the pleasant April sunshine. Mr. H------'s narrative haunted me. Here was a man who had undergone astrange ordeal. Here was a man whose sufferings were unique. His was nothreadbare experience. Eighty minutes had seemed like two days to him!If he had really been immured two days in the tomb, the story, from mypoint of view, would have lost its tragic value. After this it was natural that I should regard Mr. Wentworth withstimulated curiosity. As I met him from day to day, passing throughthe Common with that same introspective air, there was something in hisloneliness which touched me. I wondered that I had not read beforein his pale, meditative face some such sad history as Mr. H------ hadconfided to me. I formed the resolution of speaking to him, thoughwith no very lucid purpose. One morning we came face to face at theintersection of two paths. He halted courteously to allow me theprecedence. "Mr. Wentworth, " I began, "I"-- He interrupted me. "My name, sir, " he said, in an off-hand manner, "is Jones. " "Jo-Jo-Jones!" I gasped. "No, not Joseph Jones, " he returned, with a glacial air--"Frederick. " A dim light, in which the perfidy of my friend H------ was becomingdiscernible, began to break upon my mind. It will probably be a standing wonder to Mr. Frederick Jones why astrange man accosted him one morning on the Common as "Mr. Wentworth, "and then dashed madly down the nearest foot-path and disappeared in thecrowd. The fact is, I had been duped by Mr. H------, who is a gentlemanof literary proclivities, and has, it is whispered, become somewhatdemented in brooding over the Great American Novel--not yet hatched, Hehad actually tried the effect of one of his chapters on me! My hero, as I subsequently learned, is a commonplace young person, whohad some connection, I know not what, with the building of that gracefulgranite bridge which spans the crooked silver lake in the Public Garden. When I think of the readiness with which Mr. H------ built up his airyfabric on my credulity, I feel half inclined to laugh, though I amdeeply mortified at having been the unresisting victim of his Black Art.