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diff --git a/old/23356-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/23356-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..33d987e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/23356-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,929 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + A Struggle for Life, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Struggle For Life, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Struggle For Life + +Author: Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +Release Date: November 6, 2007 [EBook #23356] +Last Updated: March 3, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. + </h1> + <p> + <b> By Thomas Bailey Aldrich </b> + </p> + <p> + Boston And New York Houghton Mifflin Company + </p> + <p> + Copyright, 1873, 1885, and 1901 + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + One morning as I was passing through Boston Common, which lies between my + home and my office, I met a gentleman lounging along The Mall. I am + generally preoccupied when walking, and often thread my way through + crowded streets without distinctly observing any one. But this man's face + forced itself upon me, and a singular face it was. His eyes were faded, + and his hair, which he wore long, was flecked with gray. His hair and + eyes, if I may say so, were sixty years old, the rest of him not thirty. + The youthfulness of his figure, the elasticity of his gait, and the + venerable appearance of his head were incongruities that drew more than + one pair of curious eyes towards him, He excited in me the painful + suspicion that he had got either somebody else's head or somebody else's + body. He was evidently an American, at least so far as the upper part of + him was concerned—the New England cut of countenance is unmistakable—evidently + a man who had seen something of the world, but strangely young and old. + </p> + <p> + Before reaching the Park Street gate, I had taken up the thread of thought + which he had unconsciously broken; yet throughout the day this old young + man, with his unwrinkled brow and silvered locks, glided in like a phantom + between me and my duties. + </p> + <p> + The next morning I again encountered him on The Mall. He was resting + lazily on the green rails, watching two little sloops in distress, which + two ragged ship-owners had consigned to the mimic perils of the Pond. The + vessels lay becalmed in the middle of the ocean, displaying a tantalizing + lack of sympathy with the frantic helplessness of the owners on shore. As + the gentleman observed their dilemma, a light came into his faded eyes, + then died out leaving them drearier than before. I wondered if he, too, in + his time, had sent out ships that drifted and drifted and never came to + port; and if these poor toys were to him types of his own losses. + </p> + <p> + “That man has a story, and I should like to know it,” I said, half aloud, + halting in one of those winding paths which branch off from the pastoral + quietness of the Pond, and end in the rush and tumult of Tremont Street. + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” exclaimed a voice at my side. I turned and faced Mr. H———, + a neighbor of mine, who laughed heartily at finding me talking to myself. + “Well,” he added, reflectingly, “I can tell you this man's story; and if + you will match the narrative with anything as curious, I shall be glad to + hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “You know him, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes and no. That is to say, I do not know him personally; but I know a + singular passage in his life. I happened to be in Paris when he was + buried.” + </p> + <p> + “Buried!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, strictly speaking, not buried; but something quite like it. If you + 've a spare half hour,” continued my friend H———, “we + 'll sit on this bench, and I will tell you all I know of an affair that + made some noise in Paris a couple of years ago. The gentleman himself, + standing yonder, will serve as a sort of frontispiece to the romance—a + full-page illustration, as it were.” + </p> + <p> + The following pages contain the story Which Mr. H——— + related to me. While he was telling it, a gentle wind arose; the miniature + sloops drifted feebly about the ocean; the wretched owners flew from point + to point, as the deceptive breeze promised to waft the barks to either + shore; the early robins trilled now and then from the newly fringed elms; + and the old young man leaned on the rail in the sunshine, little dreaming + that two gossips were discussing his affairs within twenty yards of him. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Three persons were sitting in a <i>salon</i> whose one large window + overlooked the Place Vendôme. M. Dorine, with his back half turned on the + other two occupants of the apartment, was reading the Journal des Débats + in an alcove, pausing from time to time to wipe his glasses, and taking + scrupulous pains not to glance towards the lounge at his right, on which + were seated Mile. Dorine and a young American gentleman, whose handsome + face rather frankly told his position in the family. There was not a + happier man in Paris that afternoon than Philip Wentworth. Life had become + so delicious to him that he shrunk from looking beyond to-day. What could + the future add to his full heart, what might it not take away? The deepest + joy has always something of melancholy in it—a presentiment, a + fleeting sadness, a feeling without a name. Wentworth was conscious of + this subtile shadow that night, when he rose from the lounge and + thoughtfully held Julie's hand to his lip for a moment before parting. A + careless observer would not have thought him, as he was, the happiest man + in Paris. + </p> + <p> + M. Dorine laid down his paper, and came forward. “If the house,” he said, + “is such as M. Cherbonneau describes it, I advise you to close with him at + once. I would accompany you, Philip, but the truth is, I am too sad at + losing this little bird to assist you in selecting a cage for her. + Remember, the last train for town leaves at five. Be sure not to miss it; + for we have seats for Sardou's new comedy to-morrow night. By to-morrow + night,” he added laughingly, “little Julie here will be an old lady—it + is such an age from now until then.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning the train bore Philip to one of the loveliest spots + within thirty miles of Paris. An hour's walk through green lanes brought + him to M. Cherbonueau's estate. In a kind of dream the young man wandered + from room to room, inspected the conservatory, the stables, the lawns, the + strip of woodland through which a merry brook sang to itself continually, + and, after dining with M. Cherbonneau, completed the purchase, and turned + his steps towards the station just in time to catch the express train. + </p> + <p> + As Paris stretched out before him, with its lights twinkling in the early + dusk, and its spires and domes melting into the evening air, it seemed to + Philip as if years had elapsed since he left the city. On reaching Paris + he drove to his hôtel, where he found several letters lying on the table. + He did not trouble himself even to glance at their superscriptions as he + threw aside his travelling surtout for a more appropriate dress. + </p> + <p> + If, in his impatience to return to Mile. Dorine, the cars had appeared to + walk, the fiacre, which he had secured at the station appeared to creep. + 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? + </p> + <p> + “M. Dorine,” said the servant slowly, “is unable to see Monsieur at + present. He wishes Monsieur to be shown up to the salon.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Mademoiselle”— + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Alone, Monsieur,” repeated the man, looking curiously at Philip, who + could scarcely repress an exclamation of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + 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 has but a + formal acquaintance with her lover. + </p> + <p> + Philip did not linger on the staircase; with a light heart, he went up the + steps, two at a time, hastened through the softly lighted hall, in which + he detected the faint scent of her favorite flowers, and stealthily opened + the door of the salon. + </p> + <p> + The room was darkened. Underneath the chandelier stood a slim black casket + on trestles. A lighted candle, a crucifix, and some white flowers were on + a table near by. Julie Dorine was dead. + </p> + <p> + 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 in the + middle of the chamber. + </p> + <p> + It was not until long afterwards that Wentworth learned the details of the + calamity that had befallen him. On the previous night Mile. Dorine had + retired to her room in seemingly perfect health, and had dismissed her + maid with a request to be awakened early the next morning. At the + appointed hour the girl entered the chamber. Mile. Dorine was sitting in + an arm-chair, apparently asleep. The candle in the <i>bougeoir</i> had + burnt down to the socket; a book lay half open on the carpet at her feet. + The girl started when she saw that the bed had not been occupied, and that + her mistress still wore an evening dress. She rushed to Mile. Dorine's + side. It was not slumber; it was death. + </p> + <p> + Two messages were at once despatched to Philip, one to the station at G———, + the other to his hôtel. The first missed him on the road, the second he + had neglected to open. On his arrival at M. Dorine's house, the valet, + under the supposition that Wentworth had been advised of Mile. Dorine's + death, broke the intelligence with awkward cruelty, by showing him + directly to the salon. Mile. Dorine's wealth, her beauty, the suddenness + of her death, and the romance that had in some way attached itself to her + love for the young American drew crowds to witness the funeral ceremonies, + which took place in the church in the Rue d'Aguesseau. The body was to be + laid in M. Dorine's tomb, in the cemetery of Montmartre. + </p> + <p> + This tomb requires a few words of description. First there was a grating + of filigraned iron; through this you looked into a small vestibule or + hall, at the end of which was a massive door of oak opening upon a short + flight of stone steps descending into the tomb. The vault was fifteen or + twenty feet square, ingeniously ventilated from the ceiling, but + unlighted. It contained two sarcophagi: the first held the remains of + Madame Dorine, long since dead; the other was new, and bore on one side + the letters J. D., in monogram, interwoven with fleurs-de-lis. + </p> + <p> + The funeral train stopped at the gate of the small garden that enclosed + the place of burial, only the immediate relatives follow-ing the bearers + into the tomb. A slender wax candle, such as is used in Catholic churches, + burnt at the foot of the uncovered sarcophagus, casting a dim glow oyer + the centre of the apartment, and deepening the shadows which seemed to + huddle together in the corners. By this flickering light the coffin was + placed in its granite shell, the heavy slab laid over it reverently, and + the oaken door swung on its rusty hinges, shutting out the uncertain ray + of sunshine that had ventured to peep in on the darkness. + </p> + <p> + M. Dorine, muffled in his cloak, threw himself on the back seat of the + landau, too abstracted in his grief to observe that he was the only + occupant of the vehicle. There was a sound of wheels grating on the + gravelled avenue, and then all was silence again in the cemetery of + Montmartre. At the main entrance the carriages parted company, dashing off + into various streets at a pace that seemed to express a sense of relief. + </p> + <p> + The rattle of wheels had died out of the air when Philip opened his eyes, + bewildered, like a man abruptly roused from slumber. He raised himself on + one arm and stared into the surrounding blackness. Where was he? In a + second the truth flashed upon him. He had been left in the tomb! While + kneeling on the farther side of the stone box, perhaps he had fainted, and + during the last solemn rites his absence had been unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + His first emotion was one of natural terror. But this passed as quickly as + it came. Life had ceased to be so very precious to him; and if it were his + fate to die at Julie's side, was not that the fulfilment of the desire + 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 the burden at + last. Why not then? A pang of self-reproach followed they thought. Could + he so lightly throw aside the love that had bent over his cradle. The + sacred name of mother rose involuntarily to his lips. Was it not cowardly + to yield up without a struggle the life when he should guard for her sake? + Was it not his duty to the living and the dead to face the difficulties of + his position, and overcome them if it were within human power? + </p> + <p> + 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 measure its + strength with disaster. + </p> + <p> + The vague fear of the supernatural, that would affect most men in a + similar situation, found no room in his heart. He was simply shut in a + chamber from which it was necessary that he should obtain release within a + given period. That this chamber contained the body of the woman he loved, + so far from adding to the terror of the case, was a circumstance from + which he drew consolation. She was a beautiful white statue now. Her soul + was far hence; and if that pure spirit could return, would it not be to + shield him with her love? It was impossible that the place should not + engender some thought of the kind. He did not put the thought entirely + from him as he rose to his feet and stretched out his hands in the + darkness; but his mind was too healthy and practical to indulge long in + such speculations. + </p> + <p> + Philip, being a smoker, chanced to have in his pocket a box of <i>allumettes</i>. + After several ineffectual essays, he succeeded in igniting one against the + dank wall, and by its momentary glare perceived that the candle had been + left in the tomb. This would serve him in examining the fastenings of the + vault. If he could force the inner door by any means, and reach the + grating, of which he had an indistinct recollection, he might hope to make + himself heard. But the oaken door was immovable, as solid as the wall + itself, into which it fitted air-tight. Even if he had had the requisite + tools, there were no fastenings to be removed; the hinges were set on the + outside. + </p> + <p> + Having ascertained this, Philip replaced the candle on the floor, and + leaned against the wall thoughtfully, watching the blue fan of flame that + wavered to and fro, threatening to detach itself from the wick. “At all + events,” he thought, “the place is ventilated.” Suddenly he sprang forward + and extinguished the light. + </p> + <p> + His existence depended on that candle! He had read somewhere, in some + account of shipwreck, how the survivors had lived for days upon a few + candles which one of the passengers had insanely thrown into the + long-boat. And here he had been burning away his very life! + </p> + <p> + By the transient illumination of one of the tapers, he looked at his + watch. It had stopped at eleven—but eleven that day, or the + preceding night? The funeral, he knew, had left the church at ten. How + many hours had passed since then? Of what duration had been his swoon? + Alas! it was no longer possible for him to measure those hours which crawl + like snails by the wretched, and fly like swallows over the happy. + </p> + <p> + He picked up the candle, and seated himself on the stone steps. He was a + sanguine man, but, as he weighed the chances of escape, the prospect + appalled him. Of course he would be missed. His disappearance under the + circumstances would surely alarm his friends; they would institute a + search for him; but who would think of searching for a live man in the + cemetery of Montmartre? The préfet of police would set a hundred + intelligences at work to find him; the Seine might be dragged, <i>les + misérables</i> turned over at the Morgue; a minute description of him + would be in every detective's pocket; and he—in M. Dorine's family + tomb! + </p> + <p> + Yet, on the other hand, it was here, he was last seen; from this point a + keen detective would naturally work up the case. Then might not the + undertaker return for the candlestick, probably not left by design? Or, + again, might not M. Dorine send fresh wreaths of flowers, to take the + place of those which now diffused a pungent, aromatic odor throughout the + chamber? Ah! what unlikely chances! But if one of these things did not + happen speedily, it had better never happen. How long could he keep life + in himself? + </p> + <p> + With his pocket-knife Wentworth cut the half-burned candle into four equal + parts. “To-night,” he meditated, “I will eat the first of these pieces; + to-morrow, the second; to-morrow evening, the third; the next day, the + fourth; and then—then I 'll wait!” + </p> + <p> + He had taken no breakfast that morning, unless a cup of coffee can be + called a breakfast. He had never been very hungry before. He was + ravenously hungry now. But he postponed the meal as long as practicable. + It must have been near midnight, according to his calculation, when he + determined to try the first of his four singular repasts. The bit of + white-wax was tasteless; but it served its purpose. + </p> + <p> + His appetite for the time appeased, he found a new discomfort. The + humidity of the walls, and the wind that crept through the unseen + ventilator, chilled him to the bone. To keep walking was his only + resource. + </p> + <p> + A kind of drowsiness, too, occasionally came over him. It took all his + will to fight it off. To sleep, he felt, was to die, and he had made up + his mind to live. + </p> + <p> + The strangest fancies flitted through his head as he groped up and down + the stone floor of the dungeon, feeling his way along the wall to avoid + the sepulchres. Voices that had long been silent spoke words that had long + been forgotten; faces he had known in childhood grew palpable against the + dark. His whole life in detail was unrolled before him like a panorama; + the changes of a year, with its burden of love and death, its sweets and + its bitternesses, were epitomized in a single second. The desire to sleep + had left him, but the keen hunger came again. + </p> + <p> + “It must be near morning now,” he mused; “perhaps the sun is just gilding + the towers of Notre Dame; or, may be, a dull, drizzling rain is beating on + Paris, sobbing on these mounds above me. Paris! it seems like a 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!” + </p> + <p> + Philip became conscious that the gloom, the silence, and the cold were + gradually conquering him. The feverish activity of his brain brought on a + reaction. He grew lethargic; he sunk down on the steps, and thought of + nothing. His hand fell by chance on one of the pieces of candle; he + grasped it and devoured it mechanically. This revived him. “How strange,” + he thought, “that I am not thirsty. Is it possible that the dampness of + the walls, which I must inhale with every breath, has supplied the need of + water? Not a drop has passed my lips for two days, and still I experience + no thirst. That drowsiness, thank Heaven, has gone. I think I was never + wide awake until this hour. It would be an anodyne like poison that could + weigh down my eyelids. No doubt the dread of sleep has something to do + with this.” + </p> + <p> + The minutes were like hours. Now he walked as briskly as he dared up and + down the tomb; now he rested against the door. More than once he was + tempted to throw himself upon the stone coffin that held Julie, and make + no further struggle for his life. + </p> + <p> + Only one piece of candle remained. He had eaten the third portion, not to + satisfy hunger, but from a precautionary motive he had taken it as a man + takes some disagreeable drug upon the result of which hangs safety. The + time was rapidly approaching when even this poor substitute for + nourishment would be exhausted. He delayed that moment. He gave himself a + long fast this time. The half-inch of candle which he held in his hand was + a sacred thing to him. It was his last defence against death. + </p> + <p> + Finally, with such a sinking at heart as he had not known before, he + raised it to his lips. Then he paused, then he hurled the fragment across + the tomb, then the oaken door was flung open, and Philip, with dazzled + eyes, saw M. Dorine's form sharply defined against the blue sky. + </p> + <p> + When they led him out, half blinded, into the broad daylight, M. Dorine + noticed that Philip's hair, which a short time since was as black as a + crow's wing, had actually turned gray in places. The man's eyes, too, had + faded; the darkness had dimmed their lustre. + </p> + <p> + “And how long was he really confined in the tomb?” I asked, as Mr. H——— + concluded the story. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Just one hour and twenty minutes!</i>” replied Mr. H———, + smiling blandly. + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, the Lilliputian sloops, with their sails all blown out like + white roses, came floating bravely into port, and Philip Wentworth lounged + by us, wearily, in the pleasant April sunshine. + </p> + <p> + Mr. H———'s narrative haunted me. Here was a man who had + undergone a strange ordeal. Here was a man whose sufferings were unique. + His was no threadbare experience. Eighty minutes had seemed like two days + to him! If he had really been immured two days in the tomb, the story, + from my point of view, would have lost its tragic value. + </p> + <p> + After this it was natural that I should regard Mr. Wentworth with + stimulated curiosity. As I met him from day to day, passing through the + Common with that same introspective air, there was something in his + loneliness which touched me. I wondered that I had not read before in his + pale, meditative face some such sad history as Mr. H——— + had confided to me. I formed the resolution of speaking to him, though + with no very lucid purpose. One morning we came face to face at the + intersection of two paths. He halted courteously to allow me the + precedence. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wentworth,” I began, “I”— + </p> + <p> + He interrupted me. + </p> + <p> + “My name, sir,” he said, in an off-hand manner, “is Jones.” + </p> + <p> + “Jo-Jo-Jones!” I gasped. + </p> + <p> + “No, not Joseph Jones,” he returned, with a glacial air—“Frederick.” + </p> + <p> + A dim light, in which the perfidy of my friend H——— was + becoming discernible, began to break upon my mind. + </p> + <p> + It will probably be a standing wonder to Mr. Frederick Jones why a strange + man accosted him one morning on the Common as “Mr. Wentworth,” and then + dashed madly down the nearest foot-path and disappeared in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + The fact is, I had been duped by Mr. H———, who is a + gentleman of literary proclivities, and has, it is whispered, become + somewhat demented in brooding over the Great American Novel—not yet + hatched, He had actually tried the effect of one of his chapters on me! + </p> + <p> + My hero, as I subsequently learned, is a commonplace young person, who had + some connection, I know not what, with the building of that graceful + granite bridge which spans the crooked silver lake in the Public Garden. + </p> + <p> + When I think of the readiness with which Mr. H——— built + up his airy fabric on my credulity, I feel half inclined to laugh, though + I am deeply mortified at having been the unresisting victim of his Black + Art. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Struggle For Life, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE *** + +***** This file should be named 23356-h.htm or 23356-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/3/5/23356/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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