I was a boy of twelve or thirteen, and, just like other boys of that age, full of life, mischief, ideals, and illusions.
A good-for-nothing little scamp out of school, I was, under the master’s eye, a queer mixture of the genuine mischief-loving boy and the zealous pupil. If I found no attraction in the dry science of arithmetic and the rules of grammar, all the more did I feel attracted by the history of all nations in general, and ours in particular.
Yet not altogether; it was only the warlike Spartans and Romans, our own crusading knights, and the fierce and enterprising Gueux,—in short, only those whom I looked upon as heroes who could arrest my attention.
Frequently it vexed me that my lunch-slice of bread and butter did not consist of black, coarse bread; sometimes I felt a deep disdain for my clothes, so different from those in which the Roman legions marched to victory; all peaceable merchant-vessels were an abomination to me,—I knew but one ideal—to be a hero.
What I understood by a hero was not quite clear, even to myself,—only this was certain, that no one could be a hero unless he had won many great battles over stronger adversaries, or had blown up his ship in order to save the flag, or ended his glorious life covered with wounds in the breast (never in the back, of course!). In short, my idea of a hero was somewhat complicated; but this much was certain, that a great hero ought to be able to show a large number of wounds and scars, and that his bravery should be equalled by his generosity.
I wished to be a hero myself, but as I quite understood that I was too young for the position at present, my great desire was, at least, to see and know a hero.
I sought everywhere for this superior being, and thought at last that I had found my ideal in our new “odd man,” who had been a soldier, and had a large scar on his cheek.
From this one outward and visible token of his bravery, I argued that he must have more hidden about his person, under his clothes. These wounds, alas! I could never hope to see, as he did not live in the house, but came every day to clean boots and run errands.
I was, however, firmly convinced that they existed. The only drawback to his greatness was the fact that he had both his arms and no wooden leg. I would much rather it had been otherwise, but managed to content myself with his many unseen wounds.
I was still seeking an opportunity of asking him how and when he had become a hero, when I was suddenly bereft of my illusion.