Is it an illusion of romance, merely, or is it true that, in spite of the fact that the French, governmentally speaking, have been out of old Vincennes—the very region of it—for over a hundred and fifty years, and that nearly all we know of the town of twenty thousand has come into existence in the last fifty years, there still exists in it, hovers over it, the atmosphere of old France? Do we see, always, what we would like to see, or is there something in this matter of predisposition, the planting of a seed, however small, which eventually results in a tree of the parent stock? I was scarcely prepared to believe that there was anything of old France about this town—it seemed quite too much to ask, and yet rolling leisurely through these streets, it seemed to me that there was a great deal of it. The houses, quite a number of them, had that American French Colonial aspect which we have all come to associate with their forbears, the palaces and decorative arts of the high Louis! France, the modifier of the flamboyant dreams of the Renaissance! France, the mother, really, of the classic styles of England! The cooler, more meditative and Puritan spirit took all that was best in the dreams and super-grand taste of the France of the Kings and Emperors and gave us Hepplewhite[Hepplewhite] and Sheraton, and those charming architectural fancies known as Georgian. Or am I wrong?
And here in Vincennes, in the homes at least, there was something reminiscent of this latter, while in the principal streets—Third and Second—and in the names of some of the others, there was a suggestion of such towns or cities as Rouen and Amiens—a mere suggestion, perhaps, some might insist, but definite enough to me. As a matter of fact, tucked away in this southern river region of Indiana, it seemed very French, and I recalled now that my first and only other connection with it had been through a French woman, a girl protégé of my mother, who had married (she was a wild, pagan creature, as I can testify) the manager or captain of the principal fire station in the then city of twelve thousand. Before her marriage, at Terre Haute, she had done sewing for my mother, in our more prosperous days, and when conditions grew so bad that my mother felt that she must get out of Terre Haute, instead of going to Sullivan direct (I do not think her original intention was to go to Sullivan at all) she wrote this French woman of her troubles, and upon her invitation visited her there. For a period of six weeks, or longer, we lived in the apartment which was a part of the fire captain’s perquisites, and a part of the central fire station itself—the rear half of the second floor. There must have been some unimportant connection between this and the county jail or central police station, or both, for in a building adjoining at the rear I remember there was a jail, and that I could go back, if I chose, downstairs and out, and see some of the incarcerated looking out through the bars. It was a pleasant enough place as such things go, and my mother must have had some idea of remaining in Vincennes, for not long after we arrived my sister and brother and I were put in another Catholic School,—the bane of my youthful life. This did not last very long, however, for shortly thereafter we were taken out and removed to Sullivan. Eleven years later, at the time of my mother’s death in Chicago, this woman, who was then and there a dressmaker, came to cry over her coffin and to declare my mother the best friend she ever had.
My youthful impressions of Vincennes, sharp as they may have been at the time, had by now become very vague. I remember that from the fire tower, where hung an alarm bell and to which we were occasionally permitted to ascend, the straight flowing Wabash River was to be seen; also that northward, toward Sullivan, were Merom Bluffs, where pleasure seekers from Vincennes were accustomed to drive. My mother went once. Also, that certain tow headed and dark girls seemed very numerous about the fire station at night. Also that once, during our stay, there was a big fire, and that we all arose and went out to join the great throng watching it. Our host, the captain, was seen to mount a ladder and break in a window and disappear in a red glow, much to my mother’s and my own horror. But he came back alive.
In ambling about, I found the exact firehouse, enlarged and improved, “where it has always been,” as one of the neighboring tradesmen told me—new automobile engines and trucks in it—and then I was ready to go. I had seen all I could hope to remember, even dimly. We hurried to a neighboring garage, took on a store of oil and gasoline, and were off in the twilight and the moonlight, for Evansville.
Uncertain is the outcome of all automobilists' plans forever and ever, as with all other plans. Although we had inquired and inquired, getting the exact way (and Franklin’s conferences on these matters were always extended and minute) we were soon safely on the wrong road. We had been told to make for a place called Decker, via a town called Purcell, but soon in the shades of a fast falling night we were scuttling up a cowpath, under dark and ghostly trees.
“How would it do to call on some squirrel or chipmunk and pay our respects?” suggested Franklin. “They appear to be about the only people living here.”
We decided to go back.
Once more on a fairly good road again, a mile or so back, we met a charming milkmaid, with fine arms, pink cheeks, and two brimming buckets of milk. Modestly, she told us we were on the wrong road.
“You should have kept the macadam road to Purcell. This goes to St. Francisville across the river. But if you go up here a mile or two and take the first road to your left, it will bring you to St. Thomas, and there’s a road on from there to Decker. But it would be better if you went back.”
“Back? Never!” I said to Franklin, as the girl went on, and thinking of the miles we had come. “It’s a fine night. Look at the moon.” (There was an almost full moon showing a golden tip in the eastern sky.) “Soon it will be as bright as day. Let’s ride on. We’ll get to Evansville by morning, anyhow. It’s only sixty miles or so.”