What was he finding fault with? The garden beds, the trees, obedient to the hand of man, made a richly disposed picture. My little ideas of life had here grouped themselves and taken form with unwonted pleasure. I was provoked with grandfather’s lack of enthusiasm.
“See,” I said to him, not knowing just what to say, “those beautiful red cannas around the basin of the fountain.”
He took me by the arm with unexpected roughness.
“Look out, child, you’ll spoil the grass!”
I had indeed set my foot upon the grass border of the path. And I clearly perceived that grandfather was ridiculing my admiration and the garden both at once. Suddenly, under the influence of his sarcasm, I recalled the old garden, the old garden as it had been, a wild mass of foliage, when I might trample on the very borders, with their sparse flowers growing helter-skelter, where I had known the wild joy of liberty.
Grandfather would never have permitted himself such a criticism before my father. My mind having been drawn to observe the dissimilarity between them, I had noticed the constraint in their relations. Father was always making advances; treating grandfather with extreme deference; never failing to inquire as to his health, his walks, and even, indulgent to his meteorological hobby, asking him as to weather prospects. Grandfather would reply briefly, without making the slightest attempt to continue the conversation, which soon fell flat,—or he would bring forward his little wounding smile, as soon as a subject was introduced on which it was not certain that they were in agreement.
One day father asked for his account books, explaining that he needed to verify certain memoranda of claims upon the property which had not yet been settled and which appeared to be exorbitant. Grandfather opened his eyes:
“My account books?”
“Yes.”
“I never kept any.”