Since his return to Stockholm, Erik had received every day from all parts of Europe a voluminous correspondence. Some learned society wished for information on some point, or wrote to congratulate him; foreign governments wished to bestow1 upon him some honor or recompense; ship-owners, or traders, solicited2 some favor which would serve their interests.
Therefore he was not surprised when he received one morning two letters bearing the Paris postmark.
The first that he opened was an invitation from the Geographical3 Society of France, asking him and his companions to come and receive a handsome medal, which had been voted in a solemn conclave4 "to the navigators of the first circumpolar periplus of the arctic seas."
The second envelope made Erik start, he looked at it. On the box which closed it was a medallion upon which the letters "E.D." were engraved5, surrounded by the motto "Semper idem."
These initials and devices were also stamped in the corner of the letter enclosed in the envelope, which was that from Mr. Durrien.
The letter read as follows:
"My dear child,--Let me call you this in any case. I have just read in a French newspaper a biography translated from the Swedish language, which has overcome me more than I can tell you. It was your account of yourself. You state that you were picked up at sea about twenty-two years ago by a Norwegian fisherman in the neighborhood of Bergen; that you were tied to a buoy6, bearing the name of 'Cynthia;' that the especial motive7 of your arctic voyage was to find a survivor8 of the vessel9 of that name--ship wrecked10 in October, 1858; and then you state that you have returned from the voyage without having been able to gain any information about the matter.
"If all this is true (oh, what would I not give if it is true!), I ask you not to lose a moment in running to the telegraph office and letting me know it. In that case, my child, you can understand my impatience12, my anxiety, and my joy. In that case you are my grandson, for whom I have mourned so many years, whom I believed lost to me forever, as did also my daughter, my poor daughter, who, broken-hearted at the tragedy of the 'Cynthia,' still mourns every day for her only child--the joy and consolation13 at first of her widowhood, but afterward14 the cause of her despair.
"But we shall see you again alive, covered with glory. Such happiness is too great, too wonderful. I dare not believe it until a word from you authorizes15 me to do so. But now it seems so probable, the details and dates agree so perfectly16, your countenance17 and manners recall so vividly18 those of my unfortunate son-in-law. Upon the only occasion when chance led me into your society, I felt myself mysteriously drawn19 toward you by a deep and sudden sympathy. It seems impossible that there should be no reason for this.
"One word, telegraph me one word. I do not know how to exist until I hear from you. Will it be the response that I wait for so impatiently? Can you bring such happiness to my poor daughter and myself as will cause us to forget our past years of tears and mourning?
"E. DURRIEN, Honorary Consul20-general,
"104 Rue11 de Varennes, Paris."
To this letter was added one of explanation, that Erik devoured21 eagerly. It was also in Mr. Durrien's handwriting, and read as follows:
"I was the French consul at New Orleans when my only daughter, Catherine, married a young Frenchman, Mr. George Durrien, a distant connection, and, like ourselves, of Breton origin. Mr. George Durrien was a mining engineer. He had come to the United States to explore the recently discovered mines of petroleum22 and intended to remain several years. I received him into my family--he being the son of a dear friend--and when he asked for my daughter's hand, I gave her to him with joy. Shortly after their marriage I was appointed consul to Riga; and my son-in-law being detained by business interests in the United States, I was obliged to leave my daughter. She became a mother, and to her son was given my Christian23 name, united to that of his father--Emile Henry Georges.
"Six months afterward my son-in-law was killed by an accident in the mines. As soon as she could settle up his affairs, my poor daughter, only twenty years of age, embarked24 at New York on the 'Cynthia' for Hamburg, to join me by the most direct route.
"On the 7th of October, 1858, the 'Cynthia' was shipwrecked off the Faroe Islands. The circumstances of the shipwreck25 were suspicious, and have never been explained.
"At the moment of the disaster, when the passengers were taking their places one by one in the boat, my little grandson, seven months old--whom his mother had tied to a buoy for safety--slipped or was pushed into the sea, and was carried away by the storm and disappeared. His mother, crazed by this frightful26 spectacle, tried to throw herself into the sea. She was prevented by main force and placed in a fainting condition in one of the boats, in which were three other persons, and who had alone escaped from the shipwrecked vessel. In forty-nine hours this boat reached one of the Faroe Islands. From there my daughter returned to me after a dangerous illness which lasted seven weeks, thanks to the devoted27 attentions of the sailor who saved her and who brought her to me. This brave man, John Denman, died in my service in Asia Minor28.
"We had but little hope that the baby had survived the shipwreck. I, however, sought for him among the Faroe and Shetland Islands, and upon the Norwegian coast north of Bergen. The idea of his cradle floating any further seemed impossible, but I did not give up my search for three years; and Noroe must be a very retired29 spot, or surely some inquiries30 would have been made there. When I had given up all hope I devoted myself exclusively to my daughter, whose physical and moral health required great attention. I succeeded in being sent to the Orient, and I sought, by traveling and scientific enterprises, to draw off her thoughts from her affliction. She has been my inseparable companion sharing all my labors31, but I have never been able to lighten her incurable32 grief. We returned to France, and we now live in Paris in an old house which I own.
"Will it be my happiness to receive there my grandson, for whom we have mourned so many years? This hope fills me with too much joy, and I dare not speak of it to my daughter, until I am assured of its truth; for, if it should prove false, the disappointment would be too cruel.
"To-day is Monday: they tell me at the post-office that by next Saturday I can receive your answer."
Erik had hardly been able to read this, for the tears would obscure his sight. He also felt afraid to yield too quickly to the hope which had been so suddenly restored to him. He told himself that every detail coincided--the dates agreed; all the events down to the most minute particulars. He hardly dared to believe, however, that it could be true. It was too much happiness to recover in a moment his family, his own mother, his country. And such a country--the one that he could have chosen above all because she possessed33 the grandeur34, the graces, the supreme35 gifts of humanity--because she had fostered genius, and the civilization of antiquity36, and the discoveries and inventions of modern times.
He was afraid that he was only dreaming. His hopes had been so often disappointed. Perhaps the doctor would say something to dispel37 his illusions. Before he did anything he would submit these facts to his cooler judgment38.
The doctor read the documents attentively39 which he carried to him, but not without exclamations40 of joy and surprise.
"You need not feel the slightest doubt!" he said, when he had finished. "All the details agree perfectly, even those that your correspondent omits to mention, the initials on the linen41, the device engraved on the locket, which are the same as those on the letter. My dear child, you have found your family this time. You must telegraph immediately to your grandfather!"
"But what shall I tell him?" asked Erik, pale with joy.
"Tell him that to-morrow you will set out by express, to go and embrace him and your mother!"
The young captain only took time to press the hands of this excellent man, and he ran and jumped into a cab to hasten to the telegraph office.
He left Stockholm that same day, took the railroad to Malmo on the north-west coast of Sweden, crossed the strait in twenty minutes, reached Copenhagen, took the express train through to Holland and Belgium, and at Brussels the train for Paris.
On Saturday, at seven o'clock in the evening, exactly six days after Mr. Durrien had posted his letter, he had the joy of waiting for his grandson at the depot42.
As soon as the train stopped they fell into each other's arms. They had thought so much about each other during these last few days that they both felt already well acquainted.
"My mother?" asked Erik.
"I have not dared to tell her, much as I was tempted43 to do so!" answered Mr. Durrien.
"And she knows nothing yet?"
"She suspects something, she fears, she hopes. Since your dispatch I have done my best to prepare her for the unheard-of joy that awaits her. I told her of a track upon which I had been placed by a young Swedish officer, the one whom I had met at Brest, and of whom I had often spoken to her. She does not know, she hesitates to hope for any good news, but this morning at breakfast I could see her watching me, and two or three times I felt afraid that she was going to question me. One can not tell, something might have happened to you, some other misfortune, some sudden mischance. So I did not dine with her to-night, I made an excuse to escape from a situation intolerable to me."
Without waiting for his baggage, they departed in the _coup_ that Mr. Durrien had brought.
Mme. Durrien, alone in the parlor44 in Varennes Street, awaited impatiently the return of her father. She had had her suspicions aroused, and was only waiting until the dinner hour arrived to ask for an explanation.
For several days she had been disturbed by his strange behavior, by the dispatches which were continually arriving, and by the double meaning which she thought she detected beneath all he said. Accustomed to talk with him about his lightest thoughts and impressions, she could not understand why he should seek to conceal45 anything from her. Several times she had been on the point of demanding a solution of the enigma46, but she had kept silence, out of respect for the evident wishes of her father.
"He is trying to prepare me for some surprise, doubtless," she said to herself. "He is sure to tell me if anything pleasant has occurred."
But for the last two or three days, especially that morning, she had been impressed with a sort of eagerness which Mr. Durrien displayed in all his manner, as well as the happy air with which he regarded her, insisting in hearing over and over again from her lips, all the details of the disaster of the "Cynthia," which he had avoided speaking of for a long time. As she mused47 over his strange behavior a sort of revelation came to her. She felt sure that her father must have received some favorable intelligence which had revived the hope of finding her child. But without the least idea that he had already done so, she determined48 not to retire that night until she had questioned him closely.
Mme. Durrien had never definitely renounced49 the idea that her son was living. She had never seen him dead before her eyes, and she clung mother-like to the hope that he was not altogether lost to her. She said that the proofs were insufficient50, and she nourished the possibility of his sudden return. She might be said to pass her days waiting for him. Thousands of women, mothers of soldiers and sailors, pass their lives under this touching51 delusion52. Mrs. Durrien had a greater right than they had to preserve her faith in his existence. In truth the tragical53 scene enacted54 twenty-two years ago was always before her eyes. She beheld55 the "Cynthia" filling with water and ready to sink. She saw herself tying her infant to a large buoy while the passengers and sailors were rushing for the boats. They left her behind, she saw herself imploring56, beseeching57 that they would at least take her baby. A man took her precious burden, and threw it into one of the boats, a heavy sea dashed over it, and to her horror she saw the buoy floating away on the crest58 of the waves. She gave a dispairing cry and tried to jump after him, then came unconsciousness. When she awoke she was a prey59 to despair, to fever, to delirium60. To this succeeded increasing grief. Yes, the poor woman recalled all this. Her whole being had in fact received a shock from which she had never recovered. It was now nearly a quarter of a century since this had happened, and Mrs. Durrien still wept for her son as on the first day. Her maternal61 heart so full of grief was slowly consuming her life. She sometimes pictured to herself her son passing through the successive phases of infancy62, youth, and manhood. From year to year she represented to herself how he would have looked, how he was looking, for she obstinately63 clung to her belief of the possibility of his return.
This vain hope nothing had as yet had the power to shake--neither travels, nor useless researches, nor the passage of time.
This is why this evening she awaited her father with the firm resolution of knowing all that he had to tell.
Mr. Darrien entered. He was followed by a young gentleman, whom he presented to her in the following words:
"My daughter, this is Mr. Erik Hersebom, of whom I have often spoken to you, and who has just arrived at Paris. The Geographical Society wish to bestow upon him a grand medal, and he has done me the honor to accept our hospitality."
She had arisen from her arm-chair, and was looking kindly64 at him. Suddenly her eyes dilated65, her lips trembled, and she stretched out her hands toward him.
"My son! you are my son!" she cried.
Then she advanced a step toward Erik.
"Yes, you are my child," she said. "Your father lives over again in you!"
When Erik, bursting into tears, fell on his knees before her, the poor woman took his head in her hands, and fainted from joy and happiness as she tried to press a kiss on his forehead.
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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authorizes
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| 授权，批准，委托( authorize的名词复数 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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