These things happened in the East End—the French end of Montreal—and fights between French school boys and English school boys were of nearly daily occurrence; but we gentlemen of the stage never took part in these brawls, unless we were forced to, or were specially called upon as reserves in a crisis by the boys of our neighbourhood. The English were the better fighters at close quarters, but at long range, with stones, the French had the best of us, being expert throwers.
A small but sympathetic crowd witnessed my first theatrical venture. The coach-house was decorated with flags and for a coach-house looked very fine. Of course it still smelled like a coach-house, except in so far as that smell was diluted by the odour of coal-oil lamps, which lighted the place. The programme was short. It consisted of the one-act play “Bumps,” a flute solo by a talented sot, a clog dance by a stable-boy, and a comic song warbled by myself to banjo accompaniment. Our listeners said what a friendly audience always says. We spent the proceeds of our show in giving a complimentary supper to a young actor whom we admired and who was playing at the Theatre Royal.
CHAPTER V
Before I had the fever described in the earlier pages, while still a mere baby, I was sent to a ladies’ school among little girls. There was only one other boy in the school besides myself, and for him I formed an attachment. He was a French child, a delicate little chap with large dreamy eyes and a huge nose, which looked as if it did not belong to him. He enjoyed the possession of a very beautiful and euphonious name—Paul de la Croix. Paul and I knew each other as children only during a few months but we liked each other and played together. We were the only boys who enjoyed the very special privilege of attending the ladies’ seminary. We nearly always spent our lunch hours among the big girls, who were very fond of us, because we were small enough to mother and protect.
My illness separated me from my little French friend and I did not see him again until we were nearly men. I met him once more when I was eighteen and was studying under a tutor for my matriculation at M’Gill University. My father had decided that I should be a civil engineer. The reasons for this decision are not very plain to me. Certainly I had very little inclination towards engineering, but as I showed little talent in any particular direction, and many spasmodic tendencies in all directions, his decision was perhaps as wise as any. Possibly he was influenced by the thought that the life of a civil engineer would give me an outdoor existence.
I worked with my tutor daily, learning things which I have long since forgotten, with the exception of Euclid. Euclid always had a particular charm for me, not so much for the value of the information I received but for its keen and irresistible reasoning, so clear, plain and irrefragable.
The mere fact that the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal, and if the sides are produced the angles on the other side of the base will be equal, is nothing to me, but the being able to prove the fact is a great pleasure.
I am a born unbeliever, and facts are not facts to me because they are recorded as facts by some one else, or everybody else for that matter. Like the unbelieving Thomas I want to examine the evidence. So Euclid appealed to me.
I had, and still have, a great sympathy with many of the Bible characters who have been held up to opprobrium like Thomas, Baalam, Ananias and the Pharisee who thanked the Lord he was different from other people. If there is anything for which a man ought to be thankful it is that he is different from other people. The story of Ananias I always found a very thin tale for a greedy money-grabbing church to tell; it is so transparent.
I liked my tutor very much. He was a very human young man and handled me with great wisdom. In the winter we skated daily. It was during the winter of the year Eighteen that I met once more the friend of my childhood, Paul de la Croix. It was at the skating rink, and I knew him at once by his nose, which was a more pronounced, protuberant horn than ever. He had the looks of a hawk and the character of a goose. I was anything but a manly youth, but Paul was actually effeminate. I saw him often now for several years, after which he dropped out of my life entirely. He left an indelible mark upon my character, both musically and otherwise. It was through him, in fact, that I met the woman who became my wife, and for this and other things he has my gratitude.