by Ruskin Bond
You, Bedouin of Libya who saved our lives, though you will dwell for ever in my memory yet I shall never be able to recapture your features. You are Humanity and your face comes into my mind simply as man incarnate. You, our beloved fellowman, did not know who we might be, and yet you recognised us without fail. And I, in my turn, shall recognise you in the faces of all mankind. You came towards me in an aureole of charity and magnanimity bearing the gift of water. All my friends and all my enemies marched towards me in your person. It did not seem to me that you were rescuing me: rather did it seen that you were forgiving me. And I felt I had no enemy left in all the world.
This is the end of my story. Lifted on to a camel, we went on for three hours. Then, broken with weariness, we asked to be set down at a camp while the cameleers went on ahead for help. Towards six in the evening a car manned by armed Bedouins came to fetch us. A half-hour later we were set down at the house of a Swiss engineer named Raccaud who was operating a soda factory beside saline deposits in the desert. He was unforgettably kind to us. By midnight we were in Cairo.
I awoke between white sheets. Through the curtains came the rays of a sun that was no longer an enemy. I spread butter and honey on my bread. I smiled. I recaptured the savour of my childhood and all its marvels. And I read and re-read the telegram from those dearest to me in all the world whose three words had shattered me.
'So terribly happy!'
A JOURNEY WITH DICKENS
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
The child who made this journey, by the side of the idol who, until then, she had hardly realised could smile and breathe like an ordinary human being, was Kate Douglas Wiggin, the author of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. It is taken from her autobiography, My Garden of Memory.
It seems to me that no child nowadays has time to love an author as the children and young people of my generation loved Dickens; nor do I think that any living author of to-day provokes love in exactly the same fashion. From our yellow dog, Pip, to the cat, the canary, the lamb, the cow, down to all the hens and cocks, almost every living thing was named, sooner or later, after one of Dickens's characters; while my favourite sled, painted in brown, with the title in brilliant red letters, was 'The Artful Dodger'. Why did we do it? We little creatures couldn't have suspected that 'the democratic movement in literature had come to town', as Richard Whiteing says; nevertheless, we responded to it vigorously, ardently, and swelled the hero's public.
We never read newspapers save the weekly Portland Transcript, so that there was a moment of thrilling excitement when my mother, looking up from the Portland Press, told us that Mr Dickens was coming to America, and that he was even then sailing from England. I remember distinctly that I prayed for him fervently several times during the next week, that the voyage might be a safe one, and that even the pangs of seasickness might be spared so precious a personage. In due time we heard that he had arrived in New York, and had begun the series of readings from his books; then he came to Boston, which was still nearer, and then—day of unspeakable excitement—we learned that he had been prevailed upon to give one reading in Portland, which was only sixteen miles away from our village.
It chanced that my mother was taking me to Charlestown, Massachusetts, to pay a visit to an uncle on the very day after the one appointed for the great event in Portland. She, therefore, planned to take me into town the night before, and to invite the cousin, at whose house we were to sleep, to attend the reading with her. I cannot throw a more brilliant light on the discipline of that period than to say that the subject of my attending the reading was never once mentioned. The price of tickets was supposed to be almost prohibitory. I cannot remember the exact sum; I only know that it was mentioned with bated breath in the village of Hollis, and that there was a general feeling in the community that anyone who paid it would have to live down a reputation for riotous extravagance forever afterwards. I neither wailed nor wept, nor made any attempt to set aside the parental decrees (which were anything but severe in our family), but if any martyr in Fox's 'Book' ever suffered more poignant anguish than I, I am heartily sorry for him; yet my common sense assured me that a child could hardly hope to be taken on a week's junketing to Charlestown and expect any other entertainment to be added to it for years to come. The definition of a 'pleasure' in the State of Maine, county of York, village of Hollis, year of our Lord 1868, was something that could not reasonably occur too often without being cheapened.
The days, charged with suppressed excitement, flew by. I bade good-bye to my little sister, who was not to share my metropolitan experiences, and my mother and I embarked for Portland on the daily train that dashed hither and thither at the rate of about twelve miles an hour. When the august night and moment arrived, my mother and her cousin set out for the Place, and the moment they were out of sight I slipped out of the door and followed them, traversing quickly the three or four blocks that separated me from the old City Hall and the Preble House, where Dickens was stopping. I gazed at all the windows and all the entrances of both buildings without beholding any trace of my hero.
I watched the throng of happy, excited, lucky people crowding the streets on their way to the hall, and went home in a chastened mood to bed—a bed which, as soon as I got into it, was crowded with Little Nell and the Marchioness, Florence Dombey, Bella Wilfer, Susan Nipper, and Little Em'ly. There were other dreams, too. Not only had my idol provided me with human friends, to live and laugh and weep over, but he had wrought his genius into things; so that, waking or sleeping, every bunch of holly or mistletoe, every plum pudding was alive; every crutch breathed of Tiny Tim; every cricket, and every singing, steaming kettle, had a soul.
The next morning we started on our railroad journey, which I remember as being full of excitement from the beginning, for both men and women were discussing the newspapers with extraordinary interest, the day before having been the one on which the President of the United States had been formally impeached. When the train stopped for two or three minutes at North Berwick, the people on the side of the car next the station suddenly arose and looked eagerly out at some object of apparent interest. I was not, at any age, a person to sit still in her seat when others were looking out of windows, and my small nose was quickly flattened against one of the panes. There on the platform stood the Adored One! It was unbelievable, but there he was in the flesh; standing smiling, breathing, like ordinary human beings. There was no doubt, then, that 'angels and ministers of grace', called authors, had bodies and could not only write David Copperfields, but could be seen with the naked eye. That face, known to me from many pictures, must have looked in some mysterious way into the face of Dora, of Agnes, of Paul Dombey, of Little Dorrit! My spirit gave a leap and entered a new, an unknown world.
Dickens's hands were plunged deep in his pockets (a favourite gesture), but presently one was removed to wave away laughingly a piece of famous Berwick sponge cake, offered him by Mr Osgood, of Boston, his travelling companion and friend. I knew him at once!—the smiling, genial, mobile face, rather highly coloured, the brilliant eyes, the watch-chain, the red carnation in the buttonhole, and the expressive hands, much given to gesture. It was only a momentary view, for the train started, and Dickens vanished, to resume his place in the car next to ours, where he had been, had I known it, ever since we left Portland.
When my mother was again occupied with her book, I slipped away, and, borne along by some resistless and hitherto unrecognised force, I entered the next car; which did not seem at all to me a vehicle carrying Tom, Dick, and Harry to Boston, but a sort of travelling shrine or altar. I took a humble, unoccupied seat near the end, close by the much patronised tank of (unsterilised) drinking-water and the train-boy's basket of popcorn balls and molasses candy, and gazed steadily at the famous man, who was chatting busily with Mr Osgood. I remembered gratefully that my mother had taken the old ribbons off my grey velvet hat and tied me down with blue under the chin, and I thought, if Dickens should happen to rest his eye upon me, hat he could
hardly fail to be pleased with the effect of the blue ribbon that went under my collar and held a very small squirrel muff in place. Unfortunately, however, his eye did not meet mine, and my toilette made no sensation in any quarter, but some family friends espied me, and sent me back to ask my mother to come in and sit with them. I brought her back, and, fortunately, there was not room enough for me with the party, so I gladly resumed my modest seat by the popcorn boy, where I could watch Dickens, quite unnoticed.
There is an Indian myth which relates that when the gaze of the Siva rested for the first time on Tellatonea, the most beautiful of women, his desire to see her was so great that his body became all eyes. Such a transformation, I fear, was perilously near to being my fate! Half an hour passed, perhaps, and one gentleman after another came from here or there to exchange a word of greeting with the famous novelist, so that he was never for a moment alone, thereby inciting in my breast my first, and about my last, experience of the passion of jealousy. Suddenly, however, Mr Osgood arose, and with an apology went into the smoking-car. I never knew how it happened; I had no plan, no preparation, no intention, certainly no provocation; but invisible ropes pulled me out of my seat, and, speeding up the aisle, I planted myself breathlessly and timorously down, an unbidden guest, in the seat of honour. I had a moment to recover my equanimity, for Dickens was looking out of the window, but he turned suddenly and said with justifiable surprise:
'God bless my soul, child, where did you come from?'
My heart was in my mouth, but there was still room to exercise my tongue, which was generally the case. I was frightened, but not so completely frightened as if I had been meeting a stranger. You see I knew him, even if he did not know me; so I became immediately autobiographical, although palpitating with nervousness. I had to tell him, I thought, where I came from, who I was, where I was going, or how could I account for myself and my presence beside him in Mr Osgood's seat? So I began, stammeringly, to answer his question.
'I came from Hollis, Maine, and I'm going to Charlestown to visit my uncle. My mother and her cousin went to your reading last night, but of course three couldn't go from the same family, it was so expensive, so I stayed at home. Nora, that's my little sister, is left behind in Hollis. She's too small to go on a journey, but she wanted to go to the reading dreadfully. There was a lady there who had never heard of Betsey Trotwood, and had only read two of your books!'
'Well, upon my word!' he said; 'you do not mean to say that you have read them!'
'Of course!' I replied; 'every one of them but the two that we are going to buy in Boston, and some of them six times.'
'Bless my soul!' he ejaculated again. 'Those long thick books, and you such a slip of a thing.'
'Of course,' I explained conscientiously, 'I do skip some of the very dull parts once in a while; not the short dull parts, but the long ones.'
He laughed heartily. 'Now, that is something that I hear very little about,' he said. 'I distinctly want to learn more about those very long dull parts.'
And, whether to amuse himself, or to amuse me, I do not know, he took out a notebook and pencil from his pocket and proceeded to give me an exhausting and exhaustive examination on this subject; the books in which the dull parts predominated; and the characters and subjects which principally produced them. He chuckled so constantly during this operation that I could hardly help believing myself extraordinarily agreeable, so I continued dealing these infant blows, under the delusion that I was flinging him bouquets.
It was not long before one of my hands was in his, and his arm around my waist, while we talked of many things. They say, I believe, that his hands were 'undistinguished' in shape, and that he wore too many rings. Well, those criticisms, must come from persons who never felt the warmth of his handclasp! For my part, I am glad that Pullman chair cars had not come into fashion, else I should never have experienced the delicious joy of snuggling up to Genius, and of being distinctly encouraged in the attitude.
I wish I could recall still more of his conversation, but I was too happy, too exhilarated, and too inexperienced to take conscious notes of the interview. I remember feeling that I had never known anybody so well and so intimately, and that I talked with him as one talks under cover of darkness or before the flickering light of a fire. It seems to me, as I look back now, and remember how the little soul of me came out and sat in the sunshine of his presence, that I must have had some premonition that the child, who would come to be one of the least of writers, was then talking with one of the greatest;—talking, too, as it were, of the author's profession and high calling, for were we not discussing books? All the little details of the meeting stand out as clearly as though it had happened yesterday. I can see every article of his clothing and of my own; the other passengers in the car; the landscape through the window; and above all the face of Dickens, deeply lined, with sparkling eyes and an amused, waggish smile that curled the corners of his mouth under his grizzled mustache. A part of our conversation was given to a Boston newspaper next day, by the author himself, or, by Mr Osgood, and was long preserved in our family archives, while a little more was added a few years after by an old lady who sat in the next seat to us. (The pronoun 'us' seems ridiculously intimate, but I have no doubt I used it, quite unabashed, at that date.)
'What book of mine do you like best?' Dickens asked, I remember; and I answered with the definite assurance of childhood, 'Oh, I like David Copperfield much the best. That is the one I have read six times.'
'Six times—good, good!' he replied; 'I am glad that you like Davy, so do I;—I like it best, too!' clapping his hands; and that was the only remark he made which attracted the attention of the other passengers, who glanced in our direction now and then, I have been told, smiling at the interview, but preserving its privacy with the utmost friendliness. I had never looked behind to see how my mother was faring. There are great crises in life when even mothers must retire to the background. For the moment I had no mother, family, friends, or acquaintances, no home, no personality; I was a sort of atom floating in space, half conscious that I could not float forever, but must come to earth again.
'I almost said Great Expectations,' I added presently, 'because that comes next in our family. We named our little yellow dog "Mr Pip" out of your book. They told Father when they gave him to us that he was part rat terrier, and we were all pleased, because, if he was, he wasn't all mongrel. (That means mixed-up.) Then one day Father showed him a trap with a mouse in it. The mouse wiggled its tail just a little, and Pip was so frightened that he ran under the barn and stayed the rest of the day. That showed that there wasn't enough rat terrier in him to be right, and the neighbours made fun of him and used to call 'Rats!' when he went down the street. We loved him just the same and he had as hard a time as Pip in Great Expectations.'
Here again my new friend's mirth was delightful to behold, so much so that my embarrassed mother, who had been watching me for half an hour, almost made up her mind to drag me away before the very eyes of our fellow passengers. I had never been thought an amusing child in the family circle; what, then, could I be saying to the most distinguished and popular author in the universe?
Dickens here told me little stories about English dogs, but I remember them too vaguely to repeat them or give them their inimitable mingling of fact and nonsense. 'Have you only one dog' he asked.
'We had another,' I answered, 'a big curly one called John Brent, out of a novel, but he died, and we take all our names from your books now. We know a dog who stays with us most of the time. He doesn't belong to anybody and he likes to visit Pip, so we named him Mr Pocket after Mr Pip's friend. The real Mr Pip and Mr Pocket met first in Miss Havisham's garden and they had such a funny fight it always makes Father laugh till he can't read properly! Then they became great friends. Perhaps you remember Mr Pip and Mr Pocket?' And Dickens thought he did, which, perhaps, is not strange, considering that he was the author of their respective beings.
Mr Harry Furniss declares th
at Great Expectations was Dickens's favourite novel, but I can only say that to me he avowed his special fondness for David Copperfield. I can never forget that and never be mistaken in my remembrance of it.
'Did you want to go to my reading very much, child?' was another question. Here was a subject that had never once been touched upon in all the past days—a topic that stirred the very depths of my disappointment and sorrow, fairly choking me, and making my lip tremble by its unexpectedness, as I faltered, 'Yes, I did, more than tongue can tell! I know how I feel when I read one of the books, but I wanted to hear how it sounded.'
I looked up a second later, when I was sure that the tears in my eyes were not going to fall, and to my astonishment saw that Dickens's eyes were in precisely the same state of moisture. That was a never-to-be-forgotten moment, although I was too young to appreciate the full significance of it.
'Do you cry when you read out loud, too?' I asked curiously. 'We all do in our family. And we never read about Tiny Tim, or about Steerforth when his body is washed up on the beach, on Saturday nights, for fear our eyes will be too swollen to go to Sunday School.'
'Yes, I cry when I read about Steerforth,' he answered quietly, and I felt no astonishment. 'I cried when I wrote it, too! That is still more foolish!'
'Where do you cry the worst?' I asked. 'Our time is when it says, "All the men who carried him had known him and gone sailing with him and seen him merry and bold" '; and here I grew tearful and reminiscent.
We were now fast approaching our destination—the station in Boston—and the passengers began to collect their wraps and bundles. Mr Osgood had two or three times made his appearance, but had been waved away with a smile by Dickens—a smile that seemed to say, 'You will excuse me, I know, but this child has the right of way.'
